Category: Theology and art

The following is taken from an order of service for First Baptist Church of Ithaca from July 7. I like the call to worship – its realism, biblical echoes and the prayer that says most of what most of us want to say most of the time.

 

And Moses said, "I am slow of speech and slow of tongue…"

All: But God sent him anyway

Jeremiah said "I am just a boy…"

All: But God spoke through him anyway

mary was perplexed by the angel's visit

All: But God still invited her to give birth to Jesus

God invites us to understand that we have gifts and we are needed;

whether old or young; tired or energetic; quick or slow;

whoever we are, however we are.

All: We hear your call O God. We have come.

 

PRAYER

Holy One we come to you, for we need healing.

We come to you for we need teaching.

We come to you for we need leading.

As we gather; as we sing; as we pray; as we listen; as we speak.

May we open ourselves to your balm, your blessing, your word,

Amen

The painting is a detail from Michaelangelo's Sistine Ceiling.

Now I have to say at the start of this post – it won't appeal to everyone's theological interests; it's a bit obscure; you may end up wondering "what's the point, Jim"? So if you're not into reflection on the connections between art and Trinitarian theology, aesthetics and dogmatics, human creativity and contingency on the one hand and Divine creativity and eschatological telos on the other (I speak anthropomorphically!), then if you've had enough already, click elsewhere now!

What I have in mind touches on a number of strategically placed theological flying buttresses: imago dei, creation, providence, the Triune nature of God and the incarnation. I got to thinking all this when reading an essay entitled Art: A Trinitarian Imperative by Brian Horne. The main argument is that there is that in human nature and existence which is compelled to create, to express, to articulate in sound or vision, in music, word, image or object, to bring into existence that which is born within. The image of God in human being and experience is expressive; and this for two reasons.

First, the incarnate Word is the revelation of the kenotic outgoing love, enfleshed in a human life, made material, a true representation of the imago dei. The human artist exhibits the imago dei, and echoes the materiality of the incarnation in the musical notation of the concerto, the accumulated precision of brush strokes, the toilsomely shaped sculpture, the organisation of letters and words into meanings articulated, communicated and more or less comprehended. Secondly, and this is Horne's point, such a process, expressive of the divine radiance, is the human will responding freely to the movement of the Holy Spirit.' In other words art is an inner impetus towards creation originating in the human imaging of God, but that impetus and its creative expression in aesthetic articulation is the work of the Spirit of God, the creative, formative power of a love that brings into being.

This is an exciting line of thought for me. two of my main interests in theology are exploring the tradition of Christian Trinitarian thought, and seeking connections between art and theology. Horne is arguing that the divine mystery of the Trinity involves the radical immanence of the Holy Spirit, the ultimate transcendence of the Father, and 'the union of these two modes of being in the expressive form of the Incarnate Son. And from that Trinitarian standpoint he concludes that the Holy Spirit and human inspiration towards expressive art, are deeply and intentionally related in the essential created and creative nature of human beings. Quoting Von Balthasar whose pneumatology affirms the role of the Spirit as the on who mediates the glory of God, "Since the Spirit Himself is the glorification of the love between thre Father and the Son, wherein God's true glory disclosed itself to us, it is likewise only he who can bring about glorification in the world."

The idea that human art and expressiveness is inspired by, has its origins in the Holy Spirit, and echoes the divine creative impulse towards that which is loved, an urgent love which dwells in and flows from the eternal communion of the Triune God, is a powerful theological argument for artistic expression, skilled manufacture, and the sanctification of the impulse to create that which is beautiful, true and good. Horne finishes this intriguing essay:

"Since self-expressive energy has been revealed to us as the very structure of the life of God, it cannot be an activity which is optional in the life of creatures who are made in that image: it is a Trinitarian imperative. We may not choose not to create if we are to be human."

In answer to the imagined question at the start of the post, "That's my point, Jim". The Triune God of love, in whose image we are created, by whose love we are redeemed, and by whose Spirit we live and move and have our being, empowers and enables that which, in the words of a dear friend, words she uses often to end her prayers, 'Lord, bless us and make us for blessing, and wholeness and joy" Amen to that sister!

The photos on this post were taken in Amsterdam and Vienna. Van Gogh's bedroom is for me one of the most poignant and joyful portrayals of home, not only as place, but as safe space and comfortable place. The butterfly, that fragile glory of life that images transformation and resurrection, is a photo I waited a long time to take, because butterflies are not the most obliging models of God's created masterpieces. The close-up of Raphael's Madonna of the Meadows tries to capture, and all too inadequately, the most beautiful face I have seen on canvas. And the statue of Mozart in Vienna, overlooking the musical flower bed, gave me a photo that in its own quirky way celebrates a musician whose music is one of the aesthetic wonders of the world, and will be, according to one of my best friends, 'the music played in heaven.' I can go with that – Mozart's music, oh and maybe some Tallis, and Beethoven, and….well, heaven's a big place and time isn't a problem, let's just wait and see, and hear, and touch, and smell, and all to our taste.

A friend introduced me to Vermeer's art some years ago, and ever since I've shared the enthusiasm for his work, each painting a masterpiece in its own right. I've seen several of them, and Jesus in the Home of Martha and Mary (in the National Galleries of Scotland) is the only surviving work on a biblical theme.

The detail is astonishing from the thread work of the table cover, the woven basket, the folds of the drapery and the understated and uncluttered background. The biblical narrative is itself vivid, emotionally charged, relationally tense, and I personally find it's resolution not entirely satisfying. My sympathies lie firmly with Martha, and if she is guilty of flustered activism on behalf of the guest, then Mary's concentrated attention also ignores the problem of bread. Who baked that loaf? You can't eat contemplation! And I think Vermeer is well aware that the bread at the centre is freighted with ambiguity, daily bread and eucharist. Hallowed be thy name is balanced in the Lord's prayer by give us this day our daily bread, – a balanced life requires both – bread and eucharist, action and contemplation, work and rest, physical and spiritual.

