April 13, 2026
See footer to change to German translation.
As we enter the fourth year of the war in Ukraine, I feel some hesitation in turning my attention to Russian artists. Yet I suspect that the artist I am considering here—Andrei Tarkovsky—would have had little sympathy for the violence being carried out in Russia’s name today.
His film Andrei Rublev (1966) is, in many ways, a profound critique of political violence. But it is also much more than that. It is a spiritual odyssey: the story of a man seeking to understand his vocation as an artist, shaped by faith and expressed within the life of a particular culture.
I do not presume to place myself alongside figures such as Tarkovsky or Rublev. Yet their work has helped me to see art as something far more than entertainment or aesthetic pleasure. Art can be a way of expressing a deeper vision of the world—one that confronts both its beauty and its brokenness.
In his own words, Tarkovsky said that “art must carry man’s craving for the ideal, must be an expression of his reaching out towards it; that art must give man hope and faith . . . Art symbolises the meaning of our existence” (Sculpting in Time, 192). In the story of Rublev, the ideal is symbolised in Rublev's spiritual struggle, which gives birth to the iconic image of the Trinity.
The Story of Andrei Rublev
Andrei Tarkovsky was a Russian filmmaker working in the mid-to-late twentieth century during the Soviet era. In a predominantly atheistic society, it is striking that he chose a deeply religious subject for his second feature film: the fifteenth-century iconographer Andrei Rublev.
Rather than producing a work that celebrated Soviet ideology or modern technological progress, he turned his attention to a fifteenth-century artist wrestling with questions of faith, suffering, and the spiritual identity of his people. According to Tarkovsky, the film sought to portray Rublev as a figure of historical significance and Christianity as essential to Russia’s cultural identity.
In broad terms, the film follows the life of Rublev, a promising young artist sought out by princes to paint the frescoes of their cathedrals. Trained in the Monastery of the Trinity and St. Sergius, "Andrey, untouched by life, has assimilated the basic axiom: love, community, brotherhood. . . The young Andrey received these ideas intellectually; he was brought up in them, had them drummed into him" (Sculpting in Time, 89).
However, in the film Rublev struggles to find his own artistic voice amid the expectations placed upon him by fellow artists, who themselves are pressured by political authorities. At the same time, he wrestles with his own faith, observing the mixture of Christian devotion and lingering pagan practices among the people around him.
A central question for Rublev is how to authentically depict the Gospel in his iconographic art. Should he emphasise the judgment of sin or the grace revealed through the cross? Rublev longs to emphasise grace and compassion for the Russian people in their spiritual struggle. He does not wish to create images that instil fear, but rather images that awaken awe before the beauty and mystery of God. Yet this vision places him in tension with the expectations of his patrons, who finance his work.
Rublev’s theological reflections are ultimately disrupted by the violence of the political world around him. He becomes caught in the middle of a historical conflict when a power-hungry prince allies with Tatar forces to seize power from his brother. In the chaos that follows, Rublev kills a soldier in order to protect a woman from sexual assault. His conscience is shattered, and he responds by taking a vow of silence. How can a man who depicts the holy through art continue his work with such blood on his hands?
Years later, resolution comes to Rublev during a long period in which he has neither painted nor spoken. He observes a young man directing a communal effort to cast a bell for a new church. Rublev recognises something of his own struggle in this young craftsman, who is working under the immense pressure of the prince. If the bell fails, the boy’s life is at risk.
When the bell is successfully cast and rings for the first time, the young man collapses in tears, releasing the enormous tension under which he had been working. Rublev comforts him and breaks his long silence. In doing so, he resolves to return to his artistic vocation with a renewed vision of the holy.
The film concludes by showing Rublev’s surviving and most important frescoes, which remain a high point of artistic culture in medieval Russia. In particular, the famous iconic work of the Trinity, represented in the angels that visited Abraham in the book of Genesis. It embodies for Rublev, the divine qualities of love, unity, and community.
Yearning for the Ideal
The film is a spiritual odyssey through the life of one of Russia’s most important artists. It explores not only what it means to create art, but also what kind of people we become in the process of creating it. One of the film’s fundamental questions is: What does it mean to give artistic expression to the ideal as one is confronted with suffering? Concretely, what does it mean to be an artist who speaks to the cultural and spiritual identity of a people in the midst of social and political instability?
Art certainly expresses the artist’s sensibilities—taste, imagination, and talent. These sensibilities must be honed and developed. Yet it also reveals the person behind the work: their values, philosophy, and even their politics. What is their perspective of the absolute? The moral ideal? In this sense, being an artist—like being a philosopher, or even a missionary—has something of the character of a vocation.
This is not to deny the need for artistic work for commission or for other commercial purposes. Skilled and creative people are employed in vasts areas of businesses to earn income. Artists too need shelter and food! In an opening scene there is a jester, who entertains the people for a bit of food. His comedic routine crudely mocks political and the spiritual authorities, reminding me of contemporary late night television.
