Conclusion

7

Christianity and the Shaping of Culture

Christianity is both a private and a public faith. It affects the way in which individuals think and behave; it also impacts on society as a whole. Christianity has the potential to shape culture in a significant manner. Yet Christianity is complex, containing within itself divergent understandings of the nature of the Christian faith and of how this faith affects both individual and communal engagement with the wider culture.

This tension was evident within Roman Christianity in the fourth century. The conversion of the Emperor Constantine (pp. 129–131) ended a long era of the oppression and marginalization of Christianity. Bishops suddenly found themselves as figures of social influence and power. Christians were able to build churches and to worship in public. Many welcomed this new possibility, seeing it as a means of reshaping society along Christian lines. But others were alarmed, believing that Christianity was at its most authentic when it existed and operated on the margins of society. Power corrupted. Was there not a danger that Christianity’s new social status would lead to its becoming compromised?

This was no idle concern. The new social status of Christianity within the Roman empire certainly led to a growth in its cultural influence. Yet it soon became clear that, if Christianity was to be the new religion of Rome, it would have to become what Roman rulers expected a religion to be. Establishment might well have its privileges; it also had its obligations. Culturally, the imperialization of Christianity led to the absorption of a number of Roman customs into Christian practice, where they were given a new interpretation.

Perhaps the most interesting of these is the development of the “cult of the saints.”

Traditional Roman religion honored the dead with ceremonial meals at the site of their tombs. This practice soon became absorbed into Christianity. Christians would gather at the tombs of prominent saints or martyrs, celebrating a eucharist in their honor. Though this practice was relatively easily accommodated theologically, it is important to note that its origins did not lie in the New Testament. Its development ultimately reflected the need for a Christian equivalent of a traditional Roman practice.

Many other examples could be given to illustrate the complex relation of Christianity to culture, which led some to develop a theology of the church as a “community in exile.” This idea sustained the Puritans as they wrestled with their powerlessness after the failure of the Commonwealth in England. It nourished the radical wing of the Reformation, which deliberately forsook any kind of social approbation in sixteenth-century Europe in order to be authentically Christian. Many Anabaptist writers saw the conversion of Constantine as marking the end of authentic Christianity and believed that the latter needed to be reconstituted in new forms, which should be uncontaminated by privilege and influence.

It is therefore hazardous and unhelpful to offer sweeping generalizations about the relationship between Christianity and culture. Some Christians disengaged from wider society; others embraced it. Some saw engagement as a means of making secular culture more Christian. Others feared that this process would lead to Christianity becoming more secular. On balance, however, the interaction can be argued to have enriched both the church and society. In the present chapter we shall consider some aspects of this relationship. We begin by reflecting on how the relation of Christianity to culture is to be understood.

Christianity and Culture: General Considerations

The history of the interaction between Christianity and culture is very complex. While most Christian writers support engagement with culture, others advocate withdrawal or disengagement from society, fearing that such engagement might contaminate faith. Some Christians hold that it is not proper to attend any form of public entertainment – such as the cinema – whereas others believe that it is important to be fully and appreciatively immersed in culture at large.

Some Christian groups have deliberately defined themselves as countercultural; hence they have worn clothes and adopted practices that mark them off from those around them. The Mennonite and Amish communities in modern America are a particularly good example of this trend. Holding that their faith demands that they separate from mainstream culture and distinguish themselves clearly by physical and visible means, the Amish adopt clothing styles that encourage humility and separation from the world. The Amish dress is in a very simple style, avoiding all but the most basic ornamentation. Clothing is made at home, of plain fabrics, and is primarily dark in color. Such habits reflect, however, a minority perspective. Most Christians see no need to distinguish themselves from the world.

To understand the complexities of the interrelationship of Christianity and culture, we need to consider the first phase of Christian history. Since it first established a significant presence at Rome in the first century AD, namely in the 40s, Christianity had had a decidedly ambiguous legal status. On the one hand, it was not legally recognized, and so it did not enjoy any special rights; on the other, it was not explicitly forbidden. However, its growing numerical strength gave rise to periodic attempts to suppress it by force. Sometimes these persecutions were local, restricted to regions such as North Africa; at other times they were sanctioned throughout the entire Roman empire.

How should Christians have responded to this situation? Prior to the conversion of Constantine, many of them were content to keep a low profile, keeping their religious views to themselves. Many – including Tertullian – took the view that Christianity must maintain its distinctive identity by avoiding secular influences. “What,” he famously asked, “has Athens to do with Jerusalem?” But, with the conversion of Constantine, new possibilities emerged.

Augustine of Hippo is widely – and rightly – seen as mapping out the mainstream Christian response to the relation of faith and culture. His approach is probably best described as a critical appropriation of classical culture. For Augustine, the situation of Christianity in Rome is comparable to that of Israel fleeing from captivity in Egypt at the time of the exodus. Although they left the idols of Egypt behind them, the Israelites carried with them Egypt’s gold and silver, in order to make better and proper use of such riches, which were thus liberated in order to serve a higher purpose. In much the same way, the philosophy and culture of the ancient world could be appropriated by Christians, where this seemed right, and thus allowed to serve the cause of the Christian faith.

Figure 7.1 Saint Augustine of Hippo in a monastic cell, as depicted by Sandro Botticelli, c. 1495.

Source: Rabatti-Domingie/AKG Images.

Augustine’s fundamental idea was to make use of a way of thinking – or writing, or speaking – that had hitherto been imprisoned within a purely pagan use, and to liberate it from this captivity, so that it might be put to the service of the gospel. Augustine argues that what is essentially neutral yet valuable ways of thinking or self-expression has been quarried in “the mines of the providence of God”; the difficulty is the use to which they were put within pagan culture, in that they had been “improperly and unlawfully prostituted to the worship of demons.”

Augustine’s approach thus laid the foundation for the assertion that whatever was good, true, or beautiful could be used in the service of the gospel. It was this approach that would prove dominant in the western church, providing a theological foundation for the critical appropriation by Christian writers of literary genres whose origins lay outside the church. To literary forms already known within the church and widely recognized as entirely appropriate for Christian usage – such as the sermon and the biblical commentary – might be added others, whose cultural pedigree was thoroughly secular. Examples would include drama and – to anticipate a later development – the novel.

Yet Augustine’s view never secured total acceptance. The study of Christian history reveals a complex pattern of interactions with culture, some inspired by Augustine, others by more countercultural ways of thinking. For some Christians, the world is an environment hostile to Christian belief and practice. The values of the kingdom of God stand in contrast to those of the world. This type of spirituality was of considerable importance in the first few centuries of Christian history, when Christianity was viewed with intense distrust and suspicion by the secular authorities, and on occasion actively persecuted. Once the Roman emperor Constantine was converted to Christianity, however, a very different situation resulted. Christianity rapidly became the official religion of the Roman empire. In the eyes of many, this resulted in a compromise with secular values. Bishops began to imitate the dress and customs of secular rulers – for example, by wearing purple robes (a symbol of wealth and power).

