It was my privilege and pleasure last week to lead Chapel Time for our church’s preschoolers. Our daughter is a graduate of the preschool, and the program is near and dear to my heart. I can’t forget the date of her first day: September 10, 2001. Three years later, she was among the seven children who comprised the first Pre-K class. It was the preschool, in fact, that led us to our church.
During Chapel Time, teachers bring the children into the sanctuary to hear a Bible story, followed by a brief discussion. The text for the day was from Genesis 18, which recounts a visit by three strangers to Abraham and his wife Sarah. They bring the message that God will keep the promise he made to them years earlier: the couple will have a child, despite their advanced age, and one day, their descendants will be more numerous than the stars in the sky.
I doubted that the kids would find the story of much interest. How could they relate to an elderly couple longing for a baby?
Our daughter and some of her preschool buddies, March 19, 2003.
But the Spark Story Bible that we use begins by noting that Abraham was ninety-nine when the three visitors arrived. This got the children’s attention. Before I began reading, to assess my audience, I had asked the kids how old they were. They were eager to respond.
“I’m four!”
“I’m five!” “
I’m about to turn five.”
“I’ll be four tomorrow.”
“I’m three and three quarters!”
A few quiet ones held up the appropriate number of fingers. I also learned random bits of information: “When we move to our new house, we’re getting a trampoline!” “I have a loose tooth!”
A hot day on the preschool playground, June 5, 2002.
The children were amazed at someone being as old as ninety-nine. They remained attentive as I continued with the narrative.
I read that Abraham greets the three men and invites them to stay for a meal. While they eat, they tell him that Sarah will give birth within a year. The strangers are clearly intended to be messengers from God, or God himself. Various Biblical versions state that “The Lord” or “God” appeared to Abraham, before referring to three unknown men. The children’s Bible refers to God’s promise, but doesn’t identify the three strangers. The title of the story, though, was “Abraham and Sarah’s Visitors.”
When I looked for images of this subject, I found the famous early fifteenth century icon by the Russian artist Andrei Rublev. I like to show the kids a picture relating to the story, so I printed out a copy.
Icon of the Trinity, Andrei Rublev, c. 1410.
The painting shows three figures, winged and haloed, seated at a table, in the center of which is a gold cup. Neither Abraham nor Sarah are depicted, but a small structure at the top left represents their home, and a stylized tree toward the center indicates the oak grove in the shade of which Abraham was sitting when he first spotted the three unknown men approaching. The angels’ identical, mournful faces incline toward one another. Together, the outline of their bodies forms a circle. The two figures at left and right enclose a central space in the shape of a chalice, which echoes that of the gilded cup.
The icon is most often interpreted as the three persons of the Trinity: Father, Son and Holy Spirit. The placement of the figures around the table calls to mind Christ’s Last Supper. The graceful interaction among the three suggests spiritual communion.
October 30, 2002 at the preschool.
I didn’t discuss these fine points with the children. The essential lesson, appropriate for all ages, and always timely, is twofold. First, God calls us to welcome the stranger. Abraham met the three unknown men with hospitality. And in so doing, he unknowingly met God Himself with honor and grace. As God’s children, we’re expected to treat our brothers and sisters as we ourselves would like to be treated. When we mistreat others, we mistreat God Himself. And second, God invites each and every one of us to His table. There a space for the viewer to join in the holy communion that is generated whenever and wherever we gather in loving kindness with our neighbors near and far. It materializes, and transforms, when we reach out with thoughtful consideration, even to those with whom we disagree, rather than push away with bitterness, disdain and violence.
I know there are those who are coming to believe, with much regret, that teaching compassion and humility has become a lost cause, a quaint relic of a naive and distant era. If we want our children to be successful in this cruel world, why bother encouraging them to act with goodness? Why not teach instead the tools of the bully: arrogance, intimidation, brutality, callousness, and the reverence for self alone?
Why not?
My own answer is simple: it goes against everything I learned as a child at home and at church. It goes against everything I’ve been taught from those who love me.
As I sat in the midst of those smiling, happy preschoolers, a diverse group, representative of our community’s many ethnicities, I couldn’t imagine trying to foster meanness in them. They were curious, eager to learn, and open-hearted. They showed a genuine interest in me. They were clearly inclined toward goodness.
It gives me hope and buoys my faith to know that our preschool is only one among many in houses of worship all across our country that continue to do as they’ve always done: emphasize the blessings that come when we walk the path of mercy and kindness. They assure our little ones that God accompanies them, even when the way is uphill, rocky, and perilous. Schools that affirm the importance of good citizenship are doing their part, as well.
