ARTICLE

Early Christian Art andDivine Epiphany

Robin M. Jensenrobin m. jensen is Luce Chancellor’s Professor of the History of Christian Art and

Worship, Vanderbilt University.

Abstract: Drawing upon the work of art historians, historians of ancient Christianityhave incorporated the evidence of early Christian visual art in their studies, primarily inorder to identify the iconographic content, formal style, and social or religious context ofthe artifacts or monuments under consideration. This essay argues that, while their stan-dard motifs and compositions undoubtedly served a didactic purpose and reflected thecultural, ideological, or exegetical location, practices, or commitments of patrons, earlyChristian art also served an epiphanic function; it presented the divine image to viewersin an external and accessible form. Thus, by attending specifically to the relationship ofimage and observer and the setting in which these objects were viewed, it is possibleto see them, like later icons, as devices that facilitated meditation, prayer, and evenvisionary encounters with the holy.

Keywords: icon/image, idol/idolatry, prototype/figure, portrait, theophany, veneration

In a letter to his friend Sulpicius Severus, written in either 403 or 404, Paulinusof Nola described the mosaic that he had commissioned for the apse of hisepiscopal basilica. Although the mosaic no longer exists, Paulinus gives us apretty good idea of how it must have appeared from:

The Trinity shines out in all its mystery. Christ is represented by a lamb, the Father’svoice thunders forth from the sky, and the Holy Spirit flies down in the form of a dove.A wreath’s gleaming circle surrounds the cross, and around this circle the apostlesform a ring, represented by a chorus of doves. The holy unity of the Trinity merges inChrist, but the Trinity has its threefold symbolism. The Father’s voice and the Spiritshow forth God, the cross and the lamb proclaim the holy victim. The purple and thepalm point to kingship and to triumph. Christ himself, the Rock, stands on the rockof the Church, and from this rock, four splashing fountains flow, the evangelists, theliving streams of Christ.1

His description makes it clear that Paulinus credited visual art’s potentialto reveal something about the nature of God. It is also evident that Paulinusintentionally avoided an anthropomorphic representation of any of the Trinity.Rather, the three are shown as a voice (probably visually represented by a dis-embodied hand), a dove, and a lamb or cross. Even the Apostles are depicted

Toronto Journal of Theology 28/1, 2012, pp. 125–144 DOI: 10.3138/tjt.28.1.125

as doves and not as men. Yet, Paulinus has no doubt that viewers will under-stand what they see, and that it is meant to represent or reveal God: to be anepiphany of sorts.

Until fairly recently, historians of early Christianity have paid relativelylittle attention to visual art as a mode of theological expression, and evenless to the ways that seeing visual art could have shaped the beliefs or pietyof viewers. When they have done so, the text historians have tended to rely onthe studies of art historians who, by profession, ordinarily are more interestedin formal, compositional, or stylistic developments than in the artworks’possible reflection of certain theological teaching or its devotional functions.Nevertheless, those art historical studies laid important groundwork, identify-ing, dating, describing, and cataloguing iconographic themes, especially fromthe most extensive corpus of evidence that comes from the Roman catacombsand sarcophagi. As such, many of the best have became standard referencesfor traditional text scholars who occasionally incorporate visual art into theiranalysis of early Christian theology and practice.2

While text scholars’ reliance on art historians’ works should be regarded asthe respectful acknowledgement of one scholarly guild’s expertise by another,in the last three decades or so, both groups have raised pertinent questions,opened up the terms of the discussion, and blurred the edges of formerly dis-tinct disciplinary fields. Analyses that focus on the social context and functionof the monuments and urge that visual art be studied independently from thepatristic textual canon in order to avoid text-skewed interpretations have chal-lenged older studies, which examined the remains primarily in light of tradi-tional Christian doctrine or sacramental theology. Some of these reappraisalshave concluded that the extant evidence demonstrates a distinction betweenpopular and official Christianity and the existence of a subgroup of Christianbelievers—the illiterate or disenfranchised members of the community—whowere more likely to be users or viewers of art.3 Other examinations haveattended to Christian art’s emergence from and continuity with Greco-Romanreligious art more broadly, arguing that boundaries should not be drawn toosharply between rank-and-file Christians and their non-Christian neighbours,or between ‘‘popular’’ and ‘‘official’’ expressions of theology or modes ofworship.4

Simultaneously emerging with these generative and even compelling theoriesof how early Christian art reflected social and cultural location, values, andreligious practices is a burgeoning interest in the theology of eastern Christianicons.5 The enormous interest in and literature on the subject is a phenomenonunto itself. Yet most of the attention has focused on Byzantine Christian icon-ography, but rarely considering the formative and even mystical dimension ofviewing images in general, or the possibility that early Christian art served asimilar purpose—to serve as a focus for contemplation or meditation on thenature of the divine Being. It was not to be the recipient of adoration itself,but to mediate the prayers and reverence of the faithful, effectively transmitting

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them from the image to its prototype.6 To this end, this essay considers howearly Christians might have regarded their visual art and proposes that the actof viewing generated a certain kind of subjective epiphanic experience—onethat was cognitively different from hearing a sermon or reading Scripture andmore like having an eyewitness encounter with the holy. Thus, along withexaminations of the stylistic, iconographic, theological, sociological, and con-textual dimensions or function of early Christian artworks, it seems appro-priate to consider their possible spiritual or visionary purpose, and to start byconsidering a concrete example.