The new situation made many Christians believe that some authentically Christian ideals were being sacrificed in the compromise. The rise of the monastic movement is widely seen as a revolt against the easy accommodation that began to emerge between church and state, which often made it difficult to tell them apart. The monasteries saw themselves as centers of authentic Christianity, insulated from the temptations of power and wealth, in which the true Christian vision could be pursued. Many works of monastic spirituality spoke of the cultivation of “contempt for the world,” by which they meant a studied rejection of the temptations offered by the world, which they regarded as an obstacle to salvation and personal spiritual growth. Withdrawal from the world was the only guaranteed means of ensuring one’s salvation.

Although the Protestant Reformation rejected the monastic ideal, the dual theme of renunciation of the world and the world’s hostility toward authentic Christianity was taken up and developed by the more radical wing of the movement. Anabaptist writers stressed the need to form alternative Christian communities, often in rural areas. They refused to have anything to do with secular power or authority, as they rejected the use of force. A tension can be discerned at this point between radical writers and the mainline reformers (such as Luther and Calvin), who encouraged a more positive and interactive approach to society and culture. Similar attitudes and conflicts between them can be found within North American fundamentalist circles today.

The relationship between Christianity and culture is thus complex. Some Christians see no difficulty in interacting positively and fully with the local culture; others fear that any such engagement would lead to the erosion of Christian distinctive features.

The ability of Christianity to change culture can be seen in both the ancient and the modern world. In the late third century, many Romans were convinced that the diminishing prosperity and influence of Rome were directly due to the rise of Christianity. The old religious cults were being abandoned in favor of Christianity. There is no doubt that one of the most significant contributing causes of the slow and inexorable death of classical pagan culture was the rise of Christianity. The same pattern can be seen in modern Chinese culture, where there is a widespread interest in Christianity among the younger generation. Traditional Chinese customs, such as “grave sweeping” (in which children are regarded as being under an obligation to honor their ancestors by tidying their graves), are regarded with suspicion by younger Chinese Christians, who feel that the practice is linked with a set of beliefs that are not Christian. This traditional Chinese custom is being eroded, due to the growth of Christianity. Countless other examples could be given of cultural changes resulting from the growth of Christianity, including the decline of traditional religious beliefs and their associated practices in Africa and Southeast Asia.

One of the most marked differences between Christianity and the two other great monotheistic religions – Judaism and Islam – is that Christianity makes no religious requirements of its followers concerning food or clothing. Judaism and Islam both regard certain foods – such as pork – as being “unclean” and forbid their followers to eat them. In marked contrast, Jesus of Nazareth declared all foods to be clean, insisting that moral and religious purity depended on what lay within a person’s heart rather than on what entered their bodies through their mouth (Mark 7: 18–19).

In a similar way, Judaism and Islam require animals to be slaughtered in a particular way, to meet strict religious laws (kosher and halal, respectively). Christianity has never made any such demands of its followers, despite pressure from Judaizing factions within the early church to satisfy such requirements.

It must, however, also be appreciated that Christianity exists in a mutual relationship with culture. Christianity had an impact on its surrounding culture, which in turn molded Christianity. This process was entirely natural: Christianity did not lay down precise rules concerning food, dress, or lifestyle – Christians regarded themselves as able to incorporate aspects of their culture according to their beliefs. As the history of Christian expansion makes clear, Christians did not impose a uniform culture on peoples who had chosen to accept the Christian faith. It is quite clear that Christianity fostered an attitude of tolerance toward traditional cultural beliefs and norms where these were not seen as having a direct relevance to the Christian faith. The cultural diversity within Christianity is perhaps one of the most striking differences between Christianity and Islam.

A wide range of traditional cultural customs and practices thus finds its way into Christianity. Some have achieved almost universal acceptance. Two examples will illustrate this. The traditional color associated with Christian bishops is purple. This was a sign of social status in the classical world and was adopted by Christians as a means of designating the importance of bishops within their communities and beyond. Had Christianity had its origins in China, it is entirely possible that bishops might have worn yellow (the traditional Chinese color associated with royalty). This aspect of classical culture was regarded as acceptable by Christians, and thus eventually found its way within the church. A second example is the Christian practice (now widespread within western culture) of placing a wedding ring on the fourth finger of the bride’s left hand. This reflects a traditional Roman custom, which Christians found perfectly acceptable – and thus incorporated into their marriage customs.

A further area of interest concerns the need for a supply of wine in order to comply with the explicit commandment of Jesus that his followers should use bread and wine to remember him. The great medieval monasteries in Spain, France, and Italy soon fell into the habit of establishing vineyards in order to ensure a regular supply of communion wine. It was a monk named Dom Perignon who discovered how wine could be preserved by using the bark of the Portuguese cork oak to seal bottles.

In what follows we shall explore some of the ways in which Christianity has influenced – and continues to influence – culture. It must be made clear that the restriction of the subject in this way is entirely due to lack of space. What follows must be regarded as illustrative of the way in which Christianity interacted with culture; in no way can this brief analysis be considered to be definitive!

We begin by looking at the world of art, music, and literature. In what way has Christianity shaped the way we represent and reflect the world? We may begin by considering how Christian symbols have developed.

Christian Symbolism: The Cross

We have already seen how the figure of Jesus Christ dominates the Christian faith. In particular, we noted how the death of Jesus on the cross is understood by Christians to be the foundation of the salvation of humanity. The cross is thus a symbol of salvation. It is also a symbol of the Christian hope, in that it affirms the death that has been defeated through the resurrection of Jesus. The cross – an instrument of execution – became a sign of the hope and transformation that are fundamental to Christianity.

The cross has been the universally acknowledged symbol of the Christian faith from a very early period, probably as early as the late second century. Indeed, it is fair to suggest that there is no symbol that carries as much weight, authority, or recognition within the Christian faith as the cross. Christians are baptized with the sign of the cross. Churches and other Christian places of meeting do not merely include a cross; they are often built in the shape of a cross. The Christian emphasis on the cross has had considerable implications for the design of churches. Indeed, it is probably in this area that Christian theology has had its most profound impact on western culture. To explore a great medieval cathedral or church is to view theology embodied in stone.

Many Christians find it helpful to make the sign of the cross in times of danger or anxiety. The graves of Christians – whether Catholic, Orthodox, or Protestant – are marked with crosses. Careful studies of the origins and development of Christian symbolism have made it clear that the cross was seen as the symbol of the Christian gospel from the earliest of times. Even in the earliest writings of the New Testament, the phase “the message of the cross” is used as a shorthand summary of the Christian gospel (see 1 Corinthians 1: 18–25). This theme is echoed in later writers of the early church. For Tertullian, Christians are “those who believe in the cross”; for Clement of Alexandria, the cross is “the supreme sign of the Lord.”

The final stage in the global acceptance of the cross as supreme symbol of the Christian faith is generally regarded as having been the conversion of the future Roman Emperor Constantine. At some point shortly before or after the decisive battle of the Milvian Bridge (312), Constantine saw a vision of a cross, which ordered him to place the sign on his soldiers’ shields. During the reign of Constantine, crosses of various types were erected in Rome and began to appear on Roman coinage. Crucifixion had continued as a means of execution under previous Roman emperors. Constantine outlawed the practice and directed that the scaffolds used for execution would no longer be referred to as “crosses” (cruces) but as patibula, a Latin word referring to one component of a cross, namely its “horizontal support” or “crossbeam.”

