Too Catholic?

Copyright © Edward Riojas

At least three times within the span of a month, the question was asked of artwork: “Is it too Catholic?,” and here I am, sitting in front of a project that contains the Latin text, “... ecclesiam catholicam...”

Whether it is an in-grown Lutheran fear, angst against Papal idiocracy, or simply an attempt to get a handle on the unknown, being “too Catholic” is a recurring question, especially where art is concerned; especially in the Lutheran Church. Typically, this would be addressed during an adult Bible study, or in a pastoral e-mail string. Being a producer of such images, however, brings the oft-needed opportunity to explain a few things.

In a recent interview for LCEF’s “Interest Time” magazine, I was asked, “[What] makes a piece of art distinctly Lutheran?” Of course I started with a Smart Alec response of “When it has enough Luther’s Seals,” but then I got serious. Sacred art confesses a great deal [to church visitors], and it does so long before any parishioner opens their mouth.

Good Lutheran art does not simply ride a comfy path between Roman Catholicism and American Evangelicalism – it clings to Holy Scripture while redressing the errors of other denominations. Thus, we show a crucified Christ – for that is what we preach – and we care not if Evangelicals get squeamish. We also keep elaborate crowns off of Mary’s head, refusing her preeminence, and we care not if Rome takes offense.

A great deal of Lutheran artistic purpose clings mightily to the Church Catholic – the whole Christian Church on earth – and not the Roman Catholic Church. The terms are not synonymous, but are always a point of confusion. Luther never wanted to relinquish the word “catholic,” and neither should we.

Things can get sticky, however, when folks take certain images as an indication that we are somehow realigning ourselves with Rome. Crucifixes – crosses holding depictions of the dead [or dying] Christ – are often seen as the crux of the problem. If I got a nickle every time someone chimed, “Can’t we just get past the cross?,” I would be a wealthy man. But we will certainly be spiritually bankrupt the minute we sanitize the very blood that bought us. So we remind our stupid, forgetful selves of the cost of our salvation with an image of our Lord on the cross. No, we don’t re-crucify Him every Sunday. Instead, we confess Christ crucified and we daily kill the Old Adam.

Of course, that catholic-thing rears itself in other ways. Images of saints bearing halos, too many Biblical images in the sanctuary [however many THAT might be!], beautiful vestments, and using Latin [gasp!] seem for many to be too far off the Lutheran reservation.

To this layman, however, Latin rocks. Phrases like “Te Deum” and “Agnus Dei” and “Magnificat” uplift me, even without the benefit of being a linguist. A current Ecclesiastical Sewing project on which I am working is rich in this ancient language, while confessing the “credo” of the Church Catholic. The ‘Apostles project’ will have, in part, a gorgeous, vintage set of Apostle’s symbols interwoven with the Apostles Creed. It will be augmented by yet more designs of my own hand, making it arguably the most comprehensive collection the vestment manufacturer will offer.

The ancient symbols and old language and deliberate richness of the set will, in themselves, remind us that we are not islands of rightly-preached theology; that the train of redeemed saints extends backward into time immemorial and forward to the ranks of those who will, in time, believe. This is true Christian Church; the Church Catholic; the “Ecclesiam Catholicam.”

Little Boxes All In A Row

The poplar sides roughed out.

Copyright © Edward Riojas

To be fair, the first one was not little. In a spur of the moment decision, I blurted out that I wanted to make my Dad’s casket. Perhaps it was my way of grieving. Maybe it was one last project of which I thought my Dad would be proud.

At any rate, I tackled a woodworking project with little to go on except the inner dimensions of a vault and the outer dimensions of a casket liner insert. That first box had to be strong enough to hold an adult and, with my heavy-handed building skills in mind, it had to be light enough to be carried by [only] six men. And, pardon the pun, there was a deadline.

Armed with lack of sleep, I shopped for lumber while store employees were hyping it up with their morning pep rally. They had no clue that their first customer was grieving and was about to begin the somber task of building a box for a man.

Fast forward a few years. There was a still-born death in the family of a friend, and the grandparents of the child were distraught over the fate of the body. Would a shoebox suffice? Was that irreverent? Was it even legal? I stepped forward and offered to build a small casket. That casket would serve as a model for successive boxes – I just didn’t expect the next one to be for my own grandchild. And then another.

