Only as paganism fades away does the Church’s position soften. A pastiche of images on the walls captures it: across the Roman Empire, Christians entering their churches are greeted by paintings and mosaics of Jesus, his miracles, his disciples. There is something miraculous about how quickly it spreads, as if a whole civilization is waking up from a shared dream, a revelation of the divine formula: God is beauty, and beauty moves the soul. The timeless face of Jesus is suddenly everywhere. And yet at this very moment, just as Christian art is blooming, an existential danger rises. When the timeline on the walls reaches the 600s, the white letters become red. They are written in Arabic.
Bachmeier points to the words. “Now we come to the most electrifying event in history since the fall of Rome. Out of Africa marched the unstoppable new religion of Islam. It threatened not only the Holy Land but Christianity’s new attitude toward images. Before your eyes are the words of Muhammad as recorded by Imam Muslim. Since I have been asked not to read them aloud in these museums, you may read them for yourselves.”
There are murmurs as the crowd takes in the translations.
The most grievously tormented people on the Day of Resurrection will be the painters of pictures.
All painters who make pictures will be in the fire of Hell.
Do not leave an image without obliterating it.
“At the border of Christendom and Islam, Christians came in contact with these ideas,” Bachmeier says, beginning to lead the crowd forward again, “and some of our faithful began to absorb them. These Christians slipped into the heresy of believing that art depicting our Lord was evil and must be destroyed. One of these heretics became Christianity’s emperor in Constantinople. And in the black year of 726, he launched a campaign we know today as Iconoclasm. A tragedy eclipsing even the Fourth Crusade.”
A light clicks on overhead. Letters appear in the darkness, as if written in smoke by the devil. Nowak’s voice is pained as he reads them.
“Churches were scraped down and smeared with ashes because they contained holy images. Wherever there were venerable images of Christ or the Mother of God or the saints, these were consigned to the flames, or were gouged out and smeared over.”
Bachmeier continues. “The amount of Byzantine art that survived this period is desperately small. The world’s greatest collection of Christian art vanished almost entirely. This was a ruthless emperor. He proved to be almost unstoppable.”
We come to the end of the hall. Bachmeier points to the final wall, the one separating us from the Sistine Chapel. It is painted an eerie, haunting white. His voice trembles when he says: “Almost.”
The wall is so bright I have to look away. That’s when I notice that the door leading to the Sistine Chapel is flanked by Swiss Guards.
“One of the most important questions Doctor Nogara posed,” Bachmeier says, “was why Jesus left us the Holy Shroud. For seven hundred years, no one knew the answer. But in the midst of Iconoclasm, a Christian monk named John remembered an astonishing fact: in the city of Edessa there existed an image not made by human hands. An image of Christ, by Christ. It proved that our Lord’s new covenant was accompanied by a new art. When God became human, He made Himself into an image. By His own incarnation, He shattered the prohibition against art. And as proof of His intentions—like the tablets He gave to Moses—He left behind the Shroud.
“Inspired by John, a small group of old men rose up against the emperor. And together, those men saved Christian history. I present you their words.”
Archbishop Nowak’s voice is flooded with feeling now. Booming.
“God-protected emperor, Christ sent His image to King Abgar of Edessa, and even today, many peoples of the East still assemble at this image, in order to pray there. We adjure you, therefore, to turn back to the truth. It would have been better for you to have been a heretic than a destroyer of images.”