I Can See Clearly Now
Reframing the Reformation and Art
Beauty beckons from the doorsteps of our imagination. The image of God, present in humanity but distorted by sin, nevertheless remains as the sensus divinitatis—the internal “sense of God,” a vestigial witness to the great I AM (Genesis 1:27; Romans 1:19–20; Ecclesiastes 3:11; Exodus 3:14). Repentance and faith in the crucified, resurrected, ascended, reigning, and soon-returning Christ are the heaven-sent instruments that bring about our justification before the Almighty (Mark 1:15; Romans 5:1; Acts 2:36; Romans 10:9–10; Philippians 2:9–11; Revelation 22:20). The Holy Spirit baptizes us into Christ, resides within us, and grants us "union with Christ" (1 Corinthians 12:13; Romans 8:9–11; Galatians 2:20). We are adopted into the eternal family of God—true sons and daughters of the promise made to Abraham—saved and secured for eternity, solely by the atoning sacrifice of our Lord Jesus (Galatians 3:7, 29; Romans 8:15–17; Ephesians 1:5–7; John 3:16).
Sidebar: Reframing the Reformation and Art
The Reformation is often remembered for what it removed, but it should also be remembered for what it unleashed. Grace, liberty, and gratitude inspired by God’s grace created the foundation from which a new vision of art could develop. Rather than stifling creativity, the Reformation redirected it, rooting beauty in divine purpose. Art became not an escape from the world, but a faithful way to see through it. An artist may stand on the ground of Reformed thought without knowing the makeup of the soil.
Ecclesiastes 3:11 reminds us, “He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also, he has put eternity into man's heart, yet so that he cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end.” The drive to seek, find, and celebrate beauty is built into the human spirit. Painting, drawing, and all other forms of creative expression serve as proof of this divine energy within us, this Imago Dei — the image of God in every person.
The positive effects of the Reformation on art are too often overlooked. We read of the “stripping of the altars” and the contentious “surplice fights” over liturgical vestments under Archbishop William Laud (1573–1645), the 76th Archbishop of Canterbury.1 While regrettable examples of overreaction and pure mischief existed—some being "more Calvinist than Calvin," as the saying goes2—it is essential to remember the broader perspective. John Calvin (1509–1564), for instance, did not wage war on the arts. On the contrary, the great Reformer of Geneva called art a divine “gift” (see, e.g., Exodus 31:1–5; James 1:17).3 His theological vision—which affirmed both the goodness of God to humanity (Genesis 1:31; Psalm 145:9) and the sacredness of all vocations (Colossians 3:23–24; 1 Corinthians 10:31)—rallied a new and powerful force of creativity.4
Artists like Peter Paul Rubens (1577–1640) composed and painted with a Reformation worldview. As Tom Holland demonstrated in his book Dominion, even modernity and post-modernity find their meaning only in comparison with a Christian worldview.5 Similarly, art movements were also defined by the ethos released during the Reformation. A spectrum, of course, exists. The Lutheran and several Continental Calvinistic Reformed views did not, and do not, see the artistic expression of Jesus on the cross as a violation of the Second Commandment (Exodus 20:4–5; Colossians 1:15).6 English Puritanism and other expressions of Reformed thought, such as the Dutch Reformed pietists (“Dutch Puritanism,” and the Reformed Experiential movement) ) were either uncomfortable with or prohibitive of representations of the second person of the Trinity, concerned lest such portrayals lead to idolatry (Deuteronomy 4:15–16; Romans 1:23).7 Largely, global Anglicanism and English-speaking Presbyterianism have aligned with an overwhelming Protestant praxis: linear drawings or paintings of Jesus and His earthly ministry are viewed as historical representations, not to be adored, and images of Jesus are not used in liturgical or devotional practices (John 1:14; Hebrews 1:3).8