A marble sarcophagus was removed, probably sometime in the mid-eighteenth century, from Rome’s Catacomb of San Sebastiano (figure 1).Dated to the 330s, it was restored and transferred to the Christian Museum ofPope Benedict xiv. Today it is in the Vatican Museo Pio Cristiano. UnlikePaulinus’s apse, this object shows Jesus and the Apostles as quite normal-looking human beings. The slightly reconstructed front frieze presents (fromleft to right) scenes of Christ giving the symbols of work to Adam and Eveprior to their expulsion from Eden, Jesus healing the paralytic who carrieshis bed on his shoulders, Jesus changing water to wine at Cana, Jesus enteringJerusalem on his donkey, Jesus healing the man born blind, and Jesus raisingLazarus. The scenes do not conform to any narrative sequence, although theydo seem to draw predominantly on the Gospel of John (e.g., the Johannineversion of the paralytic healing story, the Cana miracle, the Johannine versionof the entry upon the healing of the man born blind, and the raising ofLazarus). Jesus, of course, appears in all the scenes. They also includefigures who might be identified as witnesses or disciples, including one ofLazarus’s sisters. Another appears in a tree in the entry scene—possibly thefigure of Zaccheus, borrowed from the story of Jesus’s entry to Jericho asrecounted in Luke 19:1–6. One other individual seems to appear in all—ornearly all—of the scenes. His receding hairline and long face indicate thathe should be identified as Paul. The inclusion of Paul as witness to eventsthat, according to the Gospels, he could not have been present (or even alive)to see is intriguing. It might indicate that Paul symbolizes the viewer who

Figure 1: Early Christian sarcophagus, first half of the fourth century. Now in theMuseo Pio Cristiano, Vatican. Photo: author.

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comes to know the stories of Jesus and how they reveal God’s plan for salva-tion, from Fall to Resurrection.

This frieze is just one among dozens somewhat like it. By the late thirdcentury, some Christians clearly were affluent enough to afford such monu-mental coffins. Many were able to pay for the excavation and decoration offamily mausoleums in underground cemeteries (catacombs). Some of thesewere lovingly decorated with wall paintings and simple stucco work. Theseremains, mostly from the environs of Rome and predominantly from a funerarycontext, constitute the largest, primary corpus of early Christian art. Emergingaround the beginning of the third century, the content and style of the workfollows a clear trajectory of development.

In the beginning, the motifs were mostly simple, conventional signs suchas anchors, fish, doves, or praying figures (orantes). These symbols pointedto aspects of the faith or references to the piety or identity of the faithful. Sim-ilarly, the image of the Good Shepherd with his flock was a visual metaphorreferring to Christ’s attributes as a guide and guardian. Soon, along withthese, appeared abbreviated depictions of Old Testament narratives. Thesedeveloped as types that had Christian significance or could be interpreted asallusions to Christian sacraments or teachings. In a funerary context, theylikely expressed the believer’s trust in the Shepherd’s loving care, and herexpectation of resurrection from death. The figure of the orante may symbolizethe soul of the deceased, offering prayer that she be received into heaven. Thisexpectation, arising out of her having undergone Christian baptism, may ex-plain the inclusion of certain figures, e.g., Noah, Jonah, and the Three HebrewYouths (figure 2).

Like the frieze of the Vatican sarcophagus, the wall paintings in catacombhypogea or on other Christian sarcophagi seem to be composed from commonmotifs drawn from the sample books offered by artists’ workshops. Represen-tations of Jesus’s baptism, Jesus raising Lazarus, and the adoration of theMagi could be combined with an orante, a Shepherd, Jonah, Abraham offer-ing Isaac, Adam and Eve, and Daniel. Another monument might contain someof the same themes, along with others, in a varied but similar arrangement.Beginning in the fourth century, scenes of Jesus teaching, healing, and work-ing wonders became more popular, often displacing the earlier symbolic ortypological themes. Along with particular episodes from Jesus’s life—theadoration of the Magi, the baptism, and the entrance to Jerusalem—suchscenes regularly constituted a kind of compositional melange. A series of dis-crete narratives were synthesized into a somewhat jumbled set whose overallpictorial narrative might seem a bit confusing but nevertheless projects thegeneral message that Jesus was teacher, healer, wonder-worker, and life-giver. The inclusion of Old Testament narratives (e.g., Adam and Eve, Noah,Jonah, Abraham’s offering of Isaac, Daniel in the lions’ den) attests to thebelief that the sacraments as well as Christ’s death and resurrection were pre-figured and eternally part of the God’s plan for human salvation (figure 3).

