Did Luther Stifle Lutheran Art?

For Lutherans who have a high regard for the arts, I’ve found that Lucas Cranach is also usually held in high esteem. I noticed this at the Luther exhibit in the Minneapolis Institute of Art, which I was able to attend in December. Works by Cranach, including many portraits of Luther and other Reformation personalities, are among the highlights of the exhibit. Tour guides took special care to give lengthy explanations for his larger works. Among pastors and theologians, Cranach’s paintings embodying Lutheran theology (e.g. The Law and the Gospel) are held up as an ideal, it would seem, for the creation of contemporary works of liturgical art.

My reaction is usually conflicted. As a Lutheran, I'm happy for any praise Cranach receives. As an artist, I wish he had left us a body of work worthy of emulation.

Lucas Cranach the Younger - Weimar Altarpiece

To clarify my intentions, I don’t want to short Cranach for any of the credit that is due him. The Lord in his wisdom called Cranach to be an artist for the church in that particular place and time. And the task set before him was herculean—to create a Lutheran artistic tradition virtually from scratch. Meanwhile, the followers of Karlstadt, Zwingli, and Calvin were condemning and destroying it. Even Luther was not wholly supportive of the arts in his early years, warming up to them only after seeing the damage done by the iconoclasts. That Cranach created any kind of an artistic legacy is nothing short of a miracle.

Unfortunately, that goal of creating a new artistic tradition went unfulfilled. The equally gifted Cranach the Younger carried on his father’s work, creating the Weimar altarpiece and a handful of other familiar works. And though Cranach the Elder and Younger both were successful enough to employ workshops of artists, they left no successors. After Cranach the Younger’s death, no other Lutheran artist would leave his mark on history.

Hopefully, the question of “why” is as troubling to you as it is to me. The decades following the Reformation were tumultuous indeed, and there are several possible factors that contributed to the decline of art in the Lutheran church. Certainly the peasants’ uprising and the Thirty Years’ War might have played a role, and we actually know of a handful of artists that were executed or killed in battle due to religious conflict. But the more intriguing answer, and the one that matches my own suspicions, is summarized by Carl Christensen.  In Art and the Reformation in Germany, he addresses the assertion that “early Protestantism was excessively utilitarian and didactic in its approach to art.” He writes, “It has been said that, because of a basic ignorance of and insensitivity to the limits of successful artistic expression, Luther and his fellow reformers made subject-matter demands upon Protestant artists that could be met only at the expense of aesthetic integrity. A preoccupation with doctrinal content led to tragic consequences in the area of artistic form.”

Lucas Cranach the Elder - The Law and the Gospel (detail)

Christensen acknowledges some validity to the claim, writing, “...[C]ertain of Cranach’s religious paintings, e.g., The Law and the Gospel compositions, do attempt to present rather complex allegories or schematic renderings of abstract theological doctrine. The extent of the resulting aesthetic failure will be estimated differently by different observers, although few probably would bother to deny that, from a purely formal point of view, these panels do not place among the most satisfying of Cranach’s works.”

This is where the argument struck home with me. I have never understood the rapture of a Lutheran pastor explaining a Cranach painting that, to me, was cluttered, uninteresting, and burdened with an abundance of symbolism. When all was said and done, I thought, “Yes, yes, I get it. But why did it take so long to get to the point?” It isn’t that I’m bored with the theology. I actually quite enjoy it. But if you try to force a work of art to perform the role of catechism, you’ll get something that is not very effective as either.

I don't suppose the issue is a simple matter of looking at it through modern eyes that are accustomed to immediacy and high impact. It’s true that the part of me that was trained as an illustrator follows the K.I.S.S. rule religiously: Keep It Simple, Stupid. It’s better to paint one truth boldly and confidently than a dozen that compete for attention. Sure, medieval Europeans had longer attention spans than the average American today. But even compared to those of his contemporaries, Cranach’s altarpieces don’t measure up. None of his panels can hold a candle to the power and presence of Van Eyck’s Ghent Altarpiece, or Grünewald’s Isenheim Altarpiece (see below).

Matthias Grünewald - Isenheim Altarpiece (first stage)

If works of art are sermons, then Grünewald gives us a ten-minute sermon that knocks us out of a daze and demands our thoughts for the rest of the day. Cranach gives us a dryly-delivered, hour-long sermon, which garners enthusiastic nods from a few theologians and puts the laymen to sleep.

And while I admit to having amused myself a little too much with that comparison, the fact that we often compare church art to “visual sermons” is perhaps in itself misleading. It’s a sermon only in the sense that it should tell us something true about God; it’s not a sermon in the sense that it needs to set forth all the teachings of scripture. Luther was right to praise music for its ability to expound on scripture, as many of his hymns beautifully exemplify. But while the visual arts may indeed be didactic, they are not didactic in the same way as music that incorporates sung texts. The visual arts are rather poor at explaining abstract theological truths. Their strength is an aesthetic beauty that is recognized almost at once, but that demands contemplation, and maintains a longer-lasting impression.

Playing the “blame game” is usually not helpful. But perhaps in this case it may be instructive. Was Cranach so overly enthused about the evangelical theology that he decided to cram all of it into every single painting? People more knowledgeable than I am have said, “Not likely.” The body of Cranach’s work suggests that he knew a thing or two about design and composition. I imagine that making a painting for Luther was a bit like making concept art for Star Wars. Maybe Cranach wanted to follow his instincts, but that would have been like telling George Lucas that you think an alien with floppy pink ears and eye stalks who talks like a racial stereotype is a terrible idea. (Good luck with that!) It would have taken an artist of tremendous talent and stature to push back against Luther.

So am I blaming Luther for the decline of art in the Lutheran church? Yes, maybe a little. It’s at least plausible, and at most likely, that Luther’s penchant for sermonizing had unintended consequences on the visual arts. I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that the pieces Cranach came up with on his own were artistically superior (if theologically deficient) to those made after Luther came into the picture. Cranach was a good artist. Although not a genius, his expertise with design ought to have been sought and heeded. I’m not saying that if Luther hadn’t been so restrictive, we might have had a flourishing artistic tradition. But I do think the evidence points to Luther having more to do with Cranach’s work than he ought to have, and the result was that Cranach’s altarpieces were famous only because Luther commended them, and not because of any outstanding artistic merit. But in any case, Cranach’s ecclesiastical art did not inspire any great imitators or successors. While other factors were probably at play, the fact remains that nothing resembling a visual tradition was ever established in the Lutheran church.

So here’s why I think finding fault might be instructive concerning long dead artists and reformers. Whatever the cause, the visual arts in the Lutheran church have been dormant for a long while. I think they are waiting to be woken. The only productive reason for finding fault is to see that fault in ourselves. We can learn from the mistakes of our predecessors. Given that, a revival of ecclesiastical art would require three important things:

1. Pastors and theologians should be instilled with a deep appreciation for the visual arts (even more than Luther did), without overemphasizing ‘art as sermon.’
2. Artists should have a solid understanding of theology, symbolism, and the Western tradition.
3. Artists, pastors, and laymen need to see liturgical art as a collaborative process and trust in the other’s vocational duties. 

In a way, we all face the same herculean task that Cranach did in the 16th century—that of creating a Lutheran artistic tradition virtually from scratch. The difference is that we are without excuse. We don't have Luther looking over our shoulders. We don't have wars ravaging our homeland. The Roman church isn't trying to kill us, and no one is going to start a riot if we erect a statue of Christ in a church. Let's take opportunity of these blessings and work while it is day!

Is Change Good?

