How should we respond to unskilled portrayals of the Imago Dei, the Son of God? Sitting across from a needy friend in a coffee shop, Greg Lookerse’s eyes kept being pulled to a poorly drawn image of Jesus—which distracted him from the flesh-and-blood Imago Dei right in front of him.
The experience got him asking, what should be done with bad pictures of Christ? (And, is any depiction of Him ever good?)
Greg, an artist and art professor in West Michigan, explores his questions in an essay. Read it below.
THE UNLIKENESSES OF CHRIST
By Greg Lookerse
“Who among us would be willing to pick up the first paint roller?”
I was having coffee with my friend Thomas at a local Midwest coffee shop, but I kept getting distracted by a charcoal drawing of Jesus laughing. At first I did not understand why the cliché image of Jesus, a poor copy of Willis Wheatley's original, kept distracting me from listening to my friend over a cup of joe. I had seen the artwork before and this rendition had no particular merit.
Because it hung above Thomas’ head I could see it just on the edge of my peripheral vision as I tried to focus on my friend. But I swear that Jesus was changing his facial expression through some miraculous effect of the medium of charcoal.
Whenever I looked at Thomas, Jesus began to scream in horror. My eyes would dart back to the drawing and see that indeed the image had not changed and Christ was laughing still. The scream I perceived would turn to laughter. The joy of our Savior washed over the ashen face as it transformed back into a cliché.
I commented on its strangeness to Thomas, and we discussed artistic renditions of Christ with odd features or cringeworthy histories. It seems no picture of Christ captures Him perfectly. I guess John Calvin may have had a point [1].
After an hour of conversation and the opening up of a more comfortable couch I asked that we move so that we could have more privacy, but my true motive was so that I could stop being distracted by that two-faced drawing.
It is strange—especially since the goal of the meeting was to encourage a friend deep in despair—that weeks later the thing I remember most from our meeting is that drawing. It hangs in my mind. Now I know where to find the “Munchesque” Christ if ever I have the need to visualize His scream.
The experience has me asking, what is to be done with bad pictures of Christ? I also wonder, is any depiction of Him ever good?
Before we left the cafe, Thomas brought up an old topic of conversation, the Jesus Mural at Biola University. Both of us had attended there and knew the mural well, having stood dwarfed under it for four years. A 40-foot tall Jesus with a red mantle against a blue backdrop with a Bible held out at arm's length. It seems every four years or so there is some sort of student backlash over it. Some say it is iconic, some say it is tone deaf.
When the president of Biola, Barry Corey, decided to restore the aging mural, he wrote a 3,500-word essay to express his rationale. A missive of such length highlights the sensitivity of the subject.
Regardless of what one thinks of the mural, it is by no means a perfect example of Christ. For one, I am positive that Jesus wasn’t 40 feet tall. Is Jesus white in the painting? He is definitely whitish. Even if He was more recognizably Jewish, would that solve the problem of likeness? Defenders argue it is close enough because the model was of Russian Jewish descent and detractors argue for more historical accuracy.
If we judge images solely on their accuracy, then we must also criticize cartoons. For Mickey looks nothing like a mouse!
The mural’s artist, Kent Twitchell, encoded interesting theological elements in the work. For one, it is on the side of what was originally a science building (now an art building). As an institution dedicated to the gospel it seems important that the defining rubric for all courses is their alignment with scripture; especially in a field that at the time of the painting (early nineties) was considered suspect by those of an evangelical faith.
Second, there is an unnatural double shadow beside Jesus, even though there are not two light sources. This is a subtle hint to the theology of the Trinity.
Third, Christ holds out a Bible, the Word of God. A more significant action could not better represent what Biola holds to be a key element of its mission. It believes in the inerrancy of scripture and is devoted to its message. Christ as the Word and the giver of the Word is of utmost historical importance to the theological views of this community. In this piece of art, Christ’s mouth utters no words but His hands hold out the Word.
As I was finishing my time at Biola, the conversation regarding its restoration was just beginning. Many felt the mural was flawed and should go. I always silently wondered, “Who among us would be willing to pick up the first paint roller?”
I would not be surprised if even to this day iconoclasts grumble through the halls of Biola as they consider grabbing paint rollers.
***
Speaking of restorations, there is of course the 2012 botched restoration of Ecce Homo in Borja, Spain. For those unaware of the internet sensation, a well meaning elderly woman tried her best to restore a famous fresco of Christ. It did not go well. The restored fresco was executed in such a manner that it could not be ignored.
The result of the restoration spread worldwide with chuckles and shaking of heads. Universally it was considered a tragedy.
A beautiful history destroyed, even if done with the best of intentions. Wikipedia currently labels the piece an “attempted restoration” of the fresco.
