MY OPINION ESSAYS
Vatican II Documents Reflection
Upon opening the documents of the Second Vatican Council, I found myself asking why I was reading them at all. Pope Leo XIV has encouraged the faithful to read these texts firsthand, relying on original knowledge rather than the second-hand information or gossip that so often colors our understanding. These documents reflect a depth I have never encountered before. Born in 1981, I grew up post-Vatican II; I might blame the Dunning-Kruger effect for my lack of prior awareness, as my only impressions of the Council were that religious sisters stopped wearing formal habits and that the Latin Mass was no longer mandatory.
I grew up on the Gulf Coast in Mobile, Alabama, where, as of 2026, Mass is offered in 22 languages. As a child, my family mostly attended English Masses, though whenever my grandmother, "Big Jean," was in town, we attended Mass in Spanish and Latin, or occasionally French. My background is also deeply interfaith; I sang in the choir at First United Methodist and Orchard Baptist, attended services at the Springhill Temple, and spent time in Southern Baptist churches. Though I went through an atheist phase in high school, I felt God began calling me back to Catholicism after 9/11.
I cannot imagine a God who is not for us, especially when the world is so filled with the evidence of His joy in creation and the ongoing existence of the universe. If we are created by God and simultaneously trying to understand our Creator, our interpretations will always be humble approximations—yet any effort at understanding is worthwhile. This is my own attempt to explore these documents and reflect on how they have shaped my role as an artist. One subject not explicitly addressed by Vatican II is iconoclasm, a challenge perhaps settled in the Middle Ages or the Renaissance but one that could stand to be readdressed given the current cultural wars and conflicts surrounding sacred art.
In the summer of 2018, I found myself atop scaffolding at Saint Hedwig and Saint Patrick’s, paintbrush in hand. As an artist with an MFA from Boston University, I have often lived the "$0.03 an hour" reality of my craft. Yet, when I approached Father Cyril to volunteer for the restoration of our parish statues, his initial skepticism was palpable. It took a month of labor—and a laugh-out-loud moment when he finally quipped, "Ah… even the littlest parishioner can paint"—for us to bridge that gap. That project, and my subsequent work at Our Lady of the Road, became a living laboratory for the themes of Vatican II, particularly Gaudium et Spes.
The documents emphasize that the Church does not reject the arts, but rather seeks to utilize them to reveal the divine. We are reminded that everyone should be able to share in culture and develop their own talents. In my work with garden-style concrete and plaster-molded statues, I learned that these objects—often overlooked as mass-produced items—are actually vital sites of communal prayer and identity. When I power-washed the grotto, I discovered that beauty is often hidden under layers of dirt and mold, and that even the smallest aesthetic choice, like the reflective white of a crucifix or the specific hue of "Marian Blue," carries profound theological weight. As I learned through my own artistic journey, there is a deep, near-universal recognition of these icons. To paint Mary in the correct pigment—the ultramarine of lapis lazuli—is not just an aesthetic preference; it is a way of honoring a globally recognized visual language that speaks across generations.
Gaudium et Spes challenges the Church to meet people where they are, acknowledging a global desire for freedom and the right to see one’s own dignity reflected in the life of the community. This created a profound tension in my work. At Our Lady of the Road, I faced requests to paint a statue of Our Lady of Grace to reflect different cultural complexions. I found myself walking a razor’s edge: I held firm to the integrity of the "Our Lady of Grace" image, which is a specific, venerated icon, as changing the icon entirely is a form of iconoclasm rather than progress. However, I also deeply empathized with the community’s desire to see themselves in the divine. As I told those who asked for a different representation, if a community desires an African American icon—or any specific cultural representation—the most respectful path is not to repaint an existing, established icon, but to actively fundraise and commission a new, dedicated work of art.
True art, like true faith, is often messy. Whether navigating the "nostalgia" some parishioners felt for a dirty, neglected grotto or the intense social friction of painting a Marian statue during a pandemic, I learned that being an "artist for the people" means being willing to hold space for conflict. The Blessed Mother belongs to everyone, and history shows that every culture eventually develops representations of her that reflect their own people. This is not a contradiction; it is a testament to the universality of the faith. My work at these parishes was a lesson in humility: to serve the community, to respect the history of the icon, and to recognize that while we may start with a concrete mold, the end goal is to create a space where, as Sister Sandra once told me, "Mary will let you know what color she wants to be." In the end, I did not just paint statues; I engaged in the difficult, necessary, and holy work of the Gaudium et Spes: fostering a dialogue between the tradition of the Church and the living, breathing, and often conflicting needs of the people of God.
Posted on: July 16, 2026