Orbis Books has a series entitled “Modern Spiritual Masters.” When they proposed a volume on Vincent Van Gogh, the English publisher of the artist’s letters expressed incredulity that such a person should be considered a “spiritual master.”
St. Catherine of Bologna, patron saint of painters. (But did she paint any masterpieces?)
I’ve been wondering whether the Catholic church’s designation of ‘sainthood’ is really the last word in Christian sanctity. For what to make of all those categories of humanity who for various reasons are largely excluded from the canon of the canonized? Artists, for example, are hugely under-represented, with a few notable exceptions such as: icon painter Andrei Rublev (canonized only recently in 1988); poets Robert Southwell and John of the Cross; composers Hildegard of Bingen and Romanos the Melodist.
But what of Dante, Michelangelo, Milton, Dostoevsky, Van Gogh, or Eliot? To say nothing of thousands of lesser known creators. No place for them—they weren’t holy enough. They couldn’t be, perhaps, because of the demands of their art. And so we admire their works, yet we do not look to them as exemplars of holy living.
Is something wrong here? May not artists be people who devote themselves entirely to God, though in a different manner from that of conventional saints? Is it not their very calling to live and create beyond the conventional? In the light of a genius such as Van Gogh, don’t the classical parameters of sainthood begin to appear a little claustrophobic? Saints are known for lives of exceptional sacrifice, but what of the sacrifices demanded by art?
Perhaps a distinction is necessary between ordinary sanctity and extraordinary sanctity. Artists may be extraordinary in what they produce, but quite ordinary in the quality of their lives. As art connoisseur Sister Wendy Beckett observed, “There are three aspects to being a spiritual master: personality, action, and message. Some, like Mother Teresa and St. Thérèse, have all three. Others like Thomas Merton have two, but perhaps don’t measure up in their actions. I feel Van Gogh has one, because, despite all his earnest endeavors as a person and in his actions, he was a failure. But his message is so overwhelmingly beautiful that one needs nothing more.”
I love those final words: “one needs nothing more.” Is it not possible that, in the kingdom of grace, having one aspect of one’s life that is “overwhelmingly beautiful” is enough for sainthood?
Such questions, it seems to me, go to the heart of the gospel. For according to scripture, every Christian is a saint. Yet scripture also teaches that some will have more glory in heaven than others, and this is what we seek to recognize in conferring sainthood.
But to continue with the example of Van Gogh: Does his greatness in the eyes of the world disqualify him from greatness in heaven? Is worldly fame something that must be parked at the pearly gates? Does not Van Gogh’s artistic genius, so clearly a gift of God, give glory to his creator? Was he not profoundly obedient to his Maker in claiming and pursuing his gift, even in the face of tremendous obstacles?
In the same way, we honor traditional saints not alone for their human heroism, but mainly for obedience to their spiritual giftedness. In either case, what we celebrate is the glory of God shining through their art. In one, the art is the work of the artist’s heart, mind, and hands; in the other, the art is the life itself. Is there really any difference? Both are sinners, vessels of clay, full of flaws. Might it not be argued that the glory of God shines even brighter through the likes of Van Gogh’s madness, Michelangelo’s brooding tempestuousness, or Dostoevsky’s gambling?
Just some questions I have as I’ve been reading Carol Berry’s Vincent Van Gogh: His Spiritual Vision in Life and Art. Also, a nod to Robert Ellsberg’s wonderful book All Saints, a collection of brief life portraits which includes entries such as Van Gogh, Dostoevsky, and William Blake.
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