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In these images, the representation of Jesus is remarkably consistent. Hemost often appears as a beardless youth with long, curly hair (see figures 1, 3).Jesus appears several times in many compositions, always distinguished fromthe other adult male figures by his lack of beard and long, curly hair. Otherthan these distinguishing facial features, he is otherwise like them. He isabout the same size and wears the garments of a well-dressed, respectableRoman male. He has neither halo nor sceptre. He does not appear nude, likethe heroes or gods of Greco-Roman iconography. Jesus’s garb is exactly likethe others’ around him, which is that of a well-dressed Roman citizen of themid-fourth century: a tunic with draped pallium. Like several other figures, heoften holds a scroll and raises his hand in a gesture indicating speech. In short,he is recognizable by his coiffure, but not overly intimidating in any of hisfeatures.

In depictions of the most popular miracle stories, such as the healing of theparalytic or the man born blind, the recipients are often shown as relativelysmall in comparison to characters. Perhaps their diminutive size was intendedto reflect their social position; they are suppliants and thus ‘‘little ones.’’ Jesusnormally extends his hand to touch those he heals (see figure 1). One excep-tion, the woman with the hemorrhage, reaches out to him instead, or rather to

Figure 2: Decoration of early Christian hypogeum, Catacomb of Priscilla, Rome.Photo: author.

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his cloak. Jesus’s imposition of his hand is a simple gesture, described inmany Gospel accounts (e.g., Matt 8:14–15, 20:29–34; Mark 1:41). By con-trast, in depictions of wonders such as the changing of water to wine, theresurrection of the widow’s son, and the raising of Lazarus, Jesus wields astaff: the only identifiable or special sign of his power and authority, and adetail not mentioned by the Gospels. Two other figures in early Christian arthold a similar staff; Moses and Peter both use it to strike a rock to producewater, the former for thirsty Israelites, the latter to baptize his Roman jailers,a scene from an apocryphal narrative (see figure 3).7 Thus, Jesus’s miraclesare not incidents intended to show that he is so very different from all othersas to manifest his glory and to reveal the nature of his kingdom—where theblind receive their sight, the lame walk, lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, thedead are raised up, and the poor have good news preached to them (Matt11:5).

Perhaps as significant as what early Christian iconographic programs in-clude is what they do not. The Annunciation to Mary, the Transfiguration,the Last Supper, the Passion, the Empty Tomb, and the Ascension appeareither rarely or not at all before the fifth century. Although depictions ofepisodes from the Passion begin to appear by the last quarter of the fourthcentury and incorporate scenes of Jesus before Pilate or Simon carrying thecross, they do not include representations of the actual crucifixion. In its placestands a triumphant and empty cross, surmounted by a wreathed christogram(figure 4). Beneath, a Roman soldier looks up as if recognizing ‘‘truly, this isthe son of God’’ (Mark 15:39). Generally, artistic representations of whatcame to be the holy mysteries of Incarnation, Crucifixion, and Resurrectionare relatively late, compared to the typological allusions to prophecy andfulfillment and popular portrayals of Jesus teaching and working miracles.

Figure 3: Early Christian sarcophagus, Rome, mid fourth century. Now in the MuseoPio Cristiano, Vatican. Photo: author.

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Some historians have suggested that Christian visual art could haveemerged only in a community that had grown lax about enforcing the SecondCommandment’s prohibition against ‘‘graven images.’’8 As the Church beganto admit dominantly gentile converts, authorities clearly struggled against re-sidual habits and practices of idolatry. Arguably (according to certain analyses),they accepted the need to compromise and began to accommodate images inthe form of pictorial art. However, these historians’ own theological ambiva-lence about visual art, rather than evidence for actual aniconism in the ancientChurch likely drives such a conclusion. These scholars appear to interpretearly Christian condemnations of idol worship as a general denunciation ofpictorial art in general, rather than the repudiation of false gods.

Without doubt, early Christian apologists confidently contrasted Christianlack of divine images to the practices of their polytheist neighbours. Never-theless, they never condemned visual art for itself; rather they focused specif-ically on what they described as foolish the making or worshipping of divineimages (and in this respect they agreed with many ancient philosophers). Tothis point, they also cited the biblical injunction against visual art—‘‘Youshall not make for yourself an idol, whether in the form of anything that isin heaven above, or that is on the earth below’’ (Exod 20:4: Deut 5:8)—butunderstood as a command to honour no other gods, or to bow down to andadore their material representations. Although that injunction could haveinhibited some pre-third-century Christians from making or enjoying paint-ings, mosaics, or sculptures, the reasons for its relatively late emergence ismore likely explained in other ways.9 Most ancient critiques of images,whether philosophical, Jewish, or Christian, concentrated on the problem ofmistaking art for reality (the image for truth), or of worshipping false godsinstead of the true one. They were not attacks on visual art per se.

For example, in his treatise against idolatry, dated to the end of the secondcentury, Tertullian cites the biblical prohibition as directed against anythingmanufactured specifically for the purpose of veneration.10 He defines images

Figure 4: Passion sarcophagus, Rome, third quarter, fourth century. Now in theMuseo Pio Cristiano, Vatican. Photo: author.

