Easter, Eggs, and Mary Magdalene

 

Mary Magdalene, an icon by Robert Lentz

 

Artists help us see, intuit, and understand in not always rational ways. In my view, this does not uniquely qualify or disqualify their work. Instead, it challenges us to try to see more perceptively what we apprehend, what moves us, and what prompts us to make assertions regarding the truth-value of what we have visually and conceptually encountered.

Over the years, I have purchased a number of wood-mounted reproductions of icons by Brother Robert Lentz, OFM. I continue to value his ability, spiritual perception, and sensibility in sharing with us insights about the holiness and character of many of those whom he has portrayed. Many of his portrayals are stylistically highly refined (see his two images of Julian of Norwich, or his James Lloyd Breck) while he takes a more playful approach with certain other historical figures (e.g., Simone Weil or Damian of Molokai). Examples of the latter have led some to criticize Lentz for not strictly adhering to traditional Eastern Orthodox practice when creating his icons.

Lentz’s vocation has been as a friar and follower of St. Francis, whose life and subsequent Franciscan Order bequeathed to us the tradition of Christmas creches in churches. Lentz’s humanistic regard for so many facets of our experience, as illustrated in the lives of those he has chosen as subjects for his work, has fit well with his Franciscan tradition. His icons have much to teach us, for he has sought through sacred art to communicate what he perceives to be biblical and spiritual truth.

One icon so fitting for this Easter week is Lentz’s portrayal of Mary Magdalene. It has been noted that,

according to the ancient tradition of the East, Mary Magdalene was a wealthy woman from whom Christ expelled seven “demons.”  During the three years of Jesus’ ministry, she helped support Him and His other disciples with her money.  When almost everyone else fled, she stayed with Him at the cross.  On Easter morning she was the first to bear witness to His resurrection.  She is called “Equal to the Apostles.”

After the Ascension, she journeyed to Rome where she was admitted to Tiberias Caesar’s court because of her high social standing.  After describing how poorly Pilate had administered justice at Jesus’ trial, she told Caesar that Jesus had risen from the dead.  To help explain the resurrection, she picked up an egg from the dinner table.  Caesar responded that a human being could no more rise from the dead than the egg in her hand turn red.  The egg turned red immediately, which is why red eggs have been exchanged at Easter for centuries in the Byzantine East.

Mary did not end her days as a penitent hermit in a French cave.  She traveled the Mediterranean preaching the resurrection.  Like Peter and Paul, she died a martyr and she bears witness to the important roles women play in the Church.

The inscription at the bottom of the icon reads: “Saint Mary Magdalene” in Syriac, a dialect of the language spoken by Jesus.  The Gospel comes to us, not from Rome or Greece, but from the deserts of the Middle East.  We owe our faith to Semitic Christians like Mary Magdalene.  Her feast day is July 22.

 

As has been observed, there is a similarity between Lentz’s icon and the well-known National Geographic cover photo {June 1985} of ‘the green-eyed young woman’ from Afghanistan. Her possible inspiration for Lentz’s portrayal of Mary Magdalene is noted here: { http://art-for-a-change.com/blog/2006/02 }. The text quoted above is borrowed from the Trinity Stores website (I have no commercial connection with them), through whom copies of Lentz’s icons may still be available.

The Beauty of the Imperial Hotel

The preserved but relocated lobby of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Tokyo Imperial Hotel (1923)

 

Having grown up in Tokyo and Yokohama, Japan, with parents attentive to the arts, I remember visiting the Imperial Hotel on several occasions. It was a favorite place for my parents in the 1960’s, to go for dinner and dancing given the fine hotel orchestra. In connection with family visits there, I first became aware of some legendary aspects of Frank Lloyd Wright’s reputation as an architect, and his penchant for self-promotion. As one wag has said, ‘he was by his own admission the world’s greatest architect!’ And yet, with some artists and architects, pride sometimes reflects aspects of correct perception.

