The three artworks we have considered—Christ Before Pilate, Sassetta’s depiction of Francis and his father, and the fresco of Christ with a sword—each show division: the renunciation of earthly authority, the rupture of familial bonds, and a weapon representing the inner battle against sin. But does this passage suggest a jealous Christ who turns family members—or even nations—against one another in a maniacal demand for exclusive love? Such an interpretation, deeply at odds with Christian theology, would reduce Christ to a flawed human figure, driven by selfish desires.

Instead, the passage, and the images that reflect it, point to something far more profound and challenging: the precedence of divine love and faith over earthly ties. Blood relationships, national loyalties, and familial bonds, while meaningful, are insufficient foundations for true unity. The Bible itself is filled with examples of familial betrayal—starting with Cain’s fratricide (Genesis 4), which serves as a reminder of how these bonds are often tainted by rivalry and hatred. The Matthean Christ underscores that truer and more liberating bonds of kinship come not from clinging to such earthly ties but from transcending them through discipleship of him. As Alain de Botton aptly notes, ‘an attachment to family may in fact narrow the circle of our affections, distracting us from the greater challenge of apprehending our connection with all of [hu]mankind’ (De Botton 2011: 32).

This broader connection risks becoming abstract without the grounding provided by Christ’s sword. The images of Christ and Francis reveal this parallel: Christ calls His disciples to be like Him, while Francis emerges as an alter Christus, embodying this same ideal. Matthew’s Christ offers a demanding call: ‘Be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect’ (Matthew 5:48). Such perfection is a radical embrace of faith and divine love. More than a lesson in discipleship, the ultimate message of these images and passage is faith rooted in unconditional love. As Joseph Ratzinger has written, Christianity’s essence is ‘entry into the universal openness of unconditional love’ (Ratzinger 2000: 208). This love demands strength, courage, and the absence of fear—echoing Christ’s repeated reassurance in Matthew: ‘Do not be afraid’ (Matthew 28:5). Not only faith, but a decisive intervention in the human spirit—hence, the vivid and tangible reference to the sword—sustains what cannot be destroyed, transcending human limitations and earthly attachments.

Now, these reflections must acknowledge the paradoxes inherent in these works. The Gospels, like the artworks, are products of their time. The grandiosity of the Franciscan Order by Sassetta’s time clashes with Francis’s ideals of poverty and frugality. The man who inspired such extraordinary works of art was the antithesis of the wealth they often embodied (Armstrong 1999: 126). Sassetta’s depiction of Bishop Guido—interestingly seated on a curule chair like Pilate, though here symbolizing ecclesiastical wealth and authority—underscores this irony, as Francis’s nakedness contrasts sharply with the opulence of the Church that embraced his legacy.

Similarly, Giovanni Antonio da Brescia’s engraving smooths over the radical tension between celestial and terrestrial authority. The classicizing tendencies of his style, rooted in the Mantegna school, create a visual harmony that blurs the stark antagonism between disciples and governors described in Matthew’s Gospel. Pilate and Christ are rendered with a uniformity that diminishes the sharp division between earthly judgment and divine authority. Rather than emphasizing conflict, the engraving reflects a tradition of classical balance and continuity, ultimately softening the prophetic, disruptive message of the Gospel.

These images, tied to distinct historical moments, highlight the inherent contradictions within Christian history. They reveal how Christian art has mediated—and at times obscured—the radical demands of Christ’s teachings. While I have sought to reflect on these images as extensions of the Biblical passage, what emerges is a vivid and challenging portrayal of the tensions and complexities in reconciling faith with the human condition.

References

Armstrong, Regis J., Wayne Hellmann, and William J. Short (eds). 1999. Francis of Assisi: Early Documents, 4 vols (New York: New City Press)

Berenson, Bernard. 1909. A Sienese Painter of the Franciscan Legend (London: J.M. Dent & Sons)

De Botton, Alain. 2011. Religion for Atheists: A Non-Believer's Guide to the Uses of Religion (London: Penguin)

Finaldi, Gabriele, and Joost Joustra. 2023. Saint Francis of Assisi (New Haven: Yale University Press/National Gallery Global)

Hourihane, Colum. 2009. Pontius Pilate, Anti-Semitism and the Passion in Medieval Art (Princeton: Princeton University Press)

Ratzinger, Joseph. 2004. Introduction to Christianity, trans. by J.R. Foster (San Francisco: Ignatius Press)

Sheehan, Jacquelyn L., Konrad Oberhuber, and Jay Levenson. 1973. Early Italian Engravings from the National Gallery of Art (Washington: National Gallery of Art)

*I am deeply grateful to Jamie Gabbarelli, Francesco Lovino, and Kirsten Hall for their invaluable recommendations in the development of this essay.