The Beauty of Shepherding

We live in a highly visual culture, where information is largely communicated through images. As a result, we often think with mental pictures. But are the images we commonly associate with biblical texts actually faithful to Scripture? Our most familiar image of the Good Shepherd may come from Tiffany windows showing Jesus carrying a lamb. Lushly colored, like much of late 19th century art, and romantic in expression, Tiffany windows remain popular and continue to be influential today. And yet, the Tiffany approach to the Good Shepherd may have more to do with the Luke parable about the person who goes in search of the one lost sheep than John’s presentation of Jesus’ words, where he identifies himself as the Good Shepherd of the flock.

Japanese Christian woodblock artist Sadao Watanabe made several prints of the Good Shepherd. This one is beautifully simple and typical of his hand-made cards. Looking over his life’s work, we can see significant parallels between his prints and historical European art. In particular, his portrayal of biblical people is influenced by medieval Christian stained glass and manuscript illustrations, as well as by Eastern Christian iconography. In this print, we see how an Japanese artist shares our Western tendency to see the Good Shepherd in terms of our Lord’s relationship with us as individuals.

Like familiar Tiffany images, Watanabe portrays the Good Shepherd who carries a single lamb. Less familiar are other elements of his print. The artist depicts a large vine laden with grapes, which represent at least two ideas. The promised land toward which God led Israel was filled with vineyards bearing abundant fruit. And in New Testament, the fruit of the vine gains eucharistic significance through our Lord’s cup at the Last Supper. Surrounding the shepherd figure, we see flowers, likely representing the passion flower, symbolic of our Lord’s saving death. Behind the main figure are large and small bands of white against a dark background. Though the symbolism here is not immediately clear, the artist may have had in mind the words of Psalm, 23, and the valley of the shadow through which the Lord safely leads us.

These distinctive aspects of Watanabe’s Good Shepherd do not necessarily set it apart from features of Tiffany Good Shepherd windows. But notice this subtle aspect of Watanabe’s print, which reflects the influence of Christian medieval art. Whereas Tiffany images of Jesus expressively portray his presumed personality and character, Watanabe’s Shepherd resembles traditional iconographic images, where the focus is more on the Lord’s action, and less on his personality. Along with the blank intensity of the eyes, the most strongly communicative aspect of the Jesus figure is his hands, and not his facial expression. Watanabe focuses on what the Good Shepherd does; and what the Good Shepherd does is devote himself to the sheep.

Sadao Watanabe, The Good Shepherd, 1968. See John 10:11-18; compare Luke 15:3ff. Click here for a link to my Sunday homily on the theme of the Good Shepherd, and on historical and artistic reflection which it has inspired.

The Beauty of Self-Acceptance

It began with my nephew saying to his dad, “let’s go before we can’t.” My brother, Greg, who has been dealing with MS for a number of years, liked the idea. So, last summer, they walked the Camino de Santiago in northern Spain, to the Apostle James’ legendary burial place. The rigors of the trip required serious preparation for my brother. Hiking 500 miles in 28 days means averaging almost 18 miles a day, and a good bit of the Camino involves hills and mountains. I learned more about this during my brother’s recent visit, when we viewed his pilgrimage photos. We also watched The Way, Emilio Estevez’s fine movie about the Camino featuring his father, Martin Sheen.

I appreciate The Way for how it sensitively portrays our infirmity. Since ancient times, Christians have valued pilgrimages. Paths and journeys often provide metaphors for transition through life. For this reason, an intentional spiritual journey can be a microcosm for the whole of our life, and enable us to deal with enduring issues in a concentrated way.

“You don’t choose your life; you live it,” says a character in the movie. Yet, quite often, we perceive a conflict between the things we cannot choose about ourselves, and how we really hope to live. The Way traces a Camino made by four people, each carrying a burden not so easily set aside as a pilgrim’s rucksack. Two carry burdens of grief; the third seeks to lose weight; and the fourth fears losing a writer’s vocation. All four journey toward deeper and hidden parts of themselves, and over the pilgrimage, lighten their ‘loads,’ figuratively and literally. The most challenging part of the Camino proves not to be the Pyrenees or the Meseta. For them as for us, the hardest journey starts from how we see ourselves, and moves toward the self-acceptance for which we yearn.