The roughed out top and bottom fitted to the sides.

Creating these little treasure boxes – for that is what caskets and vaults are – is an act of caring of the most intimate kind. While working on them, I run my hand over the unfinished wood, knowing that it will touch the body of a fellow redeemed. I consider the box joints, knowing that the tiny joints of that infant were considered by the Lord while it was still growing in the womb. I look at the finish, and wonder if a thing so destined for hiding displays the love of a grandfather. For hours on end, this is the path my grieving takes for the least of these, my brethren.

What a stark contrast there is between these little boxes in a row and the bodies of children for which no boxes are made; for which no grieving is given; for which convenience is bartered for a life. Lord have mercy.

Here we could simply cry for the mountains to fall on us, but we do not grieve as others do. Being a peculiar man of a peculiar people, I strongly considered removing the quilted casket liner that I also made, folding it, and placing it back in the box. What a confession is made by simply folding a burial cloth and setting it to one side! We mourn here in time, but we will rejoice there, in eternity, where such cloths will have no use, and where boxes, both large and small, will finally be emptied of their treasures – including little Matthias John.

The finished casket. The poplar box is black-stained poplar. The cross is hand-rubbed ribbon sapele. The five brass, cap nuts
represent the five wounds of Christ. Four of them cap threaded rods passing through the box sides, holding the lid in place.

Apostolic Symbols: The Sharpest Tools In The Shed

One of several symbols
for St. Bartholomew

Copyright © Edward Riojas

Let me preface this post by conceding the Apostles probably didn’t have a cushy life. I doubt any of them considered legal action when they were slandered. Or when they were thrown out of the synagogue. Or worse. Being given the title of “Sent one” in Jesus’ time meant that you also made Satan’s most-wanted list.

That being said, tradition sometimes gets out of hand, and this is true with the Apostles and their lives. I recently started work on a project for Ecclesiastical Sewing which will be based on the Apostles. My chief source for imagery is “Church Symbolism,” a book by the respected F.R. Webber, who was a Lutheran pastor of considerable artistic skill. His collection of recognizable symbols is well-rounded, and many more symbols not visually included are given mention in the pages.

What becomes clear is that, based on their symbols, the Apostles met some very sorry ends, indeed. Sure, you will see the crossed keys of St. Peter. You might see a rooster symbol for him, too. Then you see an upside down cross, and things get ugly.

One of St. James’ symbols is a sword. One of St. Philip’s symbols is a spear. St. Bartholomew has a scimitar – and flaying knives. St. Thomas has a carpenter’s square, but there is also a spear and a quiver of arrows. St. James the Less has a fuller’s bat (I had to look that one up, too), some stones, and a saw. Not to be outdone, St. Simon has a saw, a boat hook, a couple of oars, and a halberd. St. Matthias overkills things with a glaive, a battle ax, a spear, a sword, and some rocks. Overkill, indeed.

This unwieldy collection of sharp tools and weapons points to a rather convoluted history of the blessed Apostles. I was always under the impression that they were all martyred, save John. This view is probably the most popular, but by far the most unlikely. The apostolic symbols point to a collection of rather unreliable histories, legends, and hearsay. “Histories” were based on sometimes-dubious stories handed down through an oral tradition akin to a bad game of telephone. One might also surmise that some stories were invented to enhance the devotion of a given Apostle. No one, after all, wants to venerate a saint who dropped dead from high cholesterol. There is no symbol for that.

Hence, some histories relate that an apostle was thrown from a parapet, then stoned, then, after reviving, was run through with a spear, and finally was sawn in two for good measure.

In fact, Holy Scripture does not mention how most of the apostles met their ends. Only James the Greater is spoken of in the opening verses of Acts 12. Although counted with the original apostles, we simply won’t talk of Judas Iscariot.

Interestingly, the early Church recognized only Peter, Paul, and James the Greater as being martyred apostles. Perhaps even more interesting, some theologians place John the Baptist among the martyred apostles.

We needn’t get squeamish, however, if we spy a sinister saw in a stain-glassed window that commemorates an apostle. Inaccuracy has morphed, over the years, into identifying symbols for some of the most beloved saints in Scripture. And while Scripture itself may describe them as being "not many wise," yet the Church has counted them among the sharpest tools in the shed.

