Author: Stephen Holmgren

I have been an Episcopal priest for thirty eight years, having served in parishes and in academia. My interests include art and theology, liturgy and spirituality, and I love to go sailing whenever I can.

Finding Beauty in Remembering

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The grave of Hamilton Sawyer, U.S.C.T. (a Civil War casualty)

 

I found an unanticipated beauty in a wintry place a short drive from my home. Port Hudson National Cemetery is easy to overlook, though one of many created by the Federal government during the Civil War to provide for proper burial of the Union dead. It helps us remember those who lost their lives during a prolonged siege along the Mississippi River in 1863.

Among several thousand headstones, some include the initials, U.S.C.T. Wondering about them, I discovered they signify membership in a former United States Colored Troops regiment. Hamilton Sawyer (died 2 Feb 1864), and Samuel Daniels (died 19 Jan 1864), were two of many young men about whom history seems to have preserved only these bare facts. And yet, as a nation we remember them. Away from home and family at the time of their deaths, they surrendered their lives to help secure freedoms already declared, yet far from actualized in the lives of so many. Obviously, no contemporary visitor to the cemetery could have known either of these men. But we can – if we choose to – remember their names, and for what they died. The beauty of remembering lies in how we make present what we value.

Not everyone appreciates the beauty we find in a National Cemetery. Though these burial grounds were created and are maintained to honor those who have served in our nation’s military, these settings do not celebrate armed conflict. Instead, they venerate the commitment of many fellow Americans to serve our country and its founding principles, and commemorate their willingness to put the interests of the wider community before those of self. Most of us can recognize this commitment and willingness, even if we are not all moved to prioritize these things among our choices.

Praiseworthy themes often characterize eulogies offered at funerals. On such occasions, people usually identify and highlight the admirable traits of those who have died, whose lives we seek to honor through acts of remembrance. When done well, eulogies provide portraits of people’s lives conveying an appreciation for ways that certain moral principles and spiritual values have been lived out by them. These occasions would be drab and shallow if they merely recalled how a person consistently obeyed civil laws or always observed proper manners and social etiquette. By contrast, we touch upon beauty as we seek to remember people when they were at their best. For as Irenaeus put it, “The glory of God is the human person fully alive.” This is how we desire to be remembered.

Because of this holy desire, we choose patterns for Christian burial that anchor our remembrance of persons in the body of Christ, in the Eucharistic context of God’s redemptive work. Eucharistic remembering is both holy and thankful remembering. As such, we include an appropriate Gospel reading, and offer reflection upon it. Making connections between enduring Gospel truths and how they have become actual in the dear but transitory aspects of a deceased person’s life, is most fitting. For the sake of those gathered, the focus of a funeral homily will then best be upon what the Resurrection of our Lord has made real for all people.

To honor someone in this liturgical way upon his or her death is genuine remembering, and reflects our natural and common desire to respect a person’s unique memory. In the proverbial Anglican “both-and” way, we can keep a focus on the Resurrection, as we also express our regard for the deceased. We do this by centering our liturgical observance upon the Gospel, while focusing our intentional gathering before and after the funeral liturgy upon the person being remembered. For these different but interrelated aspects of the day belong together.

Here is something else to notice. There is a discernible symmetry between the way different baptismal candidates wear similar white robes, the way that variously styled caskets are covered at separate events by the same pall, and the way our burial liturgies – sacred and secular – ‘clothe’ our departed with the same words, on occasion after occasion. We find a pattern similar to these examples at our National Cemeteries, in how formerly high ranking officers and the lowest ranking enlisted men and women all have essentially the same headstones. In life and in death, we are – in the end – all one. Remembering the people whom the stones commemorate, even those we did not know, makes bigger our appreciation for the beauty of God’s world, and our own place within it.

To remember, and be remembered, can be holy acts. In remembering – even with regret-tinged memories – we reflect our desire for things to become whole, and brought to their fulfillment by God.

 

Historical note regarding Port Hudson:

From the above information plaque: “In May 1963, Union Gen. Nathaniel Banks landed 30,000 soldiers at Bayou Sara north of Port Hudson {at St. Francisville}. A force of 7,500 men commanded by Confederate Gen. Franklin Gardner held the Mississippi River stronghold. General Banks’ May 27 assault on Port Hudson failed and nearly 2,000 soldiers died. Among them were 600 men from two black regiments–the 1st and 3rd Louisiana Native Guards.* The Port Hudson engagement was among the first opportunities for black soldiers to fight in the Civil War. Their determination proved to the North that they could and would ably serve the Union Cause.”

