Art in a Catholic Home

I was told recently of a child’s classroom assignment, and thought that it bore repeating.  The child was instructed to walk through his home, and make an inventory of every religious item in every room.  The hoped-for result was that there would be something representative of the faith in every room in his house. 

I went through our own house after hearing about this, and was a bit nervous about the results.  I honestly wasn’t sure if we’d ‘measure up’ to what a Catholic home should be.  I was pleasantly relieved by our results, though – there’s either a cross, crucifix, or picture (ex. The Last Supper) in most every room in the house.  There’s nothing in our workout room, which isn’t so surprising, but I am surprised to find that we have no religious art in our family room.  Now that we’re aware of the omission, we’re on the lookout for the right item.  Bathrooms are (in my opinion, at least) exempt.  Otherwise, though, we really should have constant reminders of our faith life in our surroundings.  It’s surprising how far-reaching the influence of religious art can be.

I can think of only one religious item of décor that was in my parents’ house when I was a child.  It’s a small-ish sculpture by John Silk Deckard called Crucifixion/Resurrection, and I still adore it.  Most of the art in my parents’ house was of my mother’s choosing, and her tastes lean toward the modern, so it’s something that you might see at the Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art, as opposed to the classical sculpture gallery at the Louvre.  To each his own.  It sits on top of my parents’ piano, and I always found it fascinating.  It’s a more-or-less traditional image of Jesus crucified, but the ‘cross’ is actually a duplicate of Christ himself, muscles straining and vibrantly alive, looking heavenward, all the while supporting his own lifeless body as an offering on his outstretched arms.  As a child, although I certainly didn’t have the vocabulary to explain why I thought it was wonderful, I knew that there was something very special about it.  It’s absurdly simple -- almost primitive in style, and yet very profound at the same time.  I remember staring at it for long periods, but being unable to bring myself to touch it.  I wasn't worthy.  For some reason, it spoke to me much more powerfully than any other artwork in our house. 

I don’t know if that sculpture was meaningful to me especially, or if it speaks to everyone who sees it.  I do know, however, that my then 8 year-old son seemed equally fascinated by it on our last visit to my parents’ house.  It reminds me that our children are in fact paying attention, and that makes me smile.  

The sculpture