A few years back, I went on pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela with a friend. At the end of the pilgrimage, we spent some extra time in Madrid. We took the opportunity to visit the Prado Art Museum. Some of the most beautiful and famous pieces of religious art can be viewed there, including a stunning rendition of Fra Angelico’s Annunciation that brought me to tears.
As I was looking at all of those astonishing pieces of art, there was one thought that never came to mind. I never once thought the museum should sell all of this priceless art and give the money to the poor.
Why, then, do we sometimes hear that very sentiment when these same works are found in a church?
The origin of the word museum is religious: derived from a Greek word that refers to a temple dedicated to the muses. In a religious sense, a church is a type of museum. However, instead of being dedicated to the Sybill, it is dedicated to the God who fashioned his image in our flesh.
In the Byzantine Rite, this truth about the Incarnate God is celebrated on the feast day titled “The Triumph of Orthodoxy.” It is a commemoration of the victory, in 843, over iconoclasm. At its heart is the triumph of an incarnate religion over a gnostic religion—that is, a religion that recognizes the goodness of God’s creation over and against a religion merely of the mind. In the Eastern Church, this liturgical feast, recounting this triumph, is celebrated with a grand procession of holy icons to emphasize that God does not forbid us, in the Messianic Era, to represent him, and that which is associated with him, through the skill of artisans.
A temple of this sort is also a public thing, existing to serve the common good. A parish may have fine vestments and metalware for the Mass. It may have a fine baroque altar. All of these objects are for the public, not for the private use of the sacred ministers. The priest never wears a chasuble around the rectory or eats his meals with gem-encrusted chalices upon that gilded altar. These works of art are not his. They are dedicated to God for the common good, and for public admiration, to increase the solemnity of the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass. Stripping the altars, covering the frescos, tearing down the statuary, and replacing the liturgical finery with common dishware is to allow a private religion of the mind to overcome the embodied and communal religion of the Incarnation.
Walking through the Prado, the Met, the Louvre, or any other museum that houses sacred art is always a bit sad to me. Don’t get me wrong: museums serve an essential purpose. However, a museum differs from a church, because a museum is a place of mere memories. A church, by contrast, is a living community. In a museum, a painting of Giotto is placed on a wall, lit from above by artificial lights. In a church, that same painting would be lit from below by the candlelight of devotion. In a museum, time stops, and silence reigns. A church, however, is where timelessness and temporality merge with lives of the faithful, rich and poor alike.
I recall the first time I saw reliquaries holding the remains of the saints at a museum. I recall how wrong it felt that these holy objects and the art designed to adorn them were not free to be venerated or carried in procession by the faithful.
An even greater tragedy would be the sale of this sacred art to a private collector. As he hoards the works of Michelangelo or Caravaggio in his private gallery, the people, and in particular the poor, are deprived of them. In such a setting, they are truly a mere curiosity for the owner and those he admits into his secret vaults. In a church, they serve the purpose for which they were created. They glorify God as the firstfruits of our corporate labors. They become objects of devotion and promote solemnity. They have no private owner, and so they belong to everyone.
If a church were to sell these and give the receipts of the sale to the poor, the problem remains. Regardless of whether the private owner is wealthy or poor, it remains private, secluded, and hidden from the public. When Bernini’s statue of St. Teresa of Avila resides in a church, by contrast, it is public, accessible, and free to be enjoyed by all.
During the pontificate of Pope St. John Paul II, I recall someone complaining about the Holy Father living in the Apostolic Palace. He was under the impression that the palace was like a private manor, similar to what one would expect of some noble. Shortly thereafter, photos of the pope’s living quarters were made public. It was a single austere room, with no hint of excess. The rest of the apartments were for the official use of the government of the Church, with a semi-private chapel for prayer and the worship of God. I recall that same person being surprised that the pope didn’t actually live in the lap of luxury. This, once again, goes to the distinction between what is public and what is private. Sometimes it can be easy to forget, confuse, or conflate this distinction.
This is what the issue seems to boil down to. When a person feels put off by the beautiful art and buildings held in trust by the Church, he is naturally defaulting to his personal experience of private ownership and then projecting that upon the institution of the Church and its ministers. The appropriate disposition, however, clearly perceives the distinction between the private and the common good. Like a museum, the Church acts as a steward of these beautiful creations for the sake of all people. Unlike in a museum, the Church sets these objects of devotion to work for the glory of God and to aid the faithful as they journey toward communion with the incarnate and triune God. If this art existed merely for those who could afford to commission it, then it would only unjustly impoverish the faithful.
When St. Francis of Assisi was ordained a deacon, his biographers recount that he became extremely attentive to these matters. He insisted that the sacred vestments and sacred vessels be of the highest quality and well cared for. The Poverello did not do this for himself. Nobody would question his solidarity with the poor. Rather, his care was born precisely out of the Christian instinct that it is fitting to honor God with the best that we can offer. He understood that the altar and its appointments were needed by all of the faithful to aid their devotion. He did this not to fill the coffers of any institution or any individual, but rather to enrich the hearts and souls of those who approached the God of infinite majesty in their poverty of spirit. He also did this so that when their lives were filled with the ugly things this fallen world can offer, they might have a refuge of beauty to console their weary hearts.
Let it always be so!