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”? 

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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.

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.  

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.  

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.