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as representations of deities, fashioned out of ordinary materials and trans-formed by ritual consecration into objects of worship. He mocks those whopay homage to statues, for they are inanimate counterparts to their deadoriginals.11 Tertullian’s fellow African, Minucius Felix, points out that poly-theists apparently found the absence images of the Christian god slightlysuspicious, as if Christians were trying to conceal or hide the nature of theirdeity. In his dialogue, Octavius, Minucius Felix describes the protagonist,Octavius, responding by asking what kind of visible representation he couldfashion for his God, seeing that humans are, themselves, rightly consideredto be God’s true image (see Genesis 1:26). Furthermore, statues and otherimages are absurd: birds roost in and spiders weave webs over them. Theyrust and decay.12 A century later, Arnobius of Sicca, in his discourse Againstthe Nations, likewise ridicules those who bow down to images made of basematerials, baked in kilns, forged in furnaces, or whittled by knives. Is it notfolly, he asks, to kneel down in supplication to an object that you made withyour own hands?13 Unquestionably, most ancient Christians, whether simplebelievers or theologically sophisticated authors, considered idols to be imagesof someone else’s gods (i.e., false gods)—and did not include pictorial artdepicting stories from the Bible or even representations of Christ or the saints,in the category.14

About the time that the Vatican Sarcophagus described above (figure 1)was produced (ca. 335), Athanasius, the fourth-century bishop of Alexandriaand champion of Nicene orthodoxy, wrote a two-part apology. The first part,Against the Nations (Gentes), opens by summarizing his objections to idolatryand concludes by explaining the role of the Divine Word in salvation. Inan early chapter of the Against the Nations, he launches his critique of idols,saying that those who pay homage to images ignore and dishonour the crafts-men who made the works; they worship the products of skill and art, ratherthan the recognizing the skills or paying tribute to the artists.15 A little furtheron he echoes his predecessors, condemning idols for being as phony as thegods they depict and asserting that those who worship them are deluded,impious, and irrational. Quoting the Epistle to the Romans he says, ‘‘Profess-ing themselves to be wise they became fools and changed the glory of theincorruptible God for the likeness of an image of corruptible man, and ofbirds and four-footed beasts and creeping things, wherefore God gave themup unto vile passions’’ (see Rom 1:22–24).16

At the same time, Athanasius realizes that Christians are not different frompagans in their sense that ‘‘seeing’’ God is crucial for their comprehension ofthe divine. In the second part of his treatise On the Incarnation, Athanasiuslays out what he believed to be the orthodox explanation for God’s comingto the world in human form. Here he propounds a theology of visuality thatcould be understood as a divine antidote to the deception of idolatry and thusas the constructive part of his two-part treatise. Although he asserts thathuman knowledge of God relies on sensual perception as much as on cogni-

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tive processes, he warns that mortals are easily deceived, both in what theyperceive and how they mentally evaluate or assess it. Their eyes are oftentricked, he says, into mistaking false for true images and into offering theadoration due to the invisible divine being to mundane and even demonicvisible objects. Humans do this, he adds, even though God is not hiddenfrom their sight, but rather is revealed in myriad ways and forms, especiallyin the beautiful works of creation. Yet they remain ignorant of the creator(Rom 1:20). They tend to mistake the ephemeral for the eternal; they casttheir eyes on illusions, confusing them with reality. They are so distracted byworldly goods that they miss the source of goodness itself.17

According to Athanasius, the merciful and loving God did not will forhumans to remain in this state. Recognizing human weaknesses, God tried toaccommodate them in different ways. God sent the law and prophets, holymen and women who instructed the people and modelled a virtuous life. Yethumans, being mired in evil habits and subject to clouded vision and lack ofreason, persisted in their errors and refused to amend their pleasure-seekinghabits. Most of all, they did not recognize themselves as bearing the divineimage, however clouded it had become by their sinfulness. Finally, God,unable by nature to be unconcerned with the dissolute state of God’s ownhandiwork, could not allow humans to suffer further corruption or even toperish altogether. Thus, God condescended to become physically and visiblypresent in the Incarnation of the Word—in a mortal body—so that humanitymight be confronted with its original image.

In a passage that evokes the images of ancient Egyptian panel portraitsand even shows that Athanasius may have been thinking about visual art as akind of medium for making the holy one present (see figure 5), Athanasiuscompares God’s work with the renewal of a painted likeness:

For as, when the likeness painted on a panel has become effaced by stains from without,he whose likeness it is must needs come once more to enable the portrait to be renewedon the same wood, for, for the sake of the picture, even the mere wood on which it ispainted is not thrown away, but the outline is renewed upon it; in the same way alsothe most holy Son of the Father, being the image of the Father, came to our region torenew humanity, once made in his likeness.18

Therefore, Athanasius continues, God made himself visible. Not in orderto come down and fix things or even to figure out, at close range, how theyhad come to be broken, but rather to become sensibly present to creationitself—to be seen—so that it could be restored to its original beauty. But itwas not enough simply to make a brief, corporeal appearance and then imme-diately sacrifice himself on a cross and die. Christ’s manifestation needed toencompass visible acts and deeds that demonstrated both his power and hispurpose and revealed who he was by the works and wonders he performed.Thus, Christ’s earthly life included his human birth, death, resurrection, andascension, but also manifestations of God’s love for creation, humanity’s

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Figure 5: Portrait of a Woman, Antinoopolis (Egypt), ca. 130–161. Photo: Author.

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original image, and God’s intention that this image should be rescued, re-focused, and renewed.