Early Christian writers regarded the cross as a teaching aid for the great themes of the Christian faith. Not only did it affirm the reality of salvation and hope in a world of death; it also affirmed the full humanity of Jesus. Early Christian writers were also prepared to read more ambitious ideas into the cross. Justin Martyr suggested that there was a parallel between the Christian cross and the Platonic cross-shaped cosmic symbol – the Greek letter chi.

There is evidence that first-century Christians were reluctant to portray the crucifixion of Jesus. It was one thing to make the sign of the cross; it was quite another to depict Jesus on the cross of Calvary, especially on account of the issues of taste and decency involved in portraying Jesus naked. However, these inhibitions were gradually overcome. Christian art, both in the East and in the West, began to focus on the crucifixion for devotional purposes. In response to the view that Jesus was purely divine, lacking any real human nature, Christian leaders encouraged artists to produce depictions of the crucifixion of Jesus as a way of emphasizing his full humanity. What better way of stressing the suffering and death of Jesus than to portray him on the cross? The implications of these attitudes are considerable and help understand the importance attached by many Christian writers to the devotional depiction of the crucifixion. Matthias Grünewald’s Crucifixion (1515–1516) is an excellent example of this genre of paintings (p. 261).

The symbol of the cross features prominently in Christian worship, both public and private. Many churches are built in the shape of crosses and display crosses conspicuously on their rooftops and within the building itself. Of particular importance to many Christians is the crucifix – that is, a wooden carving of Jesus stretched out on the cross, with the inscription INRI above his head (these letters spell out the Latin words Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudaeorum, which mean “Jesus of Nazareth, king of the Jews”). The crucifix is intended to remind Christians of the sufferings of Jesus, and thus to emphasize the costliness and reality of the salvation that resulted from his death on the cross.

Figure 7.2 Ground plan of York Minster, one of the greatest Gothic cathedrals of Europe. Note especially its cruciform structure.

Source: © The Dean & Chapter of York.

The cross has found its way into the symbolism of nations whose history has been steeped in the Christian faith. For example, the traditional Union Flag of the United Kingdom consists of three different crosses – the crosses of St. George (England), St. Patrick (Ireland) and St. Andrew (Scotland) – combined into a single design. Celtic crosses – that is, crosses with a circle embracing their four arms – are a particular feature of the Irish landscape. Other forms of the cross with particular national or regional associations include the Cross of Lorraine and the Maltese Cross. The background to the incorporation of this Christian symbol into national flags can probably be traced back to the second century. Justin Martyr and others drew a parallel with the way in which conquering Roman armies marched behind their “banners and trophies” (vexilla et tropaia): in the same way, such writers argued, Christians marched behind the banner of the cross, which bore the trophy of a defeated death.

Although the cross is the most familiar and widely encountered of Christian symbols, it is important to note that other symbols were of importance in early Christianity. One of these may be noted. A fish was used as a symbol of Christian identity, on account of its potential as a teaching aid. The Greek term for fish is ichthus. The five letters of the Greek word for fish are ΙΧΘϒ∑ (i-ch-th-u-s); these letters act as an acronym, spelling out the central Christian beliefs concerning the identity and significance of Jesus.

Greek letter

Greek word

English translation

I (iota)

Iēsous

Jesus

Χ (chi)

Christos

Christ

Θ (theta)

Theou

of God

ϒ

huios

Son

∑ (sigma)

sōtēr

savior

The word ichthus thus spells out the belief that Christians regarded as being at the center of their faith: “Jesus Christ, Son of God, savior.” References to “the sign of the fish” can be found in a number of early Christian writings, particularly on tombs. The Greek word ichthus and the symbol of a fish are both still widely used by Christians. If the automobile in front of you has a symbol of a fish on its bumper, it is probably owned by a Christian. If an organization or an Internet URL has the word ichthus in it, you can be fairly certain it has something to do with Christianity.

Christian Art

God is invisible and cannot be seen by mortal human beings. This insight is fundamental to most religions with a strongly transcendent understanding of God. Yet, throughout the history of Christian thought, human beings have shown a marked longing to be able to depict God in some manner. If God cannot be visualized, the idea of God becomes potentially abstract and impersonal, remote from the world of human experience. One of the most significant themes in Christian spirituality is that of visualization – the development of ways in which the divine may be represented visually, as something to be contemplated, without compromising the transcendence of God.

On May 8, 1373, the English religious writer Julian of Norwich experienced a series of visions concerning the love of God. These were triggered off by a very specific stimulus. Julian had become ill, and those around her were convinced that she was about to die. The local parish priest was sent for; he held before her a crucifix (that is, a carving of Jesus of Nazareth upon the cross) and spoke these words to her: “I have brought you the image of your Creator and Savior. Look at it, and be strengthened.” The image of Christ upon the cross proved to be a gateway to a series of extended meditations on the goodness of God and on God’s overwhelming generosity and courtesy to sinners.

If contemplation of the life and person of Jesus led people to a deeper knowledge of God, it seemed to many that vivid and realistic depictions of incidents in the life of Christ could assist that process still further. The Middle Ages and the Renaissance witnessed a dramatic increase in the use of religious art for both public and private devotion. Panel painting was widely used to depict narratives concerning Jesus, or static portraits of Jesus and his mother. In the early Middle Ages, the two dominant religious images were the Madonna and child and the crucifixion. By the later Renaissance, the same attention once paid to the crucifixion was being devoted to other religious subjects.

Renaissance artists regarded many incidents in the life of Jesus as being of potential importance. Particular attention was paid to the Annunciation (that is, to the scene in Luke’s gospel in which Gabriel informs Mary that she is to bear a son), to the baptism of Jesus, and to the resurrection. The appearance of the risen Jesus to Mary Magdalene (John 20: 17) was also the subject of many classic works, including Fra Angelico’s fresco Noli me tangere (Do Not Touch Me), painted over the period 1440–1441 in the convent of San Marco in Florence. Painted panels could be displayed singly in churches, but they were often combined in the form of double panels (diptychs) or triple panels (triptychs), as in the Isenheim altarpiece by Matthias Grünewald, noted earlier. One of the most complex of these is the assembly of multiple painted panels (polyptychs) that make up the Ghent Altarpiece by Hubert and Jan van Eyck, which was installed in Ghent Cathedral in 1432.

The nativity – that is, the birth – of Christ has long played a central role in Christian iconography. Christians have always appreciated the theological and spiritual importance of the birth of the savior and have found picturing this event to be helpful for personal and corporate devotion. In the West, the dominant approach to depicting the nativity is to set Mary and her child at the center of the picture.

An excellent example of this approach can be found in The Mystic Nativity by Sandro Botticelli (1447–1515). In this work, executed around the year 1500, Mary is depicted in terms appropriate to the era of the painter rather than to that of the New Testament. Botticelli here follows other Renaissance painters of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, who portrayed Mary dressed as a noblewoman of their time. The point being made is that Christ’s entry into history is of importance to all ages, not simply the Palestine of the first century. Representing Mary as a lady of the Renaissance was a means of emphasizing the transformative potential of the Christ-child for the Renaissance – as well as for all ages.

Botticelli portrays the angels in heaven as rejoicing over the transformation of the created order that will take place through the newborn Jesus. Indeed, in the lower section of the painting, angels are even depicted as dancing with humans, as they celebrate the possibility of a new heaven and a new earth.