Vermeer I think is aware of the tensions of unfairness, contrasting temperaments, different ways of saying welcome, and the ambiguity and diversity of devotion which swings between rapt contemplation and the sweat and flour encrusted hands of the kitchen. Amongst the interesting but unanswerable questions is why Vermeer chose this incident from the Gospel? Perhaps because he is the finest artist of domestic detail and the immense human significance of the ordinary routines of home life. The painting is a wonderful commentary on the incarnation, a depiction of the Word become flesh, and a celebration of relationships which always have to be negotiated, understood and open to the necessary caution of not jumping to conclusions about what the other person is thinking, feeling and trying so hard to achieve.

 

Last week was the anniversary of Picasso, whose work is for me glorious, mysterious, wild, disturbing, perplexing, consoling, awakening, upsetting, – these and much more. Some of Picasso's work is beyond me, which mostly says more about my incapacity and knowledge limitation than it does about works that puzzle me. I have a framed print of Picasso's Dove of Peace, which remains an eloquent comment on human capacity for peace destruction, whether in Afghanistan or Syria, Iran or North Korea.

The novel Guernica, by Dave Boling is romance and historical novel, based around the destruction of Guernica by the Luftwaffe during the Spanish Civil War. Picasso features in the novel, along with his massive raginbg response to the brutality of the attack on a civilian population. Near the end of the novel a high ranking German SS Officer who admired the painting met Picasso in the cafe and asked, "That painting. Did you do that?"

Picasso's answer was as blistering as the painting – "No. You did that."

Amongst Picasso's paintings Child Holding a Dove is one of my favourites. Is the child protecting the dove or holding it captive? Is the dove of peace safe in the hands of children? Is she holding it close, or in the act of lifting it to the freedom of flight? Is it a toy, like the ball in the foreground, or a precious creature whose gentleness is to be cherished and whose life is to be valued? All or none of these, it doesn't matter. The painting is a lovely image of much that makes human life itself the value that underlies our longings for peace, and the ambiguity and precariousness of our grasp of peace, and the risk that lies in our human choices, to posses it for ourselves, or leave it to fly freely amongst us all.

Child holding an Ipad doesn't have the same aesthetic appeal. But maybe, just maybe, children whose imaginations and awareness are expanded by the best of our technology, will grow into mature people who resist the temptations of the worst of our technology. Let the dove fly.

We have just spent a few days in Amsterdam doing some of the things I've wanted to do for years. So I spent a long time in the Van Gogh Museum, looking at some of his most famous work. It's a busy place. Even if you book online and miss the long entrance queue, there are still long queues, guided tours, people with audio guides enwrapt in the context and detail, and most folk jostling for a good view of the celebrity paintings. It would have been easy to become grumpy at the sheer struggle to look, see, gaze, admire, appreciate these masterpieces. And I often find those in front of me are bigger than I am which means a total eclipse of the painting if it's one of those really big tourists.And I haven't developed that brass knecked assertiveness that proceeds through an art gallery oblivious of courtesy, – an art gallery seems an inappropriate place to text out the survival of the fittest. 

But standing amongst such riches of aching beauty, soul piercing eagerness to articulate deepest pain and deepest joy, and the anguish of someone who was unheard, misunderstood, and at times ridiculed by those who thought his art was merely madness, the least of my concerns was the bustling art lovers. Enough to be amongst those who have found there way here, to stand in front of this man's soul shaped and passionately coloured art, and to feel the depths of my own humanity, my own needs, and yes my own anxieties and joys. Some of these paintings expose our most cherished hopes, and our most self-diminishing fears, while also drawing us to see in the angst and exuberance of the artist, the two poles of human longing.

All that said, how can you look at the painting of his bedroom and not feel a deep love for the man who saw like that, and thought to paint a place so constrained and ordinary, with such extraordinary freedom and emotional investment. The story of Van Gogh and his brother Theo is one of remarkable courage, vision, tragic struggle against illness, faithful friendship between brothers, grabbing life with both hands yet unable to hold firmly to all that is life affirming and humanly fulfilling.

Some have tried to write about the spirituality of Van Gogh, or have used his paintings as devotional sounding boards. I don't doubt there are profound symbols and hints obvious and obscure in his work that encourages spiritual reflection. Indeed several of the overtly religious paintings do their own kind of aesthetic homiletic. But sometimes the message isn't in the painting; the painting reaches beyond articulated understanding and wounds us where comprehension is unnecessary, and recognition of who we are and why we are is sensed in that place deeper than reason and more permanent than passion. 

 

 I took a photo and removed the picture frame – better than some of the prints on sale, but the power is in the original.

The Chagall window in Chichester Cathedral is on my must see list.

It's a 20th Century Jewish pictorial exegesis of Psalm 150, created to enhance Christian worship.

It's a startling and beautiful work in stained glass, one of my favourite things to look at. Baptist churches should have stained glass windows may be a minority view of one, but I struggle to see any valid objection to visual beauty as an aid to worship.

It's an interpretation of written text in image, form and colour. Along with music, such art provides an exegesis that is neither more nor less important than written commentary or spoken exposition.

It's a picture of exuberance. I don't mean it's an exuberant picture, but that it represents worship as praise, gratitude, wonder, noise, dancing, walking, climbing, arm-waving; it represents joy embodied and laughter in movement, the human spirit doing what it does best in response to the exuberance of God, the shared exuberance of Creator and creature, of imago dei answering to our Original.

It's a psalm in glass, and in colour, and looking at it is intended to create in the heart the words it depicts – exuberant praise of God.