By JAMES MONTI
All of us have had at some time or another a special moment in church when we have found ourselves before a particularly beautiful altar, with the Blessed Sacrament enthroned upon it in a splendid gold or silver sunburst monstrance, its molded rays sparkling with the shimmer of candles ablaze around it, as shafts of light descend into the sanctuary from a nearby stained-glass window and a gentle breeze from outside stirs the incense-fragrant air within.
The sunburst monstrance as we know it was imparted to our Catholic heritage by that age of liturgy and art known as the Baroque Era, a period that arose following the Council of Trent (1545-1563) and thrived until the second half of the eighteenth century. It was a time of lavish Mass rites, spectacular processions, richly textured music, and visually stunning paintings, sculpture, and architecture. Baroque churches dot the mountains and valleys of Bavaria and the Austrian Tirol to the present day.
Catholic Baroque liturgy and the effulgence of artistic and architectural magnificence that accompanied it were overt and unapologetic in expressing the faith of the Church. Thus the doctrine of the Real Presence of Christ in the Holy Eucharist was proclaimed in no uncertain terms on the title page of almost every edition of the Missale Romanum, regardless of the particular publishing house, from about 1650 to the end of the eighteenth century by depicting a scene of angels gathering about a monstrance to offer adoration to the Blessed Sacrament.
But there have been bitter critics of Baroque Era piety who consider it over the top. Such critics fulminate about its utilization of royal and courtly imagery, complaining that it turned the parish church into little more than a “throne room” for the Blessed Sacrament, overloading the senses with a cacophony of sumptuous ornamentation in which the Mass lost out to the dazzling gold, silver, and jewels of sunburst monstrances and imperial tabernacles serenaded by music more suited to the opera house than the Temple of God.
There is, frankly, something elitist in these very criticisms, a sneering, puritanical distain for modes of religious expression that these critics have been either unwilling or unable to understand.
The “throne room” objection is sheer nonsense. The church and the liturgy that takes place within its walls are supposed to mirror the liturgy of Heaven as we find it in the Book of Revelation: “…a throne stood in heaven, with one seated on the throne! And he who sat there appeared like jasper and carnelian. . . . Round the throne were twenty-four thrones, and seated on the thrones were twenty-four elders. . . . From the throne issue flashes of lightning, and voices and peals of thunder, and before the throne burn seven torches of fire . . . and before the throne there is as it were a sea of glass, like crystal” (Rev. 4:2-6).
What do you think, dear readers? It surely sounds like a throne room to me!
As for the claim that in the Baroque liturgy the Mass was virtually eclipsed by rites of Eucharistic exposition, in reality liturgists of the period saw the fitting celebration of Mass as a top priority, turning out hundreds of pages of instruction covering every aspect of the rite from the entrance procession and the reading of the Gospel to the Offertory and Holy Communion.
The era is replete with effusive affirmations of the primacy of the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass in Catholic worship, such as the following from a 1746 book of devotions published in Linz, Austria: “For in the Mass is offered to every Christian the entire price of our salvation, and every treasure of the merits of Christ” (Pium Vade Mecum, “Preliminary Admonition”).
Since as far back as the sixteenth century, and in some instances earlier, a highly romanticized concept has repeatedly been put forth in certain quarters that Christian worship should be kept utterly simple, devoid of any ceremoniousness or lavish adornment whatsoever. Proponents of this view insist that God doesn’t need or want any sumptuous gold, silver, or jewel-studded vessels, richly embroidered vestments or altar cloths, ornate churches, or intricate scores of music. This view of what constitutes suitable worship may seem alluring, but it ignores the very nature of man and the universe.
God gave us brains capable of great complexity of thought and artistic expression, and He put us in a world filled with things of extraordinary beauty and complexity that manifest His intelligent design and purpose. He gave us the capability to paint, to sculpt, to build, to make an amazing variety of musical instruments and to teach the human voice to sing complex harmonies.
Are we to believe that He would not want us to express our love and gratitude to Him with these very abilities that He Himself gave us?
In his famous play A Man for All Seasons Robert Bolt places in St. Thomas More’s mouth the astute observation that while God created animals for their innocence and plants for their simplicity “Man he made to serve him wittily, in the tangle of his mind” (A Man for All Seasons, Act Two).
Moreover, complexity is beautiful. In divine worship it imparts an aura of mystery and evokes a sense of infinity, bearing witness to the transcendence of God.
In creation we find precious metals such as gold and silver and precious stones such as diamonds and rubies. Are we to believe that these things exist for no reason, or that God intended them only for mankind’s self-gratification? In marriage rites the imposition of a gold wedding band upon the finger is universally considered a fitting expression of the sacredness of the matrimonial bond between man and woman.
How then could it not be appropriate to express our bond with God and our gratitude to Him in gold as well? God made man distinct from the angels by giving him not only a spirit, the soul, but also a body. Hence it is fitting that mankind’s worship should be expressed not just inwardly by the soul, but also outwardly by the body, and by means of the physical world in which God has placed us.
A Thematic Unity
One of the most articulate defenses of Baroque religious expression ever penned was presented by the architectural scholar John Bourke in his 1958 work Baroque Churches of Central Europe (1962 edition, pp. 45-68). Bourke begins by explaining that although he himself is not a Catholic, his years spent in the study of Baroque churches have led him to an understanding of their purpose.
Bourke perceives the Baroque church as a realm where everything is laden with symbolism that engages the senses only to conduct the viewer beyond the sensible world. Its effusive color and imagery celebrate the marriage of Heaven to Earth, the communion of things visible and invisible, bringing everything together in divine worship. Bourke sees in all the rich detail of the Baroque edifice a thematic unity directed toward two overriding realities — the Real Presence of Christ on the high altar and the communion of worshipers that draws together those on Earth with those in Heaven.
Bourke invites the reader to picture himself as a visitor to a Baroque church. Gazing upward toward the high ceiling, Heaven stands open before his eyes, with its saintly inhabitants engaged in divine praise amid dazzling light. As the viewer directs his sight toward the east his eyes now rest upon the tabernacle of the high altar and the flickering flame of its red vigil lamp flanked by images of adoring angels and saints keeping watch.
If then this succession of sensible imagery turns the viewer’s thoughts to spiritual things and even prompts him to adore, how, Bourke asks, can it be claimed that the viewer has in all this been misled or deceived? Are we expected to believe, Bourke continues, that the architect, sculptors, and painters of the church were all part of some grand conspiracy to deceive us? No, these men were visionaries who by their talents and piety have striven “to keep us in mind of the eternal” (p. 66).
Bourke then turns his attention to the anti-Baroque argument that sacred images have no place whatsoever in Christian worship because God is a Spirit and should therefore be worshiped with the spirit alone, undistracted by the sensuality of lavish paintings and sculpture. Bourke answers by pointing out that such an assertion ignores the reality of our human nature, that unlike angels we are both body and spirit.
Many, he notes, feel the need of visual imagery to direct their minds toward spiritual things. But more importantly, he concludes, precisely because man is both physical and spiritual it befits our very nature that our bodies, our senses, and our hearts should join our souls in the act of divine worship.
Our God-given capability for devising and comprehending complex concepts and designs is an open invitation from our Creator to emulate the splendid complexity of nature itself by creating beautiful art, beautiful places, and beautiful music. Can there be any better way to thank Him for this gift than by employing it to glorify Him?
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