“Among those buried {at Port Hudson} are 256 men who served in the United States Colored Troops (USCT).”

*Additional note from an informative Wikipedia article: “The 1st Louisiana Native Guard was one of the first all-black regiments in the Union Army. Based in New Orleans, Louisiana, it played a prominent role in the Siege of Port Hudson. Its members included a minority of free men of color from New Orleans; most were African-American former slaves who had escaped to join the Union cause and gain freedom.”

Port Hudson National Cemetery on a summer day

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A Japanese Tiny House: Less Can Be More

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Tiny house on wheels, by designer Haruhiko Tagami

 

Imagine Frank Lloyd Wright joining forces with Marie Kondo in accepting a challenge to create a tiny house on wheels. This is what Haruhiko Tagami has designed and built for a couple in Japan. Sitting on a single axle trailer frame and weighing approximately 1,300 lbs, Tagami has produced a remarkable example of a miniature F.L. Wright Prairie house on wheels. With its horizontal bands of unfinished lapstrake cedar planking, its recessed corner windows along with those of the light-admitting clerestory above, and clever use of space, the designer of this mobile mini-residence has done ‘the Master’ proud. It even includes a small but efficient wood burning fireplace.

Interior view

A very Japanese feature of this rolling tiny house is the intended multi-use of its principle room as a place for sitting, dining, and sleeping. Backless cushions are provided for sitting, with a table that can be stowed away, especially for night time. Bedding is then brought out from a storage cabinet and spread on a flat surface just as it would be in a traditional Japanese house. The small structure has a minimalist kitchen at the far end, made larger in feel by the expansive window adjacent to the work area. The clerestory above provides standing headroom for a person over 6′ in height, as well as a 360 degree view of the unit’s surroundings.

The kitchen area

When considering all the amenities built into this tiny house, it is hard to envision how small it really is. And yet it provides adequate room for two people to use for extended trips or as a get-away place in the country. The designer kept the overall result compact and light, suitable for towing behind an average vehicle, and able to be parked (without the vehicle) in a typical parking space. A portable toilet is among the items for which stowage is provided within, though the owners specifically did not want space taken up by even a small bathroom. Public toilets are widely available in Japan, and public bathhouses are easily found in almost every neighborhood or community, in addition to the numerous hot springs facilities located throughout the country.

 

On a larger scale, the Oregon Cottage Company has produced in this country a tiny house they call the Tea House cottage (depicted below). It is built on an 8′ x 20′ trailer frame and includes a formal area for the tea ceremony. Though the exterior of this Japanese inspired example looks conventionally Western, the interior incorporates a number of distinctly Japanese features enhanced by the unfinished birchwood wall surfaces. The windows have opaque shoji screen coverings, and traditional tatami mats cover the floor surface, which contains an aperture for preparing the tea pot. This little ‘tea house’ even provides an enclosed Japanese style soaking tub.

Interior view of Oregon Cottage Company Tea House trailer

Clearly the spare minimalism of traditional Japanese domestic interiors is well suited to tiny house design. These structures provide very attractive places for rest and retreat wherein the beauty of being surrounded by less may contribute greatly to one’s experience of a time away. Imagine – even for a short stay – inhabiting one of these pleasing spaces.

 

Finding Beauty in Adversity

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Henry Sugimoto, Untitled (Sun, Mountain and Clouds, Reflection on the Sea), ca 1965

 

I was delighted recently to discover the Japanese American National Museum (JANM), and their collection of artwork by Henry Sugimoto. Henry Sugimoto was born in Japan in 1900, the grandson of a samurai (Japanese military nobility) who most likely was alive at the time of the opening of Japan to commerce with the West by Commodore Perry in 1854. This fact, coupled with that of Sugimoto’s national heritage, would have made him – along with many others – suspect in American government eyes after Pearl Harbor.

