Spirtituality

Pointing Toward Perception

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We live in a world filled with “data.” Disconnected bits of information, especially in great quantity, overwhelm our ability to see and to think. Accumulating additional data or more information does not produce knowledge. Knowledge has to do with seeing the connections between bits of information. When we see the connections, we begin to see a picture, we begin to hear a story, and we gain understanding as well as wisdom.

The unrecognized fellow traveler on the road to Emmaus asks the two disciples, ‘what are all these things you are talking about?’ The answer he receives from them amounts to information. But his question is pointed toward understanding, especially in relation to ‘the big picture. He is challenging them to discover something bigger. He is really asking something like this: ‘All these things’ that have happened… What do they have to do with what God has been up to, all along?”

Here is a basic Christian truth that we find in the Emmaus Road story: Things take on meaning in relation to the risen Jesus. It happens when we see events in our lives in relation to him. It happens also with things like bread and wine as we gather at table. And it happens with people like you and me as we gather in community.

Jesus helps our perception on the road to Emmaus, and reveals something even more profound at the inn. This ‘inn,’ unlike the one where he was born, has many rooms, many mansions. When we see things like past events and the bread in relation to him, we discern more about what they were or are, and what they yet can become. When we see ourselves in relation to him, we better discern who we really are, and who we are called to be.

Prayerfully, we can look around, between things, and within. We can look for the connections. When we do, we see and discern. We see more because we see more wholly. Then we see the holy.

 

The above painting, Supper at Emmaus (1958), is by Ceri Richards, and is used by permission from the Trustees of the Methodist Modern Art Collection (UK). The penciled notation at the base of this guache painting on paper suggests that it was intended as a study for an altarpiece painting for the chapel of St. Edmund Hall (or College), at Oxford, England. The Emmaus story can be found in Luke 24:13-35, and it is a traditional Eastertide Gospel reading.

This post is adapted from one first published in 2014.

The Believing Eleven

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Peter Paul Rubens, The Rockox Altarpiece, 1613-1615 (center panel)

 

It is evening on the day of Resurrection-discovery. John tells us that ten of the disciples are hiding behind a secured door out of fear. Judas is deceased, and Thomas is away.

Jesus suddenly appears to the unprepared disciples, and shares with them his peace. He shows them his hands and his side, and then – as a direct consequence of seeing the places on his body associated with his death – the ten disciples rejoice when they see their Lord. In other words, their recognition of him, and that he was somehow alive again, brings them joy by restoring their belief in him.

When hearing this story from John’s Gospel on the second Sunday of Easter, we may be prone to considering it apart from what happens just before it. The disciples, who are hiding out of fear, have already received an eye-witness to the resurrection of Jesus. Mary Magdalene, to whom Jesus revealed himself at the tomb that morning, had come and told the ten the Lord was alive, and that he had appeared to her. Clearly, and prior to Jesus’ unexpected appearance, the ten disciples are still doubting her personal witness. Even after receiving what should have been trusted testimony from Mary Magdalene, a fellow follower of Jesus.

So why – in popular imagination – isn’t this well-known Gospel reading from John 20 commonly referred to as the “doubting disciples” reading? Why should Thomas be singled out, when his joyful recognition of the risen Jesus depended on nothing more or less than what the 10 had needed, and received, before him?

And why have so many painters in the Western tradition privileged Thomas’ purported unbelief in the Risen Lord, rather than depict the earlier reluctance of the ten others to arrive at joyful confidence about the Lord’s astonishing return? Apparently, in many painters’ eyes (especially Caravaggio), more visual drama was to be found in images of a doubter’s hand placed within an open wound.

Caravaggio, Doubting Thomas, 1601 (a famous traditional presentation of the event in John 20)

A further detail to notice, which our familiarity with so many paintings helps to obscure, has to do with how Thomas responds to Jesus. According to John, Jesus appears to the not-yet-believing ten, and – unbidden – shows them his hands and his side. Seeing the traces of his wounds on his risen body brings them joy. Jesus then appears unexpectedly a week later, this time showing himself to the one not present on the prior occasion. And just as he had done previously, Jesus offers Thomas the same opportunity he had provided to the others.