The Imperial Hotel project for Wright came at a particularly fortunate time, following a series of misadventures and personal tragedies. Offered the opportunity to design what would become the second Tokyo Imperial Hotel, replacing the largely wooden original in 1917, Wright embraced the project and designed a building that might provide a hybrid between Eastern and Western aesthetics. Having first visited Japan in 1905, he was becoming known as an emerging connoisseur of Japanese woodblock prints.

Among the features of Wright’s remarkable Imperial Hotel, which continue to evoke interest to this day, were the textured bricks Wright designed to provide pattern and a distinctive character to the exterior and interior surfaces of the building. Through my parents’ friendship with some former hotel staff, I have one of these bricks.

Here is an example:

The most notable feature of the hotel was Wright’s ingenious response to the challenge of designing a large project in an area quite vulnerable to earthquakes. With more than 60′ of spongy material between the ground surface, and any subterranean rock upon which to anchor a foundation, in a city adjacent to a large bay and the sea, Wright settled upon a unique solution. Just as an experienced restaurant waiter might carry a selection of plates and dishes upon a large tray, Wright proposed to ‘float’ his hotel upon a huge concrete slab. Astonishingly, on the very day of its opening, September 1, 1923, the great Kanto earthquake struck Tokyo, destroying much of the city, accompanied by extensive fires. Wright’s hotel survived largely intact, establishing the genius of his design, and his providential provision of large water features around the property helped not only to save the hotel, but other buildings in the area.

Here is an early, color-retouched, view of the site:

Sadly, Wright’s Imperial Hotel was demolished in 1968. This amazing structure had withstood the Kanto earthquake as well as the later fire-bombing of Tokyo in World War II. Despite its incredible beauty and innovative engineering, it could not compete with hotels built to more modern standards of efficient design and construction, with its by-then antiquated plumbing and electrical infrastructure, as well as its dated room sizes and land-use configuration. Here is a view of the interior of the original lobby area. Walking through this space as a child was nothing short of inspiring:

And here is a view of the original lounge bar, preserved within the later Imperial Hotel as I remembering seeing it about 20 years ago:

Very happily, the entrance court and lobby of the hotel, as depicted in the upper photo, was preserved and rebuilt at the Meiji Mura Architectural Museum, in Nagoya, Japan. I hope some day once again to visit what remains of this beloved building.

 

Note: in my view, one of Lego’s finest architectural reproduction kits is that of FL Wright’s Tokyo Imperial Hotel entrance and lobby. I enjoyed assembling it helped by my Lego-savvy grandson, James, using a set involving about 1,000 plastic bricks remarkably similar to those Frank Lloyd Wright designed about 100 years ago.  {PS – bought the kit, used status, on ebay / no commercial connection implied here}

The Beauty of Audubon’s Birds

 

This past weekend, West Feliciana Parish (a Louisiana county) hosted the first of what is hoped will be an Annual John James Audubon Symposium. As with so many other events of this kind, COVID delayed the celebration of the 200th anniversary of the 1821 summer during which Audubon painted a large number of his famous bird pictures here in the St. Francisville area of Louisiana. Feliciana is a Spanish and Latin-derived word which means happy, and Audubon -we are told- was indeed well-pleased and contented by his time here to study and portray an amazing number of birds that still inhabit this region, whether by seasonal migration or by providing year-round company to local human residents.

The inspiration for this festival was provided in large part by local and regional historian, David Floyd, whose recent premature death added a special poignancy to the symposium. He had provided a succinct but heartfelt introduction to a beautiful little booklet, titled Audubon & Louisiana: 200 Year Love Story. David’s nuanced sense of Audubon’s place in the history of this region, and his perhaps Audubon-inspired vision for the future was captured for us by the author and presenter, Danny Heitman. Heitman noted how often David would begin a sentence with the word, imagine. “Imagine this…” or “imagine that…,” David would often say, and then invite a sense of possibility within his listeners. This led Heitman to observe something that may have been true of both David Floyd and John James Audubon. It is how a genuine sense of wonder about the world around us instills a sincere humility, and how both then lead to wisdom.

