I argued in my previous post that art is at its most powerful when it refuses to preach—when it trusts the magic of the art itself to leave an impression on the one who encounters it. Carelessly blended art and message not only insults the audience’s intelligence, it treats people as childishly out of touch with deeper realities. It’s as though a host unveiled Van Gogh’s Starry Night and then added, “You know, stars work because of nuclear fusion.” To which I say: “Thanks, but we were already awestruck. If your art can’t stir that awe, why assume your commentary will?”
I still passionately hold to this stance.
That said, I had a conversation with my artist brother-in-law in which he offered valuable pushback. His basic insight was that art and message often blend inseparably. I agree. Since that conversation, I’ve been reflecting more deeply on how art and messaging can coexist—not in the half-baked way where the product is neither sermon nor art, but in the best way, where form and message serve one another to powerful effect. This post continues in the gracious spirit of that conversation by clarifying and deepening my previous reflections.
Let’s start with protest art. This artform always carries deep messaging. The Spanish tale of Lazarillo is a perfect example. Written anonymously by someone educated and likely close to the centers of power, it critiques Spanish society through the story of a homeless boy unable to find help. A blind man abuses the boy with cunning lies. A priest hoards sacred bread while the boy starves. A former squire obsessed with his outward image refuses to admit that they are both in need. Even the boy’s eventual marriage (which elevates his social status) offers no reprieve, as his wife dishonors him with infidelity. Here, message and art are inseparable. Together, they accomplish more than either could alone.
There is also the example of Jesus’ parables. Many sermons model themselves after this style—layered, imaginative, filled with metaphor. Surely no one would argue that such communication is “less than” art or “less than” message. It’s both. In the same way, some works of art include moments of direct preaching, but do so in a way that gently illuminates what might otherwise remain opaque. Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man offers a compelling case study: sermons and speeches within the novel bring thematic clarity to later scenes, deepening the reader’s understanding without insulting the reader’s power of perception.
Then there’s art that intentionally cultivates resonance without delivering direct commentary. Andor, the Star Wars series, is a prime example. Its themes—political corruption, moral ambiguity, the cost of rebellion—are timely, but they resist easy allegory. You can’t simply map one character onto a real-world figure. The show asks you to think, not just receive.
In short, I’m not retracting what I said in my previous post, but I am making a clarifying plea: art must embody a message. Art must be the incarnation of the message being brought. Whereas preaching has the power to form us by telling us to “love this and hate that,” art has the even greater prestige of embodying and modeling what is worthy of our love and what is worthy of our hate. It’s as though, rather than reading a survey that discussed the needs of the poor, we have a mentor beside us who models the sacrifice and patience it takes to give to the needy.
That’s art and message in a happy marriage. It’s art that preaches with its body. And that is beautiful.