In 2015, during a sermon, my friend Fr. Steve Wilson spoke of a painting he’d seen as a younger man while traveling in Europe. His memory of it was vivid: Christ, crucified not among ancient contemporaries but surrounded by modern townsfolk going about their daily lives—each figure representing "us," the ones who had placed him on the cross. The power of this image, as Fr. Steve described it, lingered with him, and his words left an imprint on me.
Fr. Steve couldn’t recall the painting's name, but his description was so striking that I became determined to find it. I began by searching online but found no leads. Undeterred, I reached out to museums, explaining the details he had shared—a crucifixion scene set in a 19th-century Austrian village, with a crowd of humble townsfolk, each witnessing Christ’s suffering in their own way. It was enough. Within just a few emails, I had traced it to Sehet, Jesu hat die Hand (1898) by Ernst Stöhr, part of the Symbolist movement.
When I finally shared this discovery with Fr. Steve, it was a confirmation, not only of the painting’s existence but also of its impact on both our lives. Knowing that I had found the very piece he described and that it still resonated after all those years was indeed something special beyond words.
Ernst Stöhr was a member of the Vienna Secession, an avant-garde art movement founded in 1897 that sought to break away from the rigid academic art of the 19th century and delve into deeper emotional and philosophical expressions. Stöhr, like his fellow Secessionists, aimed to bridge the visible with the invisible, the tangible world with the immaterial aspects of human experience. His works often explore themes of isolation, spirituality, and existential struggle, embodying the Symbolist desire to move beyond surface realities.
In Sehet, Jesu hat die Hand, Christ is surrounded by a diverse gathering of townsfolk—each one bearing their own expression of sorrow, empathy, and contemplation. There is an elderly man standing tall, hands clasped in solemn reflection, embodying a kind of stoic reverence. Beside him stands a woman in black, her face marked with lines of grief, her hands folded in prayer. Another figure, a man bent with age, removes his hat as he kneels at Christ's feet, embodying humility and respect. Each person in the painting—from the young woman with a somber expression to the older woman in a scarf—conveys the simple yet profound sorrow of witnessing suffering.
This portrayal of Christ, set low on the cross and close to eye level with the onlookers, brings his suffering into the realm of the everyday. He is not elevated or remote but remains among them, drawing a quiet yet powerful empathy from those around him. The crowd, deeply etched with lines of hardship and toil, is not indifferent. They gather not as distant observers but as silent witnesses, each bearing their own burdens and sorrows, reflecting Christ’s loneliness and their shared, unspoken connection to him.
Stöhr’s choice to place Christ in a humble, Austrian village, surrounded by working-class individuals, bridges the sacred with the familiar. This decision collapses the distance between biblical times and Stöhr's own era, suggesting that Christ’s suffering is not confined to history. In the faces of the crowd, Stöhr captures the essence of humanity’s role in both causing and witnessing suffering—a message that Fr. Steve articulated so well, reminding us that it is "us" who crucify Christ.
Reflecting on this painting now, after Fr. Steve’s passing in 2022, I feel a renewed connection to him. Just as the Symbolists sought to bridge reality with the mystical and emotional, so too did Fr. Steve with his sermons. In finding and sharing this painting with him, I like to think we both found a bit of that bridge together—a way of connecting past to present, friend to friend, and heart to heart. Through Sehet, Jesu hat die Hand, I am reminded that art, like faith, is something that can be shared and carried forward, holding meaning across time, loss, and memory.