I have always been very particular when it comes to art, specifically, religious art. While I enjoy viewing various genres, styles, and interpretations, whether or not I would hang it on my wall is another matter. Traditional LDS art has never really “spoken” to me. While I certainly can appreciate the detailed clarity of Parson, Freiberg’s rippling yet unobtainable musculature, Teichert’s soft and classic style, and Swindle’s idealism, I admit that none of the more commonly seen artworks found in chapels, temples, and LDS manuals resonated with me.
The art I seem to connect with usually depicts a more abstract or ethnically accurate Jesus, perhaps a partial view of his face with Galilean landscape or Jerusalem’s ancient walls somewhere in the frame. Additionally, I tend to lean towards lesser-known artists, so those works evoking emotions within me would, initially, have no appeal to those who ascribed to the LDS style guide. One could take this further, and see how various Christianities appeal to specific “Jesus art”. The Orthodox traditions, Roman Catholicism, Coptic, and Ethiopian churches all have distinctive artforms that, just as one could look at certain art and know it would be hanging on the walls of Deseret Book, clearly identifies what Christian tradition it comes from.
The history of religious art and people’s feelings around it is not a particularly pleasant one. While there are the obvious sentiments of sacred adoration and awe surrounding these works, there is also the intolerant and murderous history both within Christianities and among external religious traditions that could only tolerate a certain form or religious art, and in the process, giving the stamp of heresy to all others (think the Crusades and the bloody tension between the Abrahamic faiths, Iconoclasm, and xeonophobic ideologies carried by Christian missionaries towards indigenous imagry). While not initially obvious, upon consideration, it's easy to see why such strong emotions surround the diversity of these images. The imagery we associate with deity (or lack thereof, as in Islam, though their beautiful sacred geometry could be considered a religious artform) connects us to the divine and in turn, the divine to us. Our sense of belonging, knowing, and worth are introduced and reinforced through this art, and thus very tender and powerful feelings are often just below the surface when engaging these mediums. When these ideals are challenged or not shared by others, an emotional dissonance can arise that challenges one’s own sense of self and connection to the divine. Think, “if your faith looks like this and my faith looks like that, do we both have faith? Or is only one of our faiths valid? Which is right?”
For an additional example, consider the passionate digital diatribes hosted by social media surrounding the supposed daguerreotype of Joseph Smith. The cultural anthropologist in me was fascinated by the polarized feelings surrounding the authenticity of said image. While many felt that the official consensus of authenticity was possible, others aggressively rejected it, stating “there is nothing godly in that face,” and “I don’t feel the spirit when I look at it, this is absolutely NOT Joseph” (quotes taken from actual fb discussion). Both groups, however, believe in the authenticity of Joseph as prophet. In this case, it seemed that feelings over scholarly consensus was the arbiter of truth in the matter.
So why am I talking about Jesus art? Well, for many years and contemporarily, religious art represented/represents one’s feelings towards God, specifically, one’s theology. Historically, “Jesus art” was a critical substitute for theology, simply because the vernacular was not the liturgical language, nor was the Bible accessible to the non-clergy. One could likely suggest that the same happens today, when actual theology/dogma is perhaps less important than one’s feelings about God. To be more specific, community is formed over emotional connection to ritual, imagery, hymns, etc. which are all in their unique right, art. Throughout our religious/spiritual experience, we are drawn towards or repulsed by these various artforms, for perhaps no other reason that our soul resonates to the sight and sound of some, and prefers it to others. Luckily, we live in a time where violence surrounding a differing religious preference is not acceptable, but what about emotional violence? Do we justify emotional violence towards others based on one’s preference to a certain kind of “Jesus art”?
Let me clarify my thoughts with an experience I recently had. Some of you know that these last two years have been spent moving our in-laws (Monty’s parents) into what is now our shared home. Between liquidating assets, selling homes, building a home, waiting for said home to be built---its been a process. When people ask “how’s it going?” with raised eyebrows and a look of concern, I happily report that I am blessed to have the kindest in-laws one could ask for, and while things aren’t easy, we are making it work and there is love in our home. That said, part of the “things aren’t easy” part is the very tangible fact that Monty and I have distanced ourselves from Orthodox Mormonism, which is perhaps an oxymoron because the term “Mormon,” once endeared by so many, including me, has now become anathema to orthodox believers. For our very devout in-laws, this is of course a hardship. Despite conversations and clarifications on boundaries, misunderstandings and questions still exist that are, at times, more noticeable than others. One of those times happened recently as we were moving into our new home.
