Archives for January 2022

Dear Friends:

In the 15th century, a young Italian priest named Leon Battista Alberti wrote several books about art; one of them was dedicated to what he called the “highest” art: painting. He argues that the painter imitates God most closely, “creating” whole worlds out of nothing, bestowing life where none had existed, etc. Yet Alberti’s greatest concern is not just the “output” of the artist, but rather what he puts into his efforts. A true artist is an instrument in the hand of God, whose natural and spiritual virtues imbue his work with genuine grace and beauty. Whatever pleasing elements make up a work of art, the artist must ensure their concinnity, or “perfect arrangement.” It isn’t enough that the work is accurately drawn; no, the viewer must come away thinking that the object is so perfect that it could not possibly have been presented any other way than as it is. This is true, even if the scene is supposed to be a “random” event!

Our artwork for this week is “The Presentation at the Temple,” painted by the German artist Stefan Lochner in 1447. It requires little explanation, for clearly the scene speaks for itself. We see that the Holy Family is impoverished, if only because Mary and Joseph offer a sacrifice of two pigeons. Likewise, the figure of Moses holding the Ten Commandments implies that the Holy Family remained subject to the Mosaic Law, even though Christ himself would bring it to its conclusion. Daniel Levine even points out the poignant symbol of the tear in Simeon’s eye. He suggests that perhaps the old man is overcome by the Holy Spirit’s revelation to him that Our Lord would later have to suffer his Passion in order to save us from our sins.

The Gospel story, like the Lochner painting, has for the reader the same kind of perfection, yet it is a harmony, not of images, but of ideas, both linguistic and numerical. Jewish couples are required to “redeem” their firstborn sons from God by making an offering, but instead of taking Jesus “back” with them from God, Joseph and Mary present him to God in the temple, that is, to his rightful home. Simeon, whose name implies that he has been “listening to” God all of his life, is not surprised at the arrival of Jesus, but expects to behold the Messiah before his death. So too does the 84-year-old prophetess Anna (7 [days of the week/ages of man] X 12 [tribes of Israel; apostles]=84). Her name means “favored,” and why not, for she is from the tribe of Asher (the “blessed”) and the daughter of Phanuel (the one who beholds the face of God [=i.e. an angel]). She immediately spots Jesus as though their appointment had been scheduled for decades. St. Bede even compares Anna to the Church, the “widow” of Christ who devotes herself to prayer and charity. And so, is this a chance meeting, or a divinely arranged event? The answer lies, not in the details of the story, but in the listener: the element of faith.

We Christians do well to consider prayerfully how faith helps us interpret the story of our lives. Are they merely the sum total of events that occur from one day to the next? Or do we appreciate the way in which almighty God places each one of our experiences—good or bad, happy or tragic—in just the right order that, reflecting on our lives, we discern his grace at every moment.

Faithfully,
Fr. Valentine

Dear Friends:

In these pages I have described many times how analogy helps Catholics understand—and express—our experience of God. In a word, we learn about the unknown (God) by means of what we do know (the world). Do we believe in a personal God? Yes we do. Do we say that he is (all) powerful? Yes again. And so, the Scriptures refer to the “face” or the “arm” of God. But does God literally have a face: eyes, nose, mouth, skin, teeth, eyebrows and lashes? Of course not. Or biceps? Don’t be ridiculous. The Bible (1) uses, in this case, human qualities to direct our attention to divine perfections, even as we know that (2) he infinitely surpasses them. If we forget (1) or (2), we run into trouble. Without the first we create a chasm between ourselves and God so large that we cannot understand anything meaningful about him. Without the second, we associate God so much to our ideas as to create him in our own image and likeness, not the other way around. A great Catholic theologian (Balthasar) points out that the Christian imagination toggles between the two extremes. Catholicism (generally speaking) finds the presence of God within the inmost self, while Protestantism (generally speaking) clearly distinguishes between the divine and the human. Normally, I find myself much more comfortable with the Catholic sensibility, but I at least have to acknowledge the need to acknowledge, and even feel, that the grace of God does not originate within me but beyond me.

Perhaps that is why the person and example of St. Paul is so important, and why he plays such a central roll in Protestant Christianity. On January 25th, the Church celebrates the Conversion of St. Paul. We all know the story of Saul, the devout follower of the Law who zealously sought to serve the Lord by persecuting the fledgling Christian community. On his way to Damascus he encounters the Risen Christ, falling to the ground (no mention of a horse!), blinded by an intense light, and hearing the voice of an obscure figure who accuses Saul of persecuting him. “Who are you, Lord?” The voice responds: “It is I, Jesus, whom you are persecuting.” The point is that Paul genuinely thought he was doing the will of God by attacking Christians. God had to “knock him off his high horse” to get his attention. God’s ways are not Paul’s ways, and he had to learn his lesson the “hard” way.

Today’s artwork is the 1601 Caravaggio painting, “The Conversion of Saint Paul.” The Italian painter created two masterpieces on this theme, the other more famous than the one on our cover this week. I love them both, but find myself particularly drawn to this one. The other painting, for all its power and beauty, is more serene and tranquil in tone. Our version, however, conveys a sense of chaos, frenzy, and confusion. I suspect that the artist intends that we behold the scene the way Paul does: blinded by divine light, and quite incapable of making out the image of Christ, who is kept deliberately obscure. Paul’s companion is also thrown into confusion, pointing his sword (without knowing it) at Jesus.

As a Catholic, I must learn that turmoil and turbulence in life do not mean that I am moving away from the Lord. On the contrary, grace can draw me closer to him, even as my inadequate notions of how God “ought” to act are turned upside down.

Faithfully,
Fr. Valentine