For this, the work of the eye was central. By encountering God in a humanbody and observing his works, mortals would recognize their origin andunderstand their potential. As Jesus, himself, says in the Gospel of John,‘‘Whoever has seen me has seen the Father’’ (John 14:7). And if, Athanasius,posits, someone would wonder why not in a nobler instrument than a merehuman body (e.g., the sun or moon or fire or air), he explains that the Lorddid not become incarnate only in order to make some grand, dazzling display,but to heal and teach, to care for the suffering, and to give himself to thosein want. In this way, Christ’s appearance did not exceed human capacity toreceive him. That would have rendered the incarnation useless, by terrifyingor stupefying those to whom Christ appeared. Rather, Jesus came to humansin a form that resembled them, allowing them to comprehend and contemplatetheir own true nature through their physical and visual encounter with theLord.19

Consequently, seeing is salvific. Athanasius does not believe that humansalvation is primarily a matter of thinking correctly or assenting in the mindto certain dogmas or ethical principles. Humans need to perceive God in orderto know God. This may happen in the works of nature, but it was ultimatelyaccomplished in the Incarnation. Seeing Christ in the flesh was the beginningof the reformation of the whole person, body and soul. Having such a vision,humanity is transformed by its beauty and comes to know its true characterand purpose: to love and glorify God. Humans become what they see.

Again and again, Scripture emphasizes the importance of physicallyseeing—and perceiving. The imperative behold (Greek idou or orao) isubiquitous. Seeing Christ is often a turning point in a Gospel story. A mirac-ulous healing leads to the recognition, as when the crowds saw the paralyticget upon and walk (Matt 9:7). John’s Gospel enumerates a series of signs inwhich Jesus manifests his glory, as in the changing of water to wine in Cana(John 2.11). Peter, James, and John are granted a preliminary vision of hisglory at the Transfiguration (Mark 9.2–8 and parallels). Pilate commands,‘‘Behold the man’’ (John 19:22). The centurion at the foot of the crosswitnesses the earthquake and bodies of saints coming out of their tombs andrealizes who it was whom he had been guarding (Matt 27:51). Realizationsometimes is linked with a characteristic gesture, vocal cue, or other sign.For example, Mary Magdalene mistakes Jesus for the gardener and realizeswhom she addresses only when he speaks her name (John 20:16). The dis-ciples travelling to Emmaus were unable to recognize him until he brokebread at table (Luke 24:31). In John’s Gospel, Jesus reveals himself throughthe straining nets of the fishermen (John 21:7).

Athanasius’s explanation for the Incarnation, of course, presents the ques-tion of how those did not see Christ could come to this same recognition.What about those who did not live at that very time or place that Christ

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came to earth? Athanasius, himself, is included in that disadvantaged group.If God’s purpose in the Incarnation is, as he says, to make God visible tothose who otherwise could not see the divine Creator behind creation’s tempt-ing beauties and desirable pleasures, how are humans to be aided after theascension? Athanasius’s explanation seems, moreover, to contradict Jesus’sreproach to the doubting Thomas: ‘‘Blessed are those who have not seen andyet believe’’ (John 20:29). One may ask when the prototype is due to return sothat the canvas can be renewed once again.

One answer, of course, is that Jesus continues to appear to his followersin some form or other. Stephen saw Jesus standing at the right hand of Godjust before his death by stoning (Acts 7:55–56). Jesus speaks to Paul, out ofa flash of light, on the road to Damascus (Acts 9:3–6) and converses withAnanias in a vision (Acts 9:3–16). The Son of Man, the Living One, and theLamb of God appears to John on Patmos (Rev 2:12–20, 5:6–8). Later visionarieshave similar encounters, like those of Francis of Assisi, to whom Jesusappeared with instructions to repair the church, or Catherine of Siena, whosevision included a mystical marriage to Christ. But, unlike those saints, mostof the faithful are not granted such visions. Nevertheless, these ordinary be-lievers are not bereft of visual revelations to the extent that the divine imagecan be seen in the lives of those holy men and women, encountered in thebeauties of nature, or mediated through visual art. Like the portrait paintingon a panel, where the image exists after the person has gone (even if theimage begins to fade), an artistic representation preserves the appearance justas the Scriptures preserve the words of Christ.

To this end, the art of fourth-century Christian monuments can be viewedas intentionally epiphanic. Observers saw more than simple decorative motifs;they encountered an image of the image of God. At the very least, certainaspects of the iconography indicate that viewers would have perceived morethan simple, decorative, or didactic illustrations of Bible stories. They mayhave been prompted to imagine themselves as eyewitnesses, along with thedisciples, Paul, Martha, and Zaccheus. Dressing these figures along with Jesusin ordinary Roman street garb emphasizes this identification. The recurringscenes of Jesus performing earthly works and healings not only reveal andemphasize his divine power and identity, but also demonstrate his particularcare for the suffering and the needy. What they could not have perceived inlife, they could through the medium of art. As the pagans did, they were ableto see an image of their god, but in this case performing revelatory works oflove and power. The images, themselves, were not designed to be objects ofadoration or prayer, but they may have closed a gap in time and space, allow-ing contemporary observers to experience a certain kind of theophany.

