Man of Sorrows

Aaron Dupuis
Fra Angelico, Man of Sorrows, 1443
Now, I'm no expert on Jesus paintings, but Man of Sorrows by Fra Angelico has got to be one of the cooler ones out there. For once it wasn't the content or message of the work that drew my attention, but rather the boldfaced weirdness of it all. The use of black in the background is startling, especially given the ambiguity that surrounds its context. Is that the night sky, or a metaphorical space in which the scenes of the Passion of Christ may be displayed?

The scenes themselves borrow elements from Fra Angelico's other works that line the walls of the San Marco. Incredibly detailed and surreally arranged in the negative space, the scenes do not seem to adhere to any particular pattern or linear story. Rather they seek to evoke an emotion. They tell the story of Christ's betrayal and crucifixion in fragments: The Judas kiss, the nails used to crucify Jesus, the payment of 30 silver pieces to Judas Iscariot, the taunting of Christ. It is also notable that the work depicts an empty cross, with two streaks of blood running from the nails, still stuck fast into the wood.

In portraying the resurrection of Christ in this way, Fra Angelico seeks to portray a triumphant portrait, praising the Man of Sorrow for the trials he faced. As modern viewers, whether we buy the biblical story or not, at the very least we should find a sense of victory in the piece: an ultimate sacrifice for a cause outside of the self.