What's the greatest obstacle to change and renewal in the Church? Lutherans are a mixed bag these days, but most of the time I presume political gridlock isn't to blame so much as apathy. (And perhaps "apathy" isn't the right word. Sometimes it seems almost like a militant adherence to the status quo.) Speaking from my experience, I don't know how many times in the past several years "I've never heard any complaints" was given as a reason not to change something. Its close relatives are: "We've always done it this way," and "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." It perplexes me to some degree. If I can find someone who is willing to voice some complaint, or at least suggest that improvements could be made, then will you consider changing? What if, like good Lutherans, we're just keeping our opinions to ourselves? Mother always said, "If you don't have anything nice to say..."

The same old argument came out of the bag recently in regard to commissioning artwork to commemorate the 500th anniversary of the Reformation. It's happened often enough to at least give me pause. Is there something to it? Are there times when the status quo is to be honored above change? If I can understand the mindset, maybe that will help me to overcome the rigid apathy.

I consider myself a traditionalist, so in that regard it's somewhat odd that I so often find myself on the side of change. On the one hand, I thank God that my church is a conservative Lutheran congregation. We don't have battles over praise bands, trendy youth programs, or licentious pastors. I think my church is pretty normal among the WELS in that regard.

On the other hand, probably like many WELS churches, we sometimes confuse the status quo for "tradition." They aren't necessarily the same. The traditions of the Church (e.g., the liturgy) were established long ago and for good reasons (e.g. maintaining good order, preaching the gospel, aiding learning). Those reasons still stand. The interesting thing about the traditions of the Church is that even while they remain, they change. What served as the liturgy in the Byzantine Empire won't work for 21st century American Lutherans in Seward, Nebraska. But we still have a liturgy, and we probably sing some of the same biblical canticles that Justinian sang—only they've been translated into English and set to different music with different instruments. The clergy that served in Hagia Sophia would have worn albs, just like our pastor. But their vesture would have seemed distinctly Roman and somewhat alien to us.

Traditions in the church are commended by the Book of Concord as being good and useful, but they change. Aside from regional and cultural changes that occur when Christianity is transmitted around the world, Christians have deliberately and often improved the tradition. This is why Romanesque churches eventually gave way to Gothic—many Europeans thought that pointed vaults, stained glass windows, more light, and greater verticality resulted in a more beautiful and fitting setting for worship. Note: These weren't radical changes—they occurred slowly over hundreds of years, and maintained the same basic layout of churches past. Also Note: There was nothing wrong with the previous style. When Constantine first made Christianity legal, Christians who had worshipped well enough in house-churches didn't remain there; they began building large basilica-churches. Likewise, the Gothic style didn't come about because parishioners complained that they didn't like rounded arches. In both cases, church architecture changed because Christians with artistic sensibilities saw room for improvement.

Jump forward to 1517. Martin Luther reformed many of the traditions of the Catholic Church. One notable example was that he excised the Canon of the Mass from the liturgy. The original reasons for having the liturgy still remained—but the Canon hindered them. It turned the Sacrament of the Eucharist into a sacrifice, thus denying the once-for-all sacrifice of Christ and obscuring the essence of the gospel. This is an example of a change that was not only an improvement, but a necessity.

Luther should serve as a good example for us even in the 21st century. Contrary to the beliefs of some, the Reformation was not a one-time event. The Word and its pure teaching must constantly be guarded; the Church must undergo constant reform and renewal. Our resistance to change is understandable, given how highly Lutherans value their heritage, and given the many pressures within the church to conform to an increasingly godless culture. But we can become so wary of negative changes that we fear any change. I see that attitude in myself often enough. Change is not the enemy of the Church. Bad changes are the enemy. Good changes are the work of the Holy Spirit. It may sound like a corny corporate policy, but Meme Dwight is right: improvement is always possible.

Of course, the Church doesn't change for the sake of change. We search the scriptures and test the spirits. We want to make sure: first, that there are good reasons to change; and second, that the change will actually be an improvement before we implement it. We should always resist bad changes. And for that reason, we can find cause to commend at least some of our Lutheran stubbornness. But if Lutherans are not open to change of any kind, then we're not open to improvement, either.

And that, I think, is not a tenable position for a Christian to have.

An Artist's Vocation in All of Life

The following was written as a feature article for Lutheran Forum, an independent theological quarterly for clergy and laity, with contributing authors from the ELCA and LCMS. It will appear in the spring 2016 edition.

It may seem cliché, but it was like being on a different planet. I stood underneath the massive dome of Sta. Maria del Fiore in Florence, gazing up at one of the greatest engineering feats of the last two millennia. I marveled at the scale of Vassari’s "Last Judgment" fresco, which covered the dome’s interior. The cavernous void between the vaults and the smooth marble floors was enough to induce vertigo. The whispers of awed visitors carried through the space with crystal clarity. I wondered, why was this place of worship so completely alien to the experience of an American Lutheran?

I know that I’m not the first Lutheran artist to visit magnificent churches in Europe and to be astonished by them. But for me, it wasn’t just a romantic escape f
rom the rural American landscape—it was a burning bush experience. It’s hard to imagine seeing works by Giotto, Michelangelo, Raphael, and Carravagio, and not being utterly transformed by them. They are beautiful, to be sure. And for a student of art history, visiting Florence is like making a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. But gazing at those old masterpieces, I felt the uncanny urge to remove my sandals for a different reason. They weren’t just individual “expressions” of faith—they were more akin to a divine collaboration. God was indeed present there, in more ways than one.

I wanted to make art like that. I wanted to roll up my sleeves and produce the kind of work that would transform a bland, Lutheran landscape into the kind of sublimely spiritual experience that Europeans had produced more than 500 years ago. But first I would have to make Lutherans want it. They seem to be happy with the status quo: white walls, plain glass, a steep roofline and a couple of empty crosses. Why had the visual arts, which once had flourished in the Lutheran church, almost disappeared? Whatever the reason, I was resolved to remedy it.

Since that hallowed Italian experience, I’ve come to understand my own artistic vocation much more deeply. It didn’t come to me in a flash of inspiration in the Duomo. It came by reading Holy Scripture, by the instruction of wise mentors, by reading the works of studied men of faith, and by personal experience.

The Word of God is always the best place to begin and end. For many years, I was ignorant of this passage from scripture (if I had read it before, I had probably glossed over it as many do with those tedious Levitical laws): “Then the LORD said to Moses, ‘See, I have called by name Bezalel son of Uri... and I have filled him with the Spirit of God, with ability and intelligence, with knowledge and all craftsmanship, to devise artistic designs, to work in gold, silver, and bronze... And I have given to all able men ability, that they may make all that I have commanded you’” (Exodus 31:1-4,6). God called Bezalel by name. For any artist struggling with whether or not art can be a “legitimate” vocation, the answer is there in holy writ. Add to it that Bezalel is the first person in the Bible of whom it is said that one was “filled with the Spirit of God.” If that doesn’t light a fire under you, what will?

Unfortunately for me, Bezalel wasn’t on my radar in graduate school, and I was deeply conflicted. I was attending a secular school for the first time in my life, because I felt this need to make my artistic abilities into something “productive” for a career. I found myself suppressing my desire to make overtly Christian works of art. On some level, I didn’t want to face criticism from my faculty and peers of various faiths. I never denied my Christian faith, but I was trying to compartmentalize my faith life and my vocation. It took a devout Catholic mentor to talk some sense into me. James Langley is a liturgical artist working and teaching in Savannah, Georgia. I interned with him as a studio assistant, where he saw in me a suppressed desire to make sacred art. He nurtured that spark, and advised me to do my Master’s thesis on resurrecting liturgical art. The paper practically wrote itself, and to my surprise, my faculty advisers were thrilled with it. In time, I realized that Langley was the latest in a long line of teachers, mentors, and family members who had been gently encouraging me in this direction from my childhood. I finally grabbed it by the horns.

