Art

The Beauty of Witness

Memorial sculpture commemorating the Martyrs of Memphis

This week, on September 9, we observed a significant date on our personal calendar by celebrating the birthday of one of our sons. September 9 was already a notable date for us beginning some years before his birth, after our move to Memphis in the summer of 1983. During those years, the date became associated with an addition to the Episcopal Church Calendar that has readings appointed for it in our Lectionary. September 9 is designated as the feast of The Martyrs of Memphis: Constance, Thecla, Ruth, Frances, Charles Parsons, and Louis Schuyler.

To those unfamiliar with its history, the official title for this feast day may suggest dramatic images of early Christian saints contending with ferocious animals and or human adversaries in the name of the Faith. Which then raises questions about whether, perhaps, the Memphis in question was the one in ancient Egypt. Yet, the name designation for this day can be instructive for all of us because it may remind us of something we once learned – that the etymological root of the word martyr lies in the ancient Greek word meaning ‘witness.’ Hence, those persons we commemorate on the Church’s Calendar because of their examples of Faith are remembered for being especially compelling witnesses to God’s redemptive mission in Christ, regardless of whether they faced circumstances that might have led to a heroic death.

The Martyrs of Memphis provides an occasion for us to remember the men and women who remained in Memphis to minister to those with whom they faced together the ravages of a severe Yellow Fever epidemic, from which they could have fled to safer places elsewhere. Unknown to them was the fact that this horrible plague was a mosquito-borne infectious virus, and not something arising from ‘swamp vapors’ or bad city air. Among the faithful persons who succumbed to the fever, and who are remembered on the feast day of September 9, are the four women named in the feast’s title who were community members of the Sisters of St. Mary, Father Charles Parsons, the last remaining Episcopal priest in the city, and Father Louis Schuyler, who came as a volunteer from New Jersey to take Parsons’ place and join the Sisters in ministry.

Monument by Harris Sorrelle, in the Memphis Martyrs Park, overlooking the Mississippi River

Words from the collect (or principal prayer) for the feast day of the Martyrs of Memphis capture well why these particular individuals are named among so many others – known and unknown – who shared their faith as well as fate: “We give you thanks and praise, O God of compassion, for the heroic witness of the Martyrs of Memphis, who, in a time of plague and pestilence, were steadfast in their care for the sick and dying, and loved not their own lives, even unto death…”

The generic character of the title for this significant feast day was chosen to help us also remember that the number of those who died in the epidemic, not only in Memphis, but up and down the Mississippi River and beyond, numbered in the thousands. Memphis’s historic Elmwood Cemetery, its oldest, has a particularly moving monument that complements the contemporary riverside sculptural composition by Harris Sorrelle (displayed above). At Elmwood, instead of having an impact upon the use of anonymous and aptly dark-colored figurative silhouettes, as Sorrelle’s sculpture does, the cemetery monument provides just paragraphs of words, stating in plain but moving terms the reality that lies below where cemetery visitors walk (as the following image attests). As the Elmwood monument notes, at least 1,400 Yellow Fever victims are buried in nearby unmarked mass graves.

Martyrs monument in Elmwood Cemetery (clicking the photo will provide an expanded view of it)

The faithful witness of those who died ministering to and with others among the Yellow Fever victims in Memphis in the 1870’s can have the effect of prompting us to reflect on the very different circumstances in which we live, with our advances in medicine, healthcare, and social services. Nevertheless, the COVID crisis of 2020, and its lingering legacy, can also remind us of our mortality, our higher calling to seek godly life in its fulness, and to be faithful companions with and to those less fortunate than ourselves.

A state-provided historical marker that includes use of the word ‘martyr’

Additional note: a tragic-comic aspect of the Yellow Fever’s impact upon Memphis was another pre-scientific belief (in addition to the ‘swamp vapors’ theory regarding its origin) amongst those who remained in the city. It is said that those who seemed to have the lowest mortality rate were corpulent men who smoked cigars, the smoke from which may have warded off the mosquitos responsible for the plague’s transmission.

Beauty & “The God of Wes Anderson”

This is a reprint of a review article by Germẚn Saucedo, titled “The God of Wes Anderson.” It is reprinted here with permission from the author, and from the publisher of the journal, First Things, where it first appeared.

A scene from Wes Anderson’s new film, *The Phoenician Scheme*

The God of Francis Thompson is a stubborn God. In his seminal poem “The Hound of Heaven,” a soul is on the run from God: “I fled Him, down the nights and down the days; / I fled Him, down the arches of the years.” The “hound” is persistent, however, and is always pursuing with “unhurrying chase, / And unperturbèd pace, / Deliberate speed, majestic instancy.” Who is this God whose love for us is so passionate and resolute, who will forgive even the gravest of sins and chase us to the ends of the world?