Similarly, most Protestant movements in English-speaking Christianity appreciate Rembrandt’s (1606–1669) depiction of the crucifixion but oppose placing a crucifix on a communion table. This may seem inconsistent to some High-Church Anglicans or Roman Catholics. However, the Reformation ethos behind such decisions is that one is based on historical and pedagogical reasons (Deuteronomy 6:6–9; Psalm 78:4–6), while the other—the crucifix—is doxological, a visual element intended for devotion and adoration, and thus, for many in the Reformational tradition, prohibited (Exodus 20:4–5; John 4:24).9
Reformed theology has traditionally viewed images of Christ in worship—especially the crucifix—as potentially idolatrous, as they may wrongly conflate symbol and substance.10 However, some Protestant and ecumenical scholars argue that the didactic use of the crucifix in worship, when properly understood, need not violate Reformed convictions about the Second Commandment.11 From a Roman Catholic standpoint, the crucifix is not merely a symbol of suffering but a sacramental visual theology—"a visible sermon" reminding the faithful of the cost of redemption and inviting contemplation of Christ’s love. While many of us remain uncomfortable with such a symbol used in public worship, we can, at least, grant that other believers (e.g., Hans Urs von Balthasar) defend the practice on theological and biblical grounds. Men of goodwill may surely disagree.12
It is essential to recognize that the Reformation had a profound and enduring impact on the world of art, one that extended well beyond doctrinal disputes or ecclesiastical reform. This great movement not only unleashed fresh currents of creative expression but also introduced a theological sobriety that emphasized disciplined restraint (1 Corinthians 14:40; Exodus 20:4–5). The influence of the Reformation can be traced in the development of composition, tone, perspective, color, and dimensionality, marking a pivotal moment in the trajectory of Western art. In future essays, I plan to explore this subject in greater detail. For now, it is enough to highlight what is often overlooked: the Protestant Reformation profoundly shaped the artistic vision of painters such as Peter Paul Rubens and Rembrandt van Rijn, and continued to inform the work of later figures, including J.M.W. Turner (1775–1851, Post-Romantic/Early Impressionist), John Constable (1776–1837, Romantic), Vincent van Gogh (1853–1890, Post-Impressionist), and John Singer Sargent (1856–1925, Realist/Impressionist).13 Their respective approaches to light, nature, and the human form bear witness to a theological inheritance that viewed creation as a means of revealing the glory of God (Psalm 19:1; Romans 1:20) while remaining cautious of imagery that might supplant the Creator with the created.14
Sola Scriptura and the Unleashing of Creativity
Why did the Reformation help create an artist like Vincent van Gogh? Author Mark Ford offers this insight: “By seeking to put Bibles into the hands of ordinary people and eventually have the Bible translated into English, the Reformists were providing an extraordinary tool for individual liberty and creativity.”15
Indeed, we remember that as a boy, Vincent believed he was called to be a Reformed pastor.16 Ford is right: the unleashing of creativity through Sola Scriptura—the commitment to Scripture as the supreme authority in all matters of faith and practice (2 Timothy 3:16–17; Psalm 119:105)—became a transformative event for post-Reformation artists. I would suggest another powerful influence worthy of exploration: the vision of vocation as sacred, grounded in the priesthood of all believers (1 Peter 2:9; Colossians 3:23).
Common Grace and Divinity in Simplicity
The Reformation was centered on the doctrine of God’s grace, which is expressed in both saving (“special”) and general (“common”) ways (Ephesians 2:8–9; Matthew 5:45). For Abraham Kuyper (1837–1920), these general expressions of divine favor constitute the doctrine of common grace. Perhaps no one since Calvin has more powerfully articulated this truth as active and pervasive in the world. In his Stone Lectures at Princeton Theological Seminary, Kuyper declared:
“And for our relation to the world: the recognition that in the whole world, the curse is restrained by grace, that the life of the world is to be honored in its independence, and that we must, in every domain, discover the treasures and develop the potencies hidden by God in nature and in human life.”17
Kuyper’s vision expanded the Reformation legacy by affirming the sanctity and potential of every sphere of human endeavor under the Lordship of Christ (Colossians 1:17–18).