Danny Heitman’s book, A Summer of Birds: John James Audubon at Oakley House, is focused on that seminal 1821 summer during which Audubon discovered and then came to love West Feliciana Parish. During his presentation, Heitman commended three themes that help us appreciate the unique sensitivity of Audubon’s perception and artistic vision that so profoundly shaped his subsequent life’s work.

For Audubon, ‘nature was a verb,’ and something to be portrayed as alive with activity rather than displayed in a static, ‘pinned butterfly,’ way. In so many Audubon paintings, we find the birds pursuing what they might prey upon, or eluding what may be seeking to pursue them.

Second, and especially as assisted by his young associate, James Mason, Audubon was as attentive to the characteristic flora where he found his birds as he was to the birds themselves. Thus, the plants, shrubs and trees of this region are an intrinsic part of each composition.

And third, Audubon’s paintings were huge in size, and dramatic in the extent of their detail and range of color, and thus very compelling to viewers when they were first displayed. One contemporary commentator has likened their effect upon folks in early 19th century London as likely to have been akin to the remarkable effect upon first time viewers of movies in modern IMAX theaters.

We can be grateful, on this extended bicentennial celebration of Audubon’s summer at Oakley, for guides like David Floyd and Danny Heitman. For they help us see, and perceive more appreciatively, the immensely beautiful 200 year old bird paintings of John James Audubon as assisted by James Mason.

 

Pictured above is Audubon’s painting of the Louisiana or Tricolored Heron.

The Beauty of a Horse

 

Arthur Kern, Silent Myth (2006)

Those who know Grand Rapids, Michigan, and who appreciate sculpture, will be familiar with Meijer Gardens. A principal monument among their collection of sculptures is the impressively large rendering of Leonardo DaVinci’s horse, by the artist Nina Akamu. As remarkable in size as that sculpture is, it is a fine example of how so many artists have been fascinated by the equine form. Consider among others, the ancient Etruscan horses; the ceramic figurines from the Chinese Ming dynasty; as well as Degas’ rendering of lithe race horses, or the roughly contemporary western bronzes of Frederick Remington and Charles Russell. In all these, this historically important animal companion to both our human community and our many activities has so often received sculptural tribute through artistic imagination.

Recently, I had the wholly unexpected opportunity to discover the powerful work of a 90 year old Louisiana sculptor, whose output until 2016 had largely been out of the public eye for over 30+ years. The Callan Contemporary Gallery in New Orleans has until late April an impressive show of 18 cast resin sculptures almost all featuring horses with riders, or with some representation of a human form. Two of the works are at a stunning life size, while the rest are roughly around twelve inches in height and width. I was not previously familiar with the artist’s work, and was bowled over by its beauty. Here is an example of a smaller work:

Here is another:

And another:

Wherein does that beauty lie? I think it is found in Kern’s studied sensitivity to the anatomic beauty of horses, while he also takes obvious liberty in moving beyond literalistic portrayal of particular equine breeds. Though some observers use the term ‘surrealist’ to describe his approach, I prefer the admittedly cumbersome phrase, ‘representationally explorative.’ Further, Kern’s employment of a lost wax process for producing the molds has given him an opportunity to play with the plasticity of the resin in those molds, as well as to manipulate the coloring of the results. And because of his employment of this casting process, originally used for bronze sculptures, each of the pieces in this show is one of a kind, and not an example of a numbered series.

Just as compelling is the knowledge that after a successful career as a painter and professor of art, Kern then burned his remaining paintings, and moved to a largely hermit life as a sculptor, working privately without any assistants while casting in several cases significantly large works at his home or in his garage. The series of horse sculptures, among other works, is the fruit of several decades of dedicated work, outside the notice of the commercial art world.