The God of Francis Thompson is the God that operates in Wes Anderson’s latest feature, The Phoenician Scheme. The film follows Anatole “Zsa-Zsa” Korda (Benicio del Toro), an industrialist and morally bankrupt magnate in the style of J. Paul Getty or Aristotle Onassis who, after surviving yet another mysterious assassination attempt, decides to call upon his estranged daughter Liesl (Mia Threapleton), a novice “sister of the cloth.” He intends not only to bequeath his vast fortune to her, but also to enlist her in completing the “most important project of [his] lifetime,” the “Korda Land and Sea Phoenician Infrastructure Scheme.”

Many films have been accused of being “God-haunted,” hinting at the presence of God through the subtleties of the plot or the visuals. The Phoenician Scheme is more than “God-haunted”; he is very much present in the film. He is, in fact, played by Bill Murray. After a plane crash at the beginning of the movie, Korda briefly finds himself in heaven. There, he runs into his grandmother, who fails to recognize the man he has become. Time and time again, as assassins seek to end his life, Korda finds himself at the pearly gates. Each time, he is found lacking.

In the Confessions, St. Augustine famously recounts his youthful desire for the Lord to “Give me chastity and continence, but not yet.” While amusing, this sentiment is spiritually disordered. Many of us live lives apart from God, hoping we can outmaneuver him at the last second, “lest he come suddenly and find you asleep.” Similarly, Korda realizes that he has delayed repentance and conversion until the last minute.

The “hound” is never far away, however. He manifests himself through Liesl who, despite practically being abandoned by Korda, has managed to become a pious nun. While reluctant to enter her father’s world of opulence and luxury, she nevertheless decides to play the role Korda has set for her, seeing potential spiritual fruits from the venture, and quickly begins the work of saving Korda’s soul. She easily forgives his past injustices toward her, brings love to the lives of Korda’s nine neglected sons, and attempts to humanize his enterprise. Liesl also attempts to evangelize the children’s tutor and her father’s new administrative assistant, Bjørn.

Korda’s journey to save his infrastructure project brings him ever closer to God. Liesl’s influence and example, as well as a confrontation with his past (and some amount of self-interest), leads him—along with his nine sons—to be baptized into the Catholic Church. In a defining act of selflessness, Korda gives up his fortune to cover the funding deficit of his major project and save it.

Wes Anderson’s films are often dismissed as mere aesthetic exercises, lacking narrative substance. His protagonists are usually “bourgeois with bourgeois problems,” while his visuals are frequently labeled as “twee” and “quirky.” Unlike the realism of directors like Ermanno Olmi, whose slow and contemplative style focused on the material reality of the lower classes, Anderson’s work is often seen as overly stylized and detached from reality.

But this surface-level reading could not be further from the truth. For Anderson, it seems, beauty is reality. To borrow Keats’s famous verse, “Beauty is truth, truth beauty”; and it is through beauty that God makes himself known to us. When Liesl attempts to exit her father’s opulent world and take her vows as a nun, her mother superior declines, pointing to her love of lavishness—including a bejeweled pipe and diamond-encrusted rosary gifted by Korda, which Anderson commissioned from Dunhill and Cartier—as evidence of her lack of religious vocation. But she does not scold her for loving beautiful things. In fact, she comforts Liesl by saying that God glorifies himself with the lavish and palatial, as not everyone was meant to live in poverty.

In a Q&A at a New York screening of the film, Wes Anderson reflected briefly on the ability of rich magnates to do good, especially in today’s world. The artist has a similar potential. In Thompson’s poem, the “hound” claims that “[N]one but I makes much of naught.” While our riches and our art may amount to nothing, once offered up to God, they can become instruments of his love and mercy. God will never stop his pursuit of us in part because he, unlike the world, knows our full potential. Korda—like us—is thrown lifeline after lifeline, which can only be taken on God’s terms, not ours.

Unlike Korda, we should not wait for brushes with death and brief visits to the pearly gates to turn around and deliver the “hound” from his incessant chase. Every moment is an opportunity to do so. The curious and wonderful thing about the God of Francis Thompson, the God of Wes Anderson, is that he’s real, and he is always seeking us.

A promotional poster for Anderson’s new film

Note: Germẚn Saucedo serves as a Junior Fellow at First Things. I requested permission to reprint his review article because it seems so fitting to the material I explore on this website. I am grateful for this fine piece. I particularly appreciate Saucedo’s statement, based on a quote from Keats: “For Anderson, it seems, beauty is reality… and it is through beauty that God makes himself known to us.”

A Tao of Seeing: Reflections Inspired by Feng Shui

Michael Pollan’s writer’s hut, intentionally situated by a boulder on the brow of a hill

Recently, I observed my middle son moving a black plastic pond module around in a small space in his New Orleans courtyard. As he moved the container that would soon have fish in it, he tried situating the vessel in various ways, in relation to a tree, a fence, some potted plants, and an existing low stone wall. He is not a student or practitioner of feng shui, but I believe I was seeing some of those principles at work in his decision-making.