Henry Sugimoto with his parents, before their immigration to the United States

Despite his father’s immigration to the United States before World War I, and their willingness to assimilate into American society and receive citizenship, the Sugimotos, like so many Japanese, found themselves rounded up in by our government in 1942. Henry’s family was sent away with one suitcase each from California to a detention camp in Arkansas. Such forced moves in many cases led to the unexpected forfeiture of family property and possessions. Henry Sugimoto lost a large collection of his artwork, auctioned off without his permission or knowledge while he – as an American citizen – was forcibly detained.

Self-Portrait in Camp, 1943

In JANM’s Sugimoto collection, we find several categories among his artwork. The largest is comprised of his oil paintings, many of which are skillfully rendered. I find some of them stylistically indebted to paintings that he studied in Paris by well-known late 19th and early 20th century Europeans.

Fresno Assembly Camp – Peaches, 1942

Others works, exhibiting a freer style he employed in his drawings and paintings of his fellow camp detainees, seem to reflect more of Sugimoto’s own painterly sensibility. Perhaps this was a visual artist’s equivalent of a writer coming to find his or her own voice.

The Mess Hall, 1942

Another significant body of work in the Sugimoto collection is composed of block prints. They include a few that reflect his travels to Europe and his life in New York City. Notable among his prints are his later black and white depictions of detainee life in the crudely appointed Japanese American ‘relocation centers.’ Gradually freed up from the constraints imposed by other employment, Sugimoto shows himself in his mature work to be an accomplished graphic artist, expressing an authentic personal vision.

Riverside Drive and Church (New York City), ca 1965

Back of WRA Truck, 1960’s

Thinking of Him, 1960’s

Other prints include some beautiful, and to my eyes, very Japanese-looking images with a modernist bent, characterized by an elegant simplicity of composition and color palette. The Sugimoto print shown at the top of a mountain set against the sea shadowed by a setting sun is suggestive of the famed Mt Fuji, visible from the Japanese coast. These later pieces by Sugimoto are my favorites among his artwork, and seem most reflective of an aesthetic sensibility associated with his native Japanese background.

Dawn (undated)

Gate of Yashiro (what may be the oldest Shinto shrine in Japan), undated

Untitled (color block print), undated

Though fully Americanized following his own immigration to America at the age of 18, Henry Sugimoto retained a deep sensitivity to the language, culture, and traditions of the land of his birth. One example of this can be found in another print featuring the setting sun and a mountain, like the image at the top of this page. The print below demonstrates how the Japanese Kanji character, Yama (for mountain, as in Fuji Yama), inspired his portrayal of a peak set against the evening sun, and reflected off the surface of the sea. Sugimoto’s interest in this word and its written form is surely no coincidence given that he was born and lived until he was 18 in Wakayama, Japan. Wakayama is the conjunction of the Japanese words for ‘mountain’ and ‘youthful.’

Untitled (featuring the Japanese pictographic Kanji character for Yama, or mountain), undated

 

These and other works by Sugimoto, along with biographical information, can be found on the website for the Japanese American National Museum (www.janm.org). The museum has an informative documentary video, Harsh Canvas: The Art & Life of Henry Sugimoto, which features his artistic work and introduces viewers to some of his family and to places where he lived and worked. It can be found on YouTube.

Peter Koenig’s Christmas Triptych

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Peter Koenig, Christmas Triptych, Panel 1

 

Last week I observed how frequently Nativity-themed paintings contain noticeable suggestions of Jesus’ yet to be revealed saving Passion. Sometimes in rather subtle ways, we find in many such works palm fronds, passion flowers, cross-shaped patterns, and even lilies. A window by a Jewish painter, Marc Chagall, and a Christmas card by a Japanese pint maker, Sadao Watanabe, provide two interesting reference points. Peter Koenig, a contemporary British painter, presents a larger sweep of salvation history in his mystical composition, Christmas Triptych. Because of it synthesis of biblical images keyed to liturgical commemorations observed by the Western Church this week, I am pleased once again to share his visionary painting. (The three main panels of the triptych are displayed below.)

In Koenig’s Triptych, we see the Holy Mother and Child, the visit of the Magi (Jan. 6), the martyrdom of Stephen (Dec. 26), the Baptism of Christ and his first miracle at Cana (first Sunday after the Epiphany), as well as the marriage of the Lamb and the New Jerusalem (advent themes from Revelation 19).

