Five years ago, I picked up my sister Rita at the Kansas City airport. As we were driving away, I noticed a big mass of metal in the median. At first I thought something fell off a truck. But as I slowed down, I saw spotlights in the grass below it. I then realized that the grotesque-looking formation was artwork.
Back home I punched in “modern artwork KCI airport” and found a write-up on the artist and his sculptures. It appeared the sculpture I saw was one of a fifteen-part exhibit, and that over the last couple years, the new airport had put up millions of (tax-payer) dollars in artwork inside in its terminals. One piece, which cost over a million, featured thousands of metal pieces hanging from the ceiling. It was recently removed because the metal pieces started falling and endangering the people below.
You can look up the new airport artwork online. It’s all rather hideous. Why is that? Why is modern art ugly?
The Naked Communist. That was the title of a book written in 1958 by a former FBI agent and researcher. The book listed 45 Marxist strategies or goals to create a new world order with a one-world government. Listen to strategy number 22:
Continue discrediting American culture by degrading all form of artistic expression. An American Communist cell was told to “eliminate all good sculpture from parks and buildings,” substituting “shapeless, awkward and meaningless forms.”
Here’s number 23:
Control art critics and directors of art museums. “Our plan is to promote ugliness [through] repulsive, meaningless art.”
Ugliness is a weapon to demoralize people. It’s used to destroy the good, the true, and the beautiful, which Christianity promotes because that is what Christ is—the good, true, and beautiful. This destruction of course goes against human nature, for souls hunger for beauty just as stomachs hunger for food. Beauty is actually more important than food because the soul is more important than the body.
Take the Return of the Prodigal Son pictured below. It was painted around 1670 by the most prominent Spanish artist of his day, Esteban Murillo. The prodigal son parable from Luke is the gospel passage heard once every three years on the 4th Sunday of Lent. As far as literature goes, it is one of the most beautiful things ever written. It is beautiful because the subject matter tugs at our hearts and delivers what we all long for deep in our souls: mercy.
You can find Murillo’s original in Washington DC at the National Gallery. If you visit it, you’ll notice that the painting doesn’t fit on the gallery wall. It’s too big for it, and it’s in a section of the gallery with paintings that bear no relation to it.
Now, why is that? The painting is out of place and too big for the wall—because it was stolen! It was stolen out of a church in Spain by one of Napoleon Bonaparte’s generals in 1810 as part of a nationalization, a government takeover (or more accurately: a confiscation, looting, and plundering of all things Catholic). Murillo’s painting was taken to Paris in 1812 and eventually made its way to Washington DC.
We have several works of art on the walls in my parish. I’ve had visitors comment that they’ve never been in a church with paintings on the wall. Two of the paintings are Murillo’s (and a third of his is on the way!).
Back in the golden age of Spain, Murillo was highly sought after to paint beautiful images for churches. La Santa Caridad (The Holy Charity) was a hospital in Spain, started and financed by a knight (Don Miguel Manyara Vicentele de Leka) who had once lived a very dark sinful life. But by God’s grace he found his way back to Christ. His hospital of course treated the sick, but also buried the dead and fed the hungry. Within his hospital, there was a chapel.
The knight commissioned Murillo to paint six huge paintings of the Corporal (the bodily) Works of Mercy, which hung high on the chapel walls of the hospital. Those works are: feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, clothe the naked, visit the sick, visit the imprisoned, give alms for the poor, and bury the dead. There are seven works of mercy, but Murillo only painted six of them. The reason being that above the altar is a beautiful statue of Christ lying on the ground after being taken down from the cross (symbolizing burying the dead).
Up until about twenty years ago, those visiting the chapel in Spain would only see two paintings up on the wall, which made the chapel walls look askew. The other four paintings had been stolen. They’ve since been replaced with copies. So now, if you ever go to Seville, you can see these huge, beautiful paintings on the wall, and further, you’ll understand why the original Murillo is out of place and too big for the museum wall in Washington DC. You’ll understand that it was not made for that wall. No, it was made for a Catholic church, where the most beautiful thing this side of heaven takes place—Christ’s eternal sacrifice for our sins.
In the painting, notice the son’s gnarly, dirty feet, which are indicative of his soul, as he kneels on a step that can be likened to a communion rail. Then notice the servants bringing forward the father’s brilliant robe that will be placed on his son. The corporal work of mercy this was intended to depict was clothe the naked. But beyond physical needs, the robe signifies the sanctifying grace that is given to the truly repentant. A servant holds up a ring that will be placed on the son’s finger, showing that once again he will inherit his father’s kingdom.
Notice the boy on the left, with a knowing smile, leading the fatted calf off to be slaughtered for the feast. On the far right in the shadows is the disapproving older brother who refuses to enter the house. He represents the hard-hearted Pharisees. And notice the little dog, jumping up, overjoyed to see his long-lost friend. The dog represents fidelity, the kind only found in dogs and God. That is why we popularly name dogs “Fido,” from fidelity, Latin for faithfulness.
In our parish, I strategically placed Murillo’s painting outside our confessional, in between a painting of the Pieta, with the Virgin holding her dead Son, and the Crucifixion. I call this wall of the church “Penitent Row” or “Penitent Alley.” After penitents confess their sins in what St. Paul called “this ministry of reconciliation,” they open the door and are face-to-face with the prodigal son painting. They can look at it and think:
There I am in the painting. There I was in the painting. For I have been made new. I’ve sinned against heaven and earth. I’ve sinned against my Father who loves me, and I don’t deserve to be called his child. But instead of destroying me, He has given me the thing I’ve longed for deep in my soul. He has given me mercy.
Photo by kevin laminto on Unsplash