Christ is risen! Shout Hosanna! Celebrate this day of days.
Christ is risen! Hush in wonder; all creation is amazed.
In the desert all surrounding, see, a spreading tree has grown.
Healing leaves of grace abounding bring a taste of love unknown.
Christ is risen! Raise your spirits from the caverns of despair.
Walk with gladness in the morning. See what love can do and dare.
Drink the wine of resurrection, not a servant, but a friend;
Jesus is our strong companion. Joy and peace shall never end.
Christ is risen! Earth and heaven never more shall be the same.
Break the bread of new creation where the world is still in pain.
Tell its grim, demonic chorus: “Christ is risen! Get you gone!”
God the First and Last is with us. Sing Hosanna every one!
Christ is Risen
Words: Brian Wren, 1984
Music: Polish carol; arr. by Edith M.G. Reed, 1926
May the loving spirit of the risen Christ urge us toward acts of mercy, kindness and grace, give us the courage to speak truth to power, and stand against evil and injustice.
“It is finished.” With that he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.
–(John 19: 30)
Jesus’s final words on the cross were not a cry of defeat, but a declaration of victory. His earthly mission was completed. He had broken down the barrier between us and God.
With his help, our work as brothers and sisters in Christ, as God’s children, continues.
For more on Good Friday, see last year’s post here.
During his final meal with his disciples, Jesus knew his earthly life was nearing its end. He used those last hours with his followers to stress the heart of the gospel: love one another as he has loved them. As he washed their feet, he urged them toward an active, audacious mission of caring for others, just as he cares for them. Maundy Thursday marks the commemoration of this commandment, or mandate, to love one another. He knew he would soon be betrayed and executed, but he chose love.
Let’s try to do the same. Though the world may normalize violence, cruelty and retribution, let’s be radical. Let’s do the hard work of choosing love.
Last year’s post on Maundy Thursday remains as relevant as ever. See here.
The Atlanta church I grew up in celebrates one hundred years of ministry this month. Haygood Memorial United Methodist Church is located in the heart of the historic Morningside neighborhood, immediately adjacent to the elementary school. When my parents and I moved to the area in 1968, we considered it a stroke of great fortune to find a home a little more than a block away from the church and school. We began attending Haygood that summer, when I was about to start second grade. Haygood served as my home church for the next several decades; it nourished me in many ways as I grew from child to adult. When my mother relocated to Virginia in 2017, following my father’s passing the year before, we’d seen twelve pastors come and go. Our Haygood connection had held strong for forty-nine years. Because the congregation is still filled with dear friends, the link remains vital today.
The impact of Haygood in our lives has recently become especially clear to me. Looking back, I see what a blessing it has been to be part of a dynamic, caring, multi-generational congregation. As the ideal faith community should, Haygood offered us ongoing opportunities to interact regularly with a wide variety of people of all ages, from infants to the very elderly. From the babies I first encountered when I helped with the nursery on Wednesday nights, to the spunky octo- and nonagenarian widows my father, as one of several Haygood van drivers, drove to and from Sunday services. There were the older adults who taught me in Sunday School. My parents, likewise, taught elementary Sunday School classes for years. For me, the church was filled with benevolent parental figures I could trust, people who looked upon me with genuine concern. And then there were our peers—the children who came of age with me, and the young parents who became grandparents alongside my parents. Such invaluable interactions accrue, with time, in a close-knit, friendly neighborhood; over the decades, strangers become family. A compassionate, welcoming church accelerates that process. At Haygood we found the key to an instant, but well-rooted and long-lived family.
Above, my parents with their first-grade Sunday School class, on the steps of Haygood in the summer of 1969. It shows my father with his mustache, which was, thankfully, not around for long.
The church was named after Georgia-born siblings Atticus and Laura Haygood. Atticus (1839–1896) began his career as a Methodist circuit rider. He later became president of Emory University and a bishop in the Methodist Episcopal Church, South. He was a strong advocate for education and rights of the formerly enslaved. In books and sermons, he pushed for freed Blacks’ integration into society. Laura (1845-1900) was a champion of women’s education, a teacher who founded girls’ schools in Georgia and China. After her Atlanta school merged with Girls’ High (the city’s first public school for girls) in 1877, she became its principal. She was a leader in mission work at Trinity Methodist Church, where she established practical programs for aiding the poor. At her death, she was serving as a missionary in China.