As it turns out, fulfilling one’s vocation is not as simple as just accepting it as a reality. It took a good deal of wrestling with disappointments—one after the other. I did manage to get a teaching job at a Lutheran college shortly after graduate school, but rewarding though it was, it wasn’t the “big break” I was hoping for. I kept at it, working part-time jobs, pushing mops and doing whatever it took to pay the rent. With a wife and kids, I was less willing or able to put everything on the line to go and chase that dream job—even if it is the one I thought God wanted me to have. Things just seemed stagnant. Had I not paid my dues? I kept asking myself. Then I would mentally slap myself. You don’t earn God’s grace. “It is the gift of God, not of works, lest anyone should boast” (Eph. 2:8,9).

Be patient. God knows best. My parents had recommended Gene Edward Veith’s God at Work: Your Christian Vocation in All of Life to me. When I read it, it was my second big wake-up call. It opened my eyes to my other vocations—in the home, as a husband and father; at my workplaces, as an employee; and as a Christian, to my church, and to everyone around me. Whether or not I was making a living with my artwork, I had opportunities to show Christ’s love to countless people. I had no right to despise those everyday vocations simply because they were not the one vocation I felt most passionate about. This helped to take the anxiety out of waiting for something big to happen. When the fog of self-pity had cleared, it allowed me to see that God was working small things for my good all the time—and my business was steadily growing. Every year I was getting more clients, more opportunities, and more exposure.

Realizing that vocation is not about finding the right “career” is incredibly liberating. It’s about serving God and one’s neighbor; it’s about providing for one’s family. How could I do all of those things, while exercising my unique gifts? That’s what vocation is about. Vocation is always in the present. When I saw a need that could be filled, I filled it. I started designing logos for Lutheran churches. I started teaching for Wittenberg Academy, an online Lutheran high school. I started creating church banner designs that have theological depth and artistic integrity. I even did a smattering of web design projects. Sure, those jobs are less glamorous than making an altar painting for a cathedral or being a consultant for an extensive church renovation project, but they are rewarding in their own right. I get to mold young minds with a Lutheran understanding of the arts. I get to help churches make a visual confession about who they are and what they teach. And most importantly, I have the joyous privilege of helping people focus their eyes and hearts on what God has done for us in Christ Jesus.

It’s all about Jesus. Christ lived for me. Christ died for me. Christ rose for me. If ever our work becomes about us, it will seem like drudgery. Worse, it muddies the water instead of clearly proclaiming Christ. When I paint for the church, I don’t set out to express myself. What inspired such awe in me when viewing the works of the old masters is that however great the artist’s talent, the work was most powerful when it was subordinated to Christ and his Word. It was as if God’s hand was moving in tandem with the artist’s, in order to show his love to generations of viewers. The painting or sculpture becomes a kind of veil behind which we can glimpse a portion of God’s glory, his artistry, and his reckless love for mankind. It’s humbling to think that God may choose to use my brush, my hands, to accomplish that.

As I said before, the Word is a good place to begin and end. “And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.” (Heb. 12:1-2). Perseverance sums up the Christian life pretty well. Don’t expect glamor and riches and fame. Fix your eyes on Jesus. Run the race. Remember that Christ has already won it for you—and Christ himself is the prize.

Soli Deo Gloria

Jonathan Mayer

Sacred* Art by Atheists

Today's question is: can a non-Christian make meaningful Christian art?

David Mach: Crucifixion, Edinburgh, 2011

David Mach, a nonbeliever, was commissioned to recreate biblical scenes out of coat hangers to celebrate the 400th anniversary of the King James Bible. Despite the acclaim of art critics, us ordinary folk have trouble shaking images of "Hellraiser." It makes you wonder exactly what Mach is trying to communicate, aside from pain. Anger? Hatred? Torture? Industry?

In an interview with the Telegraph, Mach admitted to being "irreligious," and said, "I’m sure I’m going to get accused of hijacking something that I don’t really have massive feelings about. It’s not about me. It’s about what I’m making. If I’m asked for opinions I’ll give them, but look at the work and see if you can get something from there."

Then there's atheist Gerhard Richter's design* for the transept window in the Cologne cathedral, Germany. The original window was damaged by air raids in World War II. The design* was created randomly with a computer, and mimics a digital "pixel" pattern. I would describe this as iconoclastic, but throngs of critics—and even parishioners—have described it as "spiritual," "contemplative," even "divine."

*Design implies intention. Something that is random cannot, by definition, be designed.

Gerhard Richter: South transept window, Cologne, 2007

Massimiliano Fuksas takes the cake with his design for a church in Foligno, Italy. Art critics use words like "modest" and "inspiring" to describe this massive concrete cube. These critics are apparently used to building with alphabet blocks, so that is to be expected. Photos of the oddly claustrophobic interior can be found here.

Massimiliano Fuksas: Paolo Church, Foligno, 2009. Photo credit: ARQA.com

Germaine Richier: Crucifix, 1950

Not to be outdone by her male counterparts, Germaine Richier caused a stir in the 1950s when she created this crucifix for the church of Notre-Dame de Toute in Assy, France. She explained its ugliness as depicting the suffering of Christ. She also explained that the figure has no face because God is spirit and therefore has none. This illustrates why we don't ask atheists to make theological statements for us. After complaints from horrified parishioners, the cross was removed from the church, and immediately became the center of much early controversy as to the role of artists (and their faith—or lack thereof) in the church.

Igor Mitoraj: Christ Resurrection, Rome, 2006

The last artist whose work I'm going to show is the odd one of the bunch. Igor Mitoraj produced several huge bronze doors and many other large-scale figurative sculptures in the Renaissance tradition. I've scoured the web for any mention of his faith and came up dry—even his obituary from late last year suggested nothing. But his bronze doors from Basilica di Santa Maria degli Angeli in Rome struck me with their classicism. And while employed with a kind of surrealist, postmodern flair, the Christian symbolism also struck me so much that I cited this door in my thesis. Here is a resurrected Christ figure, reminiscent of Greek gods (and early Christian depictions), but bearing the empty shape of the cross in his body.

There are countless examples that I either am unaware of or have passed over—especially in the architectural realm. The point I'm trying to make is that nonbelievers have made it apparent to believers that their grasp of Christianity is extremely shallow. Even if we didn't have the evidence before our eyes, we know that these truths are only made known by the Spirit, through faith.

This isn't to say that every construction worker who drives a nail into your church must be a believer. But when it comes to designing a church, or producing artwork for that community of faith, it should go without saying that it requires an intimate knowledge of what those people believe and practice and confess. Furthermore, it requires a knowledge of what has come before, and a sincere desire to chart an artistic path into the future that recognizes the eternal and transcendent nature of the Church. What sets Mitoraj's bronze doors apart from the above works is a familiarity with and respect for the pages of art history, many of which were written by artists of faith. Still, even if a blind squirrel occasionally finds a nut, I don't think we should encourage the practice of hiring blind squirrels when we have so many sighted ones...