Western readers may have heard of feng shui, the Asian philosophical approach to discerning the unseen forces that affect objects and their balance in nature. It gives attention to the metaphysical or non-material energies thought to be at work upon or within the world around us. We might say that this approach provides a Tao of seeing, or a natural way of perceiving within and around surface phenomena to the underlying dynamisms that are believed to affect what happens in nature.

This notion that there are unseen forces at work in the world is an idea that is receiving something of a revival in Western Christian spirituality. This is noticeable when people refer to a concept attributable to the Celtic tradition, in which it has become common to refer to “thin places. “ These are places where the veil between the material and the ethereal or the heavenly seems temporarily dissolved. Another parallel here between East and West may lie in the quest within Christian spirituality for the goal of harmony and balance between people and the created world.

However, my reflections here constitute an aesthetic rather than a philosophical or historical inquiry. I am interested in the dynamics of movement we perceive in the circumstances that we encounter, and less in the metaphysical forces or energies that may be present within them. At the outset, however, I want acknowledge how a nuanced Asian approach can be an authentic route toward a culturally-informed appreciation of the phenomena we encounter, especially from a historically Asian perspective.

As we look at paintings in the context of Western culture, one factor we discern assesses composition and attends to the way our seeing is drawn from one part of a larger image to another. This dynamic is often an artist-intended aspect of an overall composition. Sight lines in garden design and arrangement provide another example, as does the architectural arrangement of space in buildings.

Attention given by Western designers to feng shui is sometimes criticized as being a superficial application of historically and philosophically nuanced ideas. But I want to give credit to ways in which our sensitivity toward perceiving movement and direction is a genuine factor that is available for analysis and articulation. We notice this when we encounter both two dimensional compositions as well as three dimensional spaces and the objects we find in them. We can always come to know more about what we see. Because what we see is something that is there, not simply what we believe, or are disposed or inclined to see.

An Asian garden said to be designed according to *feng shui* principles

Motion, balance between forces, spatial arrangement of objects, and the dynamic relationships that are visible because they exist between and among these variables, continue to grab my interest. Contrasts between colors and textures, as well as between sizes and shapes, play a significant role. Additionally, the perceived difference between what is natural and things that are humanly fashioned is equally significant, as is our perception of the criteria for what constitutes that which we consider to be natural. These are among the factors that help account for our sensitivity towards and interest in these many observable variables, and our common quest for purpose and meaning in the contexts where we find ourselves.

Motions and balance as we find these factors in Wassily Kandinsky’s painting, Several Circles

Painters, sculptors, and architects, seriously consider these factors within visual and spatial compositions. The painter, Wassily Kandinsky, and the architect, Frank Lloyd Wright, provide two examples of those who also perceived a spiritual dimension within their creative work.

If so, we – as caring lay observers of the world and of the things and places among which we find ourselves – should give deference to this evident fact. For we can all be thoughtful, as people often are inclined to be, about what we see, touch, and experience when we interact with visual phenomena.

I find myself increasingly sensitive to these aspects of our appreciation for Beauty, and endeavor to be more mindful about them. I am intrigued by possible parallels that may exist between Eastern metaphysical interpretations of visual phenomena and more familiar approaches to what we see that are shaped by Western aesthetics. Especially as these familiar approaches are described and developed within our artistic and architectural best practices.

The Challenge Posed by Eric Gill

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To my mind, some of the most beautiful work in the area of graphic art was created by the British artist and craftsman, Eric Gill. The intractable problem posed by Eric Gill is not a legacy of his artistic output, but of his personal life. Largely unknown to those outside his family until about 50 years after his death, Eric Gill – by admission in his own unpublished writings – had engaged in personal behavior of a kind that most people would find not only abhorrent but, increasingly, as also criminal.

This is related to the larger problem posed by the work of artists, musicians, and architects whose work is seen as having been collaborative with tyrannical regimes (eg., the Third Reich, the Soviet Union). How do we view beauty in art that either depicts or is simply associated in some way with sin or with evil? (This is a matter I have previously tried to understand in relation to Picasso’s great painting, Guernica.)

To cite Scripture to the effect that “all have sinned,” may help us begin to locate the terrain upon which we need to address the problems stemming from Eric Gill’s biography, but it is not in any way to excuse his conduct. Though all sin is bad, and equally problematic in the eyes of God, not all sin is equal in its damaging effect upon others, and upon ourselves. The traditional distinction in moral theology between mortal and venial sins provides one way to try to parse some of these differences, while not excusing any forms or examples of sin, whether in ourselves or among others.

My purpose here is to invite reflection upon how we might appreciate Eric Gill’s religious art, as many did for several generations, without having our view of the merit of his work diminished by our moral evaluation of troubling ethical choices he made, and the lapses from good moral judgment they represent. In other words, and as an amateur student of the arts while also being a retired parish priest and former professor of moral theology, I wish to present some examples of Eric Gill’s art, letting his work speak for itself apart from ethical consideration of his personal life, and without ignoring the problems associated with the latter.

Perhaps my theme here can be summed up in this way: I invite you to benefit from the beauty of what Eric Gill created without asking you to overlook what we have learned about his private life. And I offer this invitation aware that some will not find it possible to accept.

