Worship

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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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)

A Building That Evokes Awe and Wonder

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This is one of the most beautiful buildings in the world, and astonishingly it has survived twenty centuries since its construction during the great age of Rome, around 120 A.D. Replacing two earlier buildings lost to fire, this third one was built for the ages. After two thousand years, its coffered ceiling remains the largest unreinforced concrete dome in the world, and it continues to evoke awe and wonder among architects. The building is, of course, the Pantheon, whose formal Christian name is the Basilica of St. Mary and the Martyrs.

Unlike some buildings of equal stature and antiquity, the Pantheon has survived because it was consecrated as a church that has since been in continuous use. First built as a temple whose practices were anchored in pagan religious cults, its original Greek name suggests that the building was dedicated to a multitude of Roman God’s. Indeed, many modern visitors know the building only by its classical name rather than by its later Christian one, even though the transition from its original purpose for pagan worship to its current one occurred fourteen-hundred years ago!

Think about that for a moment. A pagan temple, apparently dedicated to a panoply of Roman deities, was then consecrated as a church, and renamed to commemorate Christian saints. The building’s earlier purpose and meaning was not seen as inimical to its later use for holy Christian worship.

For some of us, that is unimaginable! It seems more likely that the building would have been razed, and its materials reused to build an entirely new building for Christ-inspired liturgies. That such a removal and replacement did not happen represents courage, the courage of holy imagination turned loose to see what is good, positive, and hopeful, even amidst the remains of a decaying or already dead civilization.

The origin of the great feast of All Saints, that we celebrate on November 1 or the following Sunday, is identified by some historians with the re-dedication of the Pantheon for Christian worship, in the spring of the year 609 or 610. In its subsequent role, the building commemorates both Mary and remembered Christian witnesses to the Faith. Its new name may reinforce a misleading idea that saints like Mary, as well as the martyrs, are unique and special persons, marked out for attention because they are so different from us.

In the century after the Pantheon was consecrated as a church, the community of those honored on All Saints came to be seen as including all those who have ‘washed their robes in the blood of the lamb,’ to quote an All Saints lectionary reading from John’s Revelation. This fits well with the more expansive biblical understanding of saints. Because, in the New Testament, ‘saints’ are all the baptized; in other words, they are everyday members of the Church.

For example, at the opening of his letter to the Ephesians, Paul writes “to the saints who are in Ephesus, and are faithful in Christ Jesus.” Paul is referring not just to a select elite within that community; he is referring to all of them, who are – through Baptism – in Christ. Therefore, on All Saints, we commemorate not only saints who are remembered on particular feasts, but we celebrate all the baptized, including my granddaughter, Charlotte Mary, ‘Christened’ this past Sunday as she “put on Christ” and became a “child of God through faith (Gal 3:26-27).”

Here, among the tourists admiring beautiful ancient Roman architecture, and especially that great curved ceiling with its oculus or skylight, there are surely many saints to be found. We can hope they pause to pray in the midst of their visit and remember the ‘light of the world.’ Jesus, in John, refers to himself by these words. Perhaps to our surprise, Matthew quotes Jesus as saying that – after their call – his disciples share this remarkable identity and vocation with him.

What can we learn from the Mosque-Cathedral?

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Interior view of the Mosque-Cathedral

 

In my prior post on the Mosque-Cathedral of Cordoba, Spain, I reflected on the shaping effect of both Christianity and Islam on this building over the centuries, and how – side by side – the influence of both religious traditions are still evident today. In this second post, I offer further reflection on the way we might think about the points of contact between these two traditions as we find them in this place of significance to adherents of each.

In the well cared-for beauty of this Mosque-Cathedral of Cordoba, we discern interwoven architectural forms that reflect overlapping historical periods, which were shaped by differing cultures and faiths. I think inspiration can be found here as we – like so many others – face a challenge. This is the challenge of seeking to retain an appropriate confidence and peace about our own faith and traditions while genuinely respecting and appreciating those of others. Obviously, what this building first represents to the people of at least two traditions is prayer. Sensitive to that fact, we may be moved by the beauty of this place to pray that a greater openness to what is positive and of enduring significance in the world-views of other peoples and cultures – wherever we and they live – might be more evident across nations today.

Though relying on communication with the divine presence may appear passive to some, it is no small thing to entrust such prayers to God’s Providence. But we can also act toward this end in other ways. If circumstances permit, we can try to engage with one another in conversation. We could do this, perhaps most successfully, based on things that may be universal rather than upon what might be particular to individuals and their communities. Among things generally considered as universal are the three primary so-called “transcendentals:” beauty, goodness, and truth. For even as we have divergent notions about what constitutes compelling examples of them, in principle we can still agree about the value that these three abstract but also foundational concepts have for all people.

Of course, achieving in practice a consensus regarding truth (religious or otherwise) may be impossible, and agreement regarding goodness nearly as difficult. In seeking a greater harmony between differing viewpoints, we might therefore explore with one another what we find to be beautiful, in nature, in the arts, and in each others’ cultures and traditions.

Conversation based on the realm of beauty is more likely to be open-ended and less likely to be personally judgmental. Such conversations might even help us see glimpses of this transcendental within one another, if only briefly. For we have all been made in the image and likeness of the Creator, who has made of one blood all the peoples of the earth.

For Jews and Christians, Genesis 1:26-28 provides us with the source of our concept of the imago dei, our theological understanding that all human beings are made in the image of God. Christians go further in believing that God made all things through Christ, in their original state of goodness (John 1 & Colossians 1). These beliefs undergird our confident faith statement that God has made of one blood all people regardless of how much or how little we seem to have in common. These beliefs also provide the ground for what can become a shared source of hope.