Interestingly, Botticelli follows a long-standing tradition in including an ox and ass in the nativity scene. Yet the gospel nativity accounts make no mention of oxen or asses. So why are these traditionally included in the scene? From the second century on, commentators on the birth of Jesus linked the nativity narrative with Isaiah 1: 3: “The ox knows its owner, and the donkey its master’s crib; but Israel does not know, my people do not understand.”

In some cases, the themes of Christmas and Epiphany (p. 239) are merged: shepherds from the fields around Bethlehem are depicted along with some of their sheep, worshipping the infant Jesus, together with the three wise men or kings from the East, who brought the newborn child the exotic and costly gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Traditionally it is assumed that each wise man brought one of the three gifts (the gospels do not tell us how many wise men actually came).

Churches, private chapels, and houses were often decorated with depictions of the crucifixion as a means of encouraging personal devotion. Christian writers and artists have always been aware of the need to reflect on this pivotal event and its life-changing implications. Unlike the docetic heresy (which held that Jesus merely had the “appearance” of humanity and did not really suffer), Christian orthodoxy stressed both the reality of Jesus’ agony on the cross and the salvation that it achieved. Visual representations of this suffering on the cross thus served to stress the costliness of redemption and to deepen the believers’ appreciation of what Jesus of Nazareth achieved. The best argument against docetism was the depiction of the sufferings of Jesus on the cross.

Depictions of the passion of Jesus of Nazareth often reveal significantly different interests and emphases. Some artists depict Christ as raised up on this cross, high above the crowds around him. This is meant to focus attention on the way in which Jesus was “raised up” on the cross, so that believers might in turn be “raised up” to heaven by his cross and resurrection. Others focus on the crowds around Jesus, sometimes depicting the rage and fury on the faces of those who mocked him. The point being made here is that those who crucified Christ were ordinary people.

Figure 7.3 The crucifixion, as depicted by Matthias Grünewald in the Isenheim Altarpiece, executed c. 1513–1515.

Source: Erich Lessing/AKG Images.

Others still focus on those who are standing around the cross. An excellent example of this is provided by Matthias Grunewald’s famous altarpiece at Isenheim, painted during the years 1510–1515. On the left of the cross, three people mourn the dead Jesus: Mary, the mother of Jesus; John, the beloved disciple; and Mary Magdalene. This is intended to help us appreciate the appalling impact that the death of Jesus of Nazareth had on his disciples. In the case of Mary, believers are invited to imagine how she must have felt when her son – the one whom she held in her arms as an infant – was taken away from her and spread out on the arms of the cross.

From what has been said, it will be clear that the gospel narratives have proved a major inspiration for western religious art. Yet it is important to note that some Protestant writers have misgivings about this development. Whereas Anglicanism and Lutheranism have seen religious art as playing an important role in Christian devotion, the reformed tradition has expressed reservations about its use. The Heidelberg Catechism (1563) argues that images of God are neither necessary nor helpful for Christian believers. Biblical preaching should take the place of religious art as a means of instruction and devotion. Most other Christian traditions regard religious art as a helpful aid to devotion and encourage the display of appropriate works in places of worship. It may also be noted that several recent theologians within the reformed tradition have used works of religious art to encourage theological reflection and personal devotion. Thus Karl Barth (1886–1968) had on his desk a copy of Matthias Grünewald’s Isenheim altarpiece depicting the crucifixion. Similarly, Jürgen Moltmann (born 1926) had a copy of Marc Chagall’s Crucifixion in Yellow in front of him as he wrote The Crucified God, widely regarded as one of the theological masterpieces of the twentieth century.

Icons

The use of icons in public worship and private devotion, though especially associated with eastern Orthodoxy, is now widespread within Christianity. An “icon” (derived from the Greek word eikōn, “image”) has come to mean a portable sacred image, typically painted on a wooden base, following the traditions and conventions of Byzantine art.

The history of the use of icons is somewhat unclear. However, there is substantial evidence to indicate that the use of such sacred images originated in the region of Palestine and Syria. It seems that the first icons were pictures of martyrs, often illustrating aspects of their histories. The homilies of eastern Christian writers of the fourth century – such as Basil the Great and Gregory of Nyssa – are an important witness to this practice. However, from the fifth century on, it became increasingly common for icons to depict Jesus Christ and Mary.

The iconoclast controversy put an end to the production of icons and caused the destruction of many older ones. While Orthodox writers conceded that the Old Testament prohibited the production and use of religious images, they argued that this was an essentially temporary provision, reflecting the widespread use of idols in Canaanite culture. With the defeat of Roman paganism through the conversion of Constantine, Orthodox theologians argued that this was no longer a significant issue. Furthermore, they pointed out that the incarnation of the Son of God further undermined this Old Testament prohibition: was not Jesus the image of God, displayed to humanity? The resolution of this issue in favor of the “iconophiles” led to a golden age of iconography at Constantinople from about 850 to 1200. During this time, a special style of icon painting developed, and became characteristic of Byzantine art.

So what are icons understood to achieve? What is their purpose? Orthodox Christian writers emphatically reject what they regard as two serious misunderstandings: that icons are themselves objects of worship; and that they are merely a form of religious art, whose significance lies in beautifying religious sites.

In Orthodoxy, icons are not objects of adoration or worship, whose proper objects can only be Jesus of Nazareth or God. Rather they are objects of veneration. Icons are to be seen as windows to the transcendent. They can be thought of as a “visible gospel,” proclaiming the same truths as Scripture, yet in a pictorial rather than verbal form. Thus Nicephorus, patriarch of Constantinople between 806 and 815, argued that icons are especially significant for those who lack the conceptual skills to understand Scripture. Indeed, very often what eludes people when reading or hearing words is captured when viewing icons.

Figure 7.4 Byzantine icon of the late thirteenth or early fourteenth century, showing Mary with the infant Jesus.

Source: Cameraphoto/AKG Images.

Image and word are thus not seen to be in conflict, but to offer the possibility of mutual reinforcement. Orthodox writers tend to speak about scriptural vision and pictorial formation as the two symbolic ways through which humanity gains access to transcendent realities. Where the iconoclasts argued that the uninstructed and illiterate would be unable to distinguish between image and the divine reality it depicted (hence lapsing into idolatry), the iconophiles held that these same people could use icons as a Scripture in color that would lead them to the divine reality – if they were properly instructed in how to use them.

Church Architecture

Initially Christians had to borrow buildings in which they could worship. Until Christianity became a recognized and legitimate religion within the Roman empire, it was not free to build its own distinctive structures. Christians met in private homes or borrowed pagan temples as places of worship. However, from the fourth century on, they were free to construct places of meeting and worship that reflected their own distinctive ideas and beliefs. This led to the development of several distinctive styles of church architecture, each of which is grounded in a set of beliefs about the nature of God, the place of the institution of the church in God’s plan of salvation, and the ultimate destiny of human nature.