The four hikers’ journey provides a meditation on this insight. But so does the Easter Gospel, though less obviously. The risen “Jesus himself stood among the disciples and their companions and said, ‘Peace be with you.’ They were startled and terrified…” Jesus then said words that may have been troubling rather than reassuring: “Look at my hands and my feet; see that it is I myself. Touch me and see…”

Jesus did not spare the disciples their need to face themselves, and their own culpability in his death. Yet, by lovingly accepting them as they were, he enabled them to accept themselves. Accepting who Jesus really is, is interconnected with accepting who we really are. And accepting who we really are comes with accepting who Jesus really is. He has made himself one with dark things within us. Because of this, we can accept being made-one-with him, in his radiant light.

A photograph from The Way (accessed from the Media page of the film website). Click here to view my Sunday homily exploring these themes in relation to Alanis Morissette’s song, “Thank U,” as well as the Sunday resurrection narrative from Luke 24:36b-48.

The Beauty of His Community

I love how artists help us read and hear Scripture in new ways. Occasionally, they help us perceive aspects of biblical texts for the first time. Paradoxically, in one case artworks have nurtured a mis-hearing of the Gospel. For all the paintings of Thomas that I know refer to him as having doubt, and portray the resolve of that doubt as coming from his touching the side or hands of the risen Jesus. But look closely at John’s Gospel. In his visit to the room where the disciples have been hiding, the risen Jesus does not directly attribute ‘doubt’ to Thomas. Instead, and perhaps with his prior visit to the other disciples in mind, he merely tells Thomas not to doubt. Nor does John describe Thomas as taking up Jesus’ invitation to touch him. Jesus credits Thomas for believing after seeing him, rather than after touching him. He then encourages the kind of belief that does not rest upon seeing.

Notice how the other ten disciples are hiding in fear, rather than joyfully confident, when Jesus comes to where they have locked themselves in. They are described as rejoicing only after Jesus shows them his hands and his side. In other words, Thomas is not unique and different from the other disciples, and benefits from exactly the same experience that transformed them from people fearfully hiding into those who are rejoicing. Their joyful confidence is reflected in their words to Thomas when he later arrives. They say, “We have seen the Lord.” Their joy is the direct result of seeing Jesus’ hands and side, the very things Thomas says will be key to his own believing. So, the ten did not believe until they saw; and Thomas will not believe until he sees. What they received, he, too, will receive. As will we, who—like Thomas—were not initially in that room. The history of art obscures this important point.

Here are two safe things we can say and accept as true. The risen Lord continues to disclose himself with signs. And, the Lord reveals himself in community, and always for the sake of his community. For his community is fellowship within the new covenant of reconciliation. As John writes in his first Epistle, “We declare to you what we have seen and heard so that you also may have fellowship with us.” Fellowship with this community, is fellowship in and with the Risen Lord.

James He Qi, The Doubt of St. Thomas (He Qi © 2014 All Rights Reserved); used with permission. I think of it as portraying the community faith of Thomas. See John 20:19-31, and 1 John 1:1-2:2. Click here for a link to my Sunday homily, which explores the impact of the resurrection upon the disciples.

Beauty Over Chaos

The Resurrection of Jesus is all about grounded hope, and the strength to persevere in the face of adversity. Peter Koenig’s Good Shepherd Resurrection provides a compelling image of its power. The painting builds upon ancient biblical imagery of chaos manifest as a sea monster, and acknowledges how death, and resistance to the will of God in the order of Creation, pervade the world. The painting is brilliant in its conception, precisely because it is so counter to our culture-bound world of Easter bunnies, daffodils and pastel-colored candy.

