The church I attended during most of my childhood and adolescence was ugly – an unattractiveness that derived not from neglect but from intention. The carpet was an orange-brown that the chairs exactly duplicated. The white, windowless walls were bare except for a wooden cross hanging behind the pulpit. It was a young church, and as the years passed, some women tried to soften its harshness. They arranged greenery near the pulpit. They convinced the elders to paint the walls a light blue. Eventually, they successfully petitioned for new chairs, even new carpet. But throughout this brightening, no one dared to propose – no one even thought to propose – introducing visual art into the church’s interior. No paintings, no sculptures, no stained glass windows were considered. This was, of course, a mode of faithfulness.

Christianity has a love-hate relationship with sacred art.