To appreciate the importance of church architecture throughout the Middle Ages – the golden age of church architecture – it is essential to understand the exceptionally high value attached to the institution of the church at this time. In the third century of the Christian era, Cyprian of Carthage penned a slogan that would have a decisive impact on Christian understandings of the role of the church as the mediator and guarantor of redemption. “Outside the church, there is no salvation.” This pithy maxim was open to a number of interpretations. The one that predominated throughout the Middle Ages can be argued to have resulted directly from the church’s growth in institutional authority after the collapse of the Roman empire. Salvation was only to be had through membership of the church. Jesus of Nazareth may have made the hope of salvation possible; only the church could make it available. There was an ecclesiastical monopoly on the dispensation of redemption.

The view that the institution of the church was the sole mediator and guarantor of the hope in human salvation was rapidly assimilated into church architecture. The great portals of Romanesque churches were often adorned with elaborate sculptures depicting the glory of heaven as a tactile affirmation that it was only by entering the church that this hope could be achieved. Inscriptions were often placed over the great western door of churches, declaring that it was only by entering the church that one could attain heaven. The doorframe was allowed to be identified with Christ for this purpose; it spoke words directed to those passing by or pausing to admire its magnificent ornamentation.

An excellent example is provided by the Benedictine priory church of Saint-Marcel-lès-Sauzet, which was founded in 985 and extensively developed during the twelfth century. The portal to the church depicts Christ addressing these words to all who draw near:

You who are passing through,

you who are coming to weep for your sins,

pass through me,

since I am the gate of life.

Although the words are clearly to be attributed to Christ (picking up on the image of Christ as the “gate of the sheepfold” from John 10), a tactile link has been forged with the building of the church itself. This is often reinforced visually through the physical location of the baptismal font close to the door of the church, which thereby affirms that entrance to heaven is linked with the sacrament of baptism.

A similar theme is found in the inscription placed over the portal of the Benedictine church of Santa Cruz de la Serós, located close to the main pilgrimage route from Jaca to Puente la Reina in Spain.

I am the eternal door; pass through me, faithful ones.

I am the fountain of life; thirst for me more than for wine.

The door of the church of San Juan de la Peña, possibly dating from the twelfth century, bears the following message:

Through this gate, the heavens are opened to every believer.

Perhaps the most famous literary variant on this theme actually constitutes an ironic inversion of its contents. The third canto of Dante’s “Inferno” – the first of the three books of the Divine Comedy – includes a famous description of the portal of hell, on which are inscribed the words “Abandon all hope, you who enter.” Dante’s description clearly assumes familiarity with the conventions of ecclesiastical architecture of the period and playfully parodies its leading theme.

One particularly important function of church architecture is to stress the transcendence of God. The great soaring arches and spires of medieval cathedrals were intended to stress the greatness of God and to raise the thoughts of worshippers heavenward. The symbolism is that of the eternal impinging upon the temporal, the church building symbolizing the mediation between heaven and earth offered through the gospel. This emphasis on representing the transcendent here on earth is especially associated with the Gothic style of church architecture, which merits further discussion.

The term “Gothic” was coined in the sixteenth century by Giorgio Vasari to denote a style between the Romanesque and that of the Renaissance, characterized by pointed arches, extended door and window space, structural complexity, immense size, and (especially in Northern Europe) large stained glass windows and sculptured doorways. (It is worth noting that Vasari intended the term to be pejorative and to suggest associations with the barbarism of the Goths – the tribes that destroyed Roman civilization.) The rise of Gothic architecture is usually traced back to the twelfth century, a period of relative political stability in Western Europe, which encouraged the rebirth of art and architecture.

Figure 7.5 The south transept of the cathedral of Notre Dame de Chartres, one of the best examples of Gothic church architecture. The façade was completed in the mid-thirteenth century. Chartres (Dep. Eure-et-Loir, France), Cathedrale Notre-Dame (1134–1514; choir 1194–1221, transept after 1194–c. 1250, nave c. 1200–1220, west façade 1134–1514). Exterior: façade of the south transept.

Source: Archives CDA/St-Genès/AKG Images.

Within a period of one century (1130–1230) some twenty-five Gothic cathedrals were built in France. One of the most distinctive features of this architectural style is its deliberate and programmatic use of height and light to generate and sustain a sense of the presence God and heaven on earth. The extensive use of buttresses allowed the weight of the building to be borne by outside supports, thus allowing the external walls to have large glass windows, which ensured that the building was saturated with the radiance of the sun. The use of stained glass helped generate an other-worldly brilliance inside the cathedral while simultaneously allowing gospel scenes to be depicted to worshippers. The use of tall, thin internal columns created an immense sense of spaciousness, again intended to evoke the hope of heaven. The cathedral thus became a sacred space, bringing the vast spaciousness and brilliance of heaven within the reach of believers. Worship inside it was seen as an anticipation of the life of heaven, allowing the worshipper to step into another world and savor its delights before returning to the dull routines of everyday life.

While it might be a little ambitious to speak of a coherent “theology” of the Gothic cathedral, there can be no doubt about the spiritual aspirations of the cathedrals’ designers and about the importance of their sacred spaces in anticipating their heavenly counterparts. The theological importance of these values is perhaps best explored by considering the ideas of Abbot Suger (1080–1151), who devoted much of his later life to the restoration of the abbey church of Saint-Denis, near Paris. This early example of the classic Gothic style embodies many of its characteristic emphases. Yet, perhaps most importantly, Suger’s three books of commentary on the renovation process allow us insights into the physical process of construction, along with the spiritual and aesthetic principles that governed his design. The architecture of the church allowed the human mind to “travel through the lights to the true light, where Christ is the true door.” Suger intended the human mind to be drawn upward, through the light of the building, to the true light, which is the enthroned Christ in heaven. While not all were persuaded by this theology of the church as guarantor and visualization of the hope of heaven, there is no doubting its massive impact upon the culture of the Middle Ages and beyond.

In addition to this emphasis on the transcendence of God, architecture reflects a concern to focus on what is deemed to be important by specific Christian groupings. Three such focal points may be singled out.

Figure 7.6 The pulpit in St. Peter’s Cathedral, Geneva.

Source: J.-P. Scherrer/Geneva 2005.

More recently, church architecture has come to be influenced by other factors. For example, North American revivalism of the late nineteenth century saw worship partly in terms of entertainment, and thus designed church buildings with stages suitable for the performance of music and worship. The rise of “base ecclesial communities” or “house churches” has led to a new informality of worship, often within private homes or borrowed premises, in which the emphasis has been placed on fellowship, prayer, and worship, architectural considerations being of minimal importance. According to some, this can be regarded as a return to the earliest Christian practice, and is thus more authentic than later developments.

Stained Glass

There are many points at which the Christian interest in church architecture and that in art forms converge – for example, the use of altarpieces to remind congregations of the reality of the sufferings of Jesus Christ on the cross as an aid to devotion. Yet it is widely agreed that the most distinctively Christian art form to be linked with the design of church buildings is the use of stained glass. Why did this development take place? And what was its significance?

Early Christian buildings did not use stained glass. Windows were widely used, but they were seen primarily as functional. They were necessary to allow light into the building. Wall paintings were widely used as well, to represent incidents in the life of Christ or the saints. These were intended to inspire devotion in congregations and to serve as teaching aids for preachers and catechists. If they were to do this, they needed to be seen. Windows allowed sunlight into the church building, so that these devotional and pedagogical aids could be properly viewed and appreciated. These windows were often quite narrow, and so they did not need to be filled with glass.

