with it.
Demonizing Art: Art as Idolatry
There has always been an iconoclastic tendency within Christianity, a fear that any image might be or become an idol. Often, the source of this diffidence towards images has been cited as the second commandment, as found in Exodus 20:4–5 and repeated in Deuteronomy 5:8–9, in which the Israelites are told not to make pselet for themselves, “whether in the form of anything that is in heaven above, or that is on the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth. You shall not bow down to them or worship them.” The meaning of pselet has been variously rendered as idol, carved or graven image, or simply image. In modern Hebrew, the word means statue. But however we understand pselet, the context seems to make it clear that representational images are forbidden.
I say seems because—as is true of many things in the biblical record—this ban is not as clear as it may appear on the surface. As the beginning of verse 5, which reads “You shall not bow down to them or worship them,” points out, the real issue is not representation in itself, but rather idolatry. At the time that the commandments were recorded, the primary function of statues was to depict the gods and goddesses of the state religion. From the point of view of the Israelites, there may have been no other reason to make a representational object except for purposes of worship.
Further evidence that all representation was not forbidden in the Mosaic code comes in at least two places. The first is the mysterious incident in Numbers 21:4–9, in which God sends poisonous serpents to punish the people for complaining. Moses is then instructed to make a bronze snake and put it on a pole, so “everyone who is bitten shall look at it and live.” Whatever other notions may be implicit in this story, it is clear that God explicitly commands the making of something that looks as much like a snake as possible. If we could see it today, we would certainly call it art, just as we do other representational images from that period. And it is clear that the biblical witness does not understand this artful representation of a snake as an idol.
The second piece of evidence against a total ban on visual representation is in God’s instructions on the design and construction of the Tent of Meeting in Exodus 25–27. These instructions include sculptural renditions of cherubim on the cover of the Ark of the Covenant; almond flowers of pure gold on the branches of the lamp stands; and images of cherubim worked into the fabric of the curtains. A few chapters later, these descriptions are repeated in a report of what was actually done under the direction of Bezalel and Oholiab, God’s chosen leaders of the work.
The issue in the second commandment, then, is not art, as we understand art today, or even representational images, but rather idolatry. It is not the making of images, as such, that is forbidden, but making them for the purpose of bowing down and worshipping them. In the early days of Christianity, as in Moses’ day and for the centuries in between, idolatry continued to be a present danger. As the followers of Jesus spread beyond Palestine into the wider Roman empire, many converts came from religious traditions that worshiped a variety of deities. These were understood to be present in their statues. Thus, some writers in the early church period were understandably skittish about representational imagery.
This was not universally true, however. Since the discovery of the early third-century frescoes at Dura Europos, assumptions about a uniform, or even widespread, anti-image bias of the early church have been challenged. Some have pointed out that the lack of images in the first two centuries of Christianity may have had more to do with its status as a persecuted religious body with little money to spend on decoration and few buildings to decorate than with any ideological position. It is certainly true that as soon as Christianity became a state religion, its royal patrons arranged for elaborately embellished buildings, filled with portraits of themselves as well as various biblical and extrabiblical personages and objects.
Nonetheless, the writings of early Christian theologians and preachers repeatedly circle around the issue of images and idolatry. This concern is not restricted to the visual arts, nor even to representation as such. As early as the late fourth century, Augustine of Hippo (354–430) wrote about his own struggles to keep his appreciation of music within proper bounds. Berating himself for loving the sound of the music more than the edifying words, and perhaps even more than God, he wrote,
at one time I seem to myself to give them more honour than is seemly, feeling our minds to be more holily and fervently raised unto a flame of devotion, by the holy words themselves when thus sung, than when not; and that the several affections of our spirit, by a sweet variety, have their own proper measures in the voice and singing, by some hidden correspondence wherewith they are stirred up. But this contentment of the flesh, to which the soul must not be given over to be enervated, doth oft beguile me, the sense not so waiting upon reason as patiently to follow her; but having been admitted merely for her sake, it strives even to run before her, and lead her. Thus in these things I unawares sin, but afterwards am aware of it.19
Augustine’s concerns were repeatedly echoed by other ancient writers. Suspicion of the arts, especially of visual art, came to a climax in the iconoclastic controversies of the eighth and ninth centuries. The matter of icons was settled in the Christian East at what is today celebrated as the Triumph of Orthodoxy in 843. The Western church continued to vacillate between an austere asceticism, as exemplified by the writings of the Cistercian monk, Bernard of Clairvaux, and a sumptuous exuberance reflecting the glory of God, as exemplified by the church built at St. Denis under the direction of Bernard’s contemporary, Abbot Suger. In his Apologia, written in 1125, Bernard writes disparagingly of the “enormous height, extravagant length and unnecessary width of the churches, of their costly polishings and curious paintings which catch the worshipper’s eye and dry up his devotion.”20
Abbot Suger extolled precisely the kind of elaboration that Bernard of Clairvaux deplored. His church at St. Denis is one of the earliest examples of what came to known as Gothic architecture. Such buildings featured pointed-arch windows filled with stained glass, ornate embellishments at every turn, and a lapis sky filled with golden stars on the ceiling over the altar. In his account of the building process, Suger argued that only the finest materials and workmanship were worthy for the service of God. As he wrote in his treatise, “De Administratione,”
If golden pouring vessels, golden vials, golden little mortars used to serve, by the word of God or the command of the Prophet, to collect the blood of goats or calves or the red heifer: how much more must golden vessels, precious stones, and whatever is most valued among all created things, be laid out, with continual reverence and full devotion, for the reception of the blood of Christ! . . . The detractors also object that a saintly mind, a pure heart, a faithful intention ought to suffice for this sacred function; and we, too, explicitly and especially affirm that it is these that principally matter. [But] we profess that we must do homage also through the outward ornaments of sacred vessels. . . . with all inner purity and with all outward splendor.21
In response, Bernard somewhat grudgingly accepts that it may be all right for parish churches and cathedrals to revel in outward splendor. It does no harm, he admits, to the simple and devout, whatever problems it may pose for the vain and greedy. However, he points out, for poor, spiritual, cloistered monks such things are at best distractions and at worst invitations to sin. He goes on,
But in cloisters, where the brothers are reading, what is the point of this ridiculous monstrosity, this shapely misshapenness, this misshapen shapeliness? What is the point of those unclean apes, fierce lions, monstrous centaurs, half-men, striped tigers, fighting soldiers and hunters blowing their horns? . . . In short, so many and so marvelous are the various shapes surrounding us that it is more pleasant to read the marble than the books, and to spend the whole day marveling over these things rather than meditating on the law of God. Good Lord! If we aren’t embarrassed by the silliness of it all, shouldn’t we at least be disgusted by the expense?