We should therefore not be misled by Thomas’ oft-quoted comment to the other disciples, prior to his own epiphany, about what he needed in order to believe. According to the text, Jesus – upon appearing in the same house a second time – bids Thomas to touch him. Yet, Thomas immediately responds to Jesus’ words without any mention in the Gospel of him having physical contact with the risen Lord’s wounds. Jesus then asks Thomas a rhetorical question, “Have you believed because you have seen me?” Naturally, Thomas’ implied answer is ‘yes.’

For all these reasons, we will do better to find a different and more positive descriptive phrase by which to refer to this well-known passage from John 20. “Jesus meets the disciples according to their needs,” though wordy, would do better.

P. Steffensen’s altarpiece painting behind the altar of Zion Lutheran Church, Copenhagen

 

This post is based on the traditional Gospel reading for the second Sunday of Easter (April 7 in 2024), John 20:19-31. The story within it concludes with these words: “Jesus said to Thomas, ‘Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed’.”

Note: The altarpiece paintings by P. Steffensen and Rubens provide an interesting counterpoint to the prevailing tendency of painters to focus on Thomas placing his hand in the side of the Risen Jesus.

 

I Will Take You To Myself

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Fra Angelico, Noli me tangere

 

In the intimacy of his physical embodiment, the disciples and the holy women want to hold on to Jesus. It is the only way they have known him.

Mary is then found by the One she is looking for, in the garden by the tomb, on what becomes the Resurrection-discovery morning.

”Don’t try to cling to me,” he tells her, for he has not yet ascended to where he promises to take us.

We want to hang onto to how we have best known him. He promises to hold us to himself in what will be an even greater intimacy.

It is just beginning. Alleluia!

 

Jesus said to her, “Do not cling to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father; but go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’” (John 20:17)

“And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also.” (John 14:3)

Once and For All

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Salvador Dali, The Sacrament of the Last Supper (detail)

 

With his life, and in his death, Jesus offered himself. In accepting crucifixion, he offered himself and the whole Creation to the Father, in the Holy Spirit. He did this once and for all. Yet, in every Eucharist, and for all who remember him on any day, he continues to make present and real in our experience what he did, once and for all.

He acted, once and for all. Yet – and this is the paradox – he still acts for all… for all time, for all places and things, and for all people. What he is still doing now does not in any way signal an incompleteness to what he did then. For he continues to offer the gift of including us in what he did then, when he did what he did, once and for all.

So what does it mean for him to include us now, in what he did then? That is the question for the holy three days of our Paschal Triduum, which begins on Maundy Thursday evening.

One way into the many answers to our question can be found in Salvador Dali’s painting, The Sacrament of the Last Supper. It is not a painting of, or about, the Last Supper. Instead, this is a painting inspired by the Last Supper, and by what it came to mean in the broader context of all that happened during those three days. For the painting is about the sacrament in which the Risen One now makes present the result of what happened on the Cross, in the Resurrection, and with the descent of the Holy Spirit.

The Book of Common Prayer service for Good Friday is in fact not a Eucharist, just as the Last Supper in that Upper Room was not a Eucharist. The Last Supper prefigured the Eucharist, but could not have been one. For Jesus had not yet died, nor yet Risen from the Tomb, and the Spirit had not yet descended at Pentecost. And neither are the sacramental services on Good Friday intended to be Eucharistic celebrations. For in the wisdom and tradition of the Church we do not celebrate the Eucharist on this most holy day, though we may receive the fruit of it, and all its benefits, when Communion is offered to us.

Instead, all our focus is upon Him, who died and rose again for us, once and for all.

These are some of the reasons why Dali paints the disciples as recognizable, physical, and historically-anchored, people. And why he yet paints our Lord as present in his mystical risen glory.

We gather in his name and in his presence on particular occasions, in particular places, at particular times. Yet he is now present at and on all occasions, in all places, and at all times. We – who are rooted in time and place – receive him who transcends and yet is present within all times and places. Grace infuses nature. The timeless One imbues time with glory.