This grace is not a saving grace, but a restraining grace—a divine provision that holds back the full effects of the Fall and allows some vestigial beauty of Eden to remain (Genesis 3:17–19; Romans 1:21–25). Just as the Imago Dei endures in humanity despite sin (Genesis 1:27; James 3:9), so too does common grace uphold a world marked by both brokenness and beauty. Surya Harefa, reflecting on the theology of Abraham Kuyper, observes that common grace functions by “maintaining the life of the world, relaxing the curse which rests upon it, arresting its process of corruption, and thus allowing the untrammeled development of our life in which to glorify Himself as Creator.”18
Kuyper taught that we must not separate common grace from special grace (John 1:16; Titus 2:11). Where special grace is received—as in the life-transforming work of the Reformation—common grace often follows, bringing collateral blessing to broader society. Kuyper specifically pointed to the “flourishing” of the arts, culture, and learning as one such example.¹ If a father receives Christ in a home of unbelievers, it brings benefit to the entire household (1 Corinthians 7:14). As the Lord sanctifies him through Word, Sacrament, and Prayer (John 17:17; Acts 2:42), life improves not only for him but also for those under his care. Common grace does not save, but it allows us to enjoy the beauty of God’s creation east of Eden (Genesis 4:16; Ecclesiastes 3:11)—a fallen world still infused with divine goodness and order.
Yet, common grace may also serve as a prevenient influence that gently prepares the way for saving grace. It acts, in a sense, as a quiet evangelist. The family, blessed by the father’s transformation, may one day ask, “Where do such blessings come from?” And he can then answer, “My newfound dedication to my work, to our family, to our neighbors—this comes from my life in Christ, the resurrected and reigning Savior” (Colossians 3:17; 1 Peter 3:15; Romans 6:4).19
Therefore, common grace enabled the post-Reformation artist to appreciate and cultivate creative responses to otherwise secular subjects (Acts 17:24–28; Psalm 24:1). Liberated from the extremes of state control and clericalism—and unshackled from the merely anthropocentric frameworks of Renaissance and Enlightenment humanism—artists were free to view the world as both physical and metaphysical, grounded in divine meaning.
Consider J.M.W. Turner’s epic painting, The Fighting Temeraire Tugged to Her Last Berth to Be Broken Up (1838). The work captures a deeply symbolic moment: a once-majestic warship, emblem of imperial glory, being towed away by a modern steam tug toward dismantlement. The image is noble and mysterious, definitive yet painterly. There is an atmospheric gallantry cloaked in a quiet lament—a sense of honor eclipsed by the advance of modernity. Turner's signature luminosity draws the viewer into a transcendent space, while his masterful use of linear perspective remains intact. A golden band of radiant clouds guides the viewer’s eye and subtly delineates the painting’s depth and spiritual tone. One sees the ship, yet also sees through it. Such vision is consonant with the Reformation’s enduring aesthetic: clarity without sentimentality, transcendence without illusion.
The ever-irascible Turner need not have been a faithful attendee of Anglican services to be faithful to the spirit of the Reformation that quietly shaped his artistic ethos.20 His painting is a visual echo of a theological truth: that God, through common grace, continues to bestow gifts—often through unlikely vessels—to reveal beauty, provoke contemplation, and stir longing for something greater (Ecclesiastes 3:11; James 1:17). To stand before The Fighting Temeraire at the National Gallery in London is to receive something more than aesthetic pleasure. It is to behold a grace that remains common, yet never ordinary.
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The Doctrine of Vocation and Art as Holy Work
The Reformation exalted the holiness of all lawful work, a principle that found rich expression in the visual arts (Colossians 3:23; 1 Corinthians 10:31). Within the Reformed worldview, artists were liberated to seek and reflect the glory of God in both landscapes and biblical motifs—whether by rendering the grandeur of nature or depicting scenes from sacred history. Some might find it difficult to believe that modern art owes its liberties to Martin Luther. Yet, the evidence suggests otherwise.21 Impressionism itself may be said to carry a debt to the Reformation, for it is, at its core, a metaphysical movement. The vision behind a painting like The Fighting Temeraire is rooted in a worldview that is simultaneously tangible and atmospheric, refusing any false dichotomy between spirit and matter (John 1:14; Romans 1:20).
This leads to a concluding reflection on three attributes of art formed under the influence of the Reformation:
A Renewed Relationship with Creation. The Reformation emphasized the inescapable bond between humanity and the created world, teaching that all creation declares the glory of God (Psalm 19:1; Genesis 1:31). This opened new vistas for artists to discover the divine in ordinary life and to reveal sacred meaning in what was previously considered mundane.
