Like St. Stephen’s Basilica and St. Matthias in Budapest, like St. Vitus Cathedral in Prague’s Castle District, like the church called Our Lady Before Tyn in Prague’s Old Town Square, many of the oldest and most impressive churches in Europe are now mainly historical sites rather than places of worship—museums in effect—telling the story of an era past when the faith of a nation was linked much more closely to the crown, to the monarchs, ruling over it. Nonetheless, these remarkable places, some of which I visited with my family this summer, remain awe-inspiring. The architecture—designed to trigger consideration of the divine—certainly still does so.
Though the notion of actually worshiping in one of these city’s incredible churches has been somewhat pushed to the side, what’s conversely rewarding is when you instead find something prompting you toward worship near these churches in an actual museum. This was the case when in Prague, not far from St. Vitus Cathedral, my wife Kelly and I explored a museum exhibit consisting of altarpieces from old European churches. Perhaps the churches closed or were no longer able to care for the pieces. Or maybe the altarpieces had become so valuable or historically important that there was a risk they might be stolen or vandalized. But whatever the reason, here they were now—removed, restored, and placed in this museum. Beautiful and awe-inspiring, it was easy to imagine church-goers from another time and place, approaching them week after week, their spirits elevated and their faith enhanced by such stunning, storytelling beauty.
Then, in Budapest’s Hungarian National Gallery, it was a group of paintings that similarly drew my attention. The artist was Károly Ferenczy. My familiarity with Ferenczy was limited to a course I taught about Genesis on a series of Sunday mornings years ago, focusing on the story of Joseph. In it, I utilized a painting called Joseph Sold into Slavery by His Brothers (1900), an evocative modern work showing a dazed Joseph as a young teenager, having been pulled from the pit his jealous brothers had thrown him into and being sold to desert traders by those same malicious siblings. And before me, here was the actual painting.
While I knew of the painting, I knew nothing about Ferenczy. Considered the father of Hungarian impressionism and the founder of his country’s modern art movement, over fifty of his paintings were on display in the National Gallery. Next to the Joseph painting was Abraham’s Sacrifice (1901). Moving, impressionistic, it depicts a green-robed angel stepping from a deep forest to snare Abraham’s knife-wielding hand, saving Isaac who is bound by the wrists, his back to the viewer.
A few feet away, Ferenczy’s painting called The Sermon on the Mount (1896) was even more arresting. Again, a thoroughly modern take, the canvas, dominated by beautiful green hues, shows Jesus seated on lush grass, turned mostly away from the viewer, reddish-brown hair, wearing a dark blue robe, His palms turned upwards. There, on a gentle hill, He is surrounded by twenty or so enrapt onlookers. However, they are not first-century disciples but ordinary Europeans of the late 19th century. A young man in a brown business suit, another one older with a black hat. A mother with her young daughter. A number of folks in white shirts reclining on the grass wearing straw hats, field workers I suppose. One is standing, holding a threshing tool. To Jesus’ right are a number of sweet-looking children, the grass reaching up to their waists. A devout-looking woman sits next to them with a white head covering. Finally, closest to Jesus, there’s a soldier seated in full armor. They’re all, each and every one of them, absorbing Jesus’ teachings in Europe in 1896, out in the country where and when Károly Ferenczy then lived.
The breathtaking modernity of Ferenczy’s Biblical paintings, created in the compelling style of his day coupled with my less-than-worshipful experience within the big churches we were visiting around the same time, emphasized to me that as followers of Christ—while we must always adhere to the ancient tenets of our faith—we also have the ongoing duty under God’s guidance to find ways of renewing and retelling the story of the Gospel to the world. Though Jesus’ teachings never lose their relevance, we sometimes forget how to offer the meaningful stories we cherish with all the vigor, vibrancy, and magnetism they’re owed. Perhaps those churches whose altarpieces are now located in the museum failed to do this work of renewal, but artists like Károly Ferenczy, the father of Hungarian impressionism, did not.
God—Help me to embody the Gospel in the context of my time and place. Amen.