The Sacrament of the Last Supper (full image)

On the cross, Jesus lifted up the whole Creation to his – and now our – Father, once and for all. Just as he lifted up our human nature in his Ascension, which in a sense then became our Ascension. And yet, he continues to lift up the whole Creation – including us, and including all the uncertain and unfinished aspects of our lives. So, the One who is the source of all purpose and meaning continues to bring meaning and purpose to us, and to all that we lay before him, here and now. Time and again, he brings completeness and wholeness to all that is lacking, so that we might live more fully in his glorious fulfillment of what it means to be human. For all this, we offer our deepest thanks and praise.

May these ‘holy three days’ (Maundy Thursday evening — Easter Eve) in the Church’s Christian observance of Passover be a time of blessing for us and our loved ones.

 

This post is adapted from my (2024) homily for Good Friday, which may be accessed by clicking here.

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The Beauty of Sister Wendy

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Paul left us with some of the most remarkable words in the New Testament: “For God, who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.” And so, we ‘behold the beauty of the Lord’ in each other. Especially If we have died with Christ in Baptism, and risen with him in his Resurrection. For we now live in him, and he in us. I am reminded of these truths when I see images of Sister Wendy Beckett’s face.

Readers familiar with this blog website will have guessed at the sense of affinity I feel when I see Sister Wendy’s videos, or read her books. Discovering her work, and gaining a sense about her perception of her vocation, have been a source of encouragement for me. She has glorified God by helping me to perceive and give thanks for beauty. And not just in art, but in faith and life, and in all the world.

We are often blessed with companions as we journey through our lives in this world, some familial and or some spiritual, some more proximate to us and others further away. When asked about these people, we are likely to offer praise for what they mean to us and for what we have received from them. Sister Wendy has been a companion for me because of what she represents: a life well-lived, one attentive to what is most important, while less distracted by that which is ephemeral.

I like a biblical metaphor with which to think about how things will be when we – as people like to say – ‘pass through the veil,’ ‘get to the other side,’ and experience being ‘in the nearer presence of our Lord.’ It is to consider with whom I might want to sit at table in the kingdom of heaven, along with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, with whom Jesus promised many would come to be present (Mt. 8:11). And at table with Mary, Martha, and Lazarus, with whom Jesus dined at an occasion commemorated on Monday in our Holy Week lectionary. Of those not personally known to me in this life, Sister Wendy is one near to whom I want to sit.

Here is a proverb I like to quote, which applies to much of life: we move toward what we are looking at. In addition to the weekly texts from the lectionary and their related readings, I spend a lot of time looking at images of beauty, in its many forms. Having started my adult life as one aspiring to work in art and architecture, and then largely setting those things aside when pursuing ordination and theological work, I now find myself returning to my starting point. But with new eyes, and a wider horizon.

Sister Wendy, and the example she represents for me, have played a quiet but very important role in my growth and aspiration toward greater wholeness.

Thank you, Sister Wendy, for helping me and us see beauty, and by this to know God’s love in a fuller way.

 

During these forty days of our preparation for the Paschal feast, I have been finding quiet joy and peace in Sister Wendy Beckett’s, The Art of Lent: A Painting a Day from Ash Wednesday to Easter. The quote at the outset from Paul can be found in 2 Cor. 4:6.

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The Beauty of Gandhi’s Example

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Mahatma Gandhi remains one of the most revered and idolized figures in modern history. And yet, also, one of the least imitated. His life and thought provide a compelling example that may not be well understood. Asked about this, he might have said, “It’s all rather simple,” and summarize his life’s work with a Kantian principle derived from Jesus: treat one another as you would have them treat you.

“Simple” is sometimes another word for “naive.” In Gandhi’s case, it is otherwise. His journey through life, well-depicted in Richard Attenborough’s fine film, taught Gandhi many things and led him to a wise integrity few others seem to have attained. He learned much through arduous experiences. Gandhi’s uniqueness may lie in how he synthesized his learning with the result that he achieved greater maturity and a resoluteness of character. His personal growth involved a practiced disposition toward honesty, reasoned adherence to principles, and a profound simplicity of manner in life choices.