Set amidst this larger backdrop are the images within the first panel, portraying the infant Jesus held by his mother. The child appears older than the baby we are accustomed to seeing in traditional Nativity paintings. Yet, this may be historically accurate and a fair representation of what Matthew suggests regarding the Magi’s undated visit. For though Matthew tells us of Jesus’ birth in a stable at Bethlehem, the Magi’s subsequent visit finds the child in ‘a house.’ Their success in finding the one to whom the star has led them triggers Herod’s plan to kill all the male children in Bethlehem “and in all that region who were two years old or under, according to the time that he [Herod] had ascertained from the wise men.”

The child is worshipped by the visitors from the East, a remarkable fact reported by Matthew, and is portrayed by Koenig in swaddling clothes that suggest the strips of fabric from his later burial linens. And he holds large spike-like nails in his hands. The distant-in-time ‘daughter of Eve’ stands on the head of a serpent, thereby fulfilling God’s words regarding it in Genesis 3:14-15.

Also strongly suggestive of the later saving work of this promised child is the large split-wood cross behind the figures, which springs from an empty tomb. Its form and adornment suggests the biblical Tree of Life. The cross has a fruited vine entwining it, exemplifying Jesus’s words about the vine and its branches, and evocative of a significant number of Old Testament images. As Christmas and Epiphany worship texts remind us, the three gifts borne by the Magi are symbolic of this child’s transformative meaning for this world in God’s Providence: gold for his royal status; incense for his divinity; and myrrh for what turned out to be his only-temporary burial.

Another painting by Peter Koenig featuring a ‘life-giving tree’ , Tree of Life, Tree of Death

May these 12 Holy Days of Christmas be a time of renewal for us and for His whole Church, in which we rediscover the saving mystery of his birth among us, and what it would foreshadow for our still-needy and suffering world.

 

Comfort Ye My People

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Marc Chagall, Memorial Window, All Saints Church, Tudeley, Tonbridge, UK

 

As a priest and from recent personal experience, I know how these weeks are a tender time for many of us. Especially for those who have lost loved ones at this time of year. Finding consolation and hope after losing the tangible nearness of a beloved family member or friend is hard at any time. Faced with such a loss or its memory around Christmas, how do we find comfort and reassurance in this season? Are “the hopes and fears of all the years” really met in Him, even now?

I find help with questions like these in what may seem an unlikely place: a beautiful window by an artist whose upbringing was shaped by Hasidic Judaism, placed over the altar of an Anglican church (shown above). It was designed by Marc Chagall for All Saints Church, Tudeley, in England.

Chagall was commissioned by a grieving couple to design this window as a memorial for their adult daughter who drowned in the sea. She is portrayed below the waves in the lower portion of the window, with what appears to be her grieving mother near her feet. We find here an unexpected coupling of images that frequently appear in Chagall’s work. Seeing his depiction of a crucified man juxtaposed with that of a mother and child surprises many Christians when they learn of Chagall’s Judaism.

The imagery in Chagall’s window may seem like an unusual choice for this holiday time. Yet, it fits. Though he often painted crucifixion images in his work, the artist had in mind the suffering of Jews through the centuries, and especially in his own time. In a similar way, he thought the portrayal of a mother and child, so familiar in Christian iconography, was a universal image within human experience. Chagall believed that the Christian conscience could be touched by familiar images from the Gospels, but which were also deeply resonant for Jews based on Hebrew Bible antecedents.

This is why I think that Chagall’s art might speak to us in this season. After all, the one whose birth we celebrate at this troubled time in the world awakens hope in us, hope for new life through the renewal of our shared humanity. Our Christmas hymns touch upon this theme. And, of course, the child born to Mary and Joseph was destined – as was prophesied – for the fall and rise of many (Luke 2:33-35).

Christian artists through the centuries have been captivated by many aspects of our Lord’s Nativity. Countless examples of their work have sought to express our impression of the circumstances of Jesus’ birth, and its significance for the world, not just for his immediate family. It is noteworthy how often depictions of the Annunciation, and of the Nativity contain noticeable hints of his later saving death, and resurrection. The inclusion of discernible palm fronds, passion flowers and of lilies in these works provide common examples of these visual hints of a veiled significance yet to be revealed.