What should be done with this attempt? Would it be better to remove it altogether? Strangely enough, tourism for the town boomed in the years following the debacle. ArtNet News in 2014 published an article titled, “Botched Restoration of Jesus Fresco Miraculously Saves Spanish Town,” because of the stream of tourists that came to see the silly face.
Is the comically bad fresco an affront to our Lord and Savior? Can he withstand such glib laughter that confirms in some minds the utter laughable nature of the faith itself?
What of depictions that are overtly and intentionally offensive?
I think of the 1987 Immersion by Andres Serrano, more commonly known as “Piss Christ.” Serrano presented a photograph of a crucifix seen through some sort of glowing orange and warm liquid. The soft light of the photograph glows from the upper right as Christ’s head dangles, perhaps limp, away from the light. Serrano created the picture by immersing the crucifix in a large volume of his own urine, hence the colloquial name.
In 2019 during a class discussion of the work, a student vehemently argued that it was offensive and the artist should feel ashamed. Thirty-two years later and it still has such an impact on some of those of the Christian faith.
One cannot deny that it is a powerful work if it has such an effect. Yet does that power give the work the right to exist? How do you determine which works of art should be allowed to exist? After all, the majority of us have the ability to tear down and destroy a helpless work of art even if it means there may be litigious consequences.
When hearing about the artwork for the first time I was also offended. I love Christ. Why would anyone desecrate Him in such a manner? Yet when I first saw it, I was taken aback by its beauty.
It is truly stunning.
When I was able to see it in person for the first time it stopped me in my tracks.Tears welled in my eyes at the work’s power. Now who is being cliché?
I wonder, is there a more honest depiction of Christ’s experience on Earth than this?
The photograph does not depict His love, His power, or His Godhood. It depicts His suffering, it immerses Him in it, again. For as long as a photo can last. It freezes the scandal of the crucifixion in the visceral submersion for all time.
The photograph displays the degradation that the Savior underwent in the name of love for His sinful creation. Even this difficult artwork did not go far enough, in my opinion.
***
Just a year after Immersion, Martin Scorsese released his controversial adaptation of the novel of the same name, The Last Temptation of Christ. Again, Christians across the nation took great offense. Even with a disclaimer attached saying, “This film is not based on the Gospels, but upon the fictional exploration of the eternal spiritual conflict,” the ire of the faithful across the nation was stoked.
The film caused all but the excommunication of Scorsese from the Roman Catholic Church. The depiction of Christ being tempted by fear, doubt, depression and particularly lust, was just too much for a general audience to see.
The exploration of the humanity of Christ was too much of a confrontation of the dual nature of the Savior. These artworks lead to widespread condemnation of those involved.
I cannot help but wonder, wasn’t Christ subjected to the same trials and temptations as we are? This film humanizes Christ unlike any other depiction that I have seen. Did this humanization go too far beyond the humanization inherent in the medium of film?
Is Serrano’s urine or the depiction of Christ being tempted to have sex with Mary Magdalene more or less humanizing than the infant who was born in a manger in Bethlehem some 2,000 years ago? Can any artwork portray Christ as too much of a human or did Christ already do that work for us?
Thinking back to my discomfort with the Laughing Christ in the coffee shop, it reminds me of an icon of Christ at the Monastery of Saint Catherine at Sinai. Commonly dated to the sixth century, the icon displays two sides of Christ in one face. Christ’s right side of His face is soft and welcoming, comforting even. But His left side is harsh and angry with darker shadows, a more defined cheekbone, and His furrowed brow. This icon tries, through a stylized representation, to encapsulate the depth of Christ’s persona. Savior, comforter, lover of all creation, husband of the Church; judge, ax toter, lion of Judah, conqueror of death.
But does this icon capture all of Christ?
None of them do. That is both the nature of the image of Christ and the problem with imaging Christ.
***
I don’t know if we should be making images of Christ. At the very least, the responsibility of the artist weighs heavy when one takes up the task of making one.
I can say that all of these artworks, even the botched Ecce Homo, have impacted me and helped me ponder the identity of Christ. Is that enough to justify their existence?
I am not sure what considerations must take place to make my own image of Christ, but I can say I am glad we have these existing images.
From the Biola mural I find a deeply appropriate if yet imperfect depiction of Christ for that community. From Ecce Homo I think of the sobering responsibility one has when depicting Christ. From “Piss Christ” I see the beauty through Christ’s ugly suffering. From The Last Temptation I see myself in Christ, my own weakness and the reality of my constant sinning. From the Icon of Christ I see the duality of justice and mercy and think of those goats and sheeps that will be separated.
