Religious portraiture is a delicate subject in our day. The heads of major religions more often appear to be bureaucrats than heroes, pen pushers rather than warrior saints. It would be hard, for example, to imagine a museum show of images inspired by Rowan Williams, the Welshman currently serving as Archbishop of Canterbury, who is head of the worldwide Anglican Communion. Besides, to accurately depict the current schisms in the Anglican Church, any such exhibit would also require images of the Nigerian archbishop, Peter Akinola, whose violently anti-gay rhetoric has stirred up the kind of conflict described in a recent headline in “The Guardian”: “Bishops to Primate: Drop Dead.”

A happy exception to this typical internecine squabbling is Tenzin Gyatso (b. 1935), the current Dalai Lama. The leader of Tibetan Buddhism, the 14th Dalai Lama is the focus of a traveling exhibit, “The Missing Peace: Artists Consider the Dalai Lama,” which opened recently at the Rubin Museum of Art in Chelsea. It will remain on view there until September 3, before traveling elsewhere. One section of the exhibit, intelligently curated by Randy Rosenberg, contains “Interpreted Portraits” of the Dalai Lama, while other parts are devoted to broad concepts like “Humanity in Transition” and “Belief Systems.” The portraits are stationed at the beginning of the show, and carry great visual weight.

The Dalai Lama has great physical presence, in part because he has been around for so long. In 1937, at age 2, he was proclaimed by a committee of senior lamas to be the rebirth of the 13th Dalai Lama. He has been enthroned as Tibet’s head of state since 1950, although he fled from Chinese oppression into exile in India in 1959. Even in exile, this translates as rare longevity and continuity. Apart from his immediate predecessor, Thubten Gyatso (1876–1933), Dalai Lamas dating back to around 1800 have mostly reigned only briefly, often dying in their teens. By contrast, the current Dalai Lama has endured, despite some fairly substantial Buddhist internecine squabbles.

That endurance seems to be expressed in his considerable stage presence. A husky, even stocky figure, the Dalai Lama has long been a darling of the press. He attracts those who sympathize with victims of Chinese oppression, although a few critics have pointed out that before their 1959 exile, Tibetan monks ran a feudal society in which serfs were mistreated while the religious elite basked in relative luxury. Some of the Dalai Lama’s fans do not even know what the term “dalai lama” literally means: “Dalai” is the Mongolian word for “ocean” and “lama” is Tibetan for “guru,” so “oceanic guru” or “spiritual teacher of ocean-like magnitude” are possible translations.

A number of artists with careers of ocean-like magnitude provided portraits to “The Missing Peace: Artists Consider the Dalai Lama,” including Bill Viola , who supplied a video by of the Dalai Lama praying, and Chuck Close and Richard Avedon, who provided ultra-realistic photographic portraits by. These literal images are among the least resonant contributions to the show.

In other artworks, the element of humor — hardly welcome in portraiture of other religions — resounds with unbuttoned bonhomie. The Kansas-born painter Chase Bailey (b. 1947) created a head-andshoulders portrait of the Dalai Lama in oil on linen, “Evolution Into a Manifestation” (2005), with fooddye colors resembling scoops of sherbet. The Boulder, Coloradobased Tibetan artist Losang Gyatso’s acrylic on canvas, “Tenzin Gyatso, Ocean of Wisdom” (2005), shows the sandaled foot of the Dalai Lama, depicted with the verve of a cartoon cell amid symbols including a fish, seashell, and water-wheel. Perhaps the most endearing is “His Holiness and the Bee (How a Little Annoyance Can Bring Great Joy)” (2005), an acrylic on canvas by the faux-primitive French painter Guy Buffet (b. 1943). In Mr. Buffet’s painting, a comic-strip-style sequence, shows the Dalai Lama being interrupted at prayer by the appearance of a bee, which results in an exultant ballet of bee-avoidance, full of wit and verve.

Such light-hearted imagery may be unexpected, even to those accustomed to the tradition of Buddhist humor. At a 2003 press conference at the Guggenheim Museum, the Dalai Lama drew chortles from the crowd by relentlessly teasing the ever-present Richard Gere, saying he wished that Mr. Gere had never converted to Buddhism. Speaking in heavily-accented English, with inflections wavering between Indian and Chinese, the Dalai Lama relies on an “interpreter” who sits next to him at public appearances and clarifies words that may be in doubt. More often, he uses pantomime and theatrical gestures to illustrate concepts such as suspicion, violence, or harmony. Hollywood actors, accustomed to worshipping acting gurus with feet of clay naturally latch onto the Dalai Lama.

For non-showbiz viewers, however, the show underlines how, at a time when Chinese communist goons raid Tibetan households to levy heavy fines on anyone who dares display an image of the Dalai Lama, his image retains imaginative resonance elsewhere in the world. This was part of the goal as announced by Darlene Markovich, the executive director of “The Missing Peace” project. The exhibit was first proposed in 2004 as a “Dalai Lama Portrait Project,” intended to celebrate his “simplicity, his humor, and his compassion in the face of the greatest provocation.” For any New Yorker whose worst “provocations” to be endured are subway delays and restaurant tables too near the kitchen, this can only prove an inspiring example indeed.

Mr. Ivry last wrote in these pages on J.S. Bach.

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