As the day on which we honor the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. rolls around again, I pray that we don’t give up on teaching our children that through their good works and acts of kindness, however small, they help bend the arc of the moral universe towards justice.
Our daughter on September 10, 2001, her first day of preschool.
Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for some who have done this have entertained angels without realizing it! (Hebrews 13: 2)
I tell you the truth, when you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were doing it to me! (Matthew 25: 40)
The post that follows is based on an art talk I gave in our church in December. My theme was Advent-inspired: welcoming the light of Christ into the world, and into our hearts. I chose to focus on three paintings from the Italian Renaissance. While the subjects depicted were particularly appropriate for the Christmas season, the message they convey is relevant all year long. The loving God they evoke is drawn directly from the first four books of the Christian New Testament. As I wrote about these paintings, I found them speaking to me in a way I hadn’t expected. I saw in them a timely challenge to Christians today, a warning that when we allow ourselves to become the voice of empire rather than defenders of the marginalized, we stray from our course. History has shown the very real dangers of this all too clearly. If we pause to shut out the world’s loud cacophany and listen for God’s guidance, much as we turn to a GPS device when lost on an unfamiliar road, might we not hear a quiet urging to “recalculate”?
When Pastor Chan asked me to speak about images of Advent and Christmas, he provided a great starting point. On the first Sunday of Advent, he spoke about the meaning of that word. He noted that it’s derived from the Latin word adventus, which means an arrival or a coming. Before the Christian era, the word applied specifically to the Roman emperor. An adventus was the formal ceremony to glorify the emperor, often after a military victory. Preceding him was a massive entourage that included mounted soldiers, chariots, and the Praetorian guard. The ruler’s approach was heralded with great fanfare.
The emperor was considered an iron-willed god who inspired awe and fear. Great triumphal arches to commemorate such rulers are still found throughout the former Roman empire.
The God whom we Christians worship, though, chose to come to earth not as a fierce conquering hero, but as a vulnerable infant. As a child born not to royalty, but to a humble young woman living in a backwater village.
Thus, the images that pertain to the advent of Christ couldn’t be more different from those showing the adventus of the Emperor. There are no war horses. No chariots and soldiers. No earthly ruler boasting of his power.
Fra Angelico, Annunciation, Convent of San Marco, Florence, 1440-45
We’ll start with an annunciation by the painter known as Fra Angelico, which means “Angelic Friar. ” Born Guido di Pietro, he was known for his kindness and humility. We see the angel Gabriel bringing to the Virgin Mary the news that she will bear a child conceived by the Holy Spirit.
This is a large fresco, over ten feet wide, in a series of frescoes the artist painted around 1440 for his own friary, San Marco, which had been newly built in the city of Florence.
It’s set atop a flight of stairs to the corridor that leads to the monks’ cells. Each small cell has its own fresco, as well. The artist created a more or less believable sense of space. The perspective is slightly off when we look at the painting straight on. But for monks walking up the stairs, the effect is striking: it gives the illusion that they’re moving into the space of Mary and the angel.
Fra Angelico made no attempt to mimic the early first-century home of Mary. Instead, the architecture in the painting, classical and austere, is a continuation of that of the actual monastery, where we see the same round arches, columns with Corinthian capitals, and even the iron tie rods.
The bareness of the open loggia is notable. It’s spartan and basic, just like the cells for the individual monks. The scene is remarkable in its stillness, its sense of silent reverence.
The angel, adorned with glowing, multi-colored wings that sparkle in the light (through the incorporation of a mica-like substance into the paint), bows before the young Mary, acknowledging her role as the Holy Mother of God. Mary sits on a plain wooden bench. Her simple robe is nearly the same shade as the plastered walls around her. She’s not adorned with rich fabrics or jewels. Her response is muted, her expression serious, suggesting quiet awe. She understands the gravity of her situation. Gabriel, as well, seems to realize that the news he brings is hard to receive.
On the left side of the painting is an enclosed garden and lush trees behind, reminding us not only of Mary’s virginity, but also of the Garden of Eden. Christ comes as the new Adam to bring us salvation.
There’s a notable absence of extraneous objects. No prayer book for Mary, no lily, which has become her symbol. Perhaps the artist didn’t include these, because the monks knew the story so well.
And, perhaps, Fra Angelico wanted to pare the scene down to its essentials. All that is needed is that still, charged, sacred interchange between Gabriel and Mary, the ordinary young woman chosen by God to bear his son, our savior.