Along with the healing and miracle scenes, three scenes from the narrativeof Jesus’s life that appear with some frequency in mid-fourth-century art—theadoration of the Magi, his baptism by John (in which he is shown as a youngchild rather than an adult), and his entrance into Jerusalem—are ones in

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which his divinity is particularly manifest to and acclaimed by spectators.In the first, we see three nearly identical figures (the Magi) approaching theVirgin and child in a kind of procession (figure 6). They hold their gifts; thefirst one often bearing a wreath or crown to indicate gold, the second and thirdsome kind of vessel (a box or bowl) that could hold frankincense or myrrh.Their garb instantly identifies them as easterners; they wear little peakedcaps, leggings, and tunics that Roman viewers would have associated withPersians or Babylonians. Their camels often show up in the background.Their recognition of Jesus’s divinity as well as his royalty is emphasized inthe narrative: ‘‘Going into the house they saw the child with Mary, his mother,and they fell down and worshipped him’’ (Matt 2:11).

The second scene—Jesus’s baptism by John—has, at least to modern eyes,a surprising feature. Jesus is depicted as a small, nude child standing in anankle-high stream of water (figure 7). John lays his right hand upon Jesus’shead in a gesture that evokes the bishop’s imposition of hands in the laterChristian ritual of initiation. A descending dove appears, indicating the presenceof the Holy Spirit. The presentation of Jesus as childlike and nude, instead ofa full-grown adult, only six months younger than his cousin, John (as indi-cated in the Gospel narratives, of Luke 1:26, and 3:23), might be explainedby the fact that early Christians understood baptism as a symbol of new birthand a return to the state of childlike innocence. Showing Jesus in this wayemphasized Jesus’s identification with all those who underwent the ritual,just as they participate in his death and resurrection through receiving thesacrament (Rom 6:3–4). In many compositions, a witness stands to one side.The depiction of the scene naturally evokes John’s prophecy that one wouldcome after him who would baptize with the Holy Spirit, and God’s pronounce-ment at the scene: ‘‘You are my beloved Son; with you I am well pleased’’(Mark 1.11).

In the third image, Jesus appears astride a donkey as he makes his ac-claimed entry into Jerusalem (Mark 11:7–10 and parallels). Jesus makes agesture of blessing with his one hand and holds a scroll, a rod, or the animal’s

Figure 6: Adoration of the Magi and Daniel, sarcophagus frieze, Rome, early fourthcentury. Now in the Museo Pio Cristiano, Vatican. Photo: author.

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Figure 7: Baptism of Jesus on sarcophagus end, mid fourth century and close updetail. Now in the Musee de l’Arles Antique. Photo: author.

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reins in the other (figure 1). Often—but not always—the donkey is shownhaving to contend with a foal scrambling beneath her belly (see Matt 21:5).The crowd is indicated by two or three or, in some instances, a small groupof figures, some of them child-sized, others adults. One of the children throwsgarments under the animals’ feet; others hold palm branches. The viewermust imagine hearing them cry out, ‘‘Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes inthe name of the Lord!’’ (Mark 11:9). One spectator has climbed up into atree, possibly an allusion to the story of Zaccheus and Jesus’s entry to Jerichoin Luke 19. On one of the Vatican sarcophagi, the city gate appears to theright (figure 8), making the scene appear very much like the image of animperial adventus, a parade in which an emperor enters a city riding a horse(or, sometimes, a horse-drawn chariot). The point of the imperial adventuswas to be seen as the savior of the people. Jesus’s entry on a donkey ratherthan a horse was based, at least partly, on the prophecies of Isaiah 62:11 andZechariah 9:9. But, like the imperial entry, Jesus’s entry revealed him as Sonof David and Messiah to the crowds.

Finally, one very frequent fourth-century motif shows Jesus in a scene thatwas not taken directly from a biblical narrative but depicts Jesus handing ascroll to Peter to his left. Paul stands to Jesus’s right (figure 9). The traditionalidentification of the image, the Traditio Legis, arises from the words thatoccasionally appear on the scroll: Dominus legem dat. Sometimes a phoenixsits in a palm tree to one side. In certain depictions Jesus sits on a throne, inothers he stands upon a rock from which four rivers flow. The image, adaptedfor a variety of different media, appears on sarcophagus reliefs, apse mosaics,gold glasses, and wall paintings. Although some interpreters of the scene have

Figure 8: Jesus entering Jerusalem, detail from fourth-century sarcophagus from Rome,now in the Museo Pio Cristiano, Vatican. Photo: author.

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argued that it shows the commission of Peter as chief of the Apostles (Matt16:18–19), others have claimed that it depicts the Second Coming of Christ.20

A strong case has, however, been made that it portrays a post-resurrectional,theophanic appearance of Christ to the two primary Apostles of Rome, Peterand Paul—an appearance in which he delivered the new law to his Church.21

Viewers of any of these monuments might understand themselves to beparticipant witnesses to divine manifestations. By contemplating the imagespresented to them, they could form a conception of the nature and as well

Figure 9: Jesus giving the law to Peter and Paul (Traditio Legis), detail from a fourth-century sarcophagus, now in the Musee de l’Arles Antique. Photo: author.