The Resurrection of Jesus is not mainly about hopeful feelings, a positive attitude and self-improvement, even though it can enable these things. His Resurrection is really about the defeat of evil and death, and triumph over pain and suffering. We may not immediately experience that defeat and triumph in our every moment of need. But, we live by Easter faith, and not by Easter feelings.

Peter Koenig risks showing us the Risen Lord stepping out of the mouth of a sea monster. The fresh water from his side recalls his crucifixion, and also the water from the rock in the wilderness. Both give us fresh water that fulfills genuine human need, as compared with the inhospitable salt water in which the dragon finds its abode. Every one of us is the lamb, held safely upon his shoulders, as he carries us out of the jaws of death into the new life where he is preeminent.

To me, this is real hope. Precisely because it is hope that deals with where we are now, rather than hope for something that might be, some day, somewhere. Both you and I want the kind of hope that squarely addresses all the things we’ve been worried about this last month. We all want hope that squarely confronts all the things we fear might go wrong in the coming month. And that is the kind of real hope that God brings to us in Jesus’ resurrection.

Peter Koenig, Good Shepherd Resurrection. Click here to visit the website where this and other paintings by him may be viewed. To see my Easter homily from which this is adapted, please click here. For background, see Revelation 12 and or do an internet search for biblical texts related to the words dragon, Rahab (i.e., Job 26:12-13 & Isaiah 51:9-10), Leviathan (i.e., Job 3:8, Psalm 74:13-14 & Isaiah 27:1), the deep, etc.

Our Beauty in His Eyes

We are accustomed to looking up at him on the cross. Good Friday may prompt us, at least for a moment, to allow a reverse in the direction of the gaze.

For we are the objects of his attention, and of his love. If we discern anything about the meaning of Holy week, and the events within it, it is this: He acted for us, and not for himself. And God was in him, as he did so.

James Tissot pictures Jesus’ view from the cross on that dark afternoon, two thousand years ago. Just below his feet, he saw Mary Magdalene, prostrate with grief, showing her love for him. Just behind her, cloaked in dark blue and white, is his mother, hand across her heart, experiencing the sorrow it had been predicted she would endure. And to the left of Mary, in Jesus’ vision, we see the beloved disciple, John, in a white outer cloak over a green tunic. These three, and the two others behind Mary, are sympathetic figures. They have come to be by him in his darkest hour.

Others in Jesus’ field of vision may vary in their sympathies with his suffering. The Roman soldier cloaked in red could be the centurion, about whom we read in the Passion narratives. Standing by the cross, Tissot depicts him with a pained look on his face. He is beginning to realize that Jesus was innocent of the charges brought against him. By contrast, the two other soldiers near him appear either puzzled or disgusted by the whole situation.

As we survey this scene portraying Jesus’ field of vision from the cross, we cannot miss the group of men on horseback in the middle-ground. They are Scribes or Sadducees, those with power and wealth in the city, who had argued for his crucifixion. Some are shown taunting him. Some appear self-satisfied. And at least one is looking up at the darkening sky, which is already putting the upper edge of the scene in shadow.

He has acted for all these people, and especially for the ones who have turned against him. He looks upon them with love, and with a plea for God’s forgiveness. He knows what is in people’s hearts. What we so often forget is that he knows us better than we know ourselves. We may not understand how he knows us; but we do know that he knows us. We know that he loves us. And this is enough.

This is not a time for us to ponder the unknowability of God. This is a time to focus on our vulnerability, and our total knowability in God’s eyes. It is a time in which to contemplate the complete self-revealing of God, by Christ, for us. And to remember that he did this on a cross.

James Tissot, What Our Lord Saw From the Cross. For a link to my Good Friday homily, from which this is adapted, please click here.

Beauty and Holy Sorrow

The moment is filled with paradox. Jesus enters the royal city, proclaimed as “the blessed one who comes in the name of the Lord—even the King of Israel.” Luke says his appearance signals “peace in heaven.” As he arrives, he is keenly aware that tremendous confusion lies at the heart of the recognition he is receiving. And Peter Koenig’s painting captures this nicely.