Gandhi in conversation with his friend, and India’s first Prime Minister, Jawaharlal Nehru

For many, Gandhi’s life story brings to mind the word ‘pacifism.’ More nuanced is the label, ‘non-violence.’ Yet both terms need further qualification. Pacifism and a non-violent response to aggression often reflect a belief that violence (and therefore war) is not governed by reason, and therefore cannot be disciplined or limited by principled reflection and deliberation. Hence, according to this view, no matter how destructive violence may be, responding in kind – even if proportionately – always compounds the evil.

Gandhi’s approach to the evil he apprehended and experienced was indeed reasoned and principled. It was shaped around a resolve that active, non-violent resistance must be distinguished from passive non-resistance, precisely because the former can provide a compelling witness to reasoned propositions. In this sense, Gandhi’s non-violent resistance serves as an active approach in antithesis to a passive, non-violent, approach of non-resistance.

Gandhi – demonstrating active resistance – deliberately harvesting salt in violation of British dominion law

James Douglass’ book, Gandhi and the Unspeakable, helps us understand Gandhi’s adherence to the concept of satyagraha, or truth-force. For Gandhi, this principle nullifies the pursuit of social and political ends through violence. Identified by Thomas Merton in an essay on Gandhi, satyagraha is conceived of as a universal, rather than individual, feature of what it means to be human, articulated in the words, “truth is the inner law of our being.”

This truth-force is manifest in substantive rather than sentimental love. It can be discerned and honored within oneself, while it can – and must be – discerned and honored within others, especially as one confronts evil in human relations. Because this is so, one who seeks to enact this principle can honor all others with trust. Even – counterintuitively – to honor one’s opponents and sworn enemies, because one’s trust becomes anchored in our shared humanity rather than in a calculation of the probable harm that may result from engagement with those others.

Giving primacy to this principle provides the courage to believe that we can die to all that puts us against one another, and therefore the courage to face the death that others may plan for us. Merton and Douglass find this truth-force embodied in the person of Jesus, and with Gandhi, see it as a powerful example of what can profoundly transform human social and political relations. As Douglass explains, Gandhi knew his assassins, and even invited the man who eventually killed him to live with him following that same man’s earlier attempt on Gandhi’s life.

Perceptive hearers of this past Sunday’s Gospel reading from John might wonder what Gandhi would make of Jesus’ actions in the Temple. John tells us that Jesus made “a whip of cords” and drove out those selling animals, or exchanging Roman coins for money acceptable as offerings in Israel’s house of worship. The ambiguity of John’s account makes clear that Jesus at least threatened violence even if he did not resort to it. For his whip was directed not simply to scattering the animals of those selling them, but also against the money changers. Readers may note that some actions of Jesus in the Gospels may have been intended less to model ethical conduct for his followers, and instead to give evidence of his providential and messianic role in history. Much may be inferred from this brief “Temple-cleansing” story.

Given how our culture encourages us to see life in an either/or way, we may be surprised to discern how much the Hindu Gandhi seems to have learned from reading the Gospels. We may also be surprised by how Gandhi’s beautifully lived example – regardless of his personal strengths or failings – may help us discern what the Gospels have yet to teach us.

 

The reference to the Gospel reading is from John 2:13-22, which helpfully can be compared to its Gospel parallels. James Douglass, with his personal history as a religious scholar of spiritual approaches to questions related to conflict, violence and war-making, brings an informed and insightful perspective to the study of Gandhi, as he did earlier to the wide-ranging circumstances leading to the deaths of Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcom X, and John F. Kennedy.

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Helen Nearing and Beautiful Stone Walls

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With the visionary but also impractical exuberance of youth, I graduated from high school imagining I would build my own house somewhere in New England. My design ideas were shaped by Frank Lloyd Wright while my notion of ‘responsible living’ was largely influenced by Henry David Thoreau as well as Helen and Scott Nearing. While already loving Wright’s architecture, my high school English teacher, Nick Fleck, opened a compelling new world for me through reading and learning about Thoreau and the Nearings. I identified with these mentors and the values they shared regarding building homes for themselves, and of living in harmony with the land.