Sadao Watanabe, Nativity Christmas card, with palms, lilies, and passion flowers

Both literally and conceptually, what we celebrate at Christmas is easier to ‘grasp’ than what we celebrate at Easter. We are more prepared for the presence of the Word made flesh in a manger than we are for the absence of the Word, said to be risen and ascended from an empty tomb. The comforting appeal of the Virgin Mary holding her newborn son in a stable contrasts with the mystery of another Mary later reaching out to try and hold the risen Jesus in a garden.

This Holy Child brought us the possibility of new life by overcoming the power of death. We celebrate his birth precisely because his death and resurrection provide the pathway to our own new birth. He was born and died as one of us. And so, in him, we die and rise again to the new life he shares with the world.

Mild he lays his glory by,
born that we no more may die,
born to raise us from the earth,
born to give us second birth.
Risen with healing in his wings,
Light and life to all he brings,
hail, the Sun of Righteousness!
hail, the heaven-born Prince of Peace!

Hark! the herald angels sing,
glory to the newborn King!

 

The hymn text is by Charles Wesley (Hark! the herald angels sing, verse 3).

Advent Annunciations: Elijah

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Marc Chagall, Elijah Touched by an Angel

 

Surely God’s annunciation to Elijah would have come early in his ministry, or before he embarked upon his calling. To our surprise, God’s personal self-revealing to Elijah happens after – rather than before – a series of dramatic events at which Elijah acted powerfully in the Lord’s name.

The presence of the Lord within the prophet’s words and action had already made a powerful impression upon others. After meeting a personal representative sent out by the wicked Ahab to find him, Elijah confronted the king himself. Then followed Elijah’s contest with the prophets of Baal on Mt Carmel, when God mightily came down in fire upon the sacrifice Elijah had prepared.

Marc Chagall, Elijah on Mt. Carmel

It is only after these things, and after Ahab’s wife, Jezebel, threatened to kill Elijah within 24 hours, that he reacts with notable fear and doubt! He flees into the wilderness where he asks the Lord that he might die. Elijah is twice visited by an angel, who bids him to eat and drink what has been provided. Strengthened, Elijah proceeds – apparently on his own initiative – to “Horeb, the mount of God” (called Sinai in Exodus). He travels 40 days and nights to encounter God personally.

Retreating to the safety of a cave, Elijah is confronted by God in a way that prompts him to face his own fears. God says to him, “What are you doing here, Elijah?” The question contains an ambiguity regarding the words doing and here. For why is Elijah not doing what God has already commissioned him to do, which is prophetically to tell the truth in God’s name? And why is Elijah here, in this remote place after a flight of forty days?

James Tissot, Elijah in the Wilderness at Mt Horeb

Elijah answers God, saying, “I have been very jealous for the Lord… For the people of Israel have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword, and I, even I only, am left, and they seek my life…” All to which he has devoted himself, all for which he had worked, appears to have been for nought. What would be the point of going any further on his vocational path, or of continuing to live?

God answers his forlorn prophet in a remarkable way. God says to him ,“Go out and stand on the mount before the Lord.”

And behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind tore the mountains and broke in pieces the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. And after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. And after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire the sound of a low whisper. And when Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his cloak and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave.

Marc Chagall, Elijah’s Vision

God has spoken in a low whisper. Not in the hurricane with which God has just terrified the prophet. Nor in the calamity of a seismic disturbance. And not in a raging wildfire. God has revealed himself to Elijah in stillness and silence. Only then does God send him on to his mission.

To a people whose lives are troubled by extraordinary events and personal crises – us – God often chooses to reveal self in a similar fashion. Unlike Elijah, we have been given assurance that God is not only abidingly with us. As baptized people, God is in us, always. With so much drama around us, why should we expect God to reveal self, and God’s hopes for us, in some dramatic way? But to hear God as God often prefers to speak to us, we may need to find moments and places of quiet amidst all the noise in our lives. Advent helps us prepare to hear the gentle and quiet whisper of God’s voice.

How silently, how silently,
the wondrous gift is giv’n!
So God imparts to human hearts
the blessings of His heav’n.
No ear may hear His coming,
but in this world of sin,
where meek souls will receive Him still,
the dear Christ enters in.

 

Elijah (later seen as forerunner of the Messiah) and his cycle of stories can be found in 1 Kings 17:1 — 2 Kings 2:12. The episode on Mt. Horeb is found in 1 Kings 19. The hymn, O little town of Bethlehem (verse 3), is by Phillips Brooks.