It is not evident whether Kern’s loving regard for the human and animal form reflects a religious or spiritual appreciation for the source of the beauty they represent. Yet, his sensitivity to these forms evidences a spirit of positive regard for the world around us that parallels voices of praise that we hear in the Psalms and in many other passages of Scripture. Men and women, throughout history, have loved and admired the form and structure of so many examples of ‘flora and fauna,’ and that of the horse in particular. To me that is surely due to the way that our appreciation for what enriches our lives reflects the transcending and loving regard of our Creator, Redeemer, and Sanctifier, for both us and all of Creation.

 

Photographs are by the author (all rights reserved) with permission from the gallery. Arthur Kern, Horses, at the Callan Contemporary Gallery in New Orleans until April 23. I encourage you to seek images of and reflections upon his work on the internet. Here is a link to the exhibit: https://www.callancontemporary.com/artists/arthur-kern

The Beauty of Le Corbusier’s Ronchamp Chapel

 

When I was in high school, while aspiring to be an architect as well as an artist, I and my closest friend admired the architectural work of Le Corbusier. Among the attributes of his work that we held high were these: attention to human proportion and scale; a sensitivity to architectural ideals while mindful of the needs for human community, both domestic and commercial; and an equal sensitivity to providing ‘beauty’ for those in financially marginalized and especially in urban contexts.

With my long-term love for the architecture of the American ‘Prairie School,’ and especially that of Frank Lloyd Wright, appreciating Le Corbusier’s very European modernist style, rather linear and grid-like, was something of a stretch. Perhaps a parallel might be how an admirer of Monet’s water lily paintings or of Whistler’s nocturnes might be surprised by a new delight in seeing some geometric abstract paintings by Piet Mondrian.

But then, after admiring Le Corbusier’s famous Villa Savoy, and his Marseilles Block (a combined apartment and business building), I discovered his Ronchamp Chapel (completed 1954). Though I have yet to see and walk through it, I have long sensed that this is a masterpiece, precisely because it is so counter-intuitive to the main body of Le Corbusier’s work. Whereas much of his architecture is analytic, geometric, and mathematically precise in his approach to it, Ronchamp provides an example of a lyrical and semi-mystical appreciation for form and space, as well as for light and color. And whereas much of Le Corbusier’s work can be seen as the fruit of a meditation upon classical antecedents, both Greek and Roman, Ronchamp Chapel seems to bear the spiritual imprint of the culture that we associate with the medieval centuries.

For me, the best examples of that latter point are the immensely thick side walls in certain parts of the chapel, where the light intrudes through very dense materials. This, of course, is a beautiful metaphor for my life and yours.

‘Glimpses of a deeper soul’ ~ this is a phrase that has come to me, time and again, when reflecting upon the lives of persons we become acquainted with in Scripture and Christian history, in secular fiction, as well as in daily church and public life. Especially in North America, we tend to chart our lives forward, in planned linear paths of progression, each step building upon the prior one toward a calculated and hoped-for end. And yet, despite all our planning, we may be open to, or unexpectedly experience, dreams and visions of something other, more amorphous. In such moments, we perceive to our surprise unanticipated images of what may be an attainable beauty, a beauty that none of us would have imagined in the ordinary run of things. For human creativity reflects divine creativity.

To Le Corbusier, perhaps his vision and design for the Ronchamp Chapel came as just such an unexpected surprise. For me, the wonder is that he allowed himself to let his imagination bear fruit in this remarkable plan and building. Despite his avowed atheistic concept of reality, his chapel centers on the transcendent and mystical, while also touching upon and embracing the local and material aspects of our lives.

 

The Beauty of Ansel Adams’ Vision

 

Here is one image of Ansel Adams’ encounter with the evocative forms, textures, and light-sensitive surfaces of the historic church in Taos, New Mexico.

Here is another of his images of the same church, from the east end:

Adams’ attentiveness to the features of the natural world, and with his particular eye to the dynamic interrelationship between light and dark, helped him to create a legacy of compelling photographs that continue to be a source of allure for those who love photography. Many of us find especially compelling his winter images, as well as those of Yosemite and northern New Mexico, where he spent so much time in the field.