Through books and articles, I then discovered an unexpected complementarity between the Nearings’ approach to home building in Vermont and Maine, and Frank Lloyd Wright’s method of construction at Taliesin West in Arizona. In what some call slipform masonary construction, builders first erect wooden forms. Between them, stones and cement are poured and allowed to set, creating walls and support pillars for the resulting structures. This method allows for considerable design flexibility while also being very economical, especially when field stone is readily available.

The Nearing’s stone house in Vermont

With the Nearings, the results reflected European and early American traditional influences in their desire to achieve an economical simplicity that was harmonious with the terrain upon which it was situated. For Wright, the plasticity of the method allowed for the creation of non-traditional walls and roof supports of varying angles and sizes. Just as concerned as the Nearings with what he called “an organic architecture” accessible to the common person, FLW – like them – sought to create a home and work environment rooted within a site while employing locally or regionally found materials when feasible. Whether or not the Nearings ever met Wright, they were clearly kindred spirits. In their most well-known book, Living the Good Life, they quote Wright in the chapter relating their stated “principles of architecture.”

Helen Nearing (facing viewer) in the gardens outside the later ‘home made of stone’ in Maine

Drawing from FLW’s writing, the Nearings articulated four general rules that should bear upon the design of domestic architecture. “Form and function should unite in the structure…; buildings should be adapted to their environments…; local materials are better adapted than any other…; {and} the style of a domestic establishment should express the {residents} and be an expression of themselves…” Clearly, the Nearings were more successful honoring that fourth principle than Wright generally was with respect to the wishes and temperament of his clients!

Helen and Scott Nearing identified several reasons for their choice to build their homes and outbuildings with stone. Stone buildings look natural in their setting; these found materials provide a variety of muted but attractive colors; sturctures made of stone are durable, practical, and economical to maintain; and buildings of this kind are less vulnerable to fire, while retaining coolness in the summer and warmth during the winter. For the Nearings, a decision to benefit from all these advantages of working with local stone was made more easy by their desire and willingness to build the structures themselves, thereby saving the financial cost of labor along with a reduction in the cost of materials.

Scott and Helen Nearing at work on a wall

Given their preference for this building material, the Nearings shared an advantage also enjoyed by Wright in Arizona – plentiful local stone with which to work. Many New England fields and forests are strewn with pieces of rock. People in Louisiana who enjoy landscaping, wish they could take for granted finding stone in such abundance. By contrast, the Vermont homesteader wishing to put up some simple but immensely practical buildings, from tool sheds to houses, can begin with a wheel barrow and a pair of gloves. Two other items are needed: cement mix in adequate quantities, and wooden forms within which the walls are to be fashioned. Happy to work without mechanized tools, the Nearings used a wheelbarrow to gather the stone, mix the cement, and transport both to where they were needed.

Two photos of Taliesin apprentices at work building slipform walls

Another point of continuity between the Nearings’ and Wright in their approach to how we might best live was the way in which they attracted large numbers of young visitors and students. With both FLW and the Nearings, those who came and stayed sought to learn about the life and work of their mentors not merely in a intellectual way, but share in it holistically. The Nearings and Wright, in their different spheres of concern, nurtured communities of fellowship and learning. This helped them influence generations of young people who, led by the example of their teachers, lived into a deepened appreciation for significant principles to which one might commit a life.

The finished result of slipform construction at Taliesin West

Helen Nearing in front of a wall she built with Scott

 

For more about Nick Fleck and his influence upon me and many others, please see my prior post, “The Beauty of Asking ‘Why?’” Helen and Scott Nearing’s farm in Maine is preserved as a living legacy, and is maintained as The Good Life Center (https://goodlife.org/about/).

Here is a link to my earlier post featuring some house design ideas I imagined building for myself, “The Beauty of FL Wright’s Influence” (https://towardbeauty.org/2023/02/15/the-beauty-of-fl-wrights-influence/).

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The Beauty of Asking “Why?”