Koenig portrays Jesus dressed completely in white, suggesting his identity as ‘pure victim’ and ‘true priest.’ The painter takes a symbolic approach to the scene, envisioning it in a contemporary setting. Though we see an ample supply of date palms in the background, people in the crowd are waving flags. I count at least 18 communities or nations represented by those flags, including Israel, Lebanon and the Gaza Strip, as well as Nicaragua and Cuba. Surely , a crowd of people from many nations, united in their enthusiasm about Jesus’ arrival, is a sign of hope, is it not? Why would he be weeping?

He is weeping because he knows what is in people’s hearts. He knows how thin is our perception, and how halting is our embrace of him. We so often assume that, by virtue of our common affirmations, we can overcome our divisions. As if we could all agree upon a combination of human civil laws, and then arrive at the unity we all desire. But he knows that the healing of the divisions between the nations will not occur until the real human problem has been dealt with. The real problem is sin. It will be dealt with by his cross and resurrection, and most importantly, by the descent of the Spirit at Pentecost. Only these events will heal the divisions we have experienced since the demolition of the tower of Babel.

We see two figures in foreground unroll a band of penitentially-colored purple fabric. They discern a more appropriate way to greet him, than do those who wave symbols of the partitions between us. We so often behave as if we were less than the one people of God. Yet, the Body of Christ replaces all our competing affiliations, a fact not yet apparent to those who shout Hosanna on this day. This same heedlessness is suggested by Koenig’s portrayal of those who seek to greet him by climbing up on a cross. Soon, they will lift him up on this same form, confirming their need for him to be among them. If he weeps on this day, he weeps for us. We are among those for whom he asks forgiveness, for we know not what we do.

Peter Koenig, Entry into Jerusalem. To view more of his paintings, click here. See Mark 11:1-10, and John 12:12-19. To access my Palm Sunday homily, on which the above is based, click here.

Revealing Glory

James Tissot was a successful French painter and illustrator, whose beautiful paintings of boats and ships I particularly admire. His earlier work reminds me of that of other 19th century high society painters like John Singer Sargent. In 1871, Tissot moved to London where he acquired a reputation for his paintings of elegant and fashionably-dressed women. The waiting room of his studio was remembered as always having a bottle of iced champagne available to callers.

Returning to Paris in 1885, Tissot exhibited 15 large paintings under the title of The Women of Paris. Like the work of other artists of the time, his paintings reflected the influence of Japanese prints. That same year, he experienced a re-conversion to the Roman Catholic Church, which transformed his life and his art.

Some Greeks have come to Jerusalem for the Passover, and ask to see Jesus. Notice how Tissot portrays much more than the immediate scene of the conversation, displaying his immense interest in the history and archaeology of Jerusalem. He imagines the Greeks approaching on an arched causeway over the Tyropoeon valley, on the southwest side of the Temple Mount. They are walking up to what might have been the most dramatic entrance to the Temple. Finding a fellow visitor who speaks Greek, they tell Philip why they have come. “Sir,” they say; “we wish to see Jesus!”

Tissot portrays Jesus in his customary way, as a rabbi clothed in white, and the painting is faithful to the scene as John presents it. Tissot therefore does not show Jesus moving toward the inquiring Greeks. Instead, as John tells us, when he hears that the Greeks want to see him, Jesus responds to Philip and Andrew in a curiously indirect way. Drawing upon an image in the book of Daniel, he says, “the hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified.” Jesus speaks of his death and his vocation, which he says is centered on God’s glorification.

Here, we begin to make sense of why Tissot portrays the Greek visitor’s arrival from Jesus’ perspective, from the vantage point on top of that southwest corner of the Temple Mount, looking out between Hellenic columns toward Mt. Zion. The occasion has deep significance, not just for Greek visitors. It has significance for all of Jerusalem, and everyone who has come for the great festival. And it has implications for the whole world, lying over and beyond the hills of this city. Here, on a dramatic high point on the Temple Mount, as Jesus stands in the place associated with God’s own glory, a voice from heaven speaks of his glorification. The Gentile foreigners whom he has drawn to himself are a sign, a sign of all those who will be drawn to him, when his glory is revealed on the cross.

