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The Two Columns of the Church
Pierre-Marie Dumont
The Delivery of the Keys to Saint Peter (1481–1482)
Pietro Vannucci, called Perugino (1448–1523)
We can all see in our head the images of the cardinals’ entrance into the conclave on 7 May 2025, a little more than a year ago, to elect the new pope. In this way they perpetuated a centuries-old tradition: since the 1400s, this assembly has been held in the Sistine Chapel. One of the frescoes that watched over the election is particularly significant, since it depicts the appointment of Peter as the head of the nascent Church.
Michelangelo outshone Pope Sixtus IV (1471–1484), who had commissioned the construction of the papal chapel that bears his name, as well as the other painters who decorated it, but Perugino, Botticelli, Ghirlandaio and others nevertheless laboured on the middle tier. Producing parallel scenes from the lives of Moses and Jesus, they manifested the continuity of salvation, which was offered first to the chosen people, then to the whole world. For example, opposite The Delivery of the Keys to Saint Peter by Perugino, Botticelli painted The Punishment of the Rebels, in which a revolt against Moses is chastised by God (Nm 16). On the one hand the refusal to obey the man sent by the Lord, on the other the institution of Peter as head of the Church: this iconographic program is at the service of a message that is spiritual, but also unambiguously political. The two Roman arches flanking the square on which the Gospel scene unfolds are copies of the Arch of Constantine; they recall the power of Rome, whereas the sumptuous central building gives preeminence to the Temple in Jerusalem. This background, an idealised cityscape, enhanced with gold like all the frescoes of this series, and so peaceful with its vast pavement and its blue and green countryside, forms a triumphal framework for the Church.
Two keys
As far as we know, Jesus never gave literal keys to Peter. The expression is an image found in the Gospel of Matthew: I say to you, you are Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church, and the gates of the netherworld shall not prevail against it. I will give you the keys to the kingdom of heaven. Whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven; and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven (Mt 16:18-19). A frail basis for such a great edifice as the Roman Catholic Church—frail but decisive, buttressed as it is on the threefold confession of Peter in John 21. “The power of the keys”, according to the Catechism of the Catholic Church, “designates authority to govern the house of God, which is the Church” (553). The official insignia of the Holy See and the papal coat of arms bear these two keys, which are clearly visible at the centre of Perugino’s composition: one gold key, one silver key. The first, turned upwards, opens heaven, while the other symbolises authority over souls during their sojourn on earth. The fresco solemnly depicts the moment this responsibility was handed over to Peter, separating Jesus from the rest of the group and concentrating the action on his interplay of glances with Peter. Everything about Peter expresses serious astonishment at being chosen: “Me, Lord?” he seems to exclaim. Mercy is written all over Christ’s face, and it is beautiful that the artist shows us indirectly here that the power- to bind and loose is conferred on the one to whom much will be forgiven.
A master and Lord
Perugino was Raphael’s master, and we sense their stylistic kinship in the softness of the features, the delicacy of the light, and the gracefulness of the contours. He depicts the disciples around Jesus at this “key” moment, so to speak, in which Peter, having proclaimed that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of the living God (Mt 16:16), sees the future Church entrusted to him. There are six on either side, with their heads at the same level (isocephaly), while their cloaks and tunics form a shimmering frieze. Standing beside Peter, we recognise John, his left hand holding a roll of parchment and his right hand on his heart, with all his weight on one leg in the contrapposto attitude so valued by Renaissance artists. Perugino allegorises the scene by showing real keys, by opting for an idealised setting, and by juxtaposing the twelve apostles with 15th-century men, without haloes, in costumes of that era. Two of them, carrying a pair of compasses and a carpenter’s square, are no doubt the architect and the master builder of the chapel, recalling also the theme of edification, another metaphor signifying the Church. These spectators, who strike different poses, like those of the apostles, show the continuity of the Petrine ministry over time.
The general harmony, however, is gained at the price of Christ’s death: this is recalled first by the presence of Judas—on the left, with a curious halo, and thrusting one hand into his purse—but also by what unfolds on the square. These are not, as one might think at first, figures meant to animate the scene, but rather Gospel episodes in which Jesus shows that his freedom as the Son of God will continue up to his Passion. To the left, he seems to be taken aside by some soldiers: others demand of him the Temple tax, the sum of which Peter will find in the mouth of a fish (Mt 17:24-27, right after the second announcement of the Passion). To the right, Jesus, once again without an apostle, escapes from an attempted stoning. Above the fresco, the Latin inscription Conturbatio Jesu Christi Legislatoris, “trouble because of (or around) Jesus Christ the Lawgiver”, insists on the forces in opposition to the sovereignty of Jesus. We know all too well that we, though members of the Church, do not always accept the Master’s loving authority. The grateful humility of this Saint Peter by Perugino shows us the way to do so.