Adams’ photographs often prompt me to think of John’s Gospel. This is because of Adams’ and John’s mutual interest in the juxtaposition of light and dark, and the dynamic relation between the two in our perception and experience. Given our present physical as well as spiritual existence in this world, and considering the terms of successful photography, the presence of the dark helps us appreciate the beauty of light.

A technical inquiry into Ansel Adams methods, about how he photographed scenes with film-based cameras, helps us appreciate the significance of his technique. He used lens filters to highlight visual contrast, and was equally attentive to the composition of the chemical baths used for developing the negatives and the subsequent prints made from them. Noticing and considering these aspects of his creative work helps us appreciate how the ‘given-ness’ of what he saw was also shaped by how he came to render and present it. If he had been a religious man, he might have attributed some of this ‘rendering process’ to the shaping power of the grace of the Holy Spirit.

The Gospel writer, John, in receiving, interpreting, and then presenting Jesus and his ministry, as well as Jesus’ life and death, had a similar challenge. There was the ‘given-ness’ of Jesus’ teachings, signs or mighty acts, and his powerful presence in the eyes of many. Yet, John, led by the Holy Spirit, has given us a marvelous Gospel shaped by the spiritual dialectic between light and dark. And this is what brings to mind the ostensibly secular parallel provided by Ansel Adams’ portfolio. Among several passages in John, consider the marvelous account of Nicodemus’ visit to Jesus by night in chapter 2. And John, alone among the Gospels, records Jesus as saying, “I am the light of the world; whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.”

Perhaps, when we are brought to the hoped-for ‘other side,’ we won’t experience a contrast between light and dark, but rather something more like a contrast among various captivating colors. Yet, while in this world, and while our lives remain colored by sin, we see, and we see better, when we are blessed by the perception of contrast between light and dark.

A ‘both-and’ approach to what we encounter in life may be congenial and even comforting when we deal with paradox and contradiction. But, an either/or challenge to our preferred ways of seeing things can be bracing and helpful for our perception. This is one reason why, even though most of us see the world in color, black and white photographs can be so evocative. As John recognizes in his Gospel, the darkness that has not overcome the light helps us recognize the Light of the world.

 

In memory of Robert (Bob) Bolton of Albuquerque, NM (1948-2022).

 

The Beauty of Picasso’s Guernica

 

 

It was probably in the summer of 1974 when I first stood before this remarkably stirring painting, Guernica, by Pablo Picasso (at MOMA, NYC). His fullest creative talents, as well as sensitivity to many aspects of our common human condition, came together to help him produce this recognized masterpiece. Not the least of the key features of this painting was his decision to render the composition in black, white and shades of grey.

Remember that he was ‘Pablo,’ not ‘Pierre,’ Picasso -that he was a Spaniard by birth, and in important ways, by self-identification.

In the context in which I compose these words, with Russia presently invading Ukraine, Picasso’s painting, and National Geographic’s somewhat unexpected reference to it at this moment, I am once again reminded of my recent visit to the Calder and Picasso exhibit at MFAH (Museum of Fine Arts, Houston). The image below, featured early in the walk through of that exhibit, shows Calder standing in front on Picasso’s Guernica, looking at his own contribution to the Spanish Pavilion for the 1937 Paris International World’s Fair.

Noting these precedents, I want to raise a question, which cannot simply or quickly be answered. What is the role of art, and of our exploration of beauty, in relation to the reality of evil?

A powerful example of a response to this question is provided by Illya Repin’s painting, Ivan the Terrible and his Son Ivan (1581). A more recent example is Francisco de Goya’s 1814 painting, The Third of May. And, of course, so many portrayals of the crucifixion of Jesus.

A partial answer to the question I have posed is to say at least this: art and the exploration of beauty has the potential to remind us of our common humanity, and especially of the ideals we attach to our best and shared perceptions of what it means to be human – even in the face of evil and of death.

