ART

THE BODY OF CHRIST
ON THE ALTAR:

A CALL FOR A RENASCENCE OF SACRED ART

by Ellen Rice

One of my tasks at Catholic Dossier is to find graphics and images for each issue. The monochrome format we employ cuts overhead and keeps subscription costs down, but this month it precluded a battalion of detailed master paintings dealing with the Eucharist. As my eyes lit on the ill-fated Ghent Altarpiece of 1432, I could hear the insistent words of my flamboyant and entertaining, yet wholly informed, Renaissance art professor, "This is a Eucharistic altarpiece. The Body of Christ right here - and the Body of Christ on the altar ... Get it?"

The altarpiece in question, The Adoration of the Lamb by Jan Van Eyck, is also known as the Ghent Altarpiece, because of its location in St. Bavo's Cathedral in Ghent. The picture centers on the Lamb slain on an altar - right above the actual altar of St. Bavo's. My educated hunch that the symbolism was intentional was rewarded by finding a recent and detailed study of the symbolism of the altarpiece in Early Netherlandish art.

The term altarpiece is virtually restricted to art-historical discourse, so perhaps you may be asking what an altarpiece is, and what it looks like. Art historians Hugh Honour and John Fleming explain it as, "A devotional painting or sculpture placed on, above, or behind an altar, peculiar to Catholic Europe where it was introduced in the early thirteenth century when priests began to celebrate Mass with their backs to the congregation." Usually, but not always, the altarpiece was in diptych (two panel) or triptych (three panel) form. The key for a modern understanding of the altarpiece is to realize that it was placed on the Tridentine-style altar. It is impossible, and inaccurate, to conceive of its placement upon a congregation-facing altar, where a large panel painting would obscure our view of the priest celebrating Mass.

The Early Netherlandish - that is, early Northern Renaissance - tradition of Eucharistic altarpieces is the subject of art historian Barbara G. Lane's 1987 book The Altar and the Altarpiece. Most altarpieces had many scenes - the artists decorated the doors on hinges, and created an interior scene, which could be displayed or covered depending upon the liturgical calendar. Typically, scenes would relate to the events on the palpable altar of the Mass. In general, Lane argues:

... they also managed to instill the scenes with profound theological meanings that eloquently dramatized the church rituals. Every altarpiece necessarily relates to the altar beneath it. Early Netherlandish altarpieces, however, evoke the ceremonies performed at the altar with unparalleled originality, subtlety, and fervor.

"Every altarpiece necessarily relates to the altar beneath it." The theological connections Lane identifies in the art include the themes of altar and tabernacle; the Incarnation, transubstantiation, and the rituals of Christmas; the Eucharistic Rite and the Easter Liturgy; the priest and sacrifice; and the promise of the Mass. The whole meaning of the Mass is attended to by the artists, for the edification of the faithful. Let us examine the theme of the Sacrifice of the Mass, which later in this article will be contrasted with modern conceptions of altar art and the Mass.

Lane explains that any scene from Christ's passion would be used to explain the meaning of the daily oblation to the worshipper. The need for the scenes lies in our nature as sensory creatures. "No matter how strong a worshipper's faith may be," Lane writes, "what he actually sees when he looks at the consecrated Host is still a wafer of bread. If his eyes were to move to a nearby image in which Christ's sacrifice was more explicit, he would not have to strain to see it in his imagination." In the Ghent Altarpiece, the figure of the Lamb upon the altar alludes to the crucifixion on Calvary; like a lamb he was led to the slaughter. The Lamb is also the central image of Christ used in the book of Revelation, in which Christ is forever worshipped as the perfect sacrifice.

The Ghent altarpiece makes explicit another essential facet of the Catholic tenet of the Holy Sacrifice, Christ's role as priest and victim. Here Early Netherlandish art has precedents in medieval illuminations, including the fourteenth century illumination of Christ Elevating the Host in the Petites Heures of the Duc de Berry (a patron whose name is most associated with the whimsical calendar scenes of the Tres Riches Heures). The longstanding artistic tradition testifies to a longstanding theological conception of Christ as priest and victim.

Lane mentions Ghent as one of two representative examples of the celestial Priest image in Netherlandish art - the other being Hans Memling's Salvator Mundi with Singing Angels, 1490. In the masterpiece of Ghent, Christ, wearing traditional priestly vestments, is in glory in the heavenly court. At his feet the Holy Spirit sends rays of grace to the scene of his triumph on earth - in which he is victim of love on the altar. Christ's priestly vestments refer to his sacrifice as victim on the earthly altar below.

Worth noting, given the modern reduction of the Eucharist to a "community meal," is that Christ's priesthood is explicit in Dutch Last Supper scenes. Either he is shown saying Mass in the Upper Room, (Dirk Bouts, Institution of the Eucharist, central panel, Holy Sacrament Altarpiece, Louvain, Church of St. Peter, 1464) with chalice and wafer instead of Passover fare, or he is shown giving Communion to the Apostles in the Upper Room (Joos van Ghent, Communion of the Apostles, Urbino, Galleria Nazionalle delle Marche, 1473-74). A didactic representation of the Mass, where Christ is really High Priest, is obvious in these Last Supper scenes.

