Arts and Religion

In 1931, James Hampton began receiving visions from God. Hampton was a custodian working in Washington, D.C., and following his visions, he started collecting shiny things: tin foil, jelly jars, and old lightbulbs. He called himself the Director, Special Projects for the State of Eternity.

Hampton’s collection grew until he had filled a rented carriage house from top to bottom with carefully selected fragments. He worked relentlessly until the array of found and discarded objects became something new, transforming the individual pieces into a unified whole, a work of art and architecture as ornate and impressive as many cathedrals.

This proves a fact: religious artwork is much more than old churches and paintings of baby Jesus. Many believe religious art is made for a few simple reasons: to honor a deity, proclaim a belief, or maybe inspire practitioners. But religious art exists for all kinds of purposes. Purposes that are totally diverse — both within and across different religions.

Some religious art is practical — it instructs followers about an important belief or idea. Take for example the artwork in the Egyptian Book of the Dead, made around three thousand years ago. This book is filled with paintings that serve as a kind of map to the afterlife. An image from the book shows the post-death journey of a scribe named Hunefer. He is in a gorgeous, celestial white robe — which is not only a super strong look, but seemingly an indication of his clean soul. And to the right of Hunefer is Anubis, the god who oversees passage to the afterlife. He holds Hunefer’s life in the palm of his hand — literally. In ancient Egypt, life was represented by that symbol, called the Ankh. In the next scene of the book, we see Anubis weighing Hunefer’s heart, weighing how many wrongdoings he’s done on earth. If his heart is heavier than the feather of truth, order, and justice, Hunefer will get eaten by this creature with the crocodile head named Ammit. Woow! Luckily, his heart is lighter than the feather, so Hunefer gets to meet Osiris, god of the afterlife, and, we assume, he lives happily ever after-life! So we see here that The Book of the Dead doesn’t just display what ancient Egyptians believed. It uses clear imagery to let people know exactly what to expect on the other side. It instructs and prepares you for what to do in this life and the next.

But not all religious artworks are quite so step-by-step. Others are more open-ended, intended to evoke a particular feeling or state rather than provide a set of instructions. For example, the minimalist rock garden at Ryōan-ji, a Zen Buddhist temple built in the 15th century in Kyoto, Japan. The elements in the garden aren’t symbols that can be directly decoded, like how the ankh symbolizes life. The meaning of the garden changes from person to person, but the feeling of peace and the experience of meditation can be shared.

However, many religious artworks aim to inspire the feeling of awe or reverence; like this lavish ninth-century cover of the Lindau Gospels. When you pick up this impressive tome, light passes over its gold surface and through the raised jewels — reflecting toward the center, where Jesus hangs on the cross. This trick of the light was meant to evoke wonder and amazement in its readers, emphasizing the miraculous quality of Jesus’s triumph over death.

But, it’s overall complicated. People don’t always agree on the right way to generate spiritual feelings, even when they believe in the same gods. For Catholics at the time, the use of fancy materials showed the object’s spiritual significance. But to the Protestants, especially during the Protestant Reformation, it represented an overindulgence in worldly things. The Protestants vibed with art that was a little less… ‘blingy’. And that’s just one of many disagreements around how one should — and should not — create religious art.

Imagine the Rothko Chapel, a meditative space in Houston, Texas, that holds 14 massive works by the American painter Mark Rothko. The chapel isn’t tied to a specific religion, but still manages to evoke spiritual qualities. Three canvases hung side by side make up a triptych, a common format in traditional religious art. Its layered pigment creates an impression of depth, as if you’re looking beyond this reality, perhaps into what lies beyond. And the shadows of clouds as light streams in from a skylight change the look of the paintings from moment to moment. In both this and the Lindau Gospels, we see how powerful the manipulation of light in religious art can be. We can’t touch or hold light, but we know when it’s there. This echoes the way that the divine is often described across many different religions and time periods — making light a sort of cross-cultural communication tool in religious art.

Now, religious art is often showcased in sacred venues — places where people gather to worship and be in community. But art doesn’t just decorate these places. Often, the architecture of these places is art. And this has been true for a long time. Let’s go back almost two-thousand years and step into the Dura-Europos Synagogue, a sacred Jewish space. Jewish practitioners entered this room to study the scrolls of the Torah, or the first five books of the Hebrew Bible. And the synagogue’s walls were almost completely covered with detailed paintings that tell stories from the Hebrew Bible, including the story of the prophet Moses and the history of the Jewish people. They don’t just decorate the space; they create it.

Or, take a look at this Iranian mosque, which was built centuries later in the early 1600s. Its intricate geometric designs still mesmerize visitors today. But they’re not just there to impress. They stem from an important Islamic belief: that God is unique in being a creator of living things, so we humans should not depict living things in our art. This explains why sacred Islamic art is aniconic; meaning it avoids depicting people or animals. Artists instead use geometric designs, architecture, and calligraphy, inspiring awe through their perfect repetition and symmetry, as well as their scale–and engagement of light, too!

So, both the mosque and the synagogue, the design of the space itself communicates spiritual beliefs. And at the same time, it supports spiritual actions. Mosques often feature mihrabs, or prayer niches, which physically point followers in the direction of a sacred shrine called the Kaaba, considered by Muslims to be the most sacred place on Earth. In this mihrab, a bright color scheme of white, blue, and turquoise represents a heavenly garden, with yellow and green accents framing the arched gates of paradise.

This merging of art and space can happen on a smaller scale too. Where the art isn’t the building itself, but the arrangement of objects within it. Take for example this carving made by an Ibibio artist in Nigeria sometime in the early-to-mid-20th century. It depicts the deity Mami Wata, a water goddess worshiped by followers of various traditional West and Central African religions. Her hair and command of the snake in her arms show her spiritual prowess. And as a goddess believed to influence things like wealth and fertility, she’s frequently honored with shrines. This figure might be placed on an altar alongside offerings like alcohol, perfume, talcum powder, and other valuable goods. So, the carving doesn’t just represent a goddess; it’s an essential part of rituals used to gain healing and good fortune from her.

Up to this point, we’ve explored a number of religious artworks that have been preserved for generations. But not all artworks are designed to last. Sometimes, it’s just the opposite. Like with these sand mandalas made by Tibetan Buddhist monks. The process of creating a mandala is a meditative practice that requires extreme precision. The monks design an intricate geometric framework, and then tap sand through copper funnels to meticulously fill in the lines. And then, after all this work is complete, the mandala is brushed away, to symbolize that nothing lasts forever!

Hindus in India have a similar tradition called kolam, traditionally done with rice powder. Kolam is displayed in the entryway to almost every building in Tamil Nadu. The artists, almost always women, make the designs every morning to welcome Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth and alertness, and Bhudevi, the goddess of the earth. These kinds of art are gone within hours. But permanence is not the point. The artworks are intended to be both beautiful and fleeting, like life itself.

Even if you don't follow a religion, you can still appreciate the art that comes from its traditions. Humans have been asking deep questions for a long time. Art helps us explore the mysteries of existence. It helps us make sense of suffering, love, family, and everything else. Religious art may not provide all the answers, but it can guide us in reflecting on these profound questions. We can contemplate them in silence or together, as a community.