A sculpted carving by Eric Gill above the altar of the Chapel of St George and the English Martyrs, Westminster Cathedral, London

Eric Gill, sculpted relief panel from a series of the Stations of the Cross, Westminster Cathedral, London

As we consider some of his art, we should not overlook Eric Gill’s impact, at least indirectly, upon much of the daily life of the population of Great Britain (and elsewhere), in the form of three type faces he created. The most well-known is Gill Sans, named after its designer, and evident at almost every Tube stop in London. An effort to erase his work from the public eye, and replace it with alternatives, would require removing virtually every train station sign in Britain. It could be done. Should it?

To put the problem I have raised here most bluntly, how can we appreciate the beauty in the holy art created by someone who behaved in a way most people would describe as sinful? I do not have a ready answer to this question. Note that, in what I have written above about Gill’s behavior, I have not gone into detail. Would that make a difference? If so, in what way?

And even if we refuse to give any amount of attention to Eric Gill’s artwork, we must still grapple with a timeless question: are there any unforgivable sins? Is anyone, because of his or her behavior, beyond the power of God’s redeeming love? Is it not likely that someone having Gill’s religious inclination also possesses a glimmer of moral awareness such that he or she might be open to repentance when – at the end of life – the person faces the awesome and undiminished light of God’s truth-seeking love?

Here is one thing that we can do: pray for the repose of the soul of Eric Gill, and for God’s Providential mercy.

In beginning to approach the questions I have raised here, I would start with some of the distinctions I shared above. I do not think we can deny this reality – that we, as people who are created in the image and likeness of God, and who have lost that likeness through the Fall and human sin, still bear God’s image however marred it may be by the corruption resulting from our sins. And, that we are still capable while in this life of acts and works of uplifting beauty.

The Kelpies: Canal-Side Art and Engineering

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If ever there was a reason to take a narrow boat journey, especially in Scotland, an engineering marvel will reward those who travel in that region by such means. Two magnificent large scale sculptures called the Kelpies commemorate the horses that once pulled cargo canal boats along what are still called towpaths. This monument straddling the Firth and Clyde Canal, northwest of Edinburgh, is comprised of twin large scale structures that are said to be the largest equine sculptures in the world. Just under 100’ tall, and each weighing over 300 tons, the structures were built of steel, partly in deference to the historic steel industry in Scotland.

With an interior armature made of construction-steel beams prefabricated elsewhere, the sculptures were assembled on site with the assistance of large cranes and then clad with stainless steel plates. Aside from their resulting durability and their efficient use of materials, the Kelpies’ engineering design permits dramatic interior lighting, especially effective in the evening and early morning hours.

The Kelpies sit adjacent to a newly created canal lock and basin in the Helix Park, and serve as symbolic sentinels in a newly created juncture between the Union Canal and the River Carron.

Some people have suggested that the two sculptures are based upon a pair of draft horses of the type that may once have been used on the Firth and Clyde Canal. In my observation, Clydesdale and other draft horses tend to be gentle and of a mild temperament. They are rather stocky in appearance, not only in their bodies but also in their necks and heads. Draft horses are certainly capable of running, and I am sure that some have been known to kick, especially if they have been mistreated. But draft horses can also look as if they embody a spirit of docile resignation to their tasks.

The artist’s design for these Kelpies reminds me not of those lovable working companions, the Clydesdales, but instead look like Arabians or the Mustangs and other wild horses one sees in the American West, spirited, lean, and untamed. I am glad the Kelpies appear this way, as I think they are inspirational, rising up hugely as they do at Helix Park. These horses, especially the one on the right, look as if they have not only been ‘given their head,’ they seem never to have surrendered themselves to our governance. This is only fitting, given the mythological source of the Kelpie name. Kelpies were said to be the spirits of streams that when ridden, might carry their riders down to a tempestuous demise in the depths. As such, we can not only admire their beauty, but these Kelpies can remind us of the canals and those who died building them, the canals’ unromantic industrial past, and those who toiled at canal-side factories in what William Blake – in his poem commonly known as “Jerusalem” – memorably termed Britain’s “dark Satanic Mills.”

Another large scale equine sculpture may come to mind when viewing the Scottish Kelpies, inspired by Leonardo da Vinci’s drawing of a large horse monument, designed for the Duke of Milan. A modern day sculpture, based on Leonardo’s drawings, can be found at the Meijer Gardens, in Grand Rapids, Michigan, as well as one cast for the city of Milan. Nina Akamu’s, The American Horse, expresses a similar kind of energetic vitality such as we find in Andy Scott’s great figures along the Firth and Clyde Canal. 24 feet high, Akamu’s strong and vigorous impression of a horse has something of the bone structure and mass of a Clydesdale, and every bit of the spirit that we find in Scott’s two stirring examples.