Eager to decorate with art and photos that will make this house our “home,” my father in-law noticed I was beginning that process and asked where we were going to display “Jesus and his twelve apostles,” gesturing with his hands towards the expanse of the wall with a look of reverence. Immediately, my stomach plunged through the floor and my heart-rate increased. Even at my most orthodox/zealot self, I was never comfortable with the conspicuous display of general authorities in churches and homes, especially when the images minimized the presence of the Savior. I scrambled for the right way to explain that I’d rather not have pictures of “the brethren” in our communal space, but that I am happy to have a Jesus picture up that we can all pick. Disappointment flashed across his face, but he kindly chuckled and said in his Tongan accent, “whatever you want to do, Kajsa, is up to you! I can put the pictures in our room, so long as Jesus is here in the center. Jesus is the most important.” I agreed and told him we will make it happen. A few days later, he called me into his room where he and mom (I call my mother in-law mom) were sitting in their small ensuite, watching a classic Western film. His hands clasping a large 26x40 Dale Parson image of Jesus, dad smiled and said, “Kajsa, this is the picture we can use for our Jesus picture!” He went on to tell me that he had purchased it at the distribution center and that it was brand new---I listened, feeling like a deer in the headlights, my heart beginning to beat fast. It was clear he adored this particular picture and I am a notorious people pleaser; the fear of disappointing people is very real to me. When religion and feelings about God are tied into the mix, that anxiety is of course amplified.
Suddenly realizing he had stopped talking and that I had been standing there without responding, I took in a gulp of air and did my best to explain that while I thought that particular painting was great, it just isn’t something that I would hang on my wall because it wasn’t “my style.” Confused, dad continued on, “but this is the same picture that is in the temples, it's one that's in the churches…” Floundering, I said something about how picky I am about art and especially religious art, and that I would prefer something different, and perhaps we could go to Deseret or Seagull and pick something out as a family? Looking confused, he added, “what's wrong with this picture?” Realizing that this conversation was not happening, I asked if we could wait until Monty got home and then make a decision about what and where we were hanging things. Somewhat exasperated, he responded emotionally, hands outstretched towards me, “I don’t understand---are you against Jesus?!”
Silence.
I stood there, my eyes filling with hot tears, while I blinked to hold them back. Taking a deep breath to compose myself, I made eye-contact with him and said in the calmest voice I could muster, “no dad, I’m not against Jesus. I love Jesus. I just want to wait on hanging our Jesus picture.” Nodding his okay and perhaps sensing my high emotions, he mumbled something about doing whatever I need to do and that it is “all okay.” I quickly turned and left the room, going into the kitchen where I immediately began to throw the dishes around, scrubbing them a little too hard, the tears rolling down my cheeks.
“Are you against Jesus?!” Those words brought the reality of the last 2.5 years of my faith journey crashing down around me. I had heard those words before. Not in that exact order or verbiage, but I had heard them when I received suspicious inquiring emails in my inbox asking how I could possibly hold certain views and still consider myself LDS, discussions with neighbors who felt that I couldn’t support the church and also discuss certain things in the frank way that I did, getting advice from well-intended colleagues reminding me not to “get ahead of the Brethren,” and hearing my Bishop say that he saw me as a wolf in sheep’s clothing, someone who is dangerous to the congregation. I heard them when questioned by someone I love if I was intentionally or unintentionally deceiving people by calling myself a “Jesus person” because I no longer ascribe to the Christology and theology we once shared.
