This site has leaned a little hard on the idea that the ineffable Holy Spirit most responsible for LDS religious conversion–the “groanings beyond utterance,” the “peace which surpasseth understanding”–is best expressed by not expressing it at all. Our cited examples of the same have varied from the minimalism of the Indie-band Low, to the Modal Jazz of Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue, the un-intelligibility of Cocteau Twins, and even the video for “Just” by Radiohead more recently. It is important for us to acknowledge, then, that this idea isn’t unique or original to us in the slightest.

Indeed, one such prominent example is the 1959 Oscar-winning classic Ben-Hur, which resolved the problem of how to reverently depict Christ by not depicting Him at all, at least not directly; hands, hair, and back are all we ever see of Him in this film. For example, in the famous film-clip above, we behold Charlton Heston’s Ben-Hur at an especially low-point in the narrative, where the once-proud patrician has been reduced to a lowly prisoner in a chain-gang, whom his Roman Centurion master has sadistically denied water as they march through Judea. As a further twist of the knife, the Centurion also strictly prohibits anyone else–prisoners, soldiers, and local townsfolk alike–from giving him water either. As Heston’s Ben-Hur collapses to the ground in thirst and despair, crying to God for help, a pair of hands bearing a ladle of water appear out of nowhere. The camera never pans up to reveal his anonymous benefactor’s face, but nor do we need it to: the swelling strings inform us that it is none other than the Living Waters himself, taking mercy on Ben-Hur at his lowest.

But this small act of charity does not go unnoticed; the Centurion storms over angrily with his whip to tell the Man not to give Ben-Hur water. However, the Centurion stops cold in his tracks when the Man stands up to stare him in the face. Again, we only see the back of the Savior’s head in this shot, but the response of the Centurion is sufficient: intriguingly, he does not, say, fall to his feet in reverence and awe, but simply grimaces in a sort of bewildered discomfort. He can’t quite bring himself to look the Man in the eyes, but nor can he quite look away, either. There appears to be something familiar about the Man (“when he shall appear we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is” -Moroni 7:48), but the centurion can’t quite put his finger on it. But he also doesn’t repent of his sins nor become any kinder of a task-master after this encounter, no, he still has his free agency; he simply allows the Man to give Ben-Hur a drink of water after all. He is back to whipping the other prisoners soon enough. But at that moment in the movie, it is enough.

And here’s the thing: we all know deep down that this scene would not be improved by actually showing the full-frontal face of the Savior. No actor, not even one of Charlton Heston’s caliber, would have been able to mimic a believable or even a passable facsimile of what the Centurion might have beheld in that moment. Any actor who tried would’ve come off fake, because an encounter with the divine is not something that you can fake. If any such scene really had happened those two millennia ago, the look on His face to outside observers would’ve likely appeared ordinary indeed–because it was never the look itself, but something beyond looks, beyond symbolism and referent and discourse, that simply cannot be communicated but can only be experienced individually and exclusively. The film-makers intuitively understood this, so wisely chose not to represent it at all.

Every decent missionary had at some point in their missions to learn to get out of the way of their own words and let the Spirit do the talking; “Preach the Gospel, and if necessary, use words” said St. Aquinas, whom President Holland has also quoted. The best missionaries learned to let the silences speak for them; so must our artists; so must we all.