James Tissot, “We Would See Jesus,” from his multi-volume, The Life of Christ. The Gospel passage to which this image refers is John 12:20-33. For a link to my Sunday homily, developing these themes, please click here.

The Beauty of the Cross

At the summit of Mt. Nebo, in Jordan, there is a tall sculpture that commemorates the Bronze Serpent. This is the serpent mentioned in the book of Numbers, in a story about Israel’s wilderness wanderings.

The metal sculpture, by Giovanni Fantoni, features a serpent twisted around a pole. Its head, depicted at the top, is encircled by a loop of its body. The fact that the serpent story occurred at a different place in the wilderness raises the question of why this sculpture is positioned on Mt. Nebo. That location suggests one reason. From the lookout next to the sculpture, people can see Jerusalem on a clear day. The view to the west includes Jericho and other sites in Israel.

Perhaps you have noticed African-American churches named after Mt. Nebo. From it, Moses was allowed to see the Promised Land before he died, without ever getting there. Mt. Nebo, and seeing the Promised Land, have become metaphors for the promise of deliverance and salvation. In recent history, this theme powerfully shaped Martin Luther Kings’ last sermon, on the night before he was assassinated in Memphis. See the film of it, or read his words. They are stirring.

From the biblical story we learn one reason why the serpent became metaphor for healing and deliverance. When Moses fashioned the bronze serpent, the repulsive sight of a snake in the wilderness was transformed, so that it became a symbol of his peoples’ reconciliation with God.

Here, we see how the sculptor was thinking of more than the biting serpents. Clearly, he was also mindful of Jesus’ words in John 3. In addition to depicting the serpent made by Moses, we see how the looped body of the snake around itself also suggests the head of one who has been crucified. We also notice the lyrically shaped crosspieces, evocative of outstretched arms. The sculpture reminds us of Jesus’ words to Nicodemus, “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up…” Speaking figuratively, Jesus risked likening himself and his probable death to the bronze serpent. Seeing him lifted up, repentant hearts recognize the power within this new symbol of redemption.

Think about the Cross. Over time, an object representing a dreadful death has come to symbolize a new and different meaning. Something truly frightening was transformed by God into a symbol representing reconciliation with our fear of death. The Romans used the cross as an instrument of violent subjugation, effectively employing it to suppress the will and spirit of nations under their dominion. Through the centuries, the cross has become a symbol of life, and of love. Seeing the One lifted up, opens to us the promised land of new fellowship with God.

The Bronze Serpent, by Giovanni Fantoni, on Mt. Nebo, in Jordan. See, also, Numbers 21:4-9, and John 3:14-21. For a link to my Sunday homily on this theme, and referencing both the sculpture and M.L. King’s last sermon, please click here.

The Beauty of Offering

Peter Koenig offers an evocative view of one of the most dramatic stories in the New Testament, Jesus’ so-called ‘cleansing of the Temple.’ We can’t help but notice the aquatic colored clothing worn by the Christ figure, matched by the at-first-surprising color of the doves. Fairly quickly we notice the similar but slightly differently colored paper currency falling out of the overturned cash boxes of the merchants and money-changers. Though both doves and lambs might be presented as forms of offering in the temple, the lambs are not depicted in the same hue as the doves.

Some translations render Jesus’ critical statement as, “Stop making my Father’s house a marketplace!” Another way of translating that last word is “house of trade,” which may better locate the object of his anger. Throughout the Bible, from the days of the Temple’s prototype in the wilderness, to its fulfillment in the New Jerusalem, God provides a place and a way for us to offer gifts.

The ‘exchange’ that is the object of his wrath may not be so much the trade of money for sacrificial animals, as it is the spirit of exchange that shapes and colors much of the prayer occurring within this place. By overturning the tables and driving out the animals, Jesus points to a new Temple where we meet God. He becomes the new place of offering, where pure offering replaces all the false substitutes we create by our efforts to engage God in an exchange.