The origin of the use of stained glass in church windows is not fully understood. We know that it was in production, but on a very small scale, in the seventh century. St. Paul’s church in Jarrow – the home of Bede, the great historian of English Christianity – still contains a very small round stained glass window dating from the Anglo-Saxon period. To view this small window helps appreciate how the art form was developed on a much grander scale in later centuries.

The flourishing of the Gothic architectural style propelled stained glass design and technology to the forefront. Churches became taller and lighter, walls became thinner, and windows larger. They needed to be filled with glass. So why not use glass to create devotional images? Instead of seeing a window as a means of illuminating wall paintings, why not allow the window itself to represent biblical images?

The technology of creating stained glass windows was well established in Western Europe by the year 1100. Glass was colored during its manufacture through the addition of metallic salts or oxides. The addition of gold produced a cranberry color, silver produced yellows and golds, while cobalt produced a deep blue, ideal for representing the heavens.

Most of what is known about medieval stained glass making comes from the book On Diverse Arts by a twelfth-century German monk known only as Theophilus. An artist and metalworker himself, Theophilus described how he carefully studied glaziers and glass painters at work in order to provide detailed directions for creating windows of “inestimable beauty.” He then gave detailed directions for the production of stained glass windows, and these were followed meticulously throughout the Middle Ages.

If you want to assemble simple windows, first mark out the dimensions of their length and breadth on a wooden board, then draw scroll work or anything else that pleases you, and select colours that are to be inserted. Cut the glass, and fit the pieces together with the grouting iron. Enclose them with lead and solder on both sides. Surround it with a wooden frame strengthened with nails, and set it up in the place where you wish.

As windows became larger, more elaborate means of supporting windows were developed, by making use of saddle bars.

In France, the best early exemplars of Gothic stained glass are to be found in the north, in the churches of Saint-Denis (founded 1144) and in the cathedrals of Chartres (1150), Laôn (1160), Notre Dame de Paris (1163), Reims (1211), and Amiens (1220): all are graced by spectacular stained glass windows. Several of them are circular, and are known as “rose windows.” Of these buildings, the best is probably the great cathedral of Chartres, which has 152 of its original windows still intact, including the three great rose windows, which date from around 1200. Other important examples include the Cathedral of Évora in Portugal (founded 1186), Canterbury Cathedral, and York Minster (the largest Gothic cathedral in Northern Europe).

Figure 7.7 The great rose window above the main portal of the cathedral of Notre Dame, Strasbourg, France, one of the finest examples of stained glass in Europe. Strasbourg (Alsace, France), Minster: Cathédrale Notre-Dame (12th–15th century). West façade (planned in 1276 by Erwin von Steinbach): Window rose above the main portal.

Source: Hedda Eid/AKG Images.

With the waning of the Middle Ages, however, stained glass came to be seen by many artists as unsophisticated. New technology allowed glass to be painted, opening up new possibilities. Instead of assembling tiny fragments of stained glass to produce a picture, it was possible to paint directly onto glass. Many medieval stained glass windows were removed from churches and replaced with the new painted forms. The revival of stained glass as an ecclesiastical art form dates from the second half of the nineteenth century and is especially associated with the pre-Raphaelite movement. Perhaps the best example is found in the three windows Faith, Hope, and Charity, designed by Sir Edward Burne-Jones for St. Martin’s Church in Brampton, Cumbria and manufactured by William Morris’s workshop. This unique pre-Raphaelite church was built in 1889, according to a design by the architect Philip Webb.

Christian Music

The richness of Christian worship inevitably led to the adoption of all kinds of musical styles in the life of the Christian church. Although early Christian writers were hesitant over the use of music in worship, fearing that it would paganize what was a thoroughly Christian occasion, the value of music as an aid to Christian devotion was soon realized.

The most important early use of music can be traced back to certain set forms of words known as “canticles,” usually derived from the Bible and used in monastic services – for example, the “Magnificat” (“My soul magnifies the Lord”) at the early evening office of Vespers, and the “Nunc dimittis” (“Lord, now allow your servant to depart in peace”), set for the late evening office of Compline. Each of these set pieces is known by its opening words in Latin. It was not long before Plainsong was introduced as a means of permitting these central texts to be sung rather than just recited. The form of chanting that is probably best known in the modern world is the Gregorian chant, which is readily available in high-quality modern recordings, often made in monastic settings.

Gradually the patterns of monastic chanting became more ornate, as increasingly complex musical forms were used to express the various emotions associated with the biblical passages being sung in this way. Four of the most important hymns set to music in this way were:

During the Reformation, controversy developed over the role of music. Zwingli and Calvin did not regard music as having a proper place in Christian worship. In other Protestant traditions, however, music continued to play an important role. Martin Luther composed settings for a number of traditional hymns, as well as writing hymns of his own. The most famous of these is “Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott” (“A Safe Stronghold Is Our God”), which remains widely used in modern Protestant church life, particularly in Lutheranism. The Church of England encouraged the setting of the Psalms and other canticles as chants.

The rise of Methodism gave a new importance to hymns, John and Charles Wesley both recognizing their enormous potential to convey Christian teachings. Alongside this recognition of the pedagogical and catechetical value of hymns, Charles Wesley pioneered the use of adapting popular secular tunes for Christian purposes. For example, the English composer Henry Purcell had written a superb tune to accompany John Dryden’s text praising England, entitled “Fairest isle, all isles excelling.” Wesley altered the words to reflect Christian interests but retained Purcell’s operatic tune, and the result was the well-known hymn “Love divine, all loves excelling.” Perhaps the most well-known of all Protestant musical pieces is Handel’s Messiah, which sets to music a series of biblical texts focusing on the coming of Jesus and on his subsequent glorification.

The most important musical developments within western Christianity, however, are linked with Catholicism. The great cathedrals of Europe demanded increasingly sophisticated and prestigious musical settings of the standard Catholic liturgical texts. Of these, the most important were the text of the mass and the requiem. The Catholic church was without question one of the most important patrons of musical developments throughout the Middle Ages and the modern era and a major stimulus to the development of the western musical tradition. Virtually every great European composer helped shape the development of church music. Monteverdi, Vivaldi, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Rossini, and Verdi all made major contributions in this sphere.

Music continues to be an integral part of modern Christian life. The classics of the past continue to be represented in modern Christian worship. However, it is clear that more popular styles of music are having an increasing influence, especially in evangelical and charismatic congregations.

Christianity and Literature

“The church, as a body, has never made up her mind about the Arts.” Thus wrote Dorothy L. Sayers, herself an important contributor to the shaping of Christian literature in the twentieth century. There can be no doubt that she is correct in her judgment. Some Christian writers have adopted strongly positive attitudes to literature, seeing it as a powerful ally in the quest to foster the Christian vision and to interact with the world. Others have regarded literature as alien to the Christian faith, with a potential to mislead.

One of the most important debates in the early church concerned the extent to which Christians could appropriate the immense cultural legacy of the classical world – especially its poetry and literature. In what way could the ars poetica be adopted by Christian writers interested in using these classical modes of writing to expound and communicate their faith? Or was the very use of such a literary medium tantamount to compromising the essentials of the Christian faith? This was a debate of immense significance, as it raised the question of whether Christianity would turn its back on the classical heritage or appropriate it, even if in a modified form.