The screaming Jesus makes me think of how He should respond to my sin, and then He surprises me when He laughs with joy and embraces me as a prodigal son. Even with this archive of pictures in my imagination, my mosaic of Christ is incomplete. It will be incomplete for all of eternity.
Let me ask something different; taken individually, alone, is any one of these artworks worthy? Some are most assuredly more worthy of a more considered look. But would you willingly be the person who paints over them? Especially after what happened to Ecce Homo? What does it mean to cover a picture of Christ with white wash? Even if it is an imperfect depiction.
I remember thinking about this when I was at Biola and some vehemently argued for the mural’s removal. I think of the confederate monuments being demolished in the south. I think of the Nazi monuments coming down and the destruction of Buddhas by the Taliban.
It means something, to destroy. Some things are worth destroying. Are any portraits of Christ worth destroying?
I know why I want to tear down monuments and images of Hitler. I want to be a person who would not stand by and watch him be glorified.
But do you risk taking a swing at Christ if you destroy an imperfect image of Him?
I think you do. Even when the likeness is imperfect it still bears some resemblance.
***
Which brings me back to the coffee shop and Thomas. I must admit I was feeling guilty that he and I did not spend much time discussing his pain. It’s not that we did not have quality time, but I felt like I was straying away from the topic of despair out of cowardice and discomfort.
I asked him the next day via text if he could be the one to destroy a depiction of Christ. He responded that he wouldn’t own or make an artwork of Jesus that was highly inaccurate. But he didn’t think he would try to destroy someone else’s highly inaccurate portrayal of Jesus either.
I thought to myself, why are pictures of Christ so important then, that both of us would not destroy them even if we dislike them?
I asked myself the following questions about each of the artworks:
Why does it offend me?
What does it say about Jesus?
Does an image of Christ need to be perfect?
Can you find any redeeming qualities in the artwork?
Finally, what would it feel like and what would it mean to actually destroy it?
Could I do it myself?
I can’t help but imagine that destroying a picture of Christ would feel a little bit like murder. I don’t mean it would actually be that, I know that Christ is greater than these works of human hands. But there is something about it that just feels wrong. The person who drove the nail in the hand was not the executioner, but still.
I think portraits are powerful for a simple reason that is foundational to the Christian faith. That is, that every human being is made in the image of God. You are a bearer of that image. Like it or not, Jesus was both God and man. When you think about your own image-bearing you must remember that the standard of your representation is Christ. You, in a very poor manner, are an image of Christ. Whether you like it or not. Since you are a bad and disagreeable and imperfect image of Christ, should you be destroyed?
Well, we know the answer to that already; yes, the wages of sin is death. But Christ saved you from such a fate that your image may be sanctified.
I don’t think a single likeness of Christ should be destroyed. I think each depiction should be contended with. Whether it is urine, or charcoal, or Willem Dafoe, all of these portrayals of Christ can be used to illuminate an aspect of the reality of Christ. Even if that means they are absolute contrasts of who Christ really is.
The worst they can be is the opposite of Christ. Satan. But even seeing who Satan is helps us understand who Christ is by contrast.
I told Thomas that next time he was in the depths of despair to realize his inadequacies are similar to these artworks. And his image, that he bears, is far more valuable than the images he himself admitted he would not destroy. So how could he dare destroy his own image through an act of suicide?
This completed the picture for me. He and I, and you, bear the image of God. Christ. None of us are good reflections of him. We have dirt under our fingernails and we fart far too often. We are all flawed, we focus on the wrong aspect and we are covered in soot. We need to be restored and we also need to be remade but we can’t deny the fact that the risen Christ still bears the ugly scars on His resurrected hands.
I urge you not to think that it is right, or expedient, to destroy such an image. Only God has that authority as author and He has decided to redeem that image through His refining fire. One day the image may suddenly shine through the dark mirror-like veil that covers it. One day you may see beauty through urine, poor and dark charcoal, good intentions, and even Willem Dafoe.
Humanity can use having those images around. Just like we could use having you around.
Each one has a bit of the divine, even if just the size of a mustard seed.
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[1] John Calvin was a 16th century Protestant theologian who, along with other reformers, argued against the use of images in the Church based on a literal interpretation of the Ten Commandments’ prohibition of idols. This doctrine is often referred to as iconoclasm, meaning to break images.
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Greg Lookerse is an interdisciplinary artist and writer in West Michigan where he is an assistant professor of art at Hope College. He spends most of his time making or thinking about art. Which means he spends a lot of time staring at things. He is an avid forager and cannot wait to get out in the woods after a day of rain to see what bounty has broken through the soil. You can see his artwork at www.greglookerse.com and hear more of his thoughts on his YouTube channel www.youtube.com/@artcanhelp.