Absent here, also, are any overt rays of golden light, as we see in some annunciations. Fra Angelico knew that wasn’t necessary. God’s light, rendered naturally, is alive in this space. His light, and his presence suffuse the bareness of this colonnaded terrace, just as God was present in every monk’s cell. Just as he is present today in our surrounding spaces, if we declutter our lives enough to let him in.
Domenico Ghirlandaio, Adoration of the Shepherds, 1485, Uffizi Gallery, Florence
Now we turn to a painting of the Adoration of the Shepherds, by Domenico Ghirlandaio, the most popular painter in Florence at the time. It dates from 1485 and was commissioned by a wealthy Florentine banker, Francesco Sassetti, for a chapel in the Church of Santa Trinita.
The holy family, an ox, donkey, and three shepherds are in the foreground. The heart of the composition is a pyramid of the kneeling Mary, Joseph, and infant Jesus. The young Mary looks down tenderly on her new baby. Joseph turns back to look up in sky to see an angel proclaiming the news to the shepherds on a darkened hillside, on which the first rays of dawn, and of Christ’s new light, are breaking.
In the left background, we also see a large procession of grandly dressed people passing through a triumphal arch. These are the approaching Magi and their retinue, who must wait their turn behind the lowly shepherds.
The adventus of the Roman emperor is here turned on its head. Those arriving are not fearsome conquerors. They include the rich and powerful, but they’re here to bow down before a new-born baby. This is wealth, not for its own sake, but in service to the true King of Kings.
The three shepherds are individualized, not idealized. The nearest shepherd is a portrait of the artist, and the other two may be local townspeople. They gaze down on the baby with reverence. The one on the right has removed his sheepskin hat, and he holds his hands in prayer. They’ve brought their humble gifts: a basket of bread and a lamb.
The shelter for the holy family has been built on the ruins of a Roman temple: Christ ushers in a new era as the old pagan times come to a close.
Jesus is a roly-poly baby, unclothed and vulnerable, his thumb by his lips. He rests on the hem of Mary’s robe, with a sheaf of wheat as a pillow. It’s significant that a Roman sarcophagus appears as a trough for the animals. The trough serves double duty as Christ’s crib. It’s another indication of the end of the pagan era, but more importantly, it tells us that Christ will conquer death to bring everlasting life. He comes to nourish us with the Bread of Life.
A bright light shines on Mary’s face and on the body of Christ. The wheat beneath him glows like divine, golden rays. And at the top of the painting, behind the shadowed thatched roof of the shelter, a brilliant burst of light shines out of a dramatically dark cloud. The distant, sun-lit landscape is ordered and serene. God’s light is here among us now.
Who first receives the angels’ glorious news? Not royalty and world leaders. No. Shepherds who were out in the fields with their flocks. Shepherds, who, according to Jewish purity laws, would have been considered unclean during their working lives. We might remember that Jesus’s ancestor David was a young shepherd boy when he killed the giant Goliath. Jesus is here to shake up the old order of rich and poor, strong and weak, and also, to be our Good Shepherd. And we, as his disciples, are to remember his call to shepherd and care for one another, especially those whom polite society prefers to ignore.
Gentile da Fabriano, Adoration of the Magi, 1423, Uffizi Gallery, Florence
For our last painting, we turn to a work by another Florentine artist, Gentile da Fabriano. This, the Adoration of the Magi, is the earliest of the paintings we’re seeing today. Dating from 1423, it’s on the cusp between Gothic and Renaissance. It was commissioned by the wealthiest man in Florence at the time, Palla Strozzi, another banker, for his family chapel, also in the Church of Santa Trinita.
With its elaborate triple arched gilded frame, the painting is a study in opulence. It’s a show of great wealth, but it’s wealth (and power) that yields to the infant Christ. The three Magi remove their crowns and lay them before the feet of Jesus to show that he is King of Kings.
Mary, in her robe of midnight blue, holds her baby gently, and Joseph looks on lovingly. The ox behind him pays careful attention. The first of the Magi kneels low on the ground, about to kiss the feet of the baby Jesus, a robust little guy, who reaches out playfully to pat the elderly man’s bald head. The Magi are dressed in fabulous, ornately gilded, bejeweled and brocaded attire. The costumes are meant to give a sense of the exotic: they come from far, far away, in the East. They travel with an extensive group of attendants, as well as unexpected animals: monkeys and leopards, several falcons. The horses’ bridles are gilded and highly ornamental. Even the big white hunting dog in the foreground has a gold buckle on his collar.