I think Atticus and Laura would be pleased to see that their namesake church is one that cares for its members not as an end in itself, as a country club does, but to better equip them to serve God by serving others. They’d approve of Haygood’s emphasis on Bible study not to store up an armory of “gotcha verses” for scoring big wins in theological disputes, but to promote greater insight and to fuel compassion. They’d be gratified to see a church that tackles the practical, often messy, civic-minded work of loving our neighbors. They’d approve of a church that generally tries to leave the judgment to God in order to be His hands and feet in the wider world. This is the Haygood I remember. And it’s the Haygood that flourishes to this day, serving a vibrant intown Atlanta community.
Our family in a Haygood directory photo, 1975.
My family and I were there for Haygood’s fiftieth and seventy-sixth birthday festivities. We won’t make it in person to the centennial, but Mama and I will certainly be there in spirit. Haygood will always be our family’s beloved home church.
My father and my daughter at Haygood’s front doors, July 2008.
My mother with her good friend Beverly after Daddy’s memorial service in August 2016.
Northern Virginia escaped the brunt of the “bomb cyclone” that brought blizzard conditions and historic snow totals to New York and New England beginning on Sunday evening. But we did get more snow. And I’d only just begun to adjust to stepping out our front door onto a squelchy lawn rather than a skating rink.
Unlike the steely “snowcrete” mixture that blanketed us in late January, this was a beautiful, fluffy-looking snow. It clung poetically (although heavily and adversely in spots) to trees and foliage. It’s actually possible to walk through this snow. And, much to the delight of the neighborhood kids, it has been perfect snowman-making snow.
Best of all, because the arctic blast of single-digit temperatures has subsided, it may not endure as long as the last one.
But we may not go snow-less into March. More of the white stuff could hit us next week.
On this Ash Wednesday, I look out on a muted, gray-scale world. Some patches of dull, brownish green are emerging on Northern Virginia lawns as late January’s formidable coating of snow-ice at last begins to melt. Snow boulders still line roads and cover big expanses of parking lots. The once pristine blanket of white is mottled with dirt and debris. The mid-day sky is whiter than the snowy ground.
Oh, for warm rains to usher in the hint of spring. To thaw the last of the dirty ice, to wash our surroundings clean, to refresh hardened hearts.
Oh, for a healing power to revitalize the messy ashes of our fragile, mortal lives. To offer the promise of new life, peace, and hope.
Eleven days ago, the first of this year’s much-anticipated winter storms reached Northern Virginia. We were already in a deep freeze, with temperatures rarely rising to double digits for days in a row. Snow began falling, as expected, in the pre-dawn hours that Sunday morning. It turned to sleet around mid-day and continued until late evening. It shouldn’t have been such a big deal; we measured about six inches of accumulation. But due to the biting cold, the effects of the storm have only intensified with time.
The sensation of walking through the white stuff that first day was decidedly odd. It was a snow without unity: its discrete frozen pellets seemed to be doing their best to remain separate from one another. I was reminded of the dry and quickly shifting sands that border the dunes by the Atlantic at the Cape Cod National Seashore in Provincetown. My daughter enjoys the challenge of running that hilly path toward the ocean. I do not.
The following day, the top layer of snow had hardened into an icy crust. Walking across the yard was especially awkward. A first step might remain atop the layer, while the next would plunge suddenly into the depths.
With consistently glacial temperatures for the past week, the icy top layer has hardened and thickened. The current challenge is to remain upright while crossing the yard, especially on sloping areas. On the bright side, neighborhood kids have enjoyed sliding speedily across the frozen expanses, no sled required.
Architectural-looking snow blocks, still with us, eleven days after the snowfall.
When my husband cleared the steps that lead from our back patio to our basement door, the snow broke into boulders and sharp edged, ledge-like pieces. Similar piles of snow rocks line the sides of local roads. It’s a good time not to be a dog-walker.
Our front yard looks beautiful, especially when the hard surface gleams in the sunlight with a polished, satiny sheen. In appearance and consistency, it resembles the royal icing with which I coated the roofs of gingerbread houses I’ve made in the past.
I find a year-round source of joy in observing our local wildlife. This has been especially true during previous snowy seasons, when my feathered and furry friends look so charming against a snowy backdrop. The sight of twelve brightly colored cardinals in a snow-frosted holly tree can hardly fail to lend the day some extra cheer.
But this year’s extended period of extreme cold has brought worries about the outdoor critters. Tiny bird bodies adapt to cold weather in remarkable ways: they fluff their feathers to create greater insulation, and their wiry, gnarled feet appear delicate, but they’re largely frost-resistant. Even the smallest birds are surprisingly resilient. But they have their limits, and this arctic chill was testing them. The ice shield keeps insect-eating birds from their usual food sources. That’s why we’re seeing bluebirds at our feeders for the first time ever. I’ve tried to do what I can to help, including putting out more seed and suet, and getting a de-icer for the bird bath.