Picasso’s Guernica provides a compelling example of a good answer to this question.

The Beauty of Balance

 

 

Recently, the Museum of Fine Arts Houston (MFAH) featured a show of the work of Alexander Calder and Pablo Picasso. The two were exact contemporaries and were acquainted with one another.

Like Picasso, Calder became famous for the wide range of his artistic expression. Most memorable are his ‘mobiles,’ beloved by many. These floating sculptures are the beautifully balanced hanging assemblies of wire and pieces of sheet metal. Unlike the example above, they are usually covered in bright colors or flat black paint.

His ‘stabiles‘ are floor-based sculptures that incorporate flat surfaces arranged in three-dimensional relationships, both vertical and horizontal. Some are wonderfully fluid given the curved shape of their panels, while others are geometric, more linear, and ‘edgy.’

The above photo features what I think was the final study model for La Grande Vitesse, his huge lyrical stabile which now sits on a principal downtown plaza in Grand Rapids, Michigan (which I have featured before.)

Obviously, Calder’s mobiles -especially the most successful ones- depend upon an engineer’s sensitivity for balance, while featuring his not-easily-imitable sense of proportion, shape, and color. He also blessed his mobiles with a capacity to drift quietly with the slightest breezes.

Less obvious is how the element of balance features in his stabiles. This involves the balance between vertical and horizontal elements; it also includes the balance between curved edges and flat surfaces. And finally, his stabiles incorporate the most subtle balance of all. This is the balance achieved by the artist when providing a cohesive experience of visual excitement for the viewer who sees each aspect of a stabile sculpture while walking around it.

Calder has been quoted as saying this: “The admission of approximation is necessary, for one cannot hope to be absolute in his precision. He cannot see, or even conceive of a thing from all possible points of view, simultaneously. While he perfects the front, the side, or rear may be weak; then while he strengthens the other facade he may be weakening that [one which was] originally the best. There is no end to this. To finish the work he must approximate.”

Surely, this is equally true of the spiritual life. Many of us are tempted toward the ideal of some kind of ‘perfection,’ surely never attainable by fallen humans such as ourselves. Yet, that pursuit of a kind of absoluteness and or precision, however attractive, is not true to our lives as pilgrims on an unfolding journey. Such a journey is an ancient and compelling metaphor for our lives, in Scripture and in our tradition.

So, yes, in the abstract, there are some things that are absolutely true in principle. But we so often seek and pursue them while ‘walking in circles,’ admiring the beauty, goodness and truth of what is before us. And yet, our grasp of, and appreciation for, the whole is often based on a single, or a limited number of perspectives. We then are kept from seeing the fullness of the many marvelous gifts given to us by and through our Creator’s grace-filled pursuit of us. Seeking and then finding a balance between sometimes competing perspectives and concerns can be an important step toward perceiving beauty when otherwise it may be hard to see.

I can think of no finer balanced-juxtaposition of these several elements within Calder’s extensive portfolio than the one depicted above, temporarily exhibited in the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston. A mobile gently moves above you, while you stand. You gently move around a stabile while it stands.

 

{my photograph; copyright reserved} / Regarding the above quote from Calder, remember that while his choice of pronouns may not be what we prefer, they were characteristic of what was considered ‘proper English’ and assumed to be fully inclusive at that time.

The Beauty of Intuition

 

Georgia O’Keeffe offers a compelling insight: “Artists and religionists are never far apart, they go to the sources of revelation for what they choose to experience and what they report is the degree of their experiences. Intellect wishes to arrange — intuition wishes to accept.”

“… intuition wishes to accept.” Whether we are considering the spiritual life or what we apprehend through art, our openness to what we might experience is the key to what we might accept. As O’Keeffe seems to suggest, we are not the source of revelation in either sphere of consciousness. We are the recipients of revelation in both realms. I think her second notable insight is to perceive the intrinsic connection between the two sources of what she calls revelation.