Within this elaborate frame, a comprehensive narrative unfolds: the story of these rich wise men who made a long journey to seek out a child born to parents living in a small shelter adjoining a cave for animals.
Within the frame itself at the top, in the central roundel, we see Christ, making a blessing gesture, flanked by two prophets. In the left and right roundels, we see an annunciation. The angel appears in the left circle, and Mary in the right.
Directly under the three arches of the central panel, we see the Magi’s back story. At the left, the three men, all in gold, stand atop a rocky hill looking for the star. Under the central arch, they and their retinue approach Jerusalem. On the right, they enter Bethlehem, where the scene in the foreground takes place.
The Magi’s appearance before the infant Christ reminds us that Jesus brings salvation not only to the Jews, but to all the nations of the world, to every single person who believes.
Scenes from the early life of Christ appear in the predella panels below: a nativity, the flight into Egypt, and the presentation of Jesus in the temple.
I’ll end with the rare night nativity in the lower left panel. It contains none of the opulence of the main panel. A blue sky is dotted with stars, but the hilly, barren landscape is mostly in darkness. Divine light though, is dramatically present. At the top right, an angel in a glowing cloud announces the news to two shepherds.
In the central foreground, the infant Christ lies on the bare ground, and rays of light emanate from his little body. The light from the baby illuminates the face of Mary, the donkey and ox, the entrance to the cave, the façade of the shelter, and the exhausted and sleeping Joseph, who rests his head against a little tree.
The message is clear: the light of Christ breaks decisively into the darkness of our world. His transforming light institutes a new covenant that emphasizes grace over judgment. We’re freed from the exacting letter of Mosaic law, but called toward a greater goal; to love our neighbors, even our enemies.
Our duty as disciples, during every season of the year, is to let that light work in our hearts, so we may carry it out into the world, offering mercy, kindness and grace to all our brothers and sisters. Jesus, through his actions and words, urges us toward humility, patience and generosity, rather than the self-serving grandeur of a Roman emperor. Christ conquers through love, not force. He calls us to share God’s light so His Kingdom will come, on earth, as it is in heaven. We’re human, and easily led astray. The right path forward requires near-constant recalculating.
We can find assurance and comfort in this: the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not, and will not, overcome it.
With Christmas ending tomorrow, there’s still time for me to post a few more photos from the season, including our church’s live nativity on the afternoon of December 24. It’s a blessing and a pleasure to reconnect annually with this sweet group of friendly beasts. The burrow and small black ox were laser-focused this year on eating as much hay has possible.
Moses the camel, though, was as outgoing, patient and good-tempered as ever. He nuzzled in for selfies and welcomed the hugs and caresses of curious children of all ages. If you’ve heard that camels are known to spit, that’s correct. But they spit when annoyed or threatened, and Moses is apparently always in a good mood, at least at our event.
Another two friendly, very quiet beasts : papier-mâché reindeer keep watch out a front window at my mother’s house.
Also at my mother’s, miniature decorations for one of my miniature houses.
Again at my mother’s house, caroler candles surround a loving polar bear family and a Santa on skis. The candles more faded in color date from around 1940. They were a Christmas gift from a beloved family friend to Mama as a child.
She remembers excitedly opening the small red box, which she still has. The candles were a product of the Socony-Vacuum Oil Company, which through various mergers, currently exists as Exxon-Mobil. The label reads “4 Small Choirboys,” but Mama’s set seems to contain three boys and a girl. My mother insisted on lighting the girl candle, which quickly melted and shrunk, much to her childhood regret.
I inherited the task of making gingerbread cookies for a dear friend of my mother’s. He ships his highly anticipated peanut brittle up from Atlanta in exchange.
A well-bundled and bushy-bearded Father Christmas, a years-ago gift from a friend, stands sentry on the walnut dresser in our front hall.
Also at our house, the holy family camps out for the season atop a bookcase in the family room.
The Magi with their richly adorned camel approach from atop the armoire on a neighboring wall. Their arrival to worship the baby Jesus is commemorated in the Christian calendar as Epiphany, on January 6, the final day of Christmas.
As is our custom, tomorrow will be the last night of our exterior holiday illumination. The little lights throughout the house, though, remain until I remove them. Every year, I seem to need the comfort of their warm glow a bit longer.
For now, though, and through tomorrow, it’s still Christmas.
May the light and love of Christmas continue to touch our hearts and move us to kindness and mercy, long after the festive bulbs shut off.
A blog about motherhood, marriage and life: the joys and frustrations, beauty and absurdity, blessings and pain. It's about looking back, looking ahead, and walking the dog.