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Back cover photo from Natural Sustenance: Selected Poems, by Nick Fleck

 

“Why?” It all started in a seemingly innocuous way. “What do you want from this course,” he asked. A brave one among us ventured the answer that some of us were thinking, but were not honest enough to say: “an ‘A’.” Our English teacher, Nick Fleck, responded to my classmate in a neutral way, with a further question, “Why?” Our fellow aspirant to higher grades began to offer pretty typical answers, unoriginal and unsurprising. “I want a high GPA. (Why?)… I want to get into a good college. (Why?)… I want to get into a ranked law school. (Why?)… I want a good job at a high powered law firm. (Why?)…”

Gradually the pauses before our classmate’s answers became longer. And while his responses still sounded plausible, they seemed less and less assured. That first class session set the tone for the rest of term, as over time Nick prodded all of us to articulate answers to questions like these. And nudged us toward answers that were more and more our own, and less dependent on our peers, our parents’ expectations, and our perceptions of the uncertain world outside our rural New England prep school.

Why? The question at first provides an invitation to share acquired knowledge, display settled opinions, and voice aspirations. But the question can also be unsettling, especially when we begin to run out of platitudes and ‘safe’ answers that don’t require self examination or being open to adopt a different perspective.

I can’t fully explain why, out of a class of some 350 or so fellow graduates, I was one of only 3 or 4 who did not go directly on to college. But Nick Fleck’s persistence in challenging us to think for ourselves played a big part in it. Temperamentally, I was and am a self-learner, which disposed me toward pursuing that risky path (“…in a blind career…,” as in a line from a poem Nick had us read). Naive self-confidence also bolstered my willingness to undertake a journey on what appeared to be a largely untested road. I wanted to be an architect and to make art, and those whom I most admired had embarked upon their careers in earlier times by this same route through apprenticeship and self-study.

Having been so consistently asked why, I made the question my own and began asking it in a self-referential way. Why did I want so strongly to embrace and try to create what was beautiful? Why was this important to me… and to others apparently walking the same path? Why was I then beginning to wonder whether this was good and, if so, to what end? And why then was I going on to ponder what was good for its own sake as compared to things of passing significance?

Within a year, after living in New York City seeking non-existent apprentice drafting positions during the ‘oil crisis,’ I returned hesitantly to formal schooling. My college art studies were interrupted by another sideline, driving a forklift in a warehouse freezer for six months as a Teamster. Then, surely to my parents’ relief, asking why led me on a more traditional path, from art history to classics and medieval studies, during which I experienced an unanticipated spiritual conversion. All the while I was living with the same question: why?

Nick Fleck was not a religious man in any sense that I could discern, though he was clearly attuned to the ethical principles exemplified in Thoreau’s writing, and latent in poems he would have us read. I think it greatly surprised him when, returning for our 25th reunion, I gave him credit for setting me on the path that led to my conversion, ordination, theological studies, seminary teaching, and parochial work – experiences not readily familiar to him. But he was the one who persistently asked why, and who invited us to own the question for ourselves.

This week I realize that Nick’s great question was at the heart of the Disciples’ questions when Jesus predicted his forthcoming suffering and death. Nick’s question is simple, and perfect for Lenten reflection.

 

I was happy to see an article in the Greenfield Recorder noting how Nick Fleck had founded the Northfield (Mass.) Bird Club and was still active in leading bird walks. I trust that he continues to write and share his poetry, and help open new worlds to young persons. He helped us to discover the power latent in the word, “why,” especially when posed as a question.

The recent movie, The Holdovers, was partly filmed at my school, Northfield Mt. Hermon, and is set in exactly the time period I was there. During those years, I was in the chapel depicted within the movie a couple of times each week for required assembly gatherings. Seeing my school again during my 50th graduation anniversary year has obviously brought back memories.

A recent gathering in Northfield Mt. Hermon’s Memorial Chapel.

 

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Rousseau and Wilderness: Redemption in Nature?

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Henri Rousseau, The Dream (detail), 1910

 

What does it mean for God’s grace to be present in nature? Or God’s mission of Redemption to be at work in what Christians view as a fallen Creation? The Gospel for this coming Sunday, with Jesus tempted in the wilderness, might prompt us to think about such things. An unexpected way to do this is to juxtapose Mark’s surprisingly brief ‘temptation narrative’ with Rousseau’s jungle-like images of a state of nature.