The Power of Exposition. The Reformers championed the interpretation of Scripture over received tradition (Acts 17:11; 2 Timothy 2:15), and this exegetical mindset was also reflected in the visual arts. Artists were now encouraged to explore emotional and spiritual depth with newfound freedom, as evident in John Constable’s atmospheric cloud studies and Vincent van Gogh’s charcoal drawing of an elderly woman, filled with dignity and sorrow.22 23
The Union of Spirit and Matter. The Reformation revealed a theological truth that had long been obscured: God is the Maker not only of the soul but also of the body; not only of heaven but also of earth. This liberated artists to attend to both the physical world and its spiritual resonance. Perhaps this is the most significant distinction between Reformation-influenced art and Renaissance art. The former celebrated God as the author of all Goodness and Beauty and as the sender of a Redeemer (James 1:17; Ephesians 2:10); the latter often sought artistic freedom without God, detaching aesthetics from theology and thereby severing art from its prophetic vocation to critique, confront, and elevate.
This is not to say that an artist inspired by the French Revolution is less skilled than one shaped by a Dutch Calvinist worldview. It can be said that they see the world differently. Some might argue they see more clearly. But what is clarity? In art—as in theology—clear-eyed vision does not always mean a sharp focus. Sometimes, it means squinting just enough to blur the immediate so that the eternal comes into view.
Such blurring is no evasion. It is a means of revelation. To see through the subject is to recognize that the visible is never all there is—that behind the form lies presence, and within presence, a silent, shimmering grace. The artist who sees thus becomes something more than a technician of the beautiful; he becomes a witness. A witness to the world not merely as a collection of objects, but as a gallery of glory. Each brushstroke of light across a trembling leaf, every line etched into a weathered face, becomes a whisper of the transcendent. A hint of a world once unspoiled, now groaning, yet still adorned. A beauty that is—and a Beauty that is yet to come (Romans 8:18–25; Revelation 21:1–5):
“Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. 2 And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. 3 And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God. 4 He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away” (Revelation 21:1-4 ESV).
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Questions for Reflection and Discussion
I Can See Clearly Now: Reframing the Reformation and Art
With Follow-up Questions
What assumptions have you held about the Reformation’s relationship to art, and how does this article challenge or refine those views?
Reflect on any personal hesitancy you’ve had toward visual art in the life of the church.
How does the doctrine of Sola Scriptura not only shape our reading of Scripture but also our appreciation of artistic expression?
Consider the liberating effects of biblical literacy on the imagination.
Abraham Kuyper wrote of discovering “the potencies hidden by God in nature and in human life.”
What does this suggest about the role of the artist in God’s world?
In what ways does the doctrine of common grace help us understand beauty that emerges even in secular or non-Christian artistic contexts?
How can common grace transform one’s view of the world around us?
Reflect on the idea that seeing “through” a subject in art mirrors a kind of theological vision.
Can you recall a time when beauty stirred you to contemplation or worship?
How did the Reformation’s affirmation of vocation as holy work affect the way artists approached their craft?
How might this doctrine impact your own calling, even if you are not an artist?
What tensions exist between Reformed theology and the use of images in worship?
Do you find the distinctions between “pedagogical” and “doxological” art helpful? Why or why not?
The article argues that the Reformation did not reject beauty but redirected it.
How might this distinction guide our engagement with contemporary visual culture?
Discuss the contrast drawn between Renaissance art and Reformation-influenced art.
Do you agree that the former sought “freedom without God” while the latter sought “freedom under God”? Why is this distinction important?
How can modern Christians recover a theological vision of art that honors both the Creator and the created order without falling into aestheticism or idolatry?
How do some cross the “red line” that prevents one from falling into idolatry? Exactly what is that red line in faith and art? Why?
Vincent van Gogh once believed he was called to preach.
How do you see evidence of a spiritual or even prophetic impulse in his artwork?
What practical steps could your local church, school, or ministry take to foster a deeper appreciation for beauty as a gift of God’s grace?
What would it mean to disciple artists, musicians, and creatives in your context?
