The Beauty of the Incarnation, the Importance of Art in Christianity.

In the last few days, we may all have come across the tragic news that one of England’s historic cathedrals may close down. Unfortunately, this is perhaps a reflection of a wider world in which beauty is not always given the recognition it deserves as one of the principal expressions of human civilization. Our cultural heritage is ultimately what defines who we are and where we come from, reminding us that, as human beings, we are capable of more than simply eating or sleeping. Through the centuries, Anglicanism developed its own identity and a unique vision of beauty that defines not only our aesthetics but also how we pray. This goes back to the very origins of the Christian Church.

There is considerable scope for Christian art to have an even more visible place in the Church's preaching and in the formation of those entrusted with teaching within the Church. The Church has its own artistic language, and it deserves to be understood. Art is the face of the ever-revealing God, one of the first means through which Scripture was taught, and the visible theology of the Church. It is a patrimony that deserves to be known and taught by ministers and teachers alike. It is arguably one of the greatest fruits Christianity has ever produced. How can we discuss theology and doctrine without knowing their great expressions throughout history? Art and theology go hand in hand. Sacred art is not mere aesthetics but, like theology, is at the very core of our belief: a tangible and physical expression of a religion centered on the incarnate God. Art is not Scripture itself, but it is the witness to millennia of Christian belief and devotion. We would do well to cultivate an even greater sensibility for it.

For centuries, art was the principal means through which Christianity was taught. As literacy and access to Scripture were limited well into the 19th century, churches essentially became visual displays of Scripture. Frescoes, mosaics, sculpture, stained glass, manuscripts, altarpieces, crucifixes, and indeed sacred music brought biblical stories, the lives of the saints, and the very doctrines of our faith to worshipers. This enabled believers to inhabit those biblical stories and contemplate their mysteries, allowing them to be fully immersed in and uplifted by the Church’s praise of God. Art was the theological language of the Church.

The Church’s relationship with art begins with the Incarnation. With Jesus Christ, the invisible God became visible, and the Word took flesh. As Saint John writes: “that which we have seen and heard declare we unto you” (1 John 1:3). God’s visibility made sacred representation possible as a means of contemplating that divine mystery. As soon as Christianity spread, art developed. From the frescoes of the Roman catacombs to Byzantine mosaics and the masterpieces of the Medieval, Renaissance, and Baroque periods, it has expressed our spiritual development and piety throughout history, serving as a visible sign of God's continuous revelation, as Lumen Gentium, from the Second Vatican Council, reminds us.

Indeed, art also made Christianity accessible to ordinary people. With limited access to Scripture and literacy largely reserved for a small elite, churches made biblical teaching accessible to everyone. Perhaps even more so than today, art presented these stories in a shared visual language, offering a common point of reference rather than leaving their interpretation entirely to individual understanding, as can sometimes happen in contemporary Bible studies. In a way, the Protestant Reformation, while rightly promoting literacy and access to Scripture, also brought about a greater emphasis on individual engagement with the biblical text, which in some contexts was accompanied by a gradual diminishing of the Church's shared visual tradition. Art was not a substitute for reading, however; it was also a form of catechesis and contemplation. It opened a window into heaven, giving God a visible presence in the places where the faithful prayed. 

Some of my most powerful spiritual moments occurred while listening to Renaissance polyphony in front of the Renaissance masterpiece that is the Carafa Chapel in Rome, or during the thundering of the organ, echoing in glory before the stunning reredos at Saint Thomas Fifth Avenue, or indeed that afternoon at Durham Cathedral many years ago, when the clouds parted to allow a beautifully ethereal ray of light to illuminate the choristers singing the Magnificat. Beauty, which in art history does not exist merely as an abstract concept, is what defines Christian sacred art. That is why we do not study a Ghirlandaio painting as a laboratory specimen, but recognize that it was painted by faithful hearts through faithful hands.

Imagine the Protestant Reformation. The Reformers rightly promoted literacy and vernacular translations, yet translated texts did not automatically make Scripture accessible to an often-illiterate population. One could argue that aspects of the movement also had some unintended consequences for the accessibility of religious culture, particularly where visual traditions were diminished. Yet Cranmer’s Prayer Book words echo so beautifully to this day, because Anglicanism did preserve one important form of art: sacred music. Images, however, remained indispensable. In some regions, the rejection of religious iconography led to the destruction of paintings, sculptures, stained glass, and other works. This loss was extremely profound, and its effects remain visible today. England still possesses many treasures, yet, as Anglicans, we should continue to encourage a greater sensitivity and love for the arts within the life of the Church, including through teaching and the support of its leadership. Historic churches should be preserved and looked after. 