How shall we understand Mark’s account of Jesus’ being tested in an inhospitable place? And how does Rousseau conceive of the natural state of what Christians think of as Creation? A painting by Rousseau helps set the scene:

The Sleeping Gypsy, 1907

In light of it, we can consider the two verses that Mark devotes to Jesus’ temptation:

The Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness. And he was in the wilderness forty days, being tempted by Satan. And he was with the wild animals, and the angels were ministering to him.

Only two verses are accorded by Mark to this rather pivotal event, to which Matthew devotes 11, and to which Luke gives 12. The way that Matthew and Luke refer to the wilderness of the temptation suggests that it is a hostile context for Jesus’ encounter with the Tempter. In both of these longer Gospel texts, three principal temptations are identified, which occur following Jesus’ forty days of fasting. The three were: to feed himself, to become a wonder-worker, and to receive the adulation of the world’s kingdoms. Matthew adds that Jesus received the ministration of angels following – rather than during – his period of trial.

Whereas Matthew and Luke present the wilderness as an unpromising environment for Jesus’ challenging encounter with his adversary, Mark’s spare account of the event and its setting allows for a rather different reading. We can pose the matter in the form of two questions shaped by Matthew and Luke’s narratives.

Does Mark present the wilderness temptation of Jesus as being in a difficult place due to the presence of the Tempter and because it is filled with prowling and potentially dangerous wild beasts?

Man Attacked by a Jaguar, 1910

Or, does Jesus’ desert encounter in Mark represent not so much the threatening last gasps of a rebellious and dying world, but the first breaths of a life-giving new one, just now coming to be?

The Waterfall, 1910

Rousseau’s painting of the sleeping woman and the nearby lion, above, provides an image of harmonious coexistence in a place shared by a human being and the proverbial king of beasts (an ‘alpha predator’). In other words, Rousseau – in some of his paintings – portrays an ideal image of the original state of nature, the biblical Eden, before nature became ‘red in tooth and claw.’

A Woman Walking in an Exotic Forest, 1905

If so, then Mark’s statements that Jesus “was with the wild animals,” and also that “the angels were ministering to him,” may reflect what Christians have come to think of as ‘the peaceable Kingdom’ and ‘the New Creation.’ Which then suggests that – in Mark – the wilderness was good place despite the presence of the Tempter.

I am drawn to how Rousseau depicts the natural beauty of what we often describe as ‘wild nature,’ portraying it in both inviting and in cautionary ways. He paints it as a context of harmonious interrelation between human beings and animals in a shared environment. He also paints it as being a context where animals are a threat to one another and to humankind. Rousseau’s painting of Eve hints at both possibilities, where she is charmed by the serpent:

Eve, 1907

In the painting below, which complements his image above, another ‘Eve’ charms the serpent. Rousseau fills the beautiful canvas with a limited color palette, largely green, expressing the same dimension of ambiguity. A woman plays a flute while a serpent is draped upon her shoulders and others hang from the trees or rise up from the ground:

The Snake Charmer (detail), 1907

Looking at Rousseau’s many jungle-like ‘exotic landscapes,’ one notices the evocative presence of mystery. The viewer does not immediately know what lurks in the shadows, beneath and behind dense and dark foliage, in scenes often featuring bright flowers or fruit in the foreground. And upon discerning animals and also humans among all the growing things in the thicket between the trees, we can’t be sure whether what we encounter is friend or foe.

Jaguar Attacking a Horse, 1910

Exotic Landscape, 1910

In these and other scenes, Rousseau portrays an invitingly beautiful world, but one that is not without the possibility of misadventure and harm. I may not want to live in some of these scenes. But I find joy living with their beauty. For they help me appreciate a new way of reading and thinking about Mark’s brief account of Jesus’ temptation ‘in the wilderness.’ Jesus possibly could have repeated the great mistake made by Adam in the old Eden. But in not doing so, ’the second Adam’ became the door to a new Eden, and our ‘ark’ to the New Creation.

 

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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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