Words like that have broken me over and over again, chipping away at my sense of self and challenging my faith in ways that eventually led me to a precious reality---I am FOR Jesus, and I say the things I say and do the things I do because, in my deepest convictions, I am FOR Jesus. For the brave way he lived his life, for the way he challenged authority for the side of righteousness, for his meditative self, for his ability to see individuals as they truly are, and love them as children of God. I am FOR Jesus, who advocated for the marginalized and rebuked pharisaical performance that oppressed the poor and downtrodden. I am FOR Jesus who saw women and refused to cast a stone, elevating the law in his refusal to carry out Mosaic code. For Jesus who whispered, “woman, thou art loosed!” because I, too, am loosed, and as the imperfect but influential Martin Luther said, “Here I stand. I cannot do otherwise.”
I understand why my father in-law said what he said. Please don’t misunderstand my intention behind sharing this story. Later that day he and I had a tearful conversation that ended in sincere apologies from both of us, admittance of the reality of how hard this journey of family living is, and a reinforcement of love on both our parts. He truly is what I would call a “Jesus man.” His love for Jesus is visible when the old church movie The Testaments plays and Jesus visits the Nephites---tears streaming down his face as he stares at the screen with emotion and awe. His love for Jesus is visible when he is quick to say he is sorry, and when he pushes his arthritic body to do yardwork and chores for others. His love for Jesus is visible for a lifetime of service that dozens would readily testify to. My discipleship to Jesus now looks different than his discipleship which takes a religious path we both once shared.
The fear, uncertainty, sense of loss, and sadness that can accompany those parting of ways is a reality in my daily relationships with him and so many others. During a discussion my father (my actual dad, not “dad” my father in-law) and I had about the pain we were both experiencing during my faith journey, he shared with me a sacred impression that came to him during a dream. He recounted the details of Genesis 31 where an emotional misunderstanding happens between Jacob and his father in-law, Laban. In verse 30, Laban asks Jacob why he had stolen his Gods (Laban was a polytheist, obviously). Neither Laban or Jacob were aware that Rachel, Laban’s daughter and Jacob’s wife, had in fact taken them. This particular part of the narrative is a bit odd, but reflects on Laban and Rachel’s indigenous faith which was obviously different than Jacob’s. Chapter 31 ends with Laban and Jacob talking things out and finding a way to make peace. While sharing this with me, my father told me that as he woke up from his dream, he heard the distinct words impressed upon him, “don’t steal Kajsa’s Gods.” He was emotional while sharing this with me, and committed to supporting me as best he could as we journey through this time together as father and daughter. He felt that that particular scripture reminded him that I have my own relationship with God just as he has his own relationship with God, and that they don’t necessarily have to look the same (and I would argue, can’t look the same).
So now coming back full circle to what I’ve learned about religious art, Jesus art in particular, and making space for each other’s unique walk with God (or deity, the Goddess, the universe, or your best self which is divine, however you see it). As we interact with one another, it's so easy to fall into what I will term “emotional iconoclastic crises” and allow enmity to exist within our homes, our communities, and our hearts because of preference over “religious art,” and in most of your cases, mine particularly, “Jesus art.” While we may not be able to agree fully in our communal spaces which religious art we should hang, we can agree to validate our common values and attempts at our best selves, whatever that may be. When we enter into the space of another and see a certain Jesus depicted, hanging on their “wall” so to speak, we can appreciate that it has meaning to them and that it holds value in their life, even when you yourself wouldn’t hang that particular image of Jesus on your wall and in fact resonate with something quite different.
Islam teaches us all a lesson by refusing to anthropomorphize deity in visual form, using sacred geometric designs to symbolize the eternal magnificence that is God. Islam, translating as “subission,” allows those worshipping to connect their innermost selves to God through communal worship that is accessible to all. The complex and harmonious designs within the mosque represent mathematical constants that all can equally see as “true,” thus uniting the faithful in a sense of wonder and connection. Theology can also act as an anthropomorphism of God and as history well shows us, act as a stumbling block to community and familial relations. Just as ancient Israel was condemned because of their idolatry, focusing on their temple sacrifices but forgetting the needs of those around them, so we too today can easily slip into the same patterns when we put emphasis on theology and orthopraxy over connection and community.
In summary, no matter what form of “religious/non religious art” we prefer, let us agree to hold space for the art galleries of others where they have carefully hung those things which connect them to God and/or to their best selves. I believe that it is in that mutual respect and awe for our individual journeys that we experience the sacred, the divine. Don’t steal each other’s Gods. Namaste.