A perusal of Western religious art depicting the Resurrection of Jesus reveals a consistent pattern — Jesus is painted as going out and up. Some works indeed almost mirror the Ascension.
The art of the Orthodox tradition of Christian spirituality is the opposite. Within frescos and mosaics, the movement of Jesus is downward.
Within the Apostles’ Creed we pray that truth: “He suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried; he descended to hell. The third day he rose again from the dead.”
One of the most famous depictions of this “downward” movement is the Anastasis, painted in the apse of the funeral chapel of the Church of the Holy Saviour (usually known simply as Chora) in present-day Istanbul.
First built in the 4th century, the Chora Church has been transformed through history into different functions, adapting to the political climate of Istanbul.
At the centre of the fresco stands a radiant, resurrected Christ. He stands on two broken gates of hell, with keys and locks festooned about them.
Flanking Christ are two sarcophagi, from which he draws Adam and Eve. He extends his hand in grace, pulling them — and by extension all of humanity — from the tomb.
On this second Sunday of Easter, known as Divine Mercy Sunday, the fresco from the church at Chora may provide a meditation around the theme: “I will come to you in your place of need and lift you out of that place.” Does that sound like mercy at all?
Resurrection of Christ is a painting by the Italian Renaissance artist Giovanni Bellini and is held at the Gemäldegalerie, Berlin.
The Anastasis fresco is part of a number of frescos found in the Church of the Holy Saviour at Chora, Istanbul.
To know that the author JRR Tolkien was a devout Catholic changes the way we read his body of work. He himself acknowledged the influence his Catholic faith had on his writing.
In the third book of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings trilogy, there is a scene that captures something of the joy experienced by the disciples when the resurrected Jesus appeared to them.
The realm of the Dark Lord, Sauron, has been destroyed, and against all hope the world has been saved, at least for the time being. Frodo, the hobbit, and his faithful servant and friend, Samwise, have also been saved.
Sam wakes up, smells wonderful perfumes and sees Gandalf, the wizard he thought was dead. Sam gasps, “Gandalf! I thought you were dead! But then I thought I was dead myself. Is everything sad going to come untrue?”
“A great Shadow has departed,” said Gandalf, and then he laughed, and the sound was like music, or like water in a parched land; and as he listened the thought came to Sam that he had not heard laughter, the pure sound of merriment, for days upon days without count. It fell upon his ears like the echo of all the joys he had ever known.
But he himself burst into tears. Then, as sweet rain will pass down a wind of spring and the sun will shine out the clearer, his tears ceased, and his laughter welled up, and laughing he sprang from his bed.
“How do you feel?” he cried. “Well, I don’t know how to say it. I feel, I feel” – he waved his arms in the air – “I feel like the spring after winter, and the sun on the leaves; and like trumpets and harps and all the songs I have ever heard!”
Directly opposite St. Patrick’s Cathedral on Fifth Avenue in New York City there is a bronze sculpture of the mythological Greek god called Atlas. Installed in 1937, the sculpture is some 45ft tall and, like many other sculptures of Atlas he appears to have the weight of the world on his shoulders.
The oldest extant statue of Atlas is known as the Farnese Atlas dating from around the 2nd century AD. The sculpture is currently located at the National Archaeological Museum in Naples, Italy.
In the original Greek, Atlas isn’t holding up the world at all, he’s holding up the sky. There is nothing like taking a little (or somewhat heavy) license when creating a sculpture is concerned
Atlas with the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Daniel Bonnell is a noted published artist whose work is found around the world, in churches, cathedrals, and private collections.
One of his artworks it titled “The Weight of the Word”.
It might well suggest that it is no easy ride being The Word Made Flesh, and it is no easy responsibility carrying that Word.
In Orthodox Christianity there has been, since the 4th century a word used to describe Mary. The Greek word is ‘theotokos’, a word meaning “God-bearer”.
Today, in our liturgy, we have another God-bearer – the donkey which Jesus rides into the city of Jerusalem (Mtt. 21:1 – 11)
As baptised women, men and children we are called to be “theotokos” – to bear Christ into the environment I call home, to my place of work, my place of socializing and recreation. Dare to become a donkey and carry the “weight of the Word” wherever.
This Sunday’s Gospel (Jn. 11:1–45) is considerably long – it is the story of the death and raising to life of Lazarus, the brother of Martha and Mary.
Proclaiming the story offers its own challenges. Standing and listening, I would well imagine, offers considerably more!
Elements of the story that have given me cause for reflection.
Firstly, the story is recounted only in the Gospel of St John. I would have thought such an astonishing event would have been recorded everywhere.
Today, such a miracle would have been front-page news on TikTok, Instagram, Facebook, and media outlets worldwide! Why the silence on the part of Matthew, Mark, and Luke?
Secondly, while the story itself is long, we could compress it to one sentence – in fact, two words: “Jesus wept.”
While the story is indeed about Lazarus, it also affords an opportunity to reflect on the response of Jesus. “Where have you laid him?” is his enquiry, and when shown the sight, the immediate, spontaneous response of Jesus is tears.
Tears are an integral part of our being human. They come as a response to joy, happiness, delight, wonder, and awe. They come too as a response to deflation, disappointment, sadness, pain, and grief.
Tears are an important part of the human person’s communication system. When vocabulary seems at a loss to express the feeling quality associated with an occasion or a person, the language of emotion takes over.
Tears communicate all manner of feeling – as our Gospel story affirms: “So the Jews said, ‘See how he loved him!’ “
The third point for reflection is that all this happened in public. Jesus’ grief was overt, available for all to see. He was a Jewish man exhibiting his Jewishness.
As mature Pākehā we are more inclined – though not all of us – to weep in private. Consider the number of films you have watched where an adult begins to weep, grabs a tissue, and hurries from the room.
One of the after-effects of a stroke is that people often experience emotional and behavioural changes. The reason is straightforward: stroke impacts the brain, and the brain controls our behaviour and emotions.
As a consequence, a person may be sitting watching a TV programme or listening to music, and quite spontaneously tears well up and roll down their cheeks – inevitably, with others in the room.
The final point for reflection is the request of Jesus: “Unbind him, let him go free.” This request was given to those gathered at the burial site.
Hold on a moment. I don’t mind standing at the place of burial. I don’t mind shedding a private tear or two. But getting that up close and personal? “Unbind him, let him go free.” Ultimately, another person’s freedom arrives when I unbind them.
Prints from other masters inspired Van Gogh during his stay at the hospital in Saint-Rémy. He made his version of the Raising of Lazarus from an etching by Rembrandt (1642). With his ginger beard, Lazarus bears some resemblance to Van Gogh himself.
The painter may have seen a parallel between Lazarus’ return from the dead and his own struggle from mental illness towards recovery.
Art critics note that Van Gogh’s depiction left out the central figure of Christ with his arm raised, as is very evident in Rembrandt’s painting. Or did he? Notice – the sun/Son is shining.
Consider, too, the colour of each painting. Van Gogh painted with the vibrancy of light; Rembrandt is dark and sombre.
Possibly, the vibrancy of light in the Van Gogh painting represents the new life of Christ experienced by Lazarus.