C.H. Firth and R.S. Rait, Acts and Ordinances of the Interregnum, 1642–1660, Vol. 1 (London: HMSO, 1911), 458. William Laud served as Archbishop of Canterbury from 1633 until his execution in 1645 under charges of treason during the English Civil War.
Diarmaid MacCulloch, The Reformation: A History (New York: Viking, 2003), 555. The phrase “more Calvinist than Calvin” has been used to describe post-Calvinist movements, especially in England and Scotland, that adopted more rigid or iconoclastic practices than Calvin himself advocated.
John Calvin, Institutes of the Christian Religion, trans. Henry Beveridge (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2008), 1.5.3. Calvin writes:
“Wherever you cast your eyes, there is no spot in the universe wherein you cannot discern at least some sparks of his glory... Therefore we rightly infer that his wonderful wisdom is displayed in all created things, and is nowhere more apparent than in man himself. Hence also man has been called by the ancients ‘a microcosm,’ because he is a rare example of God’s power, goodness, and wisdom, and contains within himself enough miracles to occupy our minds if we are willing to study them.”
Abraham Kuyper, Lectures on Calvinism (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1931), 143. Kuyper, articulating Calvin’s legacy, argues that Calvinism restored the dignity of all vocations under the Lordship of Christ, encouraging creativity across the arts and sciences.
Tom Holland, Dominion: The Making of the Western Mind (London: Little, Brown, 2019). Holland compellingly argues that even secular ideals in the West—such as dignity, liberty, and equality—derive their essence from Christian moral foundations.
See John W. de Gruchy, Christianity, Art and Transformation: Theological Aesthetics in the Struggle for Justice (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 76–78. Lutheran and many Reformed Continental theologians (e.g., in Geneva and Strasbourg) permitted artistic representations of Christ, provided they were not used for devotional purposes.
William Dyrness, Visual Faith: Art, Theology, and Worship in Dialogue (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2001), 54–59. Reformed and Puritan traditions, particularly influenced by Zwingli and later Scottish Presbyterianism, often avoided any image of Christ to safeguard against the misuse of representations in worship.
W.D.J. McKay, The Second Commandment: Images of Christ and the Reformed Tradition (Fearn, Ross-shire: Christian Focus Publications, 2001). McKay documents the development of Reformed thought in distinguishing between images used for educational or artistic purposes and those forbidden in religious veneration.
Michael S. Horton, “Is the Reformation Over? A Reformed Perspective on Modern Catholic-Protestant Dialogue,” Westminster Theological Journal 72, no. 2 (2010): 263–280. Horton affirms the pedagogical value of historical art while maintaining that liturgical use of crucifixes tends toward a “return to sensory worship inconsistent with sola Scriptura.”
David VanDrunen, “Iconoclasm, Idolatry, and the Second Commandment in Reformed Theology,” The Journal of Markets & Morality 10, no. 1 (2007): 115–130. VanDrunen explores the theological reasons Reformed traditions have historically opposed religious imagery, particularly in worship contexts.
Robin M. Jensen, “The Crucifixion in Early Christian Art and Its Possible Influence on Protestant Visual Culture,” Religion and the Arts 17, no. 3 (2013): 321–343. Jensen argues that certain images of the crucifixion, even within Protestant contexts, function theologically and catechetically without violating the Reformers' intent.
Hans Urs von Balthasar, The Glory of the Lord: A Theological Aesthetics, vol. 1, trans. Erasmo Leiva-Merikakis (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1982), 315–318. Balthasar defends the crucifix as an “aesthetic intrusion of divine beauty,” rightly used within the Church as a theological symbol of divine condescension and love.
H. R. Rookmaaker, Modern Art and the Death of a Culture (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic, 1970), 25–44. Rookmaaker presents a persuasive theological and art-historical argument that the Reformation transformed the relationship between beauty and truth in visual culture, profoundly impacting generations of European artists.
Francis Schaeffer, How Should We Then Live? The Rise and Decline of Western Thought and Culture (Wheaton, IL: Crossway, 2005), 94–104. Schaeffer recognizes a Reformation influence in the honesty and integrity of later Western art, especially in how artists addressed the nature of human identity as both created and fallen, yet redeemable.
Mark Ford, This Dialogue of One: Essays on Poets from John Donne to Joan Murray (London: Eyewear Publishing, 2014), 143. Ford's observation connects the Reformation’s dissemination of Scripture with a broader movement of intellectual and artistic freedom across Europe.
See Carol Togneri Dowd, “Van Gogh and Religion: A Search for Meaning,” Religion and the Arts 1, no. 3 (1997): 265–289. Dowd traces Vincent van Gogh’s early life and vocational aspiration to preach in the Dutch Reformed tradition, particularly his time in the Borinage region as a missionary among miners.
Abraham Kuyper, Lectures on Calvinism: The Stone Lectures of 1898 (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1931), 30. Kuyper’s theology of common grace provided a foundational framework for affirming the dignity of every sphere of life—art, science, education, government—under the sovereign rule of Christ. His influence profoundly shaped the worldview and thinking of twentieth-century Reformed theologians and cultural apologists. Cornelius Van Til built upon Kuyper’s distinction between common and special grace in developing presuppositional apologetics, arguing that even non-believing thought borrows from the Christian worldview. Francis Schaeffer, though differing in method, likewise appropriated Kuyperian themes in his call for Christians to engage culture without retreat, believing that “Christianity is not just a series of truths but Truth—Truth about total reality.”¹⁰ D. James Kennedy, preaching in the Kuyperian stream, frequently proclaimed Christ’s dominion over all of life. In a 1996 Reformation Day sermon, he declared: “There is not a single inch of life over which Christ does not cry out, ‘Mine!’ He is Lord not only of the Church, but of art, music, government, science, and every vocation under heaven.” See Francis A. Schaeffer, The God Who Is There (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1968), 15; and D. James Kennedy, “Reformation Day Sermon,” Coral Ridge Presbyterian Church, October 27, 1996. Transcript available in Truths That Transform sermon archive, D. James Kennedy Ministries.
Surya Harefa, “Common Grace in the Thought of Abraham Kuyper,” Lux Mundi: A Forum for Evangelical Reflection 1, no. 2 (2021): 45. Harefa explores Kuyper’s assertion that God’s common grace preserves the created order, restrains sin, and permits culture-making—even among those who do not profess faith—thus providing the conditions under which humanity may reflect God’s creative purposes.
Abraham Kuyper, Common Grace: God’s Gifts for a Fallen World, ed. Jordan J. Ballor and Stephen J. Grabill, trans. Nelson D. Kloosterman (Bellingham, WA: Lexham Press, 2016), 1:58–60. Kuyper writes, “Wherever special grace penetrates the life of a people, there common grace flourishes anew… in the arts, in science, and every area of life,” affirming the connection between redemption and the revitalization of culture.
See Sam Smiles, J.M.W. Turner: The Making of a Modern Artist (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2007), 151–156. Smiles explores Turner’s ambiguous relationship with organized religion but acknowledges that his work often carried “a reverent if unresolved spirituality” that resonated with Protestant ideals of mystery, mortality, and divine immanence. The Fighting Temeraire was voted “the greatest painting in a British art gallery” by the public in a 2005 poll by BBC Radio 4 and remains one of the most iconic examples of Turner’s theological and cultural sublimity rendered through common grace.
Gene Edward Veith Jr., State of the Arts: From Bezalel to Mapplethorpe (Wheaton, IL: Crossway, 1991), 95–100. Veith argues that the Protestant Reformation was essential to the rise of modern artistic freedom, not by abandoning tradition, but by redirecting it toward a biblical vision of vocation and beauty.
Michael Rosenthal, Constable: The Painter and His Landscape (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983), 122–126. Rosenthal shows how Constable’s sensitivity to light and sky reflected a spiritual awareness shaped by a dissenting, if not formally Reformed, Christian upbringing.
Carol Togneri Dowd, “Van Gogh and Religion: A Search for Meaning,” Religion and the Arts 1, no. 3 (1997): 273–275. Dowd connects van Gogh’s early missionary zeal and later spiritual melancholy to his persistent theological imagination, which is evident in both his drawings and paintings.