Artists are made, not born

The Redemption (detail)
- E. Riojas

"See, the Lord has called by name Bezalel the son of Uri, the son of Hur, of the tribe of Judah; and He has filled him with the Spirit of God, in wisdom and understanding, in knowledge and all manner of workmanship, to design artistic works, to work in gold and silver and bronze, in cutting jewels for setting, in carving wood, and to work in all manner of artistic workmanship. And He has put in his heart the ability to teach." (Ex. 35:30-34a)

I've often lamented the lack of good art in churches (I know: understatement of the year). Ultimately, the lack of art boils down to a lack of artists. Which isn't to say that God isn't distributing that gift as generously as he should—obviously, it would be foolish to find fault with the Almighty. But in my estimation, a good artist has equal portions of two things: God-given talent, and Godly training. A talented artist with no training may not even know he has a gift—it's untapped potential. When it comes right down to it, we aren't actively training artists. We're just waiting around for a harvest when we haven't planted any seed.

Martin Luther College, which trains all of our WELS pastors and teachers, doesn't offer any studio art classes. They offer two art-related classes: Art Survey and Art in Elementary and Middle School. The first must be woefully inadequate, and the second is geared toward teaching art to lower grades. But it leaves me wondering how people who have no artistic training themselves can teach it to others. If it seems like I'm being unfair—that I shouldn't expect our pastor-teacher training college to invest in art teachers and art curricula when synod resources are already stretched so thin—you're right. MLC isn't a liberal arts college. But it will always be the case that our resources are stretched too thin. Even if the synod had a surplus of resources, the visual arts tend to fall exactly at the bottom of their priorities. I'm not saying let's prioritize art above theology or hermeneutics or Hebrew. But is there room somewhere between music and basketball for that which our Lord and the church have valued so highly?

Based on the level of investment in the visual arts at our teacher training school, it's little wonder that the majority of our WELS schools don't have art programs beyond craft paper and popsicle sticks. What if our Lutheran elementary and high schools were even half as serious about art education as Luther was about music education? The worst that could happen is that within a few decades our laity would find themselves being less ignorant and apathetic about the arts. But the best outcome would be a steady crop of talented artists emerging, beautifying our churches, focusing our eyes and our worship on Christ, and instructing Christians through the visual arts.

Why should the devil have all the good artists?

Guess who is doing a great job producing artists? The Latter-Day Saints. I don't know what they are doing right, or where they are all coming from, but if you're searching for high-caliber biblical illustration, chances are about 1 in 3 that it's by a Mormon artist. (Full disclosure: I made up that statistic.) After the illustrious Arnold Friberg, there seems to have been a steady stream of realists coming from Utah ever since (e.g. Walter Rane, Jeffrey Hein). And, frankly, some of it is kitsch (e.g. Greg Olsen). But kitsch or not, it's talent largely wasted, as the LDS church buys the copyright for those beautiful works to use as propaganda for its teachings. There are few artists in the world (let alone in the Lutheran church) who possess the technical mastery of some of these artists. To me, that's a little embarrassing.

Just so you don't get the wrong impression, I don't judge artists purely by technical skill. Nor is realism the ultimate measure of artistry. The Lutheran artists I know of are more creative, are better at symbolism, and teach pure theology with their art (e.g. Edward Riojas). Which, in my estimation, makes them better artists all around.

Triptych (closed) - W. Bukowski

So to be fair, we need to see the positives, too. Lutherans are not doing poorly across the board. Bethany Lutheran College is doing an incredible job training artists. (Full disclosure: it's my alma mater.) I can't say exactly where I would be artistically if I had gone to school elsewhere, but I give Bethany much of the credit for the artist that I am today. BLC has a small but passionate art department that is making a perceivable impact within our fellowship. More than that, Bethany's Trinity Chapel includes stained glass and a huge altar painting by Bill Bukowski (even before altar paintings became cool). To me, that says that they don't just encourage artists to act out their faith—they put their money where their mouth is. The chapel embodies the idea that art can be as valuable a contribution to worship as music. In short, Bethany molded, taught, inspired, and pushed me to be the artist I am today.

Learn 'em young.

This isn't intended to be a commercial for Bethany. Because frankly, if you wait until you're an adult before you decide to pursue some kind of formal artistic training, you've already lost precious years. If you're a parent who sees artistic potential in your child, let him pursue the gifts God has given him, and don't worry about whether you think he'll be able to support himself. That's God's job. Besides, in hard economic times, I think we place far too much emphasis on a four-year degree. A private liberal arts college isn't exactly the most cost-effective way to get artistic training.

I think a major part of the solution to the artist shortage is to start providing artistic training at a young age. Not just for those who think they want it, but for everyone. Make it a standard part of your curriculum, and invest in it the same way you would in math, history, or science. And at the very least, get children into an honest-to-God art program by the time they're in high school.

LYA Triptych - J. Jaspersen

Minnesota Valley Lutheran High School has the talented Jason Jaspersen in their employ. Jason, another Bethany grad, has been teaching art classes there for 14 years. I envy his students; I wish that I had had an art teacher of his caliber in high school. As much as young artists need a skilled and experienced teacher, they also need a wise mentor. Jason has those qualities, and it's not hard to see in him the kind of traits ascribed to Bezalel in Exodus 35. Under Jason, the art program at MVL has blossomed into a program that, for some students, is the highlight of their high school education. Some would say that the art program is one of MVL's strongest suits. I say, good for them! Go and do likewise.

Parents and students have a lot of pull at schools—probably more than they think. Make inquiries, talk to your school administrators. Talk to other parents, and make a coordinated effort to get art programs established in our schools. Not just because your child may have a gift—which would of course be wonderful—but because our synod desperately needs your child. Even if he doesn't turn out to be the next Jason Jaspersen, we need laymen who have an appreciation of the arts. And by that, I mean a hands-on, historically informed appreciation. As opposed to "Oh, yeah, I liked that picture of a beach I saw at a hotel once..." Your child is our only hope! Take charge of the future of our church. Invest in your children, and God's kingdom will reap the benefit.

Altarpiece for Sale

The 2014 WELS Conference for Worship, Music, and the Arts concluded last week on Friday. We're finally getting back into the daily grind. This triptych was designed and painted especially for the Transfiguration service at the conference. Since it has fulfilled that purpose, I am now offering the triptych for sale. If you know of anyone who might be interested, please pass this along to them.

Price: $1200 with lighting; $1000 without.

Oil on muslin, with poplar and pine frame; LED lighting, power adapter, and dimmer switch. The altarpiece also has two legs and a cross bar (not shown) that were used to clamp the frame to the altar at Carthage. These can be removed to fit whatever installation needs you may have. If you are interested or have any questions, contact jonathan@scapegoatstudio.com or message me on Facebook.

Three Years Later: Lessons Learned

Three years ago last week was my post about the Risen Savior Triptych and the results of the informal survey that sank it. I think it would be a good time to revisit the project. Although I never had the chance to produce it as a full-scale triptych, it is till one of my favorite designs. It was part of my MFA thesis project, designed for my home church, and I invested a lot of time and thought into it. But with three more years of perspective, what would I do differently now?

The most important lesson I learned is to never, ever poll the audience. To my inexperienced ears, it sounded like a good idea. The main reason I went along with it is because I assumed that WELS pastors would have more knowledge and appreciation for liturgical art than the average layman, and that being theologically trained, they would surely support it. But I was wrong. We don't give our pastors any training in this area, so what they know is only what they learn from experience or self-study. And God knows that the chances of experiencing high church liturgical art in the WELS are slim to nil.

There's another reason I should have been against the poll. The visiting pastors were neither members nor shepherds of Risen Savior. Not their congregation, not their call. If the decision to commission liturgical art is put to your pastor and board of elders, don't let them pass the buck. Since I was on the board of elders at the time, this was my failing as well.