Medieval Christian mystics and writers had a similar insight about our experience of Creation, and our encounter with the Bible. They sometimes referred to the former as the Book of Nature and the latter as the Book of Scripture. The two ‘books’ have the same author, as well as overlapping content, even if differing in their redemptive significance. In ‘reading’ both, we are the recipients of beauty, goodness, and truth. By accepting what we apprehend through each source, our intuition is more broadly formed and informed.

Intuition is something of a cousin to prudence, justice, temperance, and fortitude. Like these natural virtues, first described by the ancient Greeks, intuition is a capacity or strength that we are born with. And like the four Greek virtues, intuition is not something we simply have, but an aspect of our consciousness that can be developed through exercise and practice.

Prayers, meditations and reflections, and even sermons are often ‘reports’ of spiritual growth, just as O’Keeffe’s beautiful paintings are communications of her own artistic experience. Parallel to the way that many of the Psalms attest to the beauty of God’s graceful handiwork, O’Keeffe’s paintings often display a spiritually lyrical quality. As she says, “artists and religionists are never far apart” – an appreciation that more and more Christian teachers and writers are reclaiming from earlier visionaries in our tradition.

The beauty of holiness. And  the holiness of beauty. Reflecting on these parallel experiences can help us be open to and appreciate Georgia O’Keefe’s insight about intuition.

 

The Beauty of Now

 

Rembrandt’s paintings are so often moving, and speak well of the Dutch genius who created them. When many of his contemporaries sought to portray people and events with greater realism, even if with much feeling, Rembrandt often put the ‘feeling’ side of his work first.

Rembrandt shows his sensitivity to an aspect of the anticipated birth of John the Baptizer. John’s parents were old and despaired about ever having a son who might carry on their name. The artist depicts the aged priest, Zachariah, leaning on a young attendant upon hearing that Mary has arrived. He portrays Elizabeth as also showing her years as she greets her relative with warm regard. Though Mary bears within her womb the holy child of God, she appears humbled in the presence of Elizabeth, perhaps awed at how the grace of God could touch both of their lives in such an unexpected way. Light shines on the two of them, just as it should, given the way that Luke highlights this holy aspect of their shared story. Thankfulness and quiet joy suffuse the scene like the warm light at its center.

Waiting and anticipation are themes we associate with the beautiful season of Advent. In one sense, these two words suggest we already know what we are anticipating, for what we are awaiting. By contrast, Luke’s story about the Visitation suggests a variation on those themes. “Expect the un-expected,” it seems to say, to us who live a multitude of centuries later. And this is especially hard for us to do, in a culture that is so dependent upon the precise measurement of time, and upon the predictability of events in the natural order of things.

Let’s notice this about Elizabeth and Mary, and about John the Baptist who is not yet born. Luke portrays them as living in the moment, as living in God’s time rather than simply in human calendar time. When Elizabeth hears Mary’s voice, John leaps in her womb. Luke then says that Elizabeth is filled with the Holy Spirit, and she exclaims with a loud cry, “Blessed are you among women, Mary, and blessed is the fruit of your womb.” Neither John nor Jesus are yet born, and so neither mother has yet received the assurance and peace that will come from seeing them safely delivered. And yet, in this moment, both women are filled with joy ~ joy about the fulfillment of God’s promises!

Elizabeth’s son, John, and Mary’s son, Jesus, would never be closer to the two women. And, in Luke’s telling, their quiet joy reflects their awareness of this, that now, in this moment, God is truly present, imparting grace and fulfilling promises. The same is true for us.

 

Rembrandt van Rijn: The Visitation (1640), Detroit Institute of Arts {many images online}

See Luke 1:41-42: “When Elizabeth heard Mary’s greeting, the child leapt in her womb. And Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit and exclaimed with a loud cry, ‘Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb.” Context: Luke 1:39-56. This Gospel reading is appointed for the 4th Sunday in Advent, Year C, which features the Visitation of Mary to her relative, Elizabeth.