Why the aquatic colored vesture for Jesus in the painting, as well as for the doves? I am not aware of any explanation by Peter Koenig. The whip in Jesus’ hand reflects a detail unique to John’s Gospel. The color of his clothing may therefore be connected with his statement on another visit to the Temple, implying that he is the source of living water. Living water and the life-giving Spirit are thematically linked in the Fourth Gospel. As a dove does at his Baptism, the similarly-colored doves may represent the Holy Spirit. Here we see the Lamb of God, who has come into the world in order to offer it up to the Father in the Spirit. Entering the Temple, he sends earthly lambs scattering, and pushes aside false ways we use to secure life and happiness through exchanges we try to make with God. Instead, Jesus invites us to join him, in his whole and complete self-offering.

The Cleansing of the Temple, (C) Peter Koenig. For this and other images by the painter, please see the website from which this painting was retrieved, http://www.stedwardskettering.org.uk. For a link to my homily on the theme of offering and exchange, in relation to John’s account of the Cleansing of the Temple, click here.

Beauty and Promise

She looks out at us from the painting with a relaxed gaze. Her posture communicates calm assurance. But, look at her eyes! They suggest critical attentiveness. The painting’s composition and its egg tempura method reflect an artistic tradition going back hundreds of years. And yet, the subject matter and choice of imagery are thoroughly modern. Though relatively young, Madeline von Foerster’s portfolio displays significant scope and reflects serious engagement with the history of European painting. Equally evident is her abiding concern for the natural world and our relationship with it. You might just be able to see her careful depiction of two endangered species, the Oregon Silverspot Butterfly on the oak tree, and the American Burying Beetle crawling on its roots.

She observes that, “the first promise inherent in the image is the certainty of death,” an idea that initially may strike us as negative. However, she says, “my painting is meant to present a different concept — that of a collaboration with this part of the life cycle, since death is the opportunity for our atoms to rejoin the soil and become new life forms, as they have done countless times before becoming us. A long held wish of mine is to be buried under a young oak tree, so that as the tree grew, it would literally acquire my atoms. For me, this seems a sacred privilege which hints at immortality.” To the artist, then, the oak tree represents “a more significant promise” than that of death.

This painting expresses a worldview in continuity with one we discern in much of Scripture. Except for one significant point. Texts like Genesis 1 and John 1 are permeated by a conscious awareness of the Creator’s continuing presence in Creation. Though Madeline von Foerster does not explicitly claim this same awareness, something not far from it is implicit in her work. As we know, nature mediates grace. In this painting, she does not portray a covenant with death, as some might suppose. She portrays a covenant with life, in the face of death. The painter recognizes the theme of promise as implicit in the patterns of nature. Though she doesn’t credit a higher source for it, she can help us see that source even if it’s not her conscious intent.

Madeline von Foerster recognizes how purpose and meaning are intimately bound up with the waves and particles that make up the universe. She marvels at how bits of our physical embodiment have a deep connection with the stuff of Nature, and her comments echo statements made by scientists. People who identify with the Church’s faith would agree, but want to say more. Those same atoms within us have a destiny that includes but also transcends becoming part of other biological life forms. Within us, these atoms have a vocation to be bound up with the spirit of the living God. The promise at the heart of the universe is both spiritual and material, as Teilhard de Chardin spend much of his life working to show.

Promise is therefore more than something implicit in nature. Promise shapes the Creator’s activity.

Madeline von Foerster, The Promise II, 2012 / (C)Madeline von Foerster http://www.madelinevonfoerster.com (used with permission). The longer quote in the second paragraph is from an email sent by the painter, and the shorter one is quoted in an interview that appeared in MenacingHedge.com.

This reflection is adapted from my homily for Lent 2 (click here for a link).

Toward Beauty

In Art, Faith and Life ~ STEPHEN HOLMGREN