Why are there thousands of paintings of Mary and Jesus, yet none allowed of Muhammad?

It wasn’t always this way. In the early days, Christians held similar views to those that Jews and Muslims held—and still hold today.

So, what made Christianity change its tune on religious art?

In doing so, it fundamentally changed how we appreciate art, secular or religious, to this day. Let me explain…

The face of God

If you live in the West, you’re well accustomed to depictions of God: paintings of Jesus, picture book Bibles, statues of the saints, you name it.

This is not a universal phenomenon. In the Islamic world, art and architecture take a different form. Vibrant colors, architectural symmetry, and creative geometrical designs reign supreme.

And of course, any depictions of God or Muhammad aren’t just an afterthought: they’re downright forbidden.

But why is this?

When you look back at the origin of the Abrahamic religions, early adherents were surprisingly unified; not in their theological convictions, but in their understanding of religious art.

The early Christian Church, just like Judaism and Islam, was wary of any attempt to depict the face of God. First generation Christians were only too aware of Judaism’s prohibitions of idol worship, and were hesitant to do anything that threatened to derail their new movement with accusations of paganism.

Things could have easily remained this way for centuries, if it weren’t for one man: Jesus himself. 

As the early Church fathers worked to understand what it meant that Jesus was the Messiah, debates raged over the nature of Christ’s divinity.

Was he part human and part divine? Or fully human and fully divine? What did it mean that God was his father? And what on earth did the Gospel writer John intend when he said that Jesus was the “word,” and that “the Word became flesh and dwelt among us”? 

The debates gave way to what is today known as the Incarnation: the idea that Jesus is indeed God incarnate, and that he entered into the human world—not just metaphorically, but in real flesh and blood—to dwell among us.

While the idea of the Incarnation might seem like theological scruple, it was in fact revolutionary: not only did it lead to Christianity’s endorsement of God’s depiction in art, but it influenced the way we view art itself, secular and religious, to this very day. 

Let there be art…

So how did this pave the way for depictions of God in Christian art?

Original objections went (and continue to go) along the lines of “God is mysterious and infinite, is it not blasphemous to reduce him to a finite and limited form?”

But since God had allowed himself to take on real shape, color, and the finite substance of human form without compromising his grandeur and infinitude, the theological green light was eventually lit for Christians to do the same and portray his likeness.

Depictions of Jesus, Mary, and other figures of faith became not just permissible, but encouraged.

Catholic prelates across Europe advocated for the creation of art in all its forms: paintings, statues, stained glass, illustrated manuscripts, etc. Their reasoning was that art could communicate the story of the Gospel to their largely illiterate congregations. Most people’s first introduction to the Holy Scriptures was not through the text itself, but through sermons and the art contained in their local parish.

Great art and great cathedrals therefore became magnificent vehicles of evangelization.

The Duomo of Milan’s 4,000 statues, for example, aren’t just there to show off. They serve to inspire people to a life of faith by highlighting the examples of the saints.

Of course, this proliferation of art wasn’t without its critics. Amidst this all this, were people not missing the point of who they were supposed to worship by focusing on the art instead?

The Church’s answer was a resounding “no”, which brings us to our final point.

To infinity and beyond

The Church’s defense of art has always been that one does not look at art, but beyond it. 

Put another way, art does not serve as an end in and of itself. Instead, it’s a gateway to a deeper reality: to infinity and beyond.

In this sense, a painting of Christ and his apostles isn’t supposed to stop at the canvas. The painting is designed to pull you into the Gospel story, to contemplate the life of Christ and its ramifications in the present.

Remarkably, this Christian understanding of art has so much influenced our de facto way of thinking that we often fail to notice just how much it informs the way we engage with even secular art (and entertainment) today.

We naturally understand that the best art is that which moves us: the books that inspire bravery, the music that moves you to tears, and the movies that encourage you to keep up the fight. 

In all of these cases, the art’s effect on us doesn’t cease upon enumeration of its technical virtues. While craftsmanship certainly plays a role in the ability of art to move you, it is ultimately the degree to which that art opens the door for you to engage in a deeper reality that makes it truly memorable.

All of this has its roots in the early Church’s understanding of the Incarnation. The idea of an infinite God becoming a finite human in order to point us back to the infinite: it’s not just Church doctrine, it’s an exact parallel of what great art seeks to do.

Last week I shared a short thread of Christian themes in Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings – a great final example of this concept.

Tolkien’s novels take the “infinite”, i.e. the moral and transcendental themes of brotherhood, heroism, and sacrifice, and turns them into the “finite”: words on a page. Words, made “incarnate” by human language, whose ultimate goal is to turn you back to the infinite by embracing those underlying ideals. 

Great art does not point to itself, it points beyond itself. 

So, next time you take in a great painting or step into the awe-inspiring narthex of a cathedral, remember that you’re not supposed to simply look at the art around you: you’re supposed to look beyond it, into eternity.

Artwork of the Week

Milan’s Duomo is home to one of northern Italy’s most profound reflections on faith, sacrifice, and resilience: the Statue of Saint Bartholomew:

Saint Bartholomew was one of Christ’s apostles who met a gruesome end. All but one of the twelve apostles were killed for their faith, yet perhaps none as gruesome as Saint Bartholomew.

As punishment for converting the king of Armenia to Christianity, Bartholomew was martyred by being skinned alive. To depict this, Renaissance sculptor Marco d’Agrate produced a rare example of an écorché (a figure showing the muscles of the body without skin) in marble. His incredible anatomical precision makes it all the more haunting.

Yet true to the spirit of martyrdom, Saint Bartholomew is not shown as a man in the painful throes of death. He instead stands brave, defiant, and resilient in the face of tribulation.

Saint Bartholomew proudly wears his own skin like a “cloak”, draped over him in regal, senatorial fashion. In his hand he clutches the knife that flayed him—the weapon wielded against him is made powerless. According to legend, Bartholomew continued preaching to a rapt audience after his executors had flayed him.

The statue invites contemplation on the role of suffering, the human capacity for endurance, and the transcendent power of belief. It’s also a reminder, not just of Saint Bartholomew’s trial, but of his virtue in light of it. He was made to suffer because he stood up for his beliefs, and yet he never betrayed his principles.

In his martyrdom, Saint Bartholomew went on to live forever, and his likeness has now occupied this spot in the Duomo for almost five centuries—reminding visitors of the power of enduring faith in the face of persecution.