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Advent Annunciations: Anne, Mother of Mary

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Giotto, The Annunciation to St. Anne, Scrovegni Chapel, Padua

 

Without seeing the title of this fresco at the stunningly beautiful Scrovegni Chapel, in Padua, Italy, we might assume that it portrays the angel’s annunciation to the Virgin Mary. The parallels with traditional Annunciation iconography are readily evident. Yet Giotto also executed a series of panels there devoted to the life of St. Anne, Mary’s mother, who is shown in the fresco, above.

As with so many Marian annunciations, the scene is domestic, with Anne here suggested as having been occupied at home with her maid, preparing thread for stitching. Just as familiar paintings of Mary often show her at prayer, Giotto portrays Anne upon her knees with her hands clasped. But unlike familiar Marian parallels we do not see a devotional book open next to Anne. Just as later happens to her daughter, we see this grandmother-to-be of Jesus met by an angelic visitor who discloses an unexpected new role for her. Unlike her daughter Mary’s experience, Anne’s encounter with God’s Word to her is not recorded in canonical Scripture.

Interior of the Scrovegni Chapel

The frescos in the Scrovegni Chapel contain an interesting mix of images, with some portraying events in their presumed original historical context (such as the Nativity scenes), and others (like the annunciation to Anne) in buildings and settings more characteristic of Giotto’s own time and place, including the architecture of the chapel housing them. While he paints them this way, Giotto’s choices regarding imagery suggest that he seeks to be faithful to the supposition that Mary’s family came from an ordinary background. After all, Mary’s parents, named Anne and Joachim according to tradition, later allowed her to marry Joseph, a local builder; she was not betrothed to nobility. The painter, therefore, shows some restraint in his rendering of the context of Anne’s visitation. This simplicity in approach may also be due as much to Giotto’s early place in the historical development of European painting as it does his personal temperament.

In this remarkably large series of Scrovegni frescos, we can see that Giotto has discovered and effectively employs the technical skill of linear perspective. With some care, he depicts the stonework of Anne’s home and that of many other buildings as sculpturally ornamented. But rather than display undue deference to the known wealth and social position of his patron, he allows the particularity of the angel’s visitation to be what sets Anne apart from her contemporaries rather than the finery of her home’s appointments. An emerging humanism in painting is evident in Giotto’s artistic style, and he presents Anne as a distinctly recognizable person rather than as a merely symbolic religious figure. Though she appears to be a woman of some means, she is depicted as someone who could have been the neighbor or relative of many people of his community.

Here is one theme we find in Giotto’s fresco of Anne’s annunciation. All it takes to play a part in God’s unfolding plan of redemption for the world is an open heart and a spirit of willingness to say yes. What part we are to play, and its significance to and for others is, in the end, up to God – and probably not something to which we should give much thought. At least not in the way that we hope or imagine our personal skills and accomplishments might be thought of by others. Saving the whole world, even small parts of it, is God’s work and not our own.

And so, the key is what God might decide to do in and through us (while inviting our help), rather than what we might decide to do for God (while perhaps asking for divine help).

The mystery of this season of Advent centers upon how we are drawn into what God ‘has been up to’ for a very long time. In a season of growing astronomical darkness we are invited to seek the most significant source of light, the light of Christ. And at a time when the world around us seems more colored by signs of decay and dissolution, He in whom all things hold together comes anew to embrace us, and ever hold us fast. It may not be through an angel, but surely the One born among us calls all of us to share His love for the world.

 

Advent Annunciations: Joseph

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James Tissot, The Anxiety of Saint Joseph

 

I often turn to Annunciation scenes during Advent. This may seem curious since we celebrate the Feast of the Annunciation on March 25, nine months before Christmas Day. Yet, the season of Advent marks the beginning of a new church year, which may signal a time for other new beginnings.

The Annunciation to Mary was of course unique. Yet, it is also symbolic of God’s self-disclosure and God’s loving communication of hopes and wishes to every one of us. God becomes present to us, and in us, so that we might begin a new life, and begin it again. “Always, we begin again” is a saying oft-attributed to St. Benedict. It can become true for every mindful believer.