However, Andrei and his colleagues interrupt this, killing the vibe. Yet, there is an interesting connection between the jester and the monks. The Jester knows the world. He exposes the corruption of the state and the church. But the cynical entertainment does not satisfy the deeper "craving for the ideal." Sadly, one of the monks with Rublev informs on this Jester and he is violently arrested and imprisoned. It marks the beginning of Rublev's entry into the world from the Monastery. This exposure to violence and suffering only continues in the film.
According to Tarkovsky, "it is easy to see how the ill-equipped Andrey was for the confrontation with life, after being protected from it within the rarified precincts of the monastery...And only after going through the circles of suffering, at one with the fate of his people, and loosing his faith in an idea of good that could not be reconciled with reality, does Andrey come back to the point from which he started: to the idea of love, good, and brotherhood" (Sculpting in Time, 90). That is, the love, goodness, and community that is attested in God must be personally experienced, if there is to be a sense of the authentic in the art. It must in a way be put to the test.
How can this ideal of the Christian faith be incarnated in art, so as to make a real connection between God and people? In this sense, Tarkovsky's work stands within a broader tradition of Russian artists such as the nineteenth-century novelist Fyodor Dostoevsky. Both present a vision of Christianity that emphasises Christ’s solidarity with the human condition, especially with the suffering of the Russian people. How might the trinitarian ideals of love, community, and self sacrifice be embodied in the lived experience of Russian people?
One memorable sequence in the film is titled “The Passion According to Andrei Rublev.” In it, Christ appears unmistakably Russian, carrying the cross through the white snow of a Russian landscape. The scene suggests a vision of Christianity that is deeply embedded in the life and history of the Russian people. It is incarnation. Christ is one of them, suffering for them in solidarity. This Christ is God himself in the mystery of the Trinity, a God who empties himself for the redemption of the world.
The Danger of Ethnocentric Idealism
As I have explored the work of Russian artists such as Tarkovsky and Dostoevsky—figures who challenged the political climate of their own eras, including the aggressive atheism of Soviet communism—I have also become aware of the dangers that can accompany their approach. There is always a risk that faith becomes entangled with ethnocentrism or an even more extreme form of nationalism. Faith cannot collapse or dissolve into culture, but must remain in prophetic tension with it. Tarkovsky is not wrong to address the spiritual elements in Russian culture, but there is a fine line.
This concern feels especially pressing today, given the current Russian war against Ukraine. Tragically, some leaders within the Russian Orthodox Church have supported the aggression of the Putin regime, framing it as a spiritual struggle or even a holy war against the supposed godlessness of the West. The close connection between church and state in Russian is explored in films like Leviathan (2014). Or more recently, the interesting documentary Mr. Nobody against Putin (2025). Here we get a glimpse of the propaganda machine of the Russian state as well as the official leadership of church.
However, this ethnocentricity cloaked in Christian language has nothing to do with the way of the crucified Messiah. It is no different than the Christian princes in story of Andrei Rublev, who use religion to forcefully rule over the people. It is not, I suggest, what a Tarkovsky or even Dostoevsky would support. If there is any messianic solidarity today, it is with the Ukrainians who are suffering and dying from the aggressions of the Russian military and the leaders that propagate religious deception to justify such evil.
Direction for Cultural Engagement
The cinematic art—especially Andrei Rublev—has prompted me to think more seriously about my own sense of vocation: as someone who endeavours to creatively connect our "craving for the ideal" with people in the culture. The Pickaxe Project is an attempt to explore the relationship between faith, art, and culture in a way that is both personal and attentive to the wider concerns of our time. How do we symbolise our craving for the ideal through art that is authentic to who we are, but also aesthetically interesting...even beautiful?
Through this project, I am working through what it means to have a faith in the crucified Messiah while being an artist, rooted in the church. There is the question of artistic taste, talent, and skill development, but also of character, conviction, and values. There is the tension of working within the modern artistic tradition, while breaking free from the purely secular assumptions of the dominant culture. The story of Andrei Rublev, indeed, Andre Tarkovsky provides us with a path to explore the intersection between faith, art, and culture in an authentic way that sacrifices neither faith nor artistic integrity.
To reiterate, cultural engagement through the gift of art is a deeply spiritual vocation. It is personal. It is also social. There is an inner fire, an imaginative spark that thirsts to give creative expression to a vision. This vision is born from an admixture of faith, lived experience, and an observant interaction with the world around us. It seeks to awaken people to a deeper reality.
For this project, like Rublev, it is to awaken people to divine reality of the triune God, who embodies a love given in sacrifice. It is the incarnate love of Christ given in the Spirit, revealing the goodness of God, the Father. Therefore, it is not just an “ideal” that we yearn for, but God himself.
See next article on Tarkovsky's Stalker.
For those interesting in watching the film, here is the IMBD Content Rating.
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