Another lesson learned: have ready responses for the most common objections. Three years ago, I was unprepared for these objections because they were so ridiculous that it never entered my mind that they might be raised. But having heard plenty of feedback affirming that these objections are almost universal among Protestants, it seems that having the right answers and responses is a good way to ensure that the deck is stacked in your favor.

Some objections:

1. It's too Catholic. There are several ways to counter this argument to a Lutheran. There are a couple of good Luther quotes that say why it is good to have Jesus "before my eyes" (that is, having a visible sign of Christ or his passion). Historic precedence shows that Crucifixes, altar paintings, etc. were prominent in Lutheran churches immediately after the Reformation, indicating that there is nothing inherently "Catholic" about them, aside from content. The Book of Concord also has several sections that address human traditions in the Church, and why they should be kept. But finally, any objection to something being "Catholic" ultimately boils down to "I don't want it." There is nothing that can't be labeled as Romanist if a church or individual doesn't like it.


2. If it offends even one person, that's one too many. I don't know who first started throwing this phrase around, but it's an argument that can't be contradicted, because it is based on fearful conjecture. In this culture, anyone could be offended by anything. And when we have Christ's promise that his gospel will indeed cause offense, and be a stumbling block, and be pure foolishness to those who are perishing, the fear of causing offense is not a fear that Christians are permitted to succumb to. We are not permitted to withdraw from the Church anything that we think may cause offense, because God's Word causes offense. This argument sounds like a pious, biblically-informed argument, but is most likely another way of saying, "I don't like it [but I'm afraid to stand behind my own opinions]."


3. An ascended Christ would be more Lutheran. There's nothing wrong with using a Christus rex, but there are probably ulterior motives at play if there are objections to the crucifix. This argument combines aspects of 1 and 2. It's a variation on "It's too Catholic," because the urban myth has circulated among Protestants that the empty cross is Lutheran, whereas the crucifix is Catholic. You might also hear that showing the corpus is to deny the resurrection. Here, St. Paul is your champion: "For I was resolved to know nothing among you except Jesus Christ and him crucified" (1 Cor 2:2). Many mainstream Lutherans associate offense with the cross (rightly so), and so their missional orientation causes them to be embarrassed of the cross. Here, your best weapon is to show them that Christ crucified is missional. For churches who are ostensibly trying to bring in the recovering alcoholics, single moms, teenagers struggling with addiction—there is nothing more comforting than knowing that Christ has been there. In fact, anything that you have suffered, he has suffered immeasurably more. Trying to switch out the cross for a theology of glory is to trade any chance of true comfort for a false and temporary notion of security.


4. Spending money on artwork is not good stewardship. This argument is unfortunately firmly entrenched in the modern Protestant psyche. There is a kind of cultural utilitarianism that objects to anything that goes beyond a minimally functional space. At least, in public worship spaces. If you took a tour inside the home of every person who has ever made this argument, you would likely find a great deal beyond the functional. But to look to Scripture (John 12), we find that beautiful passage in which Mary pours the expensive nard on Jesus' feet, to the loud objections of Judas. Jesus did not accuse Mary of bad stewardship, but defended her act of love. It is a failure of education that Lutherans tend to think of stewardship mainly in the sense of monetary wealth, instead of "time, talents, and treasures." We most often overlook talents. "Having then gifts differing according to the grace that is given to us, let us use them" (Rom 12:10).

Lastly—and I may be wrong about this—I sometimes wish that Confessional Lutherans would not place undue emphasis on building a consensus. Yes, I recognize that Lutherans have elected to be more democratic in the way our churches are governed, and this can be a great blessing. But it can also be a hinderance to accomplishing change for the better. For instance, when a pastor acts unilaterally on decisions affecting the church, he may face a mutiny. On the other hand, is it fair or practical that artists and the few pastors who value their contributions to the church should have to shoulder the task of educating the laity on the value of liturgical art before anything can be done about it? How many decades would it take to "build a consensus" in a church of 500?

There are strong worship leaders within the WELS and other Confessional synods who are promoting good music and consistent use of the liturgy. At last year's School of Worship Enrichment in York, NE, Pastor Johnold Strey remarked that in regard to implementing good liturgical worship, "Sometimes you just have to experience it." Can't the same be said of art? Lutherans are sometimes so resistant to change that we can't see what good could possibly come of it. Maybe our pastors should be more authoritative in this area, and simply say, "We need this. It's a great idea, it's beautiful, it's good stewardship, and it will help to proclaim the gospel."

How We've Murdered Liturgical Art: Part II

This series of posts discusses a book written by a professor at Carthage College, published by Concordia Publishing House, and used as a required text at Concordia University NE in the 1970s. It is entitled "The Christian Encounters the World of Painting," by Wendell Mathews. The book purports to be a guide for Christians to approaching and critiquing modern painting. While claiming to be a proponent of Christian art, Mathews is clearly part of the problem—he is one of the many Christian voices that contributed to the murder of the liturgical arts in the past century. I intend to show exactly how.

In his book, Dr. Mathews wields four weapons against the art of the Church. Not surprisingly, they are the standard poison of Modernism, but have been carefully disguised with theological language in order to be more readily swallowed by Christians. They are: 1) undermining tradition, 2) promoting elitism, 3) attacking semantics, and 4) fostering an improper view of vocation.

2. Promoting Elitism

Admittedly, calling someone an elitist is probably one of the most overused name-calling tactics in history. There is nothing that raises the ire of the masses as much as someone who uses his power, wealth, or position in order to exclude those of "lesser" social status. In modern politics, even if the title is not deserving, once it is applied to a person it is difficult to overcome that association.

That being said, there are few entities that are so deserving of the title "elitist" as Modernism is. And there are few places where elitism is so wholly inappropriate as the Christian Church. But oddly enough, we so very often find them together.

Modernists firmly believed that their art was the culmination of tens of thousands of years of artistic efforts; that after millennia of mindlessly imitating nature, they had finally thrown off the shackles of realism and representationalism, and the result was an art that was more pure, more expressive, and more intensely human than ever before.

The only problem was that the public wasn't buying it (both figuratively and literally). A 1995 article from the Independent explains:

In the 1950s and 1960s… the great majority of Americans disliked or even despised modern art—President Truman summed up the popular view when he said: “If that’s art, then I’m a Hottentot.”¹

I suspect that Modernism had to become elitist in order to survive. When the new art failed to gather as much enthusiasm as de Kooning, Pollock, Rothko, and their peers thought it deserved, the automatic response was to dismiss the public as uneducated idiots. If you repeat a lie often enough, and believe it strongly enough, and if the CIA secretly funds your lie for decades², eventually everyone will believe it.

Manessier, "Crown of Thorns"

And that is what Mathews believes, as well. In "The Christian Encounters the World of Painting," he tries very hard to distinguish "authentic" painting from that which is not. He writes, "Authenticity is determined by knowledgeable and experienced viewers who have been trained to see these qualities."³ He continues, "The standards of evaluation come from the artists and those who, through learning and exposure, have come to sense the visual language of painting."⁴ And again, "If the viewer has had little or no training and experience with viewing paintings, it is rather presumptuous to think he can judge what is an authentic painting."⁵ No doubt, Matthews counts himself among these "knowledgeable and experienced" viewers, and is therefore qualified to apply the title of authenticity to those works he considers worthy.