Southwell Minster's potential closure without sufficient government intervention and financial support, a 15th-century Doom Painting in a 12th-century church surrounded by cobwebs, or a 14th-century Rood Screen partly covered by a Sunday School corner are things one would be unlikely to encounter in many other places. These examples invite us to reflect on how we might care more attentively for our inheritance. Nobody would find these concerns unreasonable in continental Europe. Protecting our cultural heritage is not silly. Our visual tradition was not an obstacle to the Bible but its principal means of communication. Perhaps it is time to remember that.

The Puritan suspicion of religious images, ornament, and ceremonial beauty has taken on different forms today. It can sometimes be reflected in a tendency to regard aesthetics as a superficial addition to religion, rather than as part of a faith that we know, can touch, and can see. We sometimes risk overlooking or underappreciating our art, rather than allowing it to be properly appreciated. How do we accommodate the modern needs of the Church while continuing to value our inheritance? A medieval church or cathedral is a historical and theological form of witness, shaped by generations of the faithful. The neglect or disposal of church buildings can form part of a wider phenomenon of cultural and historical loss, affecting not only the visible expression of our faith but also our cultural heritage. There would be no book without the tradition that put it together. Southwell Minster reminds us of England’s remarkable patrimony, but also of our duty as custodians to preserve it.

Coming from Italy, where heritage preservation is deeply embedded in the national consciousness, and where our cultural and artistic patrimony is recognized as important to the whole world, I am particularly conscious of the importance of safeguarding such a rich inheritance. Italian heritage is treated as sacred. Our historic buildings, religious or otherwise, are irreplaceable expressions of history, identity, and civilization. It can be disappointing to see opportunities for greater appreciation and preservation, particularly in certain ecclesiastical settings, given England’s extraordinary inheritance. Medieval cathedrals and parish churches, with their remarkable art and architecture, unique to this very isle, deserve the same level of preservation and sensitivity. 

The Church has always been a great patron of artistic achievement, with its glorious buildings and their art, each age developing a new language for Christianity’s mysteries: Byzantium’s theology of the icon as a portal into the divine, Medieval Europe with its Gothic architecture and stained glass reaching up toward the light of the divine, the Renaissance with its quest for beauty, and the Baroque with its search for movement and drama. Christianity also engaged with different cultures through art in ways that Scripture alone could not. Art preserves Christianity’s lived experience as well as its doctrine, from the Incarnation to the Resurrection, and God's constant revelation through time and space, without losing its core message.

Christians are also called to appreciate contemporary beauty. The Church should not treat art merely as a museum inheritance or imagine that Christian creativity ended centuries ago. Yet this should be done while adhering to the established and shared language of Christian iconography, so as not to lose sight of the orthodox message that sacred art conveys. The Second Vatican Council, in Sacrosanctum Concilium, includes a paragraph on sacred art and how it should uplift us and point us toward God through beauty, while remaining within the shared language of orthodox iconography. Christian iconography has developed its own set of rules through the centuries, and an unfamiliarity with this language can mean not only moving away from doctrine but also making the message less accessible. 

When clergy commissioning art and artists producing it have limited familiarity with the rules of Christian iconography, the shared language of Christian art, and its common heritage, the result can be works that are not always theologically appropriate or readily understood by the faithful. 

Coming from a Catholic background, I have sometimes been struck by the emphasis on individual interpretation within certain strands of Anglicanism, where the personal “I” can take precedence over the shared inheritance of the wider Church. There can be an assumption that one's own judgment is preferable to centuries of Christian tradition, or that one can simply invent one's own iconography of the Resurrection, as though a personal visual language could replace the Church's inherited theological and iconographic tradition. Critical engagement has its place, but so does the humility of receiving and preserving an inheritance shaped by nearly two thousand years of Christian devotion. Equally troubling is the casual mockery of sacred art, dismissing a work as “just a 16th-century painting,” “rather ugly,” or, perhaps most dangerously, insisting, “This is my own way of depicting a particular scene,” even when it disregards the established principles of Christian iconography. As though centuries of theological reflection and artistic achievement could be reduced to personal taste. I like to call this the obsession with the “I first”: but who are you, exactly? What gives any of us the authority to casually pass judgment on a 17th-century panel depicting the Transfiguration, commissioned by a cardinal theologian? Christian iconography is not an academic game or a matter of individual invention; it is an inherited tradition. This is precisely the kind of individualistic thinking that leads to problematic artistic interventions and the neglect of our churches' inherited visual tradition.

