A couple of years ago I was invited to visit Palestinian and Israeli Christians and had the opportunity to visit Nazareth, where a large modern church stands on the traditional site of the annunciation. This beautiful building, the largest church building in the middle east, is enhanced by many modern works of art presented as gifts from around the world. While many different cultures and artistic traditions are represented, the common theme is Mary the mother of Jesus – the story of the incarnation begins with her willingness to carry in her own body the one who will carry the sins of the world for our salvation.
The church has a number of large bronze doors on which are depicted scenes from scripture and one which caught my eye portrays the gift of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost. It is a powerful image which presents the twelve apostles, together with Mary, welcoming the Spirit who is represented both as a descending dove and as flames. God’s presence is both powerful and empowering and leads to worship and witness. On a lighter note, the image also reminded me of the finale of a West End musical, with the star at the centre and arms raised!
As an Evangelical, I have sometimes wondered about the Catholic emphasis on Mary and the encounter with this image was no exception. It reminded me that often, in Catholic art and Orthodox iconography, Mary is represented as being present with the disciples when the Spirit came on the day of Pentecost. It sent me back to my bible to check whether this was ‘just a tradition’ and I found that the apostles returned to Jerusalem after the ascension of Jesus and, staying in the upper room, indeed ‘all these were constantly devoting themselves to prayer, together with certain women, including Mary the mother of Jesus, as well as his brothers’ (Acts 1.14). And then the Pentecost story itself begins in Acts 2.1 with ‘they were all together in one place’.
The story of Jesus’ life on earth begins and ends with his mother and the Holy Spirit. At the beginning, she has to give permission for God the Holy Spirit to conceive the earthly life of Jesus within her body. This is new life, a new creation made possible by Mary’s ‘Yes’ of courage and trust, as well as the work of the Spirit. At the end, when Jesus is no longer physically present on earth, the same Spirit of God comes to give powerful faith to a group of dispirited disciples and empowers them to witness to Jesus across the world
We too are invited to welcome the Holy Spirit into our hearts and lives. Just as Mary’s ‘Yes’ made possible God’s new creation of Jesus within her, so our ‘Yes’ to the Spirit makes possible God’s re-creation of us in the likeness of Jesus. God’s presence in our lives takes on the appearance of Jesus, as the word of love becomes flesh in our lives and actions. Come, Lord, Jesus, come!
In this church all is still,
but for the clock’s tick;
the bell ropes hang
waiting for the ringers’ tug.
The pews wait for restless worshippers
or tired travellers;
the windows send threads of sun
along the pews’ edges
and silence waits to be filled.
Something coalesces –
is it the presence of God?
or is it my racing pulse
slowing to the pace of reflected memories?
In the space,
in the silence,
in the need,
in the waiting,
there is room for God.
It was a mealtime conversation in Rome while I was staying at the Venerable English College, the Venerabile. I was sat opposite a young priest from Malta who had come to Rome for further theological studies and was particularly interested in art history. He had just written an essay on art and the liturgy, and – well – the conversation flowed from there.
Somehow we got on to the subject of baptistries – it wasn’t me, honest! He commented on how most of the early ones were octagonal. Now we are talking about the fourth century onwards when baptism was still usually administered to adults professing their faith. Often the baptismal tank would be housed in a separate building in the grounds of the church and this building, as well as the tank, is referred to as a ‘baptistry’.
Anyway, back to shape. Often these buildings were square or octagonal with a circular dome above. It was a throw-away line from the young priest, muttered with something of the certainty of the young (or maybe the confidence of being a student of the Gregorian University in Rome): ‘Of course, these baptistries were eight-sided to symbolize the ‘eighth day’.’
Now another historical note: the ‘eighth day’ was a concept developed by early Christian writers and it means Sunday. The term focused the meaning of the move for worship on the seventh day to worship on the eighth day. Now I know that a fair number of us have sometimes wished there were eight days in a week, but I know and the early church knew that there are in fact only seven. It’s a kind of paradox or nonsense phrase.
Sunday is the Lord’s Day – the first day of the week – the day of resurrection. But the point is this – it is not just another day like the rest. Nor is it even just the first day of creation – it is the day of new creation when everything in heaven and on earth is changed because God has raised Christ from the dead. God’s future end, his eschaton, has broken into human and cosmic history and all the boundaries have been changed and expectations have been turned upside down.
The young priest didn’t need to make the connection for me. The symbolism was so rich. ‘When anyone is united to Christ there is a new world’ – ‘We have been buried with him by baptism into death, so that, as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, so we too might walk in newness of life.’ In baptism we celebrate the life-giving, life-changing work of God who raised Jesus to life on the eighth day – the first day of a new world. And those just baptized clamber out of the water to walk in a new world, a world of the eighth day, living in the light of the resurrection.