By way of clarification, I do not discount knowledge and experience in matters of art. As a student of the arts, I certainly have a deeper understanding and appreciation for art now than I did as a high school graduate. But I object to the notion that an elite class of academics have the right to say what is "authentic" and what is not, while the public—the people for whom art is ostensibly intended—have no right at all.

Mathews even attempts to disqualify clergy and laymen from passing artistic judgement on the art that is made for their churches! He writes, "The church also is finding that it cannot foster creative expression by requesting the artist to cater to the prevailing tastes of clergy and laymen."⁶ I question whether the church has actually found this, or whether this has been dictated to the church by elitist academics. Regardless, Mathews is effectively saying, If you find this new art objectionable, you have bad taste, and you are inhibiting authentic artistic expression. And anyways, who are you? Just a stupid layman.

Why is this dangerous to Christianity—and how did it kill liturgical art?

If neither the laymen nor the clergy are fit to discern what art is and is not fit for use in worship, then who is? The artists? You can see why Modernists are so deserving of the title "elitist." They not only want to monopolize the production of new artwork, but its critique, and—no doubt—its value. You can also see why the church has come to distrust artists on the whole. If Mathews represents the prevailing academic opinion about arts in the church, it is no wonder that many churches would prefer to leave the whole matter alone and worship in a white-washed barn.

Chagall, "White Crucifixion"

An all-important question that Mathews never raises is: who is the art intended for? The book is entitled "The Christian Encounters...", and the author presupposes that his readership are Christians. But he never explicitly states that Christian art is intended for Christians. Now if liturgical art is meant for Christians, then logicaly the intended audience would play a role in judging its worth. But he cannot reveal that inconsistency, so I suspect the question is deliberately avoided. However, from phrases scattered throughout the book, I gather that Mathews never considers that a work should be intended for the edification of the body of believers. He sees art universally as a subjective experience between you, the viewer, and the work itself. This can only ever harm the Church, because it takes away the ability of art to communicate real meaning.

The second all-important question that Mathews never asks is: what is the art's purpose? He doesn't ask, but he does give an answer, though only in passing:

If, however, we conclude that for Christians the quality of artistic expression does not matter and that only the religious message matters, we have moved out of the area of the fine arts. If the church wishes to enunciate the Gospel by means of artistic expressions, it must strive for nothing less than authentic art of quality.⁷ 

Did you catch it? He casually, almost accidentally, says what should have been the central point of the whole book: "to enunciate the Gospel." I wonder how artists are supposed to do that if, in trying to do so, Mathews and his peers dismiss it as unauthentic, or disassociate it with fine art. Or, if an artist tries to follow Dr. Mathews' advice, how he is supposed to enunciate anything by means of the subjective abstractions Mathews is so infatuated with? It's an enormous catch-22 that he hopes you won't notice. Unfortunately, some rather influential voices in the church have been playing the Modernist tune for decades. They are still teaching young artists that liturgical art is a means of self-expression, and not one of enunciating the gospel. The inevitable result is that the church grows either farther estranged from artists, or from the gospel—and possibly both.

Christianity is not a religion of subjective realities, but of objective, unchanging truths. It sees humankind as unique creations, but ones that are fundamentally the same—equally corrupt and sinful, and equally in need of a Savior. This is why we come to worship. We need to hear that Jesus was delivered over to death for our sins, and was raised to life for our justification.⁸

Whatever works of art we choose to place in our sanctuaries, they must certainly reflect these truths. Those works should be accessible to the people they are meant to communicate to. There is no room in the Church for elitism.

To be continued...

_______________

¹ Frances S. Saunders, "Modern art was CIA 'weapon'," The Independent (October 1995), http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/modern-art-was-cia-weapon-1578808.html
² Ibid.
³ Wendell Mathews, The Christian Encounters the World of Painting (St. Louis, MO: Concordia Publishing House, 1968), 90.
⁴ Mathews, 91.
⁵ Ibid, 100.
⁶ Ibid, 91-92.
⁷ Ibid, 101.
⁸ Romans 4:25

How We've Murdered Liturgical Art: Part I

This series of posts discusses a book written by a professor at Carthage College, published by Concordia Publishing House, and used as a required text at Concordia University NE in the 1970s. It is entitled "The Christian Encounters the World of Painting," by Wendell Mathews. The book purports to be a guide for Christians to approaching and critiquing modern painting. While claiming to be a proponent of Christian art, Mathews is clearly part of the problem—he is one of the many Christian voices that contributed to the murder of the liturgical arts in the past century. I intend to show exactly how.

In his book, Dr. Mathews wields four weapons against the art of the Church. Not surprisingly, they are the standard poison of Modernism, but have been carefully disguised with theological language in order to be more readily swallowed by Christians. They are: 1) undermining tradition, 2) promoting elitism, 3) attacking semantics, and 4) fostering an improper view of vocation.

1. Undermining the Christian Tradition

A hallmark of Modernism was the sudden break from tradition. Spectacular mental acrobatics were required by Modernist art critics—championed by Clement Greenberg—in order to attach abstract expressionism (and other -isms) to some kind of linear, historical significance. Greenberg felt it necessary to historically justify that which had nothing at all to do with thousands of years of artistic precedent. Other Modernists, however, felt the need to neither deny nor justify the obvious break from tradition. The Futurists, for example, would have burned the museums to the ground, if Marinetti's manifesto had been carried out in reality.¹

Dr. Mathews is not one of those overtly iconoclastic Modernists, however. He has good intentions. But he appears to be under two related delusions: that Modernist painting is a continuation of the artistic tradition, but that the painting of past eras has no significance to people living in the present:

After a long period of indifference to the major stylistic trends of recent decades, the church is questioning whether it can relate adequately to the present age by means of outmoded art styles. Some in the church have known for some time that the use of past styles has alienated artists interested in stylistic innovations that emerge from creative activity.¹

I quoted a portion of this statement in the Introduction post, but Mathews apparently believes it so strongly that he says it twice. But take special notice of the things he glosses over as though they were self-evident: that traditional styles are "outmoded," and that the use of past styles "alienates" creative artists. Mathews does not spend much time trying to explain exactly why something that was painted for Christians in 1600 cannot relate to Christians of today. Mathews does explain, however, that symbols used in past centuries may fall out of use. He writes,

Visual symbols are born and die. They die when they can no longer produce the special response that the viewer associates with the object. For this reason, many old visual symbols once alive to church members have now lost their power to communicate. But out of the contemporary involvement should arise new and meaningful symbols.²

Okay. So by this are we to believe that when people no longer know what a shepherd is, we should substitute "Jesus is my homeboy?" Well, he has an answer for that.

Some have suggested that all the old visual symbols... should be discarded because they communicate only when they are explained. It is true that some symbols have lost their power to communicate, but this should not apply to a large number of symbols that come to us directly from the Bible. We should not discard symbols of the lamb and the Good Shepherd because we are now more urban-oriented than people of Bible times. ... If such symbols lose their meaning, it reflects weakness on the part of the members of the Christian church.³

I suspect that it's rare for someone to so thoroughly shoot himself in the foot as Mathews has done here. So far, this has been his only concrete reason for doing away with "past styles" of art, and it really has nothing at all to do with the styles, but with the substance. But after saying that symbols that no longer communicate should be replaced with new symbols, he then rebukes this viewpoint as a weakness of faith. And even though he argues that only biblical symbols should enjoy a special protection from disuse, it still requires educating the believers as to their meaning and value. What possible excuse could one have, then, for ignorance toward other well-established but non-biblical symbols (for instance, the Chi-Rho)? None whatsoever.