Birds and Bees and Church

Copyright © Edward Riojas

Settle down, this post isn’t about THAT. It does concern what happens when creation and The Creator come together in one place.

Yesterday I finished “blocking-in” a series of four paintings destined for a chapel in Wausau, Wisconsin. The panels are now entirely covered with paint, but are far from finished. It is the second piece on which I’ve worked that features a large chunk of wildlife. The former was my first major sacred piece, which hangs in the sanctuary of my own church, Our Savior Lutheran Church, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

That first piece, “The Te Deum Polyptych” takes the phrase, “We praise Thee O God,” and runs with it – or gallops with it. The ancient hymn begins with the overarching theme of praise, at which point I painted a representation of saints and angels and, yes, assorted animals. They run the gamut from resplendent and Kosher to smelly and unclean. There are bison and bugs (yes, a praying mantis) and even the odd molecule. They all face the Creator and praise the Word that spoke them into existence.

The newest piece, for Zion Lutheran Church, might be something akin to an tableau from an old museum of natural history. It gives a strong nod to the native flora and fauna of Wisconsin, and is intended to act as a set of windows overlooking Wausau's beloved mountain. There are sandhill cranes and loons, muskie and whitetail deer, sumac and trillium, and even a trilobite – the state fossil.

This could have easily gotten out of hand in a fluffy tribute to all things furry. Instead, the frames of the paintings will rein in the wildlife with excerpts from the Venite. A trilobite, for example, might seem to brush awfully close to the knucklehead Darwin, but it’s presence changes entirely when coupled with “In His hand are the depths of the earth.”

Every creature in the piece looks toward the Zion Altarpiece, an earlier work of mine. The last panel of the piece, however, takes an unexpected turn with the presence of an African lion. Obviously, that type of lion isn’t native to Wisconsin, but this one lays down with the Lamb, in reference to Isaiah 11. The passage also mentions a cow, which flanks the lion. And yes, if you must know, the cow is appropriately a milk-producing Holstein – for all you die-hard cheeseheads,

2020: What’s Coming on the Horizon

Page spread from Kloria Publishing's "Dear Christians, One And All Rejoice," to be released in April, 2020

Copyright © Edward Riojas

Okay, folks, you’ve had your break from the Art Curmudgeon, but the fun is over and it’s time to get serious.

My absence was due to a perfect storm composed of a post-Thanksgiving Day rush on print orders, an intense, “little,” art promotion that benefited a worthy cause, and a crappy cold that netted an antibiotic regimen. All of that is now in the past – except for the antibiotics.

We are now in a new year with a new bundle of possibilities and hopes. However, before we get all weird and begin dropping stupid puns like “Having 20/20 vision,” let’s be a bit more cautious and bring the Lord along with us into the New Year. I don’t want to say I will do thus and so, only to be divinely rebuked with, “You fool!” Our plans are always integral with what the Lord has in store, so if He wants to take me sooner than later, then a few projects will obviously be left for others to complete. That’s just the way it is.

As long as I am able, however, the ever-evolving project roster will cause me to stay focused, and I will continue to crank out pieces this side of heaven. So here is what’s going on:

I am currently working on a series of four paintings for a repeat client. The piece, based on the Venite, will hang in the chapel at Zion Lutheran Church, Wausau, and will play a secondary role to the Zion Altarpiece, which I also created for the chapel.

I’m also working on a secular entry for ArtPrize. The now-biennial event gave me a much needed rest last year, but it’s hard to stay away from such a competition when it’s in my own back yard, and this fall the event returns in all its tarnished glory.

If you were paying attention a few weeks ago, Kloria Publishing gave a soft reveal of a book, "Dear Christians, One And All Rejoice," that is slated for an April release. I finished the project nearly a year ago. Besides Kloria’s book release, I will concurrently release several new prints based on the illustrations.

Even though I have started to decline some book projects – my sincere apologies to those affected – I will be working on a few assorted publications that have either been languishing on back-burners or are from repeat clients. I don’t feel I can drop book titles just yet, but I’ve been collaborating with Rev. Michael Holmen, Rev. Evan Scamman, and Rev. Tyrel Bramwell on diverse projects.

I’ve also been working with Rev. Nathan Sherrill and Rev. Timothy Frank on music publications for the fledgling David’s Harp RSO, and illustrations for a third book are in progress. On a side note, I’ve been enlisted in an artistic advisory role with David’s Harp, which may well expand my involvement beyond illustrator.