As we noted earlier (pp. 253–254), in the early period of the Christian church, a critical and hostile attitude toward contemporary pagan culture – including its literature – tended to prevail. Writers such as Tertullian and Chrysostom were intensely suspicious of Greek and Latin literature and sought to minimize its importance and influence within the church. Others, such as Jerome and Augustine, were considerably more positive, even though they shared some of the anxieties voiced elsewhere.

Literature came to be seen by some Christian apologists as a means of further enhancing the appeal of their faith to the wider world. Might not the obvious attractions of the gospel be augmented if they were to be presented in words of beauty and power, in which theological precision was supplemented by the lyricism of poetry and by the rhetoric of prose? Gravity of form and sublimity of expression in an argument could assist in both the communication and commendation of the substance of the gospel. The anonymous Cursor mundi, written around 1300, argued that, since people enjoy reading secular literature so much, it makes sense to present religious truth in literary forms. A work of religious literature could thus be both a delight to read and something able to nourish the human soul. Yet the tension that this approach generated can be seen from other works of this period. For example, Geoffrey Chaucer concluded his Canterbury Tales with a “retraction” in which he asks his readers to forgive him for his “translations and compositions of worldly vanity.”

The implication is clear: works of literature are potentially vain, whereas purely religious works, written for the purpose of doctrinal and ethical instruction, are acceptable. Chaucer’s obvious concern at this point raises the question of whether the notion of “Christian literature” is inherently indefensible, in that the desire to please and amuse is potentially in tension with the seriousness of Christian doctrine and ethics. This is certainly the view that we find adopted by the noted Puritan writer Richard Baxter, who argued that literature encourages its readers to waste their time in recreation when they could be doing something more productive, and that it has a disquieting potential to be morally corrupting. Baxter’s most severe criticism was directed against works of fiction, which, he held, actively promote a culture of falsehood, which “dangerously bewitcheth and corrupteth the minds of young and empty people.”

One manner of reconciling this tension was known throughout Christian history, and acquired special importance during the romantic period. The language of literature, it was argued, served to elevate its readers and to inspire them to devotion and passion. Was not this sufficient justification for a religious literature? In his preface to the Lyrical Ballads, William Wordsworth complained of the “frantic novels, sickly and stupid German Tragedies, and deluges of idle and extravagant stories in verse” by which his age had been seduced, and he urged a recovery of the language and concerns of writers such as Shakespeare and Milton. For Wordsworth himself, there was an obvious affinity between religion and poetry; indeed Wordsworth’s literature increasingly adopted the characteristics of religion. This evolution is of particular importance to the development of treating the Bible as literature. For Percy Bysshe Shelley, the Bible is revered on account of its literary character rather than for the religious views it propounded.

Yet it must not be assumed that the Christian interest in literature was a purely pragmatic consequence of a desire for church growth and for the consolidation of religious faith. From the outset, Christian writers have found the notion of “God as author” as offering a substantial theological foundation and encouragement for the writing of literature. In the beginning, God created through God’s word, spoken over the face of chaos. Did this not point to a critical role of words in the Christian understanding of the world? And was there not a most natural connection between the verbal origins of the world and a concern with words, revelation, texts, literature, and reading and writing? The production of Christian literature was thus seen by some as resting upon rigorous theological foundations rather than as being opportunistic.

But this raises the difficult question of precisely what is to be understood by “Christian literature.” Although this matter continues to be debated, there is at least some agreement on the categories of writing that deserve to be included. Such writings fall into three broad categories:

It lies beyond the scope of this brief chapter to offer a detailed discussion of the nature and development of Christian literature. However, something of its scope can be appreciated by considering a representative example of the field. In what follows we shall look at the best-known work of the literary critic and novelist C. S. Lewis (1898–1963), widely agreed to be one of the most engaging and accessible Christian writers of the twentieth century. Originally an atheist, Lewis found his attitude to Christianity to undergo a dramatic change in the 1920s. The story of his return to the faith he abandoned as a boy is described in great detail in his autobiography Surprised by Joy. After wrestling with the clues concerning God that he found in human reason and experience, he eventually decided that intellectual honesty compelled him to believe and trust in God.

After his conversion, Lewis began to establish his reputation as a leading authority on medieval and Renaissance English literature. The Allegory of Love, published in 1936, is still regarded as a masterpiece, as is his Preface to Paradise Lost. Alongside his scholarly writings, however, Lewis wrote books of a very different nature. Aiming at clarity and conviction, he produced a series of works devoted to communicating the reasonableness of Christianity to his own generation – such as the Chronicles of Narnia.

The first in this series of seven novels was published in 1950. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe introduces its readers to the land of Narnia, which is discovered by four English children (Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy) at the back of a seemingly ordinary wardrobe. The series ended in 1956, with the publication of The Last Battle. The series can be seen as standing in the fairy-tale tradition established by George MacDonald in the nineteenth century. Its success did much to publicize Lewis’ notion of “the baptized imagination,” which emphasized the importance of the human imagination in grasping and appreciating the essence of the Christian faith.

As a child, Lewis loved stories and had little interest in Christianity. But he later came to wonder how stories might have helped him to embrace a faith that he neither understood nor appreciated. What if stories could have opened up the wonder and joy of a faith that he had to wait two decades to discover? Lewis may well have written the books that he would have liked to read as a boy – both as something that excited his imagination and as something that helped him to offer what he later called an “imaginative welcome” to the Christian faith.

Religious symbolism plays a major role in the Chronicles of Narnia. One of the best examples is the “undragoning” of Eustace Scrubb in the Voyage of the Dawn Treader. Eustace is portrayed as a thoroughly unsympathetic boy and as an example of selfishness. It’s difficult to like him to begin with, and it’s just as difficult to feel sorry for him when he changes into a dragon as a result of his “greedy, dragonish thoughts.” Eustace frantically tries to scratch off his dragon’s skin. Yet each layer he removes merely reveals yet another layer of scales beneath it. He simply cannot break free from his prison. He is trapped within a dragon’s skin, because he has become a dragon.

Then Aslan appears – the noble lion of Narnia, whom Lewis depicts as a “Christ-figure” – and tears away at Eustace’s dragon flesh with his claws. The lion’s claws cut so deeply that Eustace is in real pain – “worse than anything I’ve ever felt.” And, when the scales are finally removed, Aslan plunges the raw and bleeding Eustace into a well from which he emerges purified and renewed.

So what are we to learn from this powerful and shocking story, so realistically depicted? As the raw imagery of Aslan’s tearing at Eustace’s flesh makes clear, Eustace has been trapped by forces over which he has no control. The one who would be master has instead been mastered. The dragon is a symbol, not so much of sin itself, as of sin’s power to entrap, captivate, and imprison. It can only be broken and mastered by the redeemer. Aslan is the one who heals and renews Eustace, restoring him to what he was intended to be. The immersion in the water of the well picks up on the New Testament’s language about baptism as dying to self and rising to Christ (Romans 6). Eustace is tossed into the well by Aslan and emerges renewed and restored.