Larger animals, as well, have been impacted. We’ve spotted exceptionally few deer during this cold spell. Nor have I observed many animal footprints of any kind in the snow. No doubt the icy surfaces have proven treacherous for our four-legged neighbors. Foxes have been largely absent. My favorite regular, Freddie, whom I successfully treated for mange two years ago, has had an injured front paw. He hasn’t visited since before the snow. I expect I’ve seen his patient, wise face, sharply pointed ears, clear amber eyes, and fabulously fluffy (mange-free) tail, for the last time.
Nature’s healing refuge is particularly potent when the buzz of humanity takes on a menacing, anxiety-making tenor. When the ravenous egos of the power-driven provoke victimization of the easiest prey: the most vulnerable and those labeled as other. When truth and good will seem to be no match for the counterfeit currency of lies and dirty money.
These days, though, I see in the frozen-over natural world a reflection of the barbarism of our human-made realm. I understand that nature is not all greeting card sweetness. I see the pair of enormous red-shouldered hawks monitoring my songbird sanctuary from afar. I’ve witnessed their successful attacks. I’ve seen a young fox prancing with jubilation, a squirrel in its jaws. Predators, I know, must win some of the time. And I regularly see the painful effects of the manufactured world: deer, raccoons, squirrels, and even box turtles taken down by fast-moving vehicles. The birds that meet with window glass. All too memorably, I’ve witnessed the ferocity of a spike-topped iron fence. The animals who live among us in our cities and suburbs were here first, and they’ve adapted to the perils we’ve brought. In a sense, they signed up for these risks, and the benefits outweigh the negatives.
The animals in my neighborhood, though, didn’t sign up for weeks of intense cold and a blanket of brutal ice. They aren’t arctic natives; they’re residents of the mid-Atlantic. But now it’s as though the very atmosphere, the air they breathe, has turned vicious.
In this respect, the frozen world of nature now mirrors American society. ICE roams our city streets and intrudes with a vengeance into vehicles, homes, schools, work places and community centers. Perhaps it’s only too fitting that a steely strait-jacket of ice currently threatens local wildlife. It makes me want to hide away and try to ignore it all, both the chaotic world we humans have built, and the beautiful but sometimes cruel realm of nature.
But I can’t hide. And I urge you not to, too.
What can we do?
First, we must stay informed; arm ourself with facts, and be a witness to the truth. Second, but even more important, we mustn’t give in to the urge to isolate. Like birds that survive the coldest winter nights by huddling together, never forget the power of community. When I most want to give up on humanity, I soon discover that I’m surrounded by great numbers of brothers and sisters actively working for good. Together, we can stand for and with those most in need. We can’t do it alone. And I believe that we can only do it with God’s help. We mustn’t take the bait thrown out by those whose goal is to incite violence and civil unrest. Even when our worst impulse tells us that those with whom we disagree deserve nothing but contempt, we must try to treat them with dignity.
We’re at a pivotal point in the history of our country. The most defenseless among us are being maliciously targeted. But as we’ve seen with the killings of Renée Good and Alex Pretti, it’s dangerous for everyone out there. Time-honored marks of privilege, including pale skin, U.S. citizenship, education, a command of English and a home-grown accent no longer offer any guarantee of protection. We face an administration that decrees and demonstrates, in words and actions, that disagreement with its ideology results in a total loss of Constitutional rights. It’s a position that goes against everything America represents. We’re past the time for keeping our heads down quietly on the sidelines and hoping for the best. It’s time to engage, to show up, to make use of our unique gifts as we take up figurative arms in this just fight. It’s time to follow the example of the brave and persistent John Lewis, who still urges us to make “good trouble.”
Snow mounds in the parking lot of our local shopping plaza.
When a foreigner resides among you in your land, do not mistreat them.The foreigner residing among you must be treated as your native-born. Love them as yourself, for you were foreigners in Egypt. (Leviticus 19:33-34)
For I was a stranger, and you welcomed me. (Matthew 25: 35)
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.
During the early part of this summer, an afternoon deluge, fueled by intense heat and humidity, became a near-daily event here in Northern Virginia, as in much of the country. The cascade of events leading to the loss of our second-to-last silver maple began with one such violent thunderstorm in mid-July. An ear-splitting boom told us that lightning had struck perilously close to our house. My husband saw puffs of smoke dissipating as he stepped outside. A tall pine in my bird-feeding area bore telltale signs of the strike: pale vertical gouges where the bark had been blown away.