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as the person of Christ and contemplate the significance of his works andwonders. They could see, as well as hear, the stories of others coming to faithand acclaiming Jesus as Lord. Viewing is, however, qualitatively differentfrom hearing or reading. Instead of an idea in the mind, they had a figurebefore their eyes. This different experience granted an opportunity to seeChrist, in a sense, face-to-face—not merely as a subject in a picture, but as adoer of deeds, recipient of adoration, and a still-living lawgiver. By the endof the fourth century, actual portraits of Christ, the saints, and the Apostlesbegan to appear without a narrative context and showing only the face orfigure. Before then, however, those who saw Jesus in art saw him in action,and they could imagine themselves as part of a crowd of onlookers, recogniz-ing God in their midst.

Augustine, writing within a century of Athanasius, was more circumspectabout the value of physical seeing in the process of human salvation. Taking adifferent approach, Augustine insisted that the mind comprehends the truthmore effectively than the eye. In an extraordinarily long sermon delivered onNew Year’s Day sometime around 404, Augustine admonishes his flock notto behave like the pagans by feasting, drinking, giving good luck presents,going to the theatre or races, and singing silly or disgraceful songs. He urgesthem, instead, to celebrate the occasion by fasting, praying, singing spirituallyuplifting songs, and grieving for those who get caught up in the love of falsepleasures or futile pursuits—and by staying in church to listen to his extendedpreaching.22 Augustine is concerned that some members of his congregationhave been venerating images and urges them to purge the places of prayerfrom such things just as they would purify their hearts. The Scriptures reador sermons heard with the ear are better antidotes to evil than spectacles orpictures presented to the eyes.

Anything else, he warns, is too much like the pagan devotion to or adora-tion of sacred images. Referring to the statues of pagan gods, for examplethose of Neptune or Tellus, Augustine scoffs at those who foolishly offer theirprayers to such idols, preferring human made personifications rather to theactual sea or earth. Why would one offer prayer to a representation of thesun instead of the sun itself ? Pleading with his congregation to concentrate,he explains that they should adore the creator of the beautiful things of nature,just as they should admire the craft and skill of the artist more than the love-liness of the object. Even though the one is invisible while the other can beseen and appreciated by the senses, goodness or truth resides in the capacityand not in its products. The latter is visible with the eye, while the former issomething one can know only through the mind. That the cognitive apprehen-sion is better than physical perception is clear: the essence of life (soul) isinvisible, just as the structure and governance of the cosmos is. These thingscan be known only by the intellect. As he explains, ‘‘Because God made youone thing to see these things with, another with which he himself might beseen—for seeing these things he gave you the eyes in your head, for seeing

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himself he gave you a mind—you cannot therefore be allowed to say in thatinane way, ‘I can’t see him’; examine all these things with your intelligence,and you will see the one at work in them.’’23

Yet even though Augustine deemed physical sight as incomplete, he didnot disparage it altogether. He was a good Platonist, even after his Christianconversion. As such, he could argue that contemplation of the sensible worldcould lead (indeed might be necessary) for apprehension of the purely intel-lectual realm. So, as long as it is not deemed the primary gauge of truth(e.g., ‘‘seeing is believing’’), nor confused with ultimate reality, sensiblethings have a purpose and value. Images, he allowed, could be a means ofmediating divine presence and demonstrating God’s purpose for creation. Amind could rise from the image perceived to the truth that lies behind it. Infact, Jesus revealed himself by being born of Mary, just as the Word wasrevealed to the patriarchs and prophets of the Israelites. By accommodatingthe abilities of the humble as well as the adept, he took flesh and dwelledamong humanity, becoming both the bodily and spiritual creation. Thosewho cannot rise above creation to perceive the invisible and inexpressiblereality may hold onto this as the ground of their knowledge. Those who areable to glimpse that reality still need to grasp its physical manifestation.Augustine adds that this is why Christ performed both signs and miracles, sothat he could show who he is: a terror to those who fear him and reassuranceto those who love him. Moreover, his humble birth, just as the kind of hismiracles, demonstrates his particular affection for common folk.24

If one could synthesize these two points of view in respect to visual art, itwould be to affirm the basic value of seeing, so long as what is seen is notadored per se or mistaken for more than an initial or preliminary revelationthat subsequently must be contemplated by the mind or soul. Both Athanasiusand Augustine assert that Christ came in the flesh in order to demonstrateGod’s will that humanity rise above the transitory and visible things of theworld. Both Athanasius and Augustine emphasize that Christ’s incarnationwas a bodily one, assuring the divine presence in the created realm andmanifesting the divine image in human form. Both Athanasius and Augustineinsist that Christ’s works revealed his power and divinity but also visuallydemonstrated God’s special care for the suffering, the humble, and the needy.These assertions can be argued in words or presented in visual images. Whilewords may have more long-term durability, the images might more closelyrecreate to the experience of actually ‘‘seeing’’ Jesus.

