The Gateway of the Soul

On How the Physical Unites us to the Spiritual

Christian artwork, whether Protestant or Catholic, becomes “a gateway” into Faith: take, for example, Ciseri’s Ecce Homo, Millet’s The Angelus, and Storm on the Sea of Galilee by Rembrand. They bring Sacred Scripture and Catholic Tradition to life; they place the audience in the scene and immerse him in the reality of the story. These paintings rouse one’s pity, fear, guilt, wonder, joy, and piety. Even for one who is not Catholic, or religious, these paintings evoke the same emotions. The great secret of the art is that it is not just a depiction of a Biblical chronicle. It is a landscape, a tale contained within itself. Storm on the Sea of Galilee does not require foreknowledge of the New Testament: the observer can glean everything necessary from the fishermen’s faces. From the leaning of their bodies and the distress of their expressions, an ignorant, or indifferent audience is still able to grasp the drama of the event. There is a man, to whom all are turning, who is not concerned about this storm, who indeed radiates peace and security. They are asking Him to do something. The one man watching the audience, with a piercing gaze, is asking them that question: how will this end? Will the waters subside, or will the boat capsize?

One familiar with the tale knows the answer, but they still feel the thrill of the moment, the shudder running down their spines as they contemplate what it would feel like to be on the boat. The sea can be tasted on one’s lips and the beating of the winds felt in one’s hair. There is a tangible manifestation of the intangible and supernatural in the painting, which invites the viewer into the experience of the Divine. One unfamiliar with the storm on the sea wonders if the men will survive, as they watch the painting, trying to decide what the outcome will be. The painting, suspended in a moment in time, lays the whole past and future before the observer, prompting them to fill in the blanks.

Ciseri’s Ecce Homo demands similar involvement from the audience. One does not passively look at the painting: that is impossible, for that is not seeing the painting.

Like Sea on the Storm of Galilee, Ecce Homo asks its audience what is happening; why is this man being presented to the crowd? What has he done? What are the women whispering about? Do they approve of what is occurring, or are they speaking against the event? The face of the man in white is hidden: what is his expression? Is he proud of what he is doing? A believer might be prompted to wonder how often he has looked on, while Christ was sacrificed to a new mob. An unbeliever might wonder what was so important about this man, that all this pomp and circumstance accompanied His presentation. 

Biblical scenes are not the only favourites of the artist: take The Angelus by Millet, a simple and serene scene, that breathes calm into the world.

Everything has halted, both in the world of the painting and in the world of the observer as he contemplates the painting. The act of seeing the art is a prayer in itself: to stop and view The Angelus, is, inadvertently, to join the two peasants in their Angelus (the noon repetition of Mary’s Magnificat). It offers a gateway, through an arrestingly beautiful canvas, into the realm of prayer.

Painting, while a famous example of the physical manifestation of Catholicism, is not the only type. The cathedrals erected over hundreds of years, the hymns and psalms written, the literature either overtly or covertly Catholic in their themes (the most famous examples being authors such as Flannery O’Connor, J.R.R. Tolkien, and G.K. Chesterton). It is not, however, simply the idea of “art” or “aesthetics” that the Church has bountifully and whole-heartedly espoused. It is the intrinsic physicality of mankind that the Church recognizes: it does not minister solely to the soul, but also to the mind and the body. In Her Wisdom, the Church sees that often the most direct way to a man’s soul is through his senses.

The arts, which permeate Catholic culture, are the visible proof of this. They swell the mind and quicken the hearts of onlookers. Painting and architecture meet the need of man’s eyes to witness Truth; hymns and poems, the need of man’s ears to heart it. It is important to dwell on these external elements of Catholicism, which circle Tradition and enhance it, but are not part of it. They are a necessary and oft-overlooked aspect of the Faith, certainly.  They are frequently ignored or derided: how often has one heard that the “Catholic Church ought to give all of its gold and paintings to the poor?” This is a misunderstanding of what it means to be Catholic. Christ tells us that “it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of Heaven” (Matthew 19:24).  Yet, He also admonishes the disciples for rebuking a woman’s “wasteful” gifting of perfume. “This perfume could have been sold at a high price and the money given to the poor,” the disciples say.  “The poor will always be with you,” He tells them (Matthew 26:8-13). In this passage, he is not referring solely to the physically destitute. He is also reminding the disciples that all men are spiritually poor: and that perfume, spilled over the feet of the Lord, will save those spiritually poor. That is to say, physical manifestations of the glory of Heaven will bring the spiritually-wayward to its gates.

This is evident in Christ Himself. He is God come down to the Earth, God who has taken physical form and embraced the physicality of His Creation, in order to save it. The first, and most potent and redemptive, example of how the physical unites us to the spiritual is through God Himself, who becomes the perfect union of physical Man and spiritual God. The gateway of the soul to Heaven is through physical, earthly Christ, whose ministry is focused on satisfying the physical senses of men, in order to bring them to the Kingdom. He heals the sick, feeds the poor, speaks to the ignored, and ministers to the broken: He uses signs and miracles to illuminate the Truth. In healing a blind man, He employs dirt and spit. When speaking the Beatitudes, He also feeds his crowd. At His Crucifixion, Christ’s death is accompanied by the rending of the temple curtain and the shaking of the ground: physical occurrences that pull back the curtain of  the Heavenly world.

Every day, the union of the physical and the spiritual occurs in the form of the Mass. The Church, instituted by Christ, utilizes the physical in order to draw us to the spiritual. Churches are buildings set apart, and this is obvious from their grand architecture. The inside is covered in stained glass windows, paintings, and statues: a feast for the eyes. Incense blows over the pews, tickling the nose, as music pours down from the chanters and organ, filling the ears with the sounds of an angelic choir. Over the course of the Mass, the attendees stand, sit, and kneel, and bow: their movement is incorporated into the structure of the celebration. And, finally, Communion feeds both man’s body and soul at the same time, joining the physical sensation of taste to the spiritual sensation of grace.

Could a Mass have been designed that included none of these elements? Of course: but it was not. It was instituted by Christ with these physical elements. He broke bread; He poured wine; He used His fingers to consecrate. Though He easily could have simply taught the Apostles another prayer, Christ impressed upon them a physical ritual. And while there was perhaps no incense or music at the Last Supper, these were not haphazardly introduced into the Liturgy. “Speak to one another with psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs. Sing and make music in your heart to the Lord,” writes St. Paul in Ephesians 5:19. They serve to engage every one of man’s senses, fully immersing him in the experience of the sacrifice.

Man’s entirety is lifted up to Heaven, just as God comes down to earth in the form of bread and wine. The physical and the spiritual are joined, and through the Earthly, the Catholic reaches the Heavenly. But more than just being a gateway for the Catholic, the physical aspects of the Mass are also the gateway for non-believers to appreciate the celebration. Though they might not understand, or believe the canon of the Mass, they will nevertheless be drawn to the beauty and physical nature of the liturgy. As much as anyone else, they will appreciate the fine music, the beautiful art, the fragrant incense. They have been touched by Beauty: and like with a great painting such as The Angelus, Beauty leaves an indelible mark on the soul.