Entering The Easter Joy of Our Lord

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A prayer appointed for the closing moments of the Good Friday liturgy provides words with which we commit ourselves to God, and pray for the grace of a holy life. We pray this prayer “with all who have departed this world and have died in the peace of Christ.” The liturgy provides this prayer so that, having made our commitment, and request for grace, “we may be accounted worthy to enter into the fullness of the joy of our Lord.”

Through Baptism, through dying and rising again in Christ, we have already entered into the joy of our Lord. This is the joy that our Lord so freely shares with all who are open to receiving it. A notable aspect of the first disciples’ response to encountering the Risen Lord, was joy. He brought joy to those who had despaired, or doubted, or even had given up hope. He brought joy to Peter who had denied him three times. He brings the same joy to us.

To experience the joy of the Lord, we don’t need to wait until we pass beyond this life, through the veil, into what lies before us. What we await is the fullness of joy when, finally, we behold him, unburdened from the cares and allure of this world as these occupy our attention now. In Jesus’ Resurrection, and through our participation in his Risen Life, we see further dimensions of the New Creation that already is.

Through Grace, joy is now ours. Rightly, and by faith, we anticipate entering the fullness of the joy of the Lord. As a Robert Lentz icon of Thomas Aquinas reminds us, joy is more than a feeling; for “joy is the noblest human act.”

Good Friday 2025

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Stanley Spencer, The Cruicifixion (1958)

(I am offering here my Good Friday homily for this year, based on one previously shared)

In the passion reading we have just heard, we are reminded of the dark spectacle of what human cruelty can accomplish. With Jesus, it was a vain attempt to obliterate the most beautiful human being who ever lived. Thank God, we have no photographs of the horrifying things that were done to him, but only paintings. But consider this paradox: the beauty of art has provided a way for us to a reflect on one of the darkest examples of human violence.

Paintings of our Lord’s Passion seem divided into two broad groups. There are those concerned to portray the grim reality of Roman execution. And, there are those inclined to explore and express the inner redemptive significance of what happened.

At the center of any portrayal of the Crucifixion of Jesus is an inescapable fact ~ it was an act of political and judicial violence, where the forces of earthly injustice pretended to act in the name of human truth. The corollary to this is how Jesus’ subsequent Resurrection restored heavenly justice in the name of divine truth. Paintings of Jesus’ Crucifixion, and those of his Resurrection, usually give attention to his wounded body, even though his wounds then appear transformed on the Third Day. After all, this is one way the disciples recognize him after his death. How the death-marked body of Jesus looked after his resurrection, also provides a preview of his appearance at the end of time.

Charles Wesley’s Advent hymn, “Lo! he comes, with clouds descending” offers words that also apply to Good Friday.

“Every eye shall now behold him,
robed in dreadful majesty;
those who set at nought and sold him,
pierced and nailed him to the tree,
deeply wailing, deeply wailing…
shall the true Messiah see.

Those dear tokens of his passion
still his dazzling body bears,
cause of endless exultation
to his ransomed worshippers;
with what rapture, with what rapture
gaze we on those glorious scars!”

It is natural to imagine how the people directly responsible for Jesus’ death, from Judas and the high priests, to Herod and Pilate, might be overcome with grief at the triumphal Second Coming of the Lord. Those who pierced him might feel themselves pierced by awakened guilt and remorse. Indeed, for every one of us, seeing the fruit of our mischief and misdeeds can provoke us to tears.

But I think Wesley was getting at more than repentance and contrition. Surely, seeing the full beauty of the glory of our Lord, with his wounds transfigured, will also summon our tears — but with tears of joy. Wesley, prayerfully and with sensitivity, has given voice to the profound power of beauty. Especially when it is discerned in the most unexpected of places – in the face and body of the crucified One. Love… the most profound love beyond human imagining, is manifest in the face and gestures of the crucified messiah. For he reaches out his hands even to forgive those who have tortured and sought to kill him. This is the most beautiful thing we could ever see.

As we pray in a Morning Prayer collect, “Lord Jesus Christ, you stretched out your arms of love on the hard wood of the cross that everyone might come within the reach of your saving embrace…”

Perceiving all this helps us make sense of the paradox at the heart of Jesus’ Crucifixion. For, in it, we perceive the dramatic juxtaposition of serenity with antagonism, of beauty with its dark opposite, and of moral good with apparent evil. We can see this in two paintings I have included with your worship bulletin: Hieronymus Bosch’ painting of Christ Carrying the Cross, and Stanley Spencer’s 1958 painting, The Crucifixion. Looking at them, I encourage you to join me in asking an awkward question: with which person or persons in these paintings do we identify?

Hieronymus Bosch, Christ Carrying the Cross

Though some 500 years apart, both painters portray the tranquil appearance of the peaceful heart of Jesus, even in the face of vicious hostility. And like Bosch, Spencer helps us see what the beautiful One in our midst sometimes provokes. Especially when the shining light of his presence exposes the dark shadows within and around us. For his light sometimes prompts fierce anger and envy, as well as a callous indifference to cruelty and suffering. Things of which we are all capable. And we are likely to have much invested in denying this ugly truth. Strangely, when confronted face to face with the divine opposite of our perversity, we will either fight the light that we encounter, or surrender to it. The Passion narratives give us examples of those who resisted and even fought against the Light of the World. For we sometimes fight against the disturbing possibility that Jesus will conquer our pervasive ungodliness. And so, consciously or not, we try to do away with his godliness.