The storm raged on, and the power soon went out. We were expecting six guests for dinner in about an hour. Salmon was in the oven, half cooked. Earlier in the week, we’d almost canceled the get-together, when it seemed unlikely that our new HVAC system would be installed in time. We’d been largely without AC for over two weeks. But the work had been completed that very morning. The entire house had just begun to cool down when the electricity shut off. Should we forge ahead? We considered our options. This was a welcome meal for our new minister. After all the prep, I didn’t want to postpone. I could finish the cooking on my mother’s gas-powered stovetop. So we pressed on. H began a search for battery-powered candles.
In the rush to prepare for the evening, it escaped our notice for a while that an enormous, tree-sized portion of a tall white pine lay stretched across the front yard. The noise of the wind and rain had masked any sounds of its fall. The top-most part of the tree had come to rest in the crook of the divided trunk of one of the two remaining old maples.
When our friends arrived, we gathered on the screened porch for drinks (much-needed) and watched as torrential rain poured down around us. Happily, before long, the power was back on. Our new HVAC system was running again, thankfully.
The next morning we began to realize the extent of the lightning damage. Several outlets at our house and next door at my mother’s were visibly scorched, and numerous lights, interior and exterior, were no longer working. WIFI and internet were out, as was a ceiling fan that H had replaced twice before. My new computer seemed to have been affected. As we continued to discover still more ways in which the lightning strike had wreaked havoc, we decided to stop lamenting the losses, and instead to be grateful that we had escaped both fire and death.
It took a while to get the fallen pine completely cleared away. The final remaining portion resembled a long-legged creature crying out for a head. I added a plaster mask left over from a school art project, surrounded by a fall wreath.
Two weeks later, we had just begun our Cape Cod vacation. During dinner at the home of friends in Wellfleet, a neighbor called to tell us that one of our trees was down, blocking the side street. It was, of course, the maple that had been struck by the falling pine. Half of the huge tree had collapsed, crushing our mailbox as it went down. We’re very fortunate in our neighbors. Without our asking, and before we even knew what had happened, these kind and thoughtful people were out with chainsaws, working together to clear the impassable road. They sent photos to keep us informed.
Friends who assessed the condition of the remaining part of the tree were in agreement: it was dangerously unstable. An expert echoed the diagnosis, and said it would likely fall toward the house and could well hit the roof. We had little choice but to have the rest of the maple taken down as soon as possible. We hated the thought that our old tree would disappear from us while we were away. We wouldn’t get to say goodbye.
Later, as our long drive back from Massachusetts neared its end, we braced for the first glimpse of home after the removal of the tree. We still weren’t prepared, and the sight hit us like a punch. The house appeared uncomfortably exposed, like someone caught unexpectedly undressed. It looked vulnerable and a little embarrassed.
And that flat, sheared-off stump! It became the first thing I saw every morning as I looked out my bedroom window. It would soon be reduced to a pile of mulch, and will eventually be planted over with grass seed. My husband and I both mused regretfully over whether we should have left the base of the tree, as we did with the slowly decaying and battered maple nearest the road. Would that be a less painful sight? We examined the photos sent soon after half the tree had fallen. It might not have even been possible to leave a snag, a stump, because there had been a hollow space near the bottom of the maple ever since we moved in. A big, low branch must have broken off many years ago. The bark had grown back around the opening as the tree healed itself.
In this photo, the evergreen boughs from the fallen pine suggest that the maple is decorating itself for Christmas in July.
From certain viewpoints, the opening resembled a heart.
With the maple, we also lost a robust, sizable holly that grew close beside it, in the sheltering embrace of the larger tree.
I realize that in the grand scheme of things, the loss of a tree, and an old tree, at that, is no big deal. Certainly not in the face of ongoing wars in which helpless children escape battle strikes only to die of starvation. Certainly not when the killing of neighbors going peacefully about mundane activities has become a routine, even expected, everyday occurrence.
But the loss of a tree can be seen as the loss of an agent of peace. We need our silent friends in the plant realm to counter the pervasive meanness and brutality of the world we humans have managed, somehow, to build. In times of distress (and when is there not a reason for distress?) nature stands by to offer comfort and solace. In the assuring company of a familiar tree friend, we may yet experience a soul-filling escape. We may find a fleeting illusion of harmony amidst this twenty-first century disharmony.
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.