Delphine Mouquin
Holds a PhD in literature. She is a frequent contributor to the French edition of Magnificat.
The Delivery of the Keys to Saint Peter (1481–1482), Pietro Vannucci, called Perugino (1448–1523), Sistine Chapel, Vatican City. © Bridgeman Images.
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The San Zeno Altarpiece is a monumental triptych painted by Andrea Mantegna (c. 1431–1506) between 1457 and 1460 for the high altar of the Basilica of San Zeno Maggiore in Verona. The work consists of a central panel showing the Virgin and Child in majesty, surrounded by angel musicians, and two side panels: on the left, the apostolic pillars (Peter, Paul, John, and Zeno, a 4th-century bishop and saint, apostle of Christian Verona); on the right, the city’s patron saints (Benedict, Lawrence, Gregory the Great, and John the Baptist). The painted architecture that structures the composition is inspired by antiquity; it unifies the panels into a single coherent space, like a loggia opening onto a garden. (1)
The illustration on the cover of this month’s Magnificat is a detail from the left panel. It depicts Saints Peter and Paul. The silent dialogue between the two, as Mantegna presents it, is a distillation of his genius: sculptural rigour, psychological depth, and a keen sense of monumentality. Saint Peter looks out of the painting at a figure who is clearly speaking to him. This could very well be Jesus himself, whom he encounters on the Appian Way just outside Rome, as he flees persecution in the year 64. Peter has just called out to him, “Quo vadis, Domine?” and Jesus replies, “I am going to Rome to be crucified again.” (2)
Peter commands respect. The Church has been built upon him; he is the supreme shepherd. Yet his expression reveals his awareness of his weaknesses: he is solid as a rock because he has been lifted up and transformed by mercy. The heavy keys he holds in his right hand are not displayed as a sign of power, but carried as a burden of responsibility and service.
Paul holds his sword like the two-edged sword, penetrating even between soul and spirit, joints and marrow, and able to discern reflections and thoughts of the heart. No creature is concealed from him, but everything is naked and exposed to [God’s] eyes (He 4:12-13a). And indeed, the chief of the apostles seems to be under the gaze of Paul, the apostle to the Gentiles. It is a look full of deference and even submission, yet also one of benevolent compassion, as if Mantegna wished to suggest in Paul’s eyes a tender recollection of what he said to the Galatians: And when Cephas came to Antioch, I opposed him to his face because he clearly was wrong (Ga 2:11).
By staging this silent dialogue between the two pillars of the Church—a dialogue where, despite the absence of sound, their postures, gestures, and expressions speak for themselves—Mantegna highlights their complementarity and seeks to convey the internal dynamics of the early Church. In essence, Mantegna does not oppose them; he unites them, for the tension he suggests between them is profoundly fruitful. Without Paul, the Church would have risked becoming rigid and petrified; without Peter, the Church would have risked dispersing and fragmenting.
These two pillars of the Church present a stony visage. Their faces, angular and tense, seem carved in stone. The drapery looks as if it were chiselled with a gradine. The light, harsh and frontal, accentuates the figures and gives the scene an almost architectural density. Mantegna treats the apostles like living statues, as if they had escaped from the Roman statuary he so passionately admired. This approach is not merely stylistic: it situates the apostles within the continuity of the antiquity in which they lived, as if Christian truth, in some measure, came to fulfil ancient wisdom. That ancient wisdom, moreover, was praised by Eusebius of Caesarea (c. 265–339) with the beautiful title Praeparatio Evangelica (“Preparation for the Gospel”).
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1 Click here, to view the entire polyptych, with the option to zoom in on the details.
2 The Polish writer Henryk Sienkiewicz based his novel Quo Vadis, which earned him the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1905, on this episode recounted in the Acts of Peter (traditionally dated to late antiquity). The film adaptation directed in 1951 by Mervyn LeRoy is a masterpiece that was nominated for eight Academy Awards.
Pierre-Marie Dumont
Saints Peter and Paul (1457–1459), detail of the left side of the altarpiece of San Zeno, Andrea Mantegna (c. 1431–1506), Basilica of San Zeno Maggiore, Verona, Italy. © akg / FAF Toscana - Fondazione Alinari per la Fotografia.
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