For obvious reasons, the Annunciation to Mary has received an overwhelming amount of attention in the history of art. Less frequently explored for its artistic potential is God’s self-disclosure through an Angel to Joseph, in a dream, even though it is with this Joseph story that Matthew launches his extended narrative. Mary gave birth to Jesus, whereas Joseph is remembered for having had a less prominent role in the circumstances of our Lord’s arrival. Joseph then largely disappears from the Gospel narrative. Perhaps because God’s revelation came to him in a dream while asleep as compared with Mary’s conscious, apparently daytime reception of the angelic visitation, Joseph’s receipt of an annunciation has been easier to overlook.

Yet, Joseph must have played a more-than-passing role in the coming of the Messiah. He did this by his willing marriage to Mary, and by initially providing a safe deliverance for his family from the wicked Herod, to and from Egypt. Undoubtedly, he gave Jesus significant mentoring, though Scripture leaves any details about that for us to imagine. Communities certainly have a part in the formation and education of children and youth, often in unrecognized and unrewarded ways. But why do we so easily overlook what was surely Joseph’s pivotal role in helping the young Jesus learn so much about Scripture, and in acquainting the youth with the material for so many of his later parables?

If these things may be inferred from the Gospels regarding Joseph’s significant role in the circumstances of the birth and early life of Jesus, we should reflect on what may have accompanied Joseph’s readiness to act upon the angel’s annunciation to him. As he positively responded to the angel’s words, he is likely to have considered what heeding those words might entail.

James Tissot’s painting, titled The Anxiety of Joseph, suggests that Joseph’s acceptance of his calling may have involved thoughtful deliberation. Indeed, Joseph may have sincerely weighed in his mind the degree of hazard that might arise from acting in accord with God’s revealed will, especially when such action might defy religious and social convention. That he, like Mary, in effect said yes to his angelic instructions, and followed through affirmatively, does not necessarily mean he did so without hesitation.

Most of us are called by God to accept unheralded and easy-to-overlook roles in God’s still unfolding plan of redemption for the world. Inspiration regarding our calling might even come to us in a dream, making us more prone to discount its potential significance, or too quickly assess its likely merit and value in a misguided and worldly way. After all, who are we to think that we could have an impact upon the world in relation to God’s sovereign purposes?

It is often said that Mary is the ‘mother’ of the Church. Perhaps Joseph, in a similar way, can be said to be the ‘father’ of all believers, especially those like you and me.

 

The Beauty of John’s Revelation

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Christ Pantocrator ceiling mosaic from the Hagia Sophia, Istanbul

 

Advent beckons! Or does it? Isn’t something profoundly new lying just around the corner? Or shall we simply drift into another season of the old and familiar that might or might not live up to our expectations?

This calendar year, with a full week between Thanksgiving weekend and Advent Sunday, we have an ample opportunity to ponder questions like these. If such have recently occurred to you – or seem relevant now – I have a suggestion. It is prompted by a question recently put to me. What book or devotional might I recommend for Advent? My suggestion for Advent reading is John’s Revelation! It is the last book of the Bible, but arguably the first book for a new era, as we begin a new church year. And Revelation makes for unexpectedly good reading during these days of increasing darkness, at least as daylight hours are typically reckoned.

The best way that I know for begining to appreciate John’s Revelation, and read it for personal enrichment, is to engage it guided by Eugene Peterson, translator of The Message version of the Bible. Peterson helps us by making the texts of Scripture accessible and familiar-sounding. He is especially helpful in steering us around or away from what is ironically a rather modern and limited way of reading the biblical text. With him, we can avoid a literalism overlaid by misguided assumptions regarding prophecy and history. For Revelation does not contain a code to be deciphered but a message of love to be received, however strange John’s language and imagery may strike us at first.

John’s Revelation is metaphorical poetry that speaks truth, rather than something like a roadmap conveying predicted facts about what lies ahead. And so, it is not about how or when ‘the End’ will come, as if John’s book was and is about the terminus or stopping point of history and of all that we know. Instead, and in a rather more profound way, we might with John begin to see something new: how the end or point of fulfillment for all of history and of God’s purposes have in some sense already arrived!

In these weeks of shortened daylight hours and increasing chill, the prospect of reading Revelation may seem antithetical to a hopeful anticipation of Christmas. Cheerful music, warm lighting on dark and cold evenings, and holiday treats on the table, are all attractive and good things for us to enjoy at this time of the year.