This leads us to conclude that this cannot be his real and only reason for marginalizing Christian art of the past. Dr. Matthews' motives are only hinted at when he defines what "authentic" art is: "A Christian painting should be authentically artistic. In the world of painting, a work is authentic within a particular cultural and artistic continuum."⁴ He goes on to say that "individual style, however, should show also the style of his own historical and artistic epoch."⁵ This is his ace in the sleeve. Whatever a person might say about timelessness, symbolism, or the power to communicate, he can simply counter by saying, "But that art does not participate in the current artistic idiom; therefore it isn't authentic."

So let's recap. Remember how Mathews began by saying that certain styles cannot "relate adequately to the present age?" As it turns out, that was just the first part of a classic bait-and-switch. His argument really has nothing to do with whether or not past art can relate or communicate with Christians today, because he knows this argument has no legs. Instead, he tries to convince you that any art that isn't a product of the mainstream culture cannot ever be "authentic."

Why is this dangerous to Christianity—and how did it kill liturgical art?

It turns out that Dr. Mathews is not really saying anything new. He has fallen prey to the age-old infatuation with the present—that the best music, poetry, art, science, and everything, is happening now. It must be exhilarating to think of one's self riding on the crest of progress, even affecting that progress. The trouble is that this kind of ego- and sociocentricity has nothing to do with Christianity. Christianity teaches that since the Fall into sin, man is utterly corrupt and has nothing to offer God. Furthermore, society at large has been on the express train to hell—and it's picking up speed. Mathews doesn't deny this. He correctly describes the Christian's relationship to the world as one of "mediation." He then explains,

The Christian relationship centers in God's grace, mediated to man in and through the God-man, Jesus Christ, the Son of God. This gift was bought with His great sacrifice, revealing the fullness of divine love. Christ's love becomes the power for Christian action. The Christian's faith is to be active in love.⁶

The wording is theologically vague, but I think we could all agree with that statement. However, the problem is that what Mathews calls mediation is, to him, social activism. "This acceptance of responsibility means having a critical voice regarding cultural elements contrary to Christian truths."⁷ The most charitable view of Mathews' writing would be that he wants art to engage nonbelievers in a theological dialogue. But this is impossible. You can tell the Parable of the Good Samaritan to an atheist, and he will fancy himself to be the Good Samaritan. Images do not change a person's orientation to God. As highly as I regard ecclesiastical art, it does not have the power to evangelize nonbelievers—it is not a means of grace.

Vestment for Mass by Manessier

Besides the futility of this supposed evangelism effort, all it has accomplished is to scrape the beauty and meaning from art in order to present to an unbelieving culture something that Dr. Mathews hopes they can "relate" to. Where does that leave Christians? I did not find one single sentence in the book that distinguished art made for galleries from art made for worship. To Mathews, I suspect that they are the same thing. And this is why it is so fatally damaging to liturgical art. In 2000 years of art history, Christian art was made primarily for either devotional purposes or for worship. In both respects, it was made for Christians. No one deluded himself into believing that showing an image of Jesus would convert the heathens. (They suffered from other delusions, but probably not this one.) So it is exceedingly stupid to expect that the church of this age should lower its artistic standards to the tastes and aesthetic of a culture that is in every respect ruled by Satan.

But the biggest reason why this disconnect from tradition is damaging to liturgical art and to Christianity is that, while attempting to use the visual language of Modernism, it has jettisoned the narrative of Salvation in exchange for the subjective feelings of the artist. Modernist painting and sculpture, because it abandoned representational art, could only use abstraction to convey a visceral, barely definable, subjective experience. This art is incapable of expressing the reality of the Incarnation, because it refuses to acknowledge any reality at all.

History has now played out this costly artistic experiment. It has failed utterly. The attempt to make Christian art that "relates" to the iconoclastic culture of our times has resulted in: no significant theological dialogue, no new converts as a result, a Christian church disenchanted with art, talented artists who have either been estranged by the church or who have squandered their talent in an effort to gain mainstream acceptance, and a lifeless body of liturgical art.

To be continued...

_______________

¹ "Come on! Set fire to the library shelves! Turn aside the canals to flood the museums! ... Oh, the joy of seeing the glorious old canvases bobbing adrift on those waters, discoloured and shredded. ... Take up your pickaxes, your axes and hammers and wreck, wreck the venerable cities pitilessly!" Filippo Tommaso Marinetti, “The Foundation and Manifesto of Futurism” (1909), quoted in: Michael Darling, Target Practice: Painting Under Attack, 1949-78 (Seattle: Seattle Art Museum, 2009), 130.
² Wendell Mathews, The Christian Encounters the World of Painting (St. Louis, MO: Concordia Publishing House, 1968), 92.
³ Ibid, 93.
⁴ Ibid, 90.
⁵ Ibid.
⁶ Ibid, 89.
⁷ Ibid.

Intro: How We've Murdered Liturgical Art

Anyone who has heard me talk about Modernism probably has heard me refer to it as the "twentieth century iconoclasm." At a presentation I gave last week, I explained that anyone interested in making artwork for the church, was, by the 1950s, being trained in the paradigm of "art for art's sake." Christians were readily abandoning the artistic tradition of the church and pounding Jackson Pollack over the heads of anyone who picked up a brush. And I only recently realized how true this really was.

A few months ago, my aunt was downsizing, and asked if I wanted any of her art books from college. She attended Concordia University Nebraska in the 1970s, where she studied art. I couldn't turn down the opportunity to add to my library, no matter how old or outdated the books were, so I took them all home with me. On the top of the box I saw a book entitled: "The Christian Encounters the World of Painting," by Wendell Mathews. The book was published by Concordia Publishing House in 1968. According to the biography on the back, Dr. Mathews was a professor and chair of the art department at Carthage College (ELCA) in Kenosha, Wisconsin. I am always interested in the convergence of art and theology, so I picked it up and began to read.

By the second paragraph of the preface, my hopes of reading an informative, insightful book were extinguished by some very familiar Modernist rhetoric:

Many Christians—both ministers and laymen—are encouraging a fresh consideration of the church's relation to the arts. After a long period of indifference to the major stylistic trends of recent decades, the church should question whether or not it can relate adequately to the present age by means of outmoded art styles.

After a brief moment of disgust, my curiosity was piqued and I began to read with more interest. This musty, yellowed book was a time capsule; it afforded me the opportunity to read what was actually being taught at a Lutheran college in the 1970s. This was the smoking gun I had been looking for. It became clear to me exactly how involved Lutherans have been in the cold-blooded murder of liturgical art.

The one indisputable fact concerning this murder is the state of the deceased. Anyone can observe the cold, naked state of our churches built in the past 60 years or so. As obvious as it is to me, however, it's the sort of thing one can get used to, and after a few generations, maybe only a handful of people can see a corpse for what it is. I suspect that it requires only a glance at the thousands of churches that were built and furnished in a time when the liturgical arts were very much alive to convince the apathetic layman that a murder has, in fact, occurred. But upon becoming aware of it, the problem does not therefore solve itself. ("Awareness" doesn't cure cancer, either.) The point of educating Christians about what has happened is not to elicit sympathy; neither is it to point fingers. It is to change their perceptions and behavior—to cause them to stop participating in this ongoing iconoclasm and work toward reversing it.

Once their minds have been changed, then the healing can begin. "God is not the God of the dead, but of the living" (Mt 22:32). He who raised Christ from the dead can certainly resurrect the visual arts in his Church. I firmly believe that God will do this. The pendulum has been too long the other way; it is time to bring it back.