All this is rich symbolism, great theology and inspiring sentiments. But… I wondered whether baptisteries were octagonal in order to express the eighth day – or because it was a nice shape which the architect thought would look good – or because an octagon is what you get when you put a dome on top of a square and do something artistic with the interior walls! Was it simply geometry or intentional symbolism? Or did the symbolism suggest itself once baptisteries had eight sides and someone made an imaginative leap?
This conversation was a month ago but it was brought to mind by another geometry-symbolism bit of mulling this week. Between Venice and Assisi I took a two-day detour via Ravenna, courtesy of the slow train from Bologna to Rimini. Ravenna was, for a time, the capital of the western part of the Roman empire, when it was being overrun by Goths and others. For a period it was rescued by the eastern part of the empire, based in Constantinople and in the fifth and sixth centuries a number of churches and, yes, baptisteries were built. The town boasts eight, UNESCO World Heritage sites – and on Tuesday I visited six, all within a mile of one another – and each with the most incredible mosaics.
St Vitale is one of the largest buildings and – yes – it’s octagonal. Here is a photo I took of the image of Christ in glory which faces the congregation from above the altar. It is incredible that it was made in 548 – nearly fifteen hundred years ago. The mosaics in Ravenna are stunning and are claimed to be ‘the best Byzantine mosaics outside Constantinople’ (Istanbul).
Back to my theme. In two of the church buildings I found domes decorated as starry heavens – blue background with gold stars and a central gold cross. I sat in one chapel and gazed at this beautiful image. As I looked I realized that all the stars were eight-pointed! Now I think I was brought up in the belief that stars had five points – if you know what I mean. Then I thought, well, that’s just four lines imposed on one another – how I would normally draw an asterisk – geometry again.
And then the geometry or the symbolism didn’t matter. For I was seeing not simply the stars but the cross. Here was the cosmic cross – the redemption of all things through Christ. Here was a claim about what kind of universe we inhabit – fallen, broken, but redeemed. Whether through geometry or intentional symbolism, here was an eighth-day realization that everything was different because of the cross and resurrection of Christ – all creation was to be seen in the light of the cross.
It is fitting that the heavens should rejoice:
and that the earth should be glad,
and that the whole world, both visible and invisible,
should keep the feast.
For Christ is risen, the everlasting joy.
Now all things are filled with light,
heaven, and earth, and all places under the earth.
All creation celebrates the resurrection of Christ.
Yesterday I visited four churches and a library – all on foot in the centre of Florence. Each contained great works of art by any measure of the word. The Medici Chapels contain those iconic tomb statures of Michelangelo – although he never finished the series, what we have are stunning.
The San Lorenzo church next door boasts two – yes two – pulpits by Donatello. It made me wonder whether there were any dialogical sermons in the fifteenth century. I don’t think so… However, any preacher would need a good head for heights as the only way up seems to have been my means of a ladder.
I particularly wanted to visit Santa Maria Novella to see one of the those paintings which were a turning pint of their era – in this case Masaccio’s portrayal of the Trinity. Here it was not so much spiritual death which attracted my attention as a sense of standing – yes – at a turning point.
There are two remarkable features of this painting – and we have to remember that it was painted about 1428. First is the striking use of linear perspective – that ‘trick’ of drawing lines in such a way as a two-dimensional surface has the appearance of being three-dimensional. Apart from the technical stuff to help the artist, this procedure actually means painting what you see rather than what is there. So we ‘see’ railway tracks converging – so when we draw them like that they appear far more realistic than if we draw two parallel lines on the page.
You paint what you see – not what you know – now there’s a thought for a future reflection! This approach to perspective was a discovery of the early Renaissance and although Masaccio was far from the first to use it, his Trinity is a stunning early example.
But this fresco is also significant because of the realism of the figures and especially the faces. This is a long way from Giotto, father of Renaissance painting, beautiful as his paintings are. Here is a different kind of perspective ‘trick’ from manipulating of lines. Now the shading of forms, where light models shape, gives them a three-dimensional body on a two-dimensional surface. This technical developement, coupled with Masaccio’s humanity, results in human faces full of emotion and character. I have to admit that God the Father seems to be rather lacking in emotion – but that probably reflects the theology of the time! An exploration of scripture leads us to many places where images of emotion – anger, compassion etc – are attributed to God. But whatever the theology of God, we can recognize living, feeling, responding human beings in this fifteenth century masterpiece.