But if we have any sense that there is something wrong with the present state of our world, whether with things near or far away, ignoring or being in denial about such are not our only alternatives when it comes to how we might approach each new day. A new phase in salvation history has dawned, and does not simply lie ahead in an undefinable future that is beyond our grasp. Yet begining to see this new phase in God’s ongoing work of Redemption may take the work of imagination, a praying imagination as Peterson puts it, in order to see the real beauty that now surrounds us, and which can be found within.

The beauty of the face of ‘the coming One’ is already here to be seen. We don’t have to travel back in history to a stable in Bethlehem, nor do we need to try and peer ahead to some kind of future cosmic crisis to see his arrival. For he is here with everyone. And he can be seen in the faces of those who through their Baptism bear the intimacy of his beautiful presence.

 

Eugene Peterson’s book on John’s Revelation, Reversed Thunder: The Revelation of John & the Praying Imagination, is in print and available from book sellers. I am pleased that Amazon has announced the future release of a Kindle (ebook) as well as an audio version from Audible.

 

 

 

 

Thankful for a Holy Place

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One of my joys in retirement is once again to live near and be able to serve occasionally at Grace Church in St. Francisville, Louisiana. For many years it has been a ‘home away from home,’ not least because our three sons and their families live not far from it, and because many dear friends are members of the congregation and in the community.

Like so many, we are gathering this week with family as we celebrate Thanksgiving. High on our list of things for which we give thanks is having five of our granddaughters living within about a ten minute walk from our house, and our sixth granddaughter and her brother just a couple of hours away in New Orleans.

Among our grandchildren is one whose remains lie under one of the stones in our beautiful and historic cemetery. It is an especially meaningful place for us to stop and linger in the quiet, especially at holiday times like this. When in late 2007 I was called away to serve elsewhere, the blessed folks of Grace provided us with a burial plot in the rector’s portion of the cemetery. We give thanks for it as one of the most touching gifts we have ever received.

Some may have a hard time imagining how a cemetery, a place associated with death, could be replete with signs of life. And yet, it is. These evident signs of life transcend the presence of the church building and its related Christian symbols, like the crosses and inscriptions found on the monuments. I marvel at the live oaks with their long draping limbs, and how they stay green year-long, often supporting gangly strands of gray-green Spanish moss. More subtle are the fuzzy growths on the upper surfaces of those limbs, which appear to be a blend of moss and ivy. Their common name is resurrection fern, which in dry spells has an ochre color, but which then miraculously transforms into a deep green after an overnight rain.

My former church office looks out upon the cemetery ground in which are buried the remains of dear Lucy, a deacon our parish sponsored for ordination. Every time I walk the paths between alternating old and newer stones, I am mindful of her resting place and those of other friends and acquaintances, with whom we share in the communion of saints. Now, we also go there to visit ‘one of our own,’ in that most personal sense of the phrase. Some day, under one of these magnificent oaks, my remains, as well as Martha’s, will lie next to those of our granddaughter.

To muse upon these things during Thanksgiving week may strike some as dark and sad. Yet, a walk among the remembrance stones of this holy place reminds me of the life-giving texts we encounter every year on All Saints, and in our Eastertide lectionary readings. For, in one way or another, we are all called to visit that rocky ‘garden’ tomb, to find it empty and ponder its significance. There is undeniable beauty in the stories about what then became a holy place.

The beauty of the good news concerning that empty tomb is so much more than a wonder-story about a lucky man whose experience might inspire us. A man who, despite the worst that this world can do to a ‘good’ person, somehow managed to escape into something better. The Gospel story is also the ground for our hope, our hope for ourselves and our loved ones. Can that empty tomb then help us recognize how, in similar places reminiscent of death, we can find signs of new life? Yes. For our cemeteries are places where we seek to remember and honor our loved ones, with whom – in Christ – we are still connected. Here, in these places of burial, we can give thanks that through God’s love we are destined for more than we can now see or imagine.

 

The photo above depicts the cemetery of Grace Episcopal Church in St. Francisville, Louisiana. The church was founded in 1827, and the present building was completed by 1860. Three years later it was damaged by cannon fire from Union gunboats on the nearby Mississippi River, whose sailors were using our church tower to target the Courthouse across the street. (photo by Stephen Holmgren)