I will also continue to collaborate with Carrie Roberts of Ecclesiastical Sewing. My hand will be seen in certain large “sets” of paraments/vestments, and I will occasionally work on custom designs for some of her clients.

There are also several large projects looming in various stages of approval from clients and prospective clients. These come from far-flung corners of Michigan, New Hampshire, North Carolina, and various parts of Texas. I am also being kept in the loop on developments in Sri Lanka.

Not one to allow my mind to go slack, I also have two or three non-commissioned projects in mind for completion this year. As if I need something to do.

None of this is being mentioned in order to toot my own horn. Rather, it is a wake-up call to the mountain of work that is staring me in the face. There is much to do and little time to waste, which brings me to the harsh reality: It’s time to wrap up this post and get to work.

Putting The Child in the Back Seat

"Madonna and Child"
Hans Multscher (German). 1480.

Copyright © Edward Riojas

A annoyance occurs every year during the Nativity and artists are sometimes to blame.

It is subtle, and worms its way around the edges of Christendom, eating away at the fringe, but affecting the core, as well. What begins as an innocuous thing ends up, when allowed to continue on its logical progression, as heresy. I am writing, of course, of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, and His mother, Mary.

The crown has long been one symbol associated with the Advent season and, by extension, Christmas. This originates from one of the “O Antiphons,” and runs through hymns of the Advent season. Lyrical phrases like, “The Advent of our King,” “Prepare a Royal Highway,” and “be Thyself our King of Peace,” roll off the tongue with tunes playing in our heads.

Hence, it shouldn’t come as much of a surprise that some artist in antiquity decided it would be swell to put a crown on the head of baby Jesus – this, in spite of His birth in a feed trough for livestock. But then something bad happened.

Whether because of a growing Marian cult, or because of some strange foreshadowing of gender equality, Mary was given a crown, as well. In the symbolic realm, however, a crown does not act as does a halo (nimbus). A nimbus is used for garden variety saints, but a tri-radiant nimbus is reserved for Persons of the Holy Trinity. That includes baby Jesus. No such distinction is made with a crown. Furthermore, when a crown is placed on an adult, it must be twice as large as the Infant’s. But sometimes the Child retained no crown at all. This is where subtlety was lost and things became dangerous.

Art began to mimic life, life began to mimic art, and the slippery slope of relegating the King of all creation to the back seat began. But we needn’t totally fault artists – music composers tripped in their own turn. The angel Gabriel’s announcement to Mary apparently wasn’t quite enough, so heretics and lyricists put a few more words in the archangel’s mouth. The “Ave Maria” ended up with a second verse, and it wasn’t at all the same as the first. “Hail Mary, Mother of God, Pray for us sinners...” goes off the deep end, and spirals into the netherworld.

While we may enjoy Renaissance depictions of the Madonna and Child, and while we may hum our favorite version of “Ave Maria,” it is important to draw critical distinctions. Unfortunately, those distinctions have become badly smudged, not only by Roman Catholicism, but also by some on the fringes of Lutheranism.

Prayers are offered to Mary and glory given to the same, while our King – and hers – sits as a darling afterthought on the lap of a queen. Lord have mercy! Of this, and so many other sins, we must repent.

The Word, which became flesh and dwelt among us, is living still and speaks even to this sin. Perhaps in knowing what would become of her perceived persona, the last words of Mary as recorded in the Gospels point in a far different direction than her devotees might expect: “Do whatever He tells you.”

An Article of Note

Copyright © Edward Riojas

In my avoidance of redundancy [and copyright infringement], I'm pointing your attention elsewhere for just this once. I was asked to write an article for this year's December issue of the Lutheran Witness. Because it is based on a description of one of my pieces, and because it is worth contemplating the coming of our Lord, I'm urging to hunt down a copy and give it a read.

What wasn't stated in the article is the fact that giclée prints of the piece are available for purchase. Below are sizes/prices for the prints. To order or for more information, please e-mail me at edriojasartist@gmail.com

"Adoremus"
19.5" x 30" / $150
15.5" x 24" / $110
12" x 18.6" / $80

"Adoremus" Edward Riojas. 2012. Oil on wood.
(Collection of Our Savior Lutheran Church, Grand Rapids, Mich.)