An encounter with true beauty can be unsettling and troubling, especially if we have already settled for so much less. We may often hope for the triumph of good over evil, that beauty will overcome darkness, and serenity will displace antagonism. But we cannot find it within ourselves to do more than hope. We cannot achieve the redemptive resolution for which we haltingly reach out with our feeble hands and hearts.

It is not an accident that the figure of Jesus in Stanley Spencer’s painting visually recedes in the foreground, while those who oppose and crucify him grab our interest and attention. Spencer, after mastering traditional realism, adopted what he called a neo-primitive style. He was a gifted colorist, and highly proficient with composition. And so, as Spencer has rendered him, Jesus’ skin tone and color roughly match that of the wood of the cross, as well as the clothing of the man with the hammer swung over his head. Spencer’s rendering of the Lord’s skin tone and color also match much of the sky and the ground below… including the tunic of Mary Magdalene, prostrate at the foot of the cross. This forms a compelling visual symbol. For Jesus totally identified with us, in his Incarnation, and in his Crucifixion. His crucifixion symbolizes his complete joining with us, and with our world of wrenching hurts and suffering.

In fact —as we see in Spencer’s composition and coloring— it is precisely because Jesus blended in so well with everyday life, that those who opposed him could literally gain the upper hand, ultimately with hammers and nails. (For he did not call down an army of angels to help him, as he could have.) But this is the marvel of the incarnation of our God in Jesus. The fullness of divinity thoroughly became joined with our fallen humanity. As the Gospels attest, this joining was so complete that many did not notice or have regard for his divinity. When we do notice his total identification with us, when we come face to face with the truth it represents, we have either one or the other of two reactions. We throw ourselves down in humility before him. Or, we seek to throw him down, to humble him before us.

These paradoxes are brought to their greatest prominence when, as he predicted, he is lifted up. His lifting up is his glorification, and the glorification of God within him. Yet his lifting up is on a cross, and in the agony of a humiliating public execution. Here we see the ‘strange beauty’ of our Lord — a beauty for which churches and museums better prepare us than do our malls and most TV shows.

So, let us “behold the fair beauty of the Lord, and … seek him in his temple.” We will find him! We will find him in the “temple” that he promised to raise in three days.

Additional note: Those interested in further reflection on some of the Holy Week themes raised here might wish to read my prior post, “What God Can Do, and Is Doing.”

The Beauty of What God Can Do, and Is Doing

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If you are a Christian, and if you reflect on your formation as a person of faith, consider this question: Do you believe it is reasonable for God’s will to make sense to us? To ask this question opens the door to discovering how our beliefs about God were shaped, as well as our beliefs about God’s providential ordering of the world. Indeed, does God even want us to think about such things, or are we simply to accept and obey the divine will, regardless of whether we find this reasonable.

These questions also bear upon how we reflect upon what happened in Jerusalem 2,000 years ago, events that we consider during this Holy Week.

Broadly speaking, the Catholic tradition of thought – going back at least to Thomas Aquinas – anticipates a discernible overlap between divine rationality and that of created and redeemed human nature. God’s rationality is imprinted upon our powers of reasoning. By contrast, broad strands of the Protestant tradition – with its comparatively elevated concept of the Fall and human sin – have not nurtured and have even discouraged a similar expectation of such an overlap. Accordingly, we cannot expect or believe that our rationality has any real continuity with divine rationality.

One of the two traditions described above has emphasized the self-revealing comprehensibility of God, who intends for us to know, and not simply obey, the divine will. The other tradition has privileged the sense that God was and is wholly other, and therefore God’s ways are incomprehensible, except for small graces. Each of these two traditions has therefore had a different understanding of what it means for us to have been created in the image and likeness of God (see Genesis 1:26, in context).

A related and observable distinction regarding these two broad traditions concerns the relationship between grace and nature, and how this is construed. In the wider Catholic understanding, grace is more often seen as infusing nature, and present everywhere. Whereas a common view often found in Protestant piety anticipates that grace touches nature episodically, and sometimes is antithetical to it, given nature’s and our Fallen state.

Another way we can distinguish the spiritual influence of the two traditions I am sketching here concerns the nature of God and of God’s activity. For example, shaped by a broadly Catholic catechesis, it is believed that there are at least three things that God cannot do: create a rock bigger than God can lift; choose to cease to exist; and, command us to hate ‘him.’ For, in the spirit of that same catechetical tradition, each of these three theoretical possibilities would be irrational, and thus contrary to the divine nature and being, as well as to who and how we were and are made to be.