I’ll leave the visit to the library for another day. These two images of Annigoni and Masaccio are taken off the web as neither church would allow photography, even without flash. However, when I passed the baptistery next to the Duomo and found that there wasn’t a queue, I seized the opportunity and went in to see the medieval mosaics which cover the domed ceiling (I couldn’t find a font let alone a baptistery – but that’s another story). The dome is covered with scenes portraying the Last Judgement – and some of pretty scary. But the eye is inevitably drawn to Christ enthroned on the judgement seat. It wasn’t easy to see some of the detail from the ground as the mosaic of Christ must be 40-50 feet up, but when I had taken my photographs and inspected them on the laptop I saw very clearly the scars of the nails on his hands and feet. The one who judges is the one who has laid down his life for the redemption of the world. Whatever our views or expectations of the judgement are we must hold on to this central affirmation and hope – the judge is the one who has washed disciple’s feet, lifted fallen sinners out of the dust and died for our salvation. Images and phrases tumble after one another – Here is love vast as the ocean – the lamb that was slain sits on the throne – but especially: Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison, Kyrie eleison – Lord have mercy.
Sunday I travelled from Rome to Florence. The comfortable, quiet, ultra-fast train sped through the Umbrian and Tuscan countryside. Meadows and rivers slipped past, terracotta roofs appeared and disappeared,
hilltop villages looked down, defiant and timeless.
Florence is compact. A wanderer emerges from quiet alleys and can be suddenly immersed in vast crowds of tourists. Oh why does great art so often seem to be in very hot climates?
Three years ago I visited the Duomo (outside: wonderful –
inside: municipal showing off?), the Academy (with Michelangelo’s David and the slaves) and the monastery of San Marco (with the Fra Angelica frescoes: Oooohhhhh). The serendipity was finding the Duomo museum which was devoid of crowds and full of treasures. I remember especially Donatello’s Mary Magdalene and, especially, Michelangelo’s deposition, with his octogenarian self-portarit of Nicodemus. I hope to revisit this week.
Today I visited the Basilica Church of Santa Croce which has some wonderful religious art and is a beautiful building. Here lies buried Michelangelo, Machiavelli and Galileo. Here is the chapter house designed by Brunelleschi, an annunciation in bas relief by Donatello and the famous Cimabue crucifix, so badly damaged by the 1966 flood. In the museum in the cloisters are some f the damaged works now beautifully restored, but the Cimabue crucifix seems to have been left in its scarred beauty rather than reconstructed. There is, however, a life-size replica, in beautiful colours and displayed in an appropriate ecclesiastical context.
There was disappointment as well as delight. The apse is
completely filled with scaffolding so that renovations of the frescoes there can take place. But the Giotto frescoes of the life of St Francis can be seen in all their delicate beauty. As I gazed at his rendering of the death of Francis, I thought ahead to my visit to Assisi in a few week’s time. Surrounded by his friends – Francis was a saint who was attractive in his following of Christ. Respected and trusted by the Pope, a man who drew many, high and low, to his side through simple goodness and a loving simplicity that drew people to God. An inspiration then and now.
There’s more about this on the Italian Journey page.
Yesterday I visited the San Clemente church in Laterano, Rome. In church visiting terms there is old – and then there’s very old. As you arrive you walk through the cloisters to the twelfth century church which had something of an eighteenth century makeover with a new facade and nave ceiling, as well as a renaissance chapel with fifteenth century frescoes. For me, the glory of the church is the twelfth century mosaic of the triumph of the cross. Filling the apse, it provides a majestic back cloth for the altar and medieval choir stalls.
But this multilayered history is nothing compared to what lies below. Beneath the medieval church is another church – a fourth century basilica first built soon after Christians ceased to be a persecuted and so were able to construct public buildings and worship in them openly. It is dark because, there are of course, no windows now, for the ground level has risen in the intervening centuries. The basilica was adapted to become the foundation and crypt of the ‘new’ church, but there is a real sense of what kind of building these early Christians worshipped in. So still we build (or stand) on the shoulders of those who go before us who hand on the faith a great cloud of witnesses.
But there’s more, because beneath the fourth century church there is a second century temple devoted to the worship of Mithras. Here, amidst fancy brickwork constructed not long after the later books of the New Testament were written, the visitor can imagine the festal meals of that Persian cult.
Here the relationship to a previous age is more ambivalent. Was the basilica built here because it was seen as a sacred site and so a place of worship, however pagan? Is this an example of inculturation, with all the questions that such apparent syncretism can bring? Or is this an example of triumphant and confident church planting – building on a pagan site because no name is as strong as the name of Jesus? Either way, there are questions which can have an edge to them.
Yet, when I climbed the steps back into the medieval church I was again silenced by the eloquent beauty of the mosaics. The cross is presented as the tree of life – a place of death which brings life ton the world – not just a religious kind of life – but life for all creation – for growing plants and fertile earth,, for thirsty deer and singing birds, for broken humanity – life for all the world. For Christ plays in ten thousand places…