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 May 7, 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. Perugino, Botticelli, and Ghirlandaio, among others, nevertheless labored 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 idealized 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 center of Perugino’s composition: one gold key, one silver key. The first, turned upward, opens heaven, while the other symbolizes 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 recognize 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 allegorizes the scene by showing real keys, by opting for an idealized 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.
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