Most Protestant thinkers and preachers would likely dismiss the first two of these three (im)possible ‘things’ as perhaps irrelevant rhetorical distractions. Yet, the third thing, however disagreeable and unforeseen in light of the New Testament, would probably be conceded as theoretically possible, especially given the historically Protestant stress on divine freedom and the importance of acts of will for personal right-believing. (In other words, though God could, God wouldn’t.)

A result of these differences between the two traditions is that questions about sin, misfortune, and the presence of evil, have tended to be handled differently in Protestant belief and teaching as compared to that shaped by Catholic spirituality. This difference can be noticed when we reflect on and speak about ‘bad things’ that happen to us. Does God cause such misfortune, or, allow it? How we tend to answer this ‘cause’ question can reveal something about the Christian catechesis by which our thinking and beliefs have been shaped. And how we think about this question regarding divine responsibility will benefit from insight going back to Aristotle concerning four different aspects of what the word ’cause’ can mean.

Here is a fundamental question that can bring many of the above strands of thought into focus: Do we believe that God always loves us; always seeks intimate fellowship with us; and always seeks to draw us more fully into the merciful embrace of God’s redemptive purposes? Or are our answers to these facets of a fundamental question somewhat qualified? And if qualified, then by what?

Especially in view of our observance of Good Friday this week, I believe that we can answer this question about how God loves us in the affirmative. And we can do this without overlooking or ignoring such NT images as the narrow gate, and the Lord who will ask what we have done for the least of his brothers and sisters.

CS Lewis, among others, reminds us of a way that we can appropriately affirm God’s abiding love for all people. We can illustrate Lewis’ view with the following image: We may weep when we come before Him at the end of our lives. But our tears may be both from sorrow as well as from joy at our redemptive inclusion, despite all that may count against us. As long as, in that moment, we acknowledge Him, and who He really is. For we all will have the opportunity to do so.

Alleluia – Easter comes for everyone. If only we could better see how and why that is true!

Additional note: As an Anglican, I include my own tradition within what I refer to above as the broadly Catholic tradition. My goal with this post is not historical analysis but to provide grounds for reflection regarding two differing – yet sometimes overlapping – ways of approaching some central questions.

Charlie Russell: Stories That We See

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Charlie Russell’s culturally perceptive and action-oriented paintings reflect the social sensitivity that he possessed as well as his visual awareness of the natural world around him. Russell was a much-appreciated story teller, a natural gift that I believe is reflected in his art work. In Charlie Russell’s paintings, we see stories, and many of them represent the climax-point of stories we want to hear.

This raises a significant question regarding the works I am featuring in this post: What distinguishes these Russell paintings from examples like those of James Tissot’s biblical scenes, or Norman Rockwell’s Four Freedoms images? Regarding the paintings of both of the latter two artists, the word illustration may be used without diminishing our regard for their beauty or accomplishment. Yet, and without rendering a judgment about Tissot and Rockwell’s work, there may be a discernible difference between what are technically referred to as illustrations, and paintings that are more properly termed “fine art.”

Tom Gilleon’s recent exhibition of paintings at the CM Russell Museum included a personal reflection by the artist regarding his transition from being an illustrator for Walt Disney and NASA, to pursuing painting as a fine art. In that reflection, he refers to an illustrator’s skill in distilling imagery into its simplest forms, for example, by focusing on the power of simple lines and basic shapes. He suggests that, in his transition to fine painting, he pursued those basic shapes and forms as ends in themselves, being aware of how his paintings connect viewers directly to our primal human understanding of such forms. In a statement titled, “Profound Truths in Simple Forms,” he says that “by eliminating all unnecessary elements and being as direct as possible, an artist has the opportunity to guide viewers’ eyes, to tell them stories, to move their emotions.” The Russell paintings I feature here do just that.

Yet, the question remains. What distinguishes fine art paintings from those we call illustrations? If the latter are of a publishable kind, surely they share some of the properties we associate with fine art, and reflect a comparable degree of skill by the artist and a dedication to quality in the results. Building on Gilleon’s reflection noted above, we might say that illustrations are produced to accompany the telling of a story, whereas many examples of fine art paintings do the telling of the story. They do this by capturing more than a particular moment, while being suggestive of the broader context of what has come before, and what might come next. Another way to make the point is this: artworks intended as illustrations generally provide an image of a moment, or a dimension of a story that is communicated by other means, such as narrative.

Yet, in examples of fine art, a painting is meant to communicate on its own, apart from any accompanying text, and sometimes even without a title. In such work, factors such as atmospheric conditions of weather and lighting, or the emotional disposition of any characters portrayed, as well as interaction between them, often play a major role. And the presence and function of these latter elements can significantly determine the effectiveness of a particular work.

In these works of representational art, we begin to inhabit the scene and story, while finding out more about them as we consider the imagery. Russell’s attention to background, the broader context, and surrounding figures, contribute significantly to the overall effect of his work. His very well-known early painting, Waiting for the Chinook (The Last of 5000), provides a reference point for this distinction. As a relatively simple image, its power lies in how it rises above the simple portrayal of a fact, in how it suggests multiple answers to a larger question.