Such attitudes can result in works that sit uneasily within the historical and theological fabric of churches and cathedrals, particularly when those involved in commissioning sacred art are unfamiliar with traditional iconographic language and its theological principles. This same attitude can also lead to a failure in our responsibility as stewards of our artistic patrimony. Being ministers also means being guardians of culture. Anglicanism itself possesses an extraordinary artistic inheritance, from the Caroline Divines to the great Victorian ecclesiastical revival, which deserves to be rediscovered through humility and respect for the traditions we have received.

Recently, Pope Leo XIV has reiterated the importance of Christian artists and their role in communicating the Gospel, allowing people to see the transcendent. This follows a long tradition, as seen in Paul VI’s 1964 address to artists and Benedict XVI’s reflections on the via pulchritudinis – the way of beauty – which draws the spirit toward truth and goodness. Supporting art and preserving heritage express gratitude for creation, not aesthetic indulgence. The Popes and the Church have a long history of patronage of the arts. Anyone will think of the Della Rovere popes and their relationships with Michelangelo and Raphael, which produced some of the most renowned artworks in history. We should continue in that legacy. As Christians, we are meant to bring beauty into the world.

The Catholic tradition has developed a rich theology of art. Monsignor Timothy Verdon, art historian and canon at Florence Cathedral, explores the relationship between the Incarnation, liturgy, and the visual arts. Because Christ became visible, Church art allows later generations to partake in that experience of encountering our Savior. As Verdon says: “the art of the Church allows us to see.” Art participates in the Church’s sacramental life, rather than existing apart from it as a mere aesthetic expression. This has implications for theological teaching and ecclesiastical governance. Christian art deserves a meaningful place in institutions preparing people for ministry. Formation can be enriched by embracing the Church’s inheritance, including traditions that may be less familiar within certain academic frameworks. Christianity cannot be understood through one particular experience or perspective alone, but as a religion that developed in the Middle East and flourished in Southern and Eastern Europe, alongside the Church Fathers, who were inspired directly by the apostles. It developed through a rich iconographic tradition that became central to its teaching and very being. 

This history deserves to be considered alongside the contributions of more recent Northern European theologians and developments in biblical studies and practical theology. Let us go back to the foundations. There can be no theology without history. Earlier contributions in art, liturgy, architecture, and theological writing deserve continued attention, including those that may fall outside familiar academic frameworks, particularly when the oldest traditions of the Church, both West and East, going back to Christ himself, hold them as central to their teaching and doctrine, with art serving as their visual expression. It is by understanding the past and appreciating that beauty that we can form our own visual language. A living Church can serve its community and experiment with ministry while honoring its past and fulfilling the responsibility of custodianship to which we are called.

It is worth reflecting on the possibility that, at times, beauty is not given quite the place it deserves, as though refined art, music, or architecture might somehow be at odds with religious simplicity. Christian simplicity can be spiritually genuine, but an excessive reserve towards beauty risks impoverishing both faith and culture, and limiting the opportunities for spiritual enrichment. A religion that proclaims the goodness of creation, human dignity, and the Incarnation should not reject human creativity. All that is required is an openness and sensitivity to being moved and enriched. A faith that leaves little room for art may also leave fewer opportunities for wonder or contemplation. Neglecting beauty impoverishes our faith and can represent a missed opportunity to fulfil our responsibility. It is not enough to inherit artistic achievements if we fail to understand the vision behind them. 

Ultimately, God is the creator of beauty, and we are here to make that visible. Disregarding our heritage diminishes our understanding of the Incarnation by overlooking generations of Christian experience and the many ways in which people have glimpsed the divine. We should be careful not to lose sight of the gratitude owed for the creativity and spiritual imagination through which humanity has expressed its encounter with God. A Church that does not fully engage with these gifts risks cultural insularity, historical impoverishment, and a reduced ability to speak meaningfully about the practical theology of human experience. How can we be European if we do not hold on to what defines us so fundamentally?

We should continue to evangelize through beauty. If previous generations proclaimed the Gospel through architecture, painting, sculpture, and music, why should we be less ambitious, and why should we not preserve this form of praise for our God? Beauty is not an extra, but a compelling invitation to faith. In a world saturated with images, the Church can rediscover its own. Nothing can inspire a calling quite like a beautiful liturgical space with stunning art, a well-respected space in which faith is made alive. Beauty in itself does not necessarily attract those seeking theological discussion or reflection, but it can certainly awaken curiosity and begin a journey of faith. As God made himself visible and tangible, the Church ought to proclaim him through human creativity. Why not evangelize through beauty, allowing our artistic inheritance to speak and not be destroyed, suffocated, or belittled, but instead to inspire generations to come to discover the Gospel, as it always has? May Southwell Minster be saved.