Because of Augustine’s insistence on Christ’s bodily appearance, he probablywould not have approved of Paulinus’s non-anthropomorphic apse (describedat the beginning of this essay). In his great treatise On the Trinity, Augustineasks how Christians are able to love something that they cannot see, orbelieve to be absent. In the absence of the physical presence of a loved one,the imagination inevitably will fabricate something to cling to, the shape oroutlines of a face or body that may or may not be accurate. But, he says,

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accuracy really is not the point. Faith is not dependent, he insists, on theprecision of our images. What is important to believe about Jesus, he says, isthat he had an image: he had a face and he had a body. What Christians canknow about Christ is what they experience in themselves. If Christians believethis, they will realize that God became one of them as a demonstration of loveand humility, joining a soul to a body and living a mortal life. While theyhave never seen God, Christians are able, from experience and contemplationof comparable things, to love that unseen God until they at last come beforethe Eternal Presence and see God face to face.25

Notes

1 Paulinus of Nola, Ep. 32.10, trans. slightly adapted from P.G. Walsh, Letters of St. Paulinusof Nola (Westminster, me: Newman, 1967), 2:145.

2 Among the most recent and inclusive scholarly reference works are Friedrich Deichmann,Ulbert Thilo, and P. von Zabern, Repertorium der christlich-antiken Sarkophage. Vols. 1–3.(Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1967–2003); Aldo Nestori, Repertorio topografico delle pitture dellecatacombe Romane (Vatican City: Pontificio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiania, 1993); andNorbert Zimmermann, Werkstattgruppen romischer Katakombenmalerei (Munster: Aschendorff,2002).

3 On this see Graydon Snyder, Ante Pacem: Archaeological Evidence of Church Life beforeConstantine, 2nd ed. (Macon, ga: Mercer University Press, 2003); or, more recently, RamsayMacMullen, The Second Church: Popular Christianity A.D. 200–400 (Atlanta: Society ofBiblical Literature, 2009).

4 Here see Jas Elsner, Imperial Roman and Christian Triumph (Oxford: Oxford UniversityPress, 1998); and this author’s work, Understanding Early Christian Art (London: Routledge,2000), which suggests that textual and material evidence be viewed together and that theyemerge from the same religious or theological milieu.

5 Among the best of this genre is the joint work of Leonid Ouspensky and Vladimir Lossky,The Meaning of Icons (Yonkers, ny: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1999), and Michel Quenot,The Icon: Window on the Kingdom (Yonkers, ny: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1992).

6 For example, see the parallels between the fourth-century definition given by Basil ofCaesarea, Spir. Sanc. 18.45, which was repeated in the more commonly cited assertion madein the eighth century by John of Damascus, Apol. 1.21.

7 The story of Peter striking the rock to baptize his Roman jailers is recorded in a sixth-centurymanuscript: Mart b. Peteri a Lino ep. Conscriptum 5, traditionally attributed to Pope Linus(Peter’s successor). The fact that artistic portrayals of the scene predate the earliest documen-tary evidence suggests that the legend was circulated (either in writing or orally) no later thanthe third or early fourth century.

8 The presumption that originally aniconic Christians became less strict during the thirdcentury is common in standard histories, including the work of Henry Chadwick, The EarlyChurch (London: Penguin, 1967), 277. See a summary and critique of this assumption in anessay by Mary Charles Murray, ‘‘Art and the Early Church,’’ JThS n.s. 28, no. 2 (1977): 304–345.

9 Other explanations for the late emergence of visual art in Christianity are proposed by P.Corby Finney, The Invisible God: The Earliest Christians on Art (New York: Oxford Univer-sity Press, 1994), 108–10; and Jensen, Understanding Early Christian Art, 13–15.

10 Tertullian, Idol. 411 Tertullian, Apol. 12.12 Minucius Felix, Octavius 10.2–5, 32.1–7, 24.5–9.13 Arnobius, Adv. nat. 6.16.

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14 One exception, Epiphanius of Salamis, did object to images of Christ, the Apostles, and saintsthat were painted on walls or curtains. See Epiphanius, Frag. 2. The authenticity of this frag-ment has been questioned but generally accepted as authentic. The authenticity of the famouscondemnation of images of Christ attributed to Eusebius in a letter supposedly written to theAugusta Constantia is not so clear. The text may have been forged in order to bolster thearguments of eighth-century iconoclasts. Its oldest version comes the florilegium of theiconophile Nicephorus of Constantinople, Contra Eusebium et Epiphanidem. Another possibleexception, the 36th canon of the Council of Elvira (ca. 305), seems only to object to Christianimages that might be worshipped, not to art as such.

15 Athanasius, C. Gent. 13.16 Ibid., 19.17 Athanasius, Inc. 11–12.18 Ibid., 14. Trans., NPNF, ser. 2 vol. 4.43.19 Athanasius, Inc. 43.20 See a summary of scholarly views in Geir Hellemo, Adventus Domini: Eschatological Thought

in 4th Century Apses and Catecheses (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1989), 65–89.21 This was particularly the view of Paul Styger, ‘‘Neue Untersuchungen uber die altchristlichen

Petrusdarstellungen,’’ RQ 27 (1913): 66.22 Augustine, Serm. 198 (Dolbeau 26).23 Ibid., 31.24 Ibid., 61–62.25 Augustine, Trin. 8.3.7–8.

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