As might be expected, the storyline of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe divides its readers. Some see it as childish nonsense. To others, it is utterly transformative. For the latter, this evocative story affirms that it is possible for the weak and foolish to have a noble calling in a dark world; that our deepest intuitions point us to the true meaning of things; that there is indeed something beautiful and wonderful at the heart of the universe, and that this core may be found, embraced, and adored. Whether Lewis is right or wrong, he bequeathed to us a children’s story that opens up some of the deepest questions of life, set within a Christian framework.

Thus far we have focused on the way in which Christianity has shaped the arts. But what about the natural sciences, now accepted as an important part of culture? Here the situation is somewhat complex.

Christianity and the Natural Sciences

Religion and science are two of the most powerful cultural and intellectual forces in today’s world. Some scientists and religious believers see them as locked in mortal combat. Science and religion would be at war with each other, and that war would continue until one of them is eradicated. Although this view tends to be associated particularly with dogmatic atheist scientists such as Richard Dawkins (born 1941), they are also encountered among religious believers. Some fundamentalist Christians and Muslims, for example, see science as a threat to their faith. A good example of this trend can be found in the criticisms of evolution made by conservative Protestant Christians, who see it as undermining the biblical creation accounts.

To some, the notion of any positive link between religion and science seems highly improbable from the outset. Surely science and religion have always been locked in mortal combat? Yet the stereotype of a “warfare of science and religion” is a product of the social conditions of the late nineteenth century and is now regarded as historically unacceptable. The interaction of science and religion is far too complex and interesting to be represented in such a simplistic, inaccurate way. The massive advances made in the history of science now allow the early relationship between science and Christianity in Western Europe to be seen in a much more positive light.

It is often argued that the emergence of the natural sciences is specifically linked with the Christian intellectual environment of Western Europe. A Christian understanding of creation (pp. 78–82) holds that God imposes order, rationality, and beauty upon nature. As a result, the universe has a regularity that is capable of being uncovered by humanity. This theme, which is expressed in terms of laws of nature, is of fundamental importance to the emergence and development of the natural sciences. This religious undergirding of the notion of the regularity in nature is known to have been of major historical importance for the emergence of the natural sciences. The scientific study of nature could now be seen as an indirect way of recognizing and honoring the divine wisdom reflected in the order of things.

Christianity thus created a new motivation – or perhaps, some might argue, it enhanced an existing one – for the scientific study of nature. For example, the Protestant writer John Calvin (1509–1564) argued that the wisdom of the invisible and intangible God might be discerned and studied through the beauty and regularity of the created order. Calvin thus commended – and even expressed some jealousy of – natural scientists, who could experience and appreciate the beauty and wisdom of God through what God had created and fashioned.

This fundamental motivation for the scientific study of nature was set out in some sixteenth-century confessional documents of the reformed church in Western Europe. For example, the Belgic Confession affirmed that nature was “set before our eyes as a most beautiful book, in which all creatures, great and small, are like so many characters leading us to contemplate the invisible things of God.” The natural scientist was thus able to praise God through the close study of God’s work in creation.

This approach was not without its difficulties. What happened when scientific advances seemed to contradict traditional religious beliefs? For example, the Copernican debates of the sixteenth century called into question the traditional idea that the earth stood at the center of the universe. The Darwinian debates of the nineteenth century called into question traditional religious understandings of the origins of humanity and of its place within the natural world. Often the issue of biblical interpretation was of central importance. Had certain biblical passages been rightly interpreted? Or did the Copernican and the Darwinian debates call into question how those passages had traditionally been understood?

This perception of an inalienable tension and contradiction between Christianity and the natural sciences has been a core theme of the New Atheism, a movement that become prominent in 2006. Leading New Atheist writers such as Richard Dawkins and Daniel Dennett argued that science and faith were locked in mortal combat and that science would emerge victorious. This simplistic rendering of the historically questionable “warfare” model of the relation of the sciences and Christianity has failed to win wide support. The situation is rather more complex and nuanced than the New Atheist narrative suggests.

The complex relationship between Christianity and the natural sciences is at times positive and symbiotic, at times tense and challenging. Yet it is a changing relationship, in that neither science nor Christianity is fixed or static. Science is, by its very nature, progressive, developing new theories and approaches and discarding older theories in the light of new evidence. And, as this brief introduction to Christianity has indicated, Christianity has also developed and modified over the centuries, and it is likely to do so in the future.

Yet, despite this complexity, a number of helpful points can be made about the relationship between Christianity and the natural sciences. First, science and the Christian faith can be thought of as operating at different levels, often reflecting on the similar questions, yet answering them in different ways. Historians suggest that both science and religion lose their way when they play at being what they are not. There are some scientists who declare they have displaced religion (as is evident in recent “scientific atheism”), just as there are religious activists who claim to have displaced science (as is evident in modern “creationism”). Science does not answer every question that we might have about the world. Neither does religion. Yet, taken together, they can offer a stereoscopic view of reality that is denied to those who limit themselves to one discipline’s perspective on things. The dialogue between science and religion allows us to appreciate the distinct identities, strengths, and limits of each conversational partner. It also offers us a deeper understanding of things than either religion or science could offer unaided.

Second, both the natural sciences and Christianity are concerned about making sense of things. Although Christianity places an emphasis upon the transformation of the human situation, it also offers an explanation of the world. Why are things the way they are? What explanations may be offered for what we observe? What is the “bigger picture” that makes sense of our observations and experiences? Scientific and religious explanations generally take different forms, even when they reflect on the same observations. Perhaps most importantly, science tends to ask “how” questions, whereas religion asks “why.” Science seeks to clarify mechanisms; Christianity explores the question of meaning. These approaches do not need to be seen as being in competition, or as being mutually incompatible. They operate at different levels.

And, finally, we may note the growing awareness, within the scientific community, of the broader issues raised by its research and of the limits placed upon that community’s ability to answer them. An obvious example is ethical questions. Is science able to determine what is right and what is wrong? Most scientists would affirm that their discipline is fundamentally amoral – that the scientific method does not extend to moral questions.

Many natural scientists seem increasingly willing to enlarge scientific understandings of the world with additional approaches that permit or encourage the ethical, aesthetical, and spiritual enhancement of their subject. Religion is being seen increasingly as an important dialogue partner in allowing the natural sciences to engage with questions that are raised, yet not answered, by scientific research. Debates about the ethics of biotechnology, for example, often raise important questions that science cannot answer – such as when a human “person” comes into existence, or what constitutes an acceptable quality of life.

The future of the relationship between Christianity and the natural sciences is open and unpredictable. Yet there are signs of a movement away from the historically discredited “warfare” model of their interaction and toward a more nuanced and productive framework of understanding. Pope John Paul II made this point well in an article published in the Vatican newspaper Osservatore Romano on October 26, 1988: “Science can purify religion from error and superstition; religion can purify science from idolatry and false absolutes. Each can draw the other into a wider world, a world in which both can flourish.”

Conclusion

This chapter has briefly explored some aspects of the relationship between Christianity and culture. There is much more that needs to be said, and there is a substantial and important literature that will allow you to take these matters further. Christian literature, art, and music are of immense cultural interest and importance, and they play an important role in both sustaining and expressing faith. They are certainly things that merit studying; they also deserve to be experienced and appreciated.

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