This may help us observe how each of the paintings featured here not only tells a story, but invites the viewer into those stories to imagine what has led up to the moment being portrayed, as well as concerning what might yet happen in the given situation.

Except for the early Chinook painting (seen above), all of the images included here date after the turn of the 20th century, when the “Old West” had in large part already transitioned from the lore and imagery of the “cowboys and indians” days, an ethos Wild Bill Cody had successfully captured in his eponymous Wild West Show, and was a world soon eclipsed by the emerging film industry.

Additional note: Readers may also be interested in the prior post, “Charlie Russell’s Vision of the ‘Old West’.” Once again, I commend a visit to the CM Russell Museum, in Great Falls, MT, to see original Russell paintings and sculptures as well as the artist’s studio and residence, carefully preserved adjacent to the museum. Interior photos of Russell’s studio and home are seen the photo below.

Charlie Russell’s Vision of the “Old West”

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One of the most prolific and skillful painters and sculptors who sought to portray the myth and reality of the “Old West,” having witnessed its waning days, was the cowboy-turned-artist, Charlie Russell. He discovered his real vocation after moving to Montana in 1880 to try ranching at the age of 16. Fans of Russell like to repeat the story of how the would-be-artist communicated to absent land owners about the condition of the few surviving cattle after a brutal winter decimated their herd. Instead of a written report, Russell sent a painting of a single bony steer surrounded by prowling coyotes. Titled, Waiting for a Chinook (The Last of the 5,000), the illustration has become one of Russell’s best known images.

From his earliest days, Russell had the gift of being able to capture with drawing and paint the lives of what he would have called ‘Cowboys and Indians’ in ways that others found compelling. By the time of his death, at the age of 61 in 1926, Charlie Russell was one of the most famous artists in America. Despite his abiding interest in the romance of the Old West and its cowboy ethos, Russell was quite knowledgeable about Native American cultural patterns and spent a significant amount of time with the Blackfeet and other regional tribal peoples, making many enduring friendships in the process.

Ever since visiting the C.M. “Charlie” Russell Museum while in middle school, I have wanted to return to Great Falls, Montana, in order to see the splendid collection of his paintings and memorabilia for which that facility provides careful and intelligent stewardship. Recently, I was able to attend the annual CM Russell Museum weekend fundraising gala event that includes an auction of a wide array of Western art, including pieces by the museum’s namesake.

The Russell Museum is located adjacent to the artist’s restored home and log cabin studio, on a quiet street in a residential neighborhood in Great Falls, a relatively small city located on the banks of the upper Missouri River. Little did we know that this event, coinciding with the annual Western Art Week expo, attracts many buyers and patrons, eager to add to their collections. We marveled at the auction of a 1924 watercolor by Russell, Women of America, sold for the astonishing price of $1.6 million! Another watercolor by Russell, the 1904 Mandan Buffalo Hunt, attained an auction price of $750,000. Both of these recently sold works (reproduced here from the catalogue) provide a sense of Russell’s culturally perceptive, action-oriented paintings.

Of particular interest was a presentation offered by the Crow Nation linguist, Dr. Lanny Real Bird, who helped non-Native American listeners undertand the significance of sign language among Plains tribal peoples, and how it was a skill with which Charlie Russell had become proficient. This under-appreciated aspect of Russell’s skillset can be discerned in a painting by the artist that has become one of my favorites, The Fireboat (seen at the top of this post).

Russell’s painting, The Fireboat, was completed in the latter part of his career, and appears to depict a scene along the upper Missouri River near the artist’s home territory. A steamboat (visible in the far lefthand edge of the painting) has attracted the attention of three members of the Blackfeet Nation, who are joined by a fourth in the background. A setting western sun illumines the figures of the mounted Blackfeet warriors, which – along with the steamboat – subliminally suggests the cultural shift occurring on the Western Plains in the last decades of the 19th century, with the gradual eclipse of one nation by another. The middle figure, whose image helps form a visual triangle within the composition, employs a hand signal, presumably after having viewed the riverboat making its way along the river. Not obvious to the uninformed viewer, but aided by a knowledgeable interpreter of Native American signs such as Dr. Lanny Real Bird, we learn that the hand signal in The Fireboat is the one for fire, making Russell’s title for the painting intelligible.

Charlie Russell’s Western paintings may not display the refinement of technique that we might associate with the work of Frederick Remington, but possess a compelling dynamic realism in their nuanced portrayal of real people, accurately observed in their daily lives. It is worth noting that many of Russell’s finest compositions were completed at his and Nancy’s summer cabin at the edge of Glacier National Park. A visit to Great Falls to see the Russell Museum as well as the excellent Lewis and Clark Interpretive Center, just an hour or so from Helena (the state capitol), can enhance a visit to Montana – even in winter – with a significant experience of the artistic and historical spirit of the “Old West.”

Toward Beauty

In Art, Faith and Life ~ STEPHEN HOLMGREN

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Charlie Russell: Stories That We See