But until that happens, there's a lot of work to be done. We've got a corpse on a slab, and I mean to find out how exactly the Bride of Christ was so badly mistreated, and why. And I'm darn sure not going to let it happen again, so help me God.

To be continued...

Liturgical Art Cruncher

At the suggestion of one of my friends from college, I decided to make a "cruncher" for liturgical art. My friend and her husband had showed me the Praise Song Cruncher some time back, and she thought it would be a great idea to do a similar one for the visual arts. I agreed, and made it my project for the day.

You can read or download the document here: Liturgical Art Cruncher.

This worksheet is designed to aid Christian laymen in critiquing art that is made for worship. A critique should generally not be conducted in a mechanical, input/output fashion, but this might serve as an objective starting point for dialogue concerning a work of ecclesiastical art.

Because works of visual art communicate in a less objective way than language, critique will always be somewhat subjective. The results of the cruncher may not be as straight-forward as you expect. The key is intended to help you weigh and interpret the results.

Ecce Homo and the American Idol Complex

"Ecce homo" by Elías García Martínez left; the damaged fresco, center;
and the botched restoration by Cecilia Gímenez, right.

The story isn't news anymore; pretty much everyone has heard about the Spanish fresco, Ecce Homo (Behold the Man), which was ruined when amateur artist Cecilia Gímenez tried to restore it, without the knowledge or consent of the church. The story went viral about five months ago, appearing on comedy shows and even inspiring some Halloween costumes. The fresco has been jokingly referred to as Ecce Mono (Behold the Monkey) in the blogosphere. Now the painting was not a masterpiece by any means, and the artist was barely known except in this small Spanish town. But still, the story is so horrifying from an art historical standpoint that if we didn't laugh, we'd have to cry.

But let's take a moment to consider this issue seriously, especially as it relates to liturgical art. The obvious question that this raises is: who is qualified to make art for the church? I'm not trying to be an elitist. I think that art is wonderfully democratic in the sense that everyone can view and appreciate it—but not in the sense that anyone can make sacred art.

So if you're asking yourself what American Idol could possibly have to do with liturgical art, here it is. The American Idol phenomenon has sparked dozens of spinoff talent competitions and reality shows, all of which seem to have the effect of fueling the belief that anyone can be a millionaire pop star. When my wife Emily taught voice lessons in Savannah, she had at least a dozen teenagers who were taking lessons to prepare for Idol tryouts, or to start their pop music careers. One 23-year-old with no musical experience whatsoever apparently thought that she could take piano and voice lessons for a month or two and then play and sing at a professional level. When my wife informed her that this was probably not a realistic goal, she asked, "Well, how long do you think Alicia Keys has been playing piano?" Emily answered, "Probably her whole life."

The disappointment was palpable. The student's dreams hit the floor like a wet sandbag.

While I don't think American Idol had any effect on this 81-year-old woman's attempt to restore a damaged fresco of Christ, I can't help but feel that Idol (and shows like it) have contributed to a feeling that talent is irrelevant, and that all that is necessary is the will to act. That's the American dream, right? That anyone can pick up a violin or a brush or a microphone and become the next big hit? Well, here's one opinion to the contrary, and I think Miss Gímenez is exhibit A. However well-intentioned she might have been, and however well we appreciate love, determination, and the will to act, an ear cannot will itself to be a hand.

This brings us to the doctrine of vocation. 1 Cor. 12:12-17 explains that the Christian Church is the body of Christ—one unit with many different parts. We celebrate our variety in Christ. We are not all pastors, teachers, musicians, or artists. We are not all contractors, homemakers, engineers, or administrators. Each of us has a calling that is specific to only himself or herself, and for which God has bestowed talents upon each individual. St. Paul addresses the necessity of each part, as well as the attitude of each part to another.

But God has combined the members of the body and has given greater honor to the parts that lacked it, so that there should be no division in the body, but that its parts should have equal concern for each other. If one part suffers, every part suffers with it; if one part is honored, every part rejoices with it (1 Cor. 12:24-26).

So here's where I often find myself standing on a soapbox. I believe this problem has two causes. I often feel as though artists within the church have been marginalized, to the point where the eye says to the hand, "I don't need you." This is unfortunate, because Christian artists are members of the body of Christ just like anyone else. The second cause is the "American Idol Complex," which grants the first person who volunteers the occasion to do whatever it is he desires. Thus, choir is led by people with no experience in directing or in church music, anyone with a guitar and a few months of lessons can lead worship, and banners and vestments are made by the ladies' group with scissors and leftover felt. (Typically, it seems that Lutheran churches expect these positions to be volunteer-only, so there's also an argument that you get what you pay for.)

I don't think anyone should feel guilty in saying, "I thank you for your earnest desire to help, but this doesn't appear to be your calling," as long as it is done with love and not with condescension. Perhaps we can encourage these people to rally support for whatever job it is they feel needs to be filled. Being a "helper" is certainly a fine vocation in itself (Gen. 2:18).

You will probably say that some churches are too small to have talented artists, musicians, etc. contributing to worship. This is true. But we are not islands existing apart from the other members of Christ. If a church really values the vocations that it is missing, it can find the means to obtain them. Where is it written that if a church wants artwork, it has to be provided by a member of the congregation? Or that it has to have a choir, even if there is no one qualified to lead it? I think reexamining our assumptions about ecclesiastical artwork in light of the doctrine of vocation should make us embarrassed of the way we have treated the talented members of our fellowship in past decades.

Holy Spirit, help each of us to build up the body of Christ! Amen.

The results are in

Okay. It isn't official yet, but I can safely say that the Risen Savior triptych will not happen. Last week there was a WELS district pastors' convention hosted at Risen Savior, and some of us, myself included, thought that it would be a good idea to poll the pastors as to what their reaction to the triptych was. The model was on display, and a detail of the triptych was provided on each survey. Thirty or so pastors were there, as well as a few laymen, and we received 22 surveys back. The results were heart-breaking for me.

The questions were based on a scale of 1 to 5, with 1 being least favorable and 5 being most favorable.

1. What is your impression of adding the triptych to the chancel? The average score was 1.9, the overwhelming majority being 1s.
2. Does the triptych assist in the mission of Risen Savior, which is 'Equipping believers to share the risen Savior, Jesus?' The average, again, was very low at 2, the majority of which were 1s.
3. Is liturgical art important to your worship experience? The response here was evenly scattered, with a few low scores, but mostly 4s and 5s. The average was 3.4. 

The survey asked for written comments as well, and they provide a glimpse at the reasoning behind some of the scores. Some questioned the use of the church's money, while others commented that it didn't fit with the chancel, because it covered up part of the cross. One commenter didn't want to see any depictions of death, and another criticized the lack of body hair on Jesus and Adam. But overwhelmingly, most comments focused on the implied nudity. While several responses complimented the symbolism and strong theology, they warned that the nudity would distract or even offend people, and thus, should be avoided. Some went so far as to call it "suggestive" and "risqué."

What does this mean? Most of the Elders agreed that with so much opposition to it from pastors, and essentially with not one, but two, main obstacles, that the triptych would not be a good fit for Risen Savior. The majority view was that such an important project should not be pushed on the congregation without a consensus, and such a consensus is obviously impossible.

It is heart-breaking, because it proved my thesis more right than I hoped it would be. Conservatism, a sparing attitude toward the arts, and the fear of causing offense are driving the church (I think) ever deeper into mediocrity. I argued in my thesis that a minimalist, sparse, and utilitarian aesthetic most often accompanies a spiritual sparsity, such as it did after the Enlightenment. How long will it take for the church to realize that an artistic vacuum is not a good thing?