In Early Renaissance Italy, at a time contemporary to these Dutch panel altarpieces, the Last Supper or Communion of the Apostles scene was traditionally placed at the community meal, in the monastery refectory. The community meal was not substituted for the Holy Sacrifice; rather, the Holy Sacrifice was recalled at the community meal. In the refectory, the community dining room of a religious order, the Supper enlivened with sacred character the monks' supper, eaten in silence as holy readings were read. Leonardo da Vinci's Last Supper of 1495-98, is painted on the end wall of the refectory of the Monastery of Santa Maria della Grazie in Milan. Today, Catholic families automatically place their print of Leonardo's Last Supper in the dining room, so that Christ is present at every meal. This emphasis, to use the community meal to supplement but not replace the Eucharistic meal, in some way damns the modern reduction of the Eucharistic table to the site of a "shared meal."

The Netherlandish altarpieces shout, "Ecce corpus Christi"; the Lamb both priest and victim. By contrast, the modern artwork of the altar is virtually empty of vivid theological statements about the Eucharist and sacrifice. Many Catholics are annoyed as in their parishes the display of the Body of Christ sacrificed gives way to a pastel fresco of the Resurrection, or perhaps an ethereal minimalist form, leaping out of the wall. As skepticism of Christ's true flesh-and-blood presence creeps in, amazingly under the rubric of reform, Catholics are to wonder what the new art of the altar means. Sacrificial imagery at the altar would only be dispensable if the connection between the Eucharistic meal and the Sacrifice is not literal. Are we to believe that the Church is telling us we are not witnessing a real Calvary, but a symbolic Supper at Emmaus?

So says the avowed "most influential" of church architects. The bold thesis of a Eucharistic table, rather than altar, is explained by liturgical architect Edward Sövik, named by Modern Liturgy magazine as the most influential liturgical architect of the last twenty years. In the September 1994 issue of Modern Liturgy, Sövik notes a symbolic connection between Eucharist and sacrifice, existing because Christ spoke of Calvary at the Last Supper. But he argues that the primary meaning of "altar," descendant of the Latin word altare, is table. Christ was content, he says, to speak of sacrifice in the Upper Room. Therefore, we make a Eucharistic table, not an altar:

What is this thing, then, that we intend to make? The altar table is properly an altare, not an ara. The association between the Eucharist and Jesus' sacrifice can be made through the words of the rite, rather than the shape of the altar table. It is through the words spoken at the Last Supper that Jesus made the association. Eucharistic texts do so also. An ara is neither necessary nor appropriate. The best way to deal with the symbolic is to make the table a table, clearly and without equivocation, for the table is both the useful thing and the essential symbol. The table is the place of the eating and drinking and it stands for eating and drinking. This is the intent of the instructions on the subject in the post-Vatican II documents.

Allied with this "symbolic" explanation, is Sövik's conviction that Christ is not literally on the altar:

For one thing the altar table is not where God sits (emphasis added); the warrants of God's presence are not the furnishings, but the people and the liturgical action.

Conversely, if Christ is really on the altar, the "altaria" is a sign of his presence. The Oxford Latin Dictionary states that altaria may mean an altar fit for burnt offerings. In fact, its usage is often not distinguishable from ara, the word for altar to a god. As the early Christians used altare, it certainly could mean an altar of sacrifice. Catholic doctrine never disputed that altare was an altar of sacrifice.1 In the art of Catholic Europe, altar was the altar of sacrifice. And now altar is the refectory table?

The liturgical architect Sövik does not speak for the Church. The Church has not retreated one step from the ancient view of the altar of the Mass as the altar of holocaust. Although table symbolism is included in the Catholic Catechism's norms on the meaning of the altar, table/altar is not an either/or proposition. The beauty of the Eucharist is that we are witnesses and beneficiaries of the redemptive sacrifice, and are then, as adopted sons, intimately called to dine at table with the Lord. Here the pertinent text of the new Catechism (no. 1182) follows in its entirety:

The altar of the New Covenant is the Lord's Cross, from which the sacraments of the Paschal mystery flow. On the altar, which is the center of the church, the sacrifice of the Cross is made present under sacramental signs. The altar is also the table of the Lord, to which the people of God are invited. In certain Eastern liturgies, the altar is also the symbol of the tomb (Christ truly died and is truly risen).

The Catechism reiterates that the "sacramental signs" of priest and bread and wine make present "the sacrifice of the Cross" upon the altar. While Sövik thinks that the Eucharist makes a mere verbal allusion to the sacrifice of the Cross, the Catechism states that via the sacrament of the Eucharist, the sacrifice of the Cross is literally made present, unequivocally, upon the altar.

Sövik's error is partly an error of Latin translation. But the diffusion of the function of sacred art is ultimately the legacy of bad theology, in which any point of view is suitable in this democratic church. If Catholics are autonomous interpreters of their Bible, then the Mass can mean whatever each one wants. Jesus does not have to be there, to you, if that is too hard to take. True Catholic theology insists that through Christ's institution of the Papacy, the Holy Spirit assists the Pope to ensure clarity and provide a way to truth amid the murky reality of varying states of dimness in our understanding of Divine Revelation. While the Eucharist is explicit, the subtle truth of the Holy Sacrifice is one such article that, using revelation as source, few could reason to without error. We need the Holy See and the rich deposit of faith to enlighten us. One can disbelieve that the Mass is a sacrifice and Christ is truly present, but one cannot so disbelieve and call oneself Catholic. That Jesus is truly the Bread of Life is a "hard teaching," and one that requires assent because Christ said so.

Assent is made more onerous when the very altar at which we kneel belies Christ's physical and intercessory presence. Dare we forget to use art to instruct about the hard teaching of the Holy Sacrifice? Using art to instruct implies several prior conditions. Vatican II's call for a renewal of sacred art includes a definitive exhortation to form artists in the spirit and meaning of sacred art. Were Vatican II implemented, Sövik would not be the most influential liturgical architect of the last twenty years.

This statement from the council document Sacrosanctum Concilium (no. 127) outlines the Church's responsibility regarding sacred art:

Bishops should take pains to instill artists with the spirit of sacred art and the sacred liturgy. This they may do in person or through suitable priests who are gifted with a knowledge and love of art.

For the training of artists it is also recommended that schools or academies of sacred art be founded in those parts of the world where they would be useful.

All artists who, in view of their talents, desire to serve God's glory in holy Church should ever bear in mind that they are engaged in a kind of sacred imitation of God the Creator, and are concerned with works destined for Catholic worship and for the edification, devotion, and religious instruction of the faithful.

Here is a dual responsibility: the Church must make greater strides in providing training and formation to sacred artists-but the artists' hearts and minds must be trained toward God or their mission will fail. We need to take seriously the call to create academies of sacred art. Clearly, an academy in every country would be a great advantage to the faithful. Or a program of scholarships to allow artists to study in Rome would expose nascent artists to the spirit and mastery of sacred art in Catholic Europe.

Perhaps Church training seems like censorship to some; a return to the "oppressive" regime of Trent. Mention the Council of Trent, with its insistence upon didactic clarity and its purification of pagan and erotic "church" art, and art historians cry foul. While Protestant artists were experimenting with still fruit, milkmaids and ducks as subjects of high art, some say the restrictions of Trent killed the experimental spirit of Catholic church art. Many art critics think Counter-Reformation Baroque art is universally awful, but forget that those post-conciliar artists who had internalized their faith succeeded in creating something new. Bernini, the acclaimed genius of Baroque sculpture, creator of a pugnacious David swinging at an unseen Goliath, creator of St. Teresa in Holy Ecstasy, is renowned in art historical lore for his sanctity of life and asceticism.

The Vatican II Council thus wisely calls for the formation of religious artists. The artist can present Christianity in living, authentic- and interesting- color if he has internalized the Catholic Faith. Conversely, no artist can authentically capture the Faith if he does not believe. To assert otherwise would mean that the believer has no fresh insights, no advantage over the nonbeliever in viewing reality. Sövik, talented as he may be, does not adhere to the same articles of faith that only can be called Catholic. Therefore, his altar is not complete.

Ultimately, his altar is not interesting. The central point that sets Christianity apart from every other faith is that God would DIE for us. To paraphrase St. Paul, that is scandal to the Jews and folly to the Greeks, and simply kitsch to modern man. How easy it is to reduce Catholicism to a myth, when that palpable historical death on the Cross is forgotten. How easy it is for Catholicism to fade into a gray Unitarian pall when the pallor of the Dead Christ is reduced to a symbol.

I highly recommend taking up a book of Northern Renaissance art and seeing Matthias Grunewald's Dead Christ, on the exterior panels of the Isenheim Altarpiece of 1510-15. This quintessential example of the "tortured Christ" spares nothing in its gruesome contortion, in its pale Corpus against a tumultuous sky, in its frightening Renaissance naturalism. Who could attend Mass every Sunday without being jolted awake by a tortured Christ who entered death not sleeping, but in spasms which twist his hands and contort his limbs?

The Body of Christ on the altarpiece, and the Body of Christ on the altar. May modern artists, truly instilled with faith in Christ and life within the Church, recreate in their own idiom the power of Grunewald and Van Eyck. Devout, faithful, and interesting art may prove to be an important catalyst in the New Evangelization.

Ellen Rice, a graduate of the University of Notre Dame, is assistant to the editor of Catholic Dossier.