Here is picture from the British Library called Christ in Majesty from the Stavelot Bible.
Mosan School, AD 1097.
I love this picture. Monks painted this exquisite page patiently in the fervour of their belief in the glory of God. I have always admired and revered sacred as well as profane art, be it the early medieval illuminations of the monks or the Plain-Chant echoing distantly from the college chapel of my school-days or the time when I was introduced (at the age of eleven) to Chartres Cathedral by my father who remarked that it was astonishing that the architects, engineers, stone-masons and glass-stainers who designed, built and decorated what was arguably the pinnacle of Western Art were anonymous.
Neither the great masters of the Italian Renaissance nor the Popes who commissioned their works were particularly devout – the formers’ genius was too broad to encompass such narrow doctrine and the venality, greed and lust-for-power of the latter too great. But The Last Supper and the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel are marvellous creations, are they not?
But might it not be that instead of being the product of Divine Intervention they are the result of human creativity reaching upwards to the sublime.
In other words instead of God creating us in his own image we are creating God in our image.
I read or heard somewhere that the catholic children who still learn in the catechism (which is a simplistic paring down of an already rather narrow doctrine) learn that if a baby dies before being baptized then he/she is technically denied access to the Kingdom of Heaven; his/her soul is technically transferred to a sort of limbo-créche. One is immediately transferred to a vision of a vast grey vault containing countless little grey cradles silently waiting until … until what … until when? In Zeno-like terms (reductio ad absurdum) the proposition breaks down completely.
How could the interpreters of the Divine Architect get it so wrong?
How could He/She/It make such a hash of it?
Or is He/She/It is just winding us up?
Is this all a cosmic stitch-up?
Mathematicians (and who are we to argue with such purity) propose that in the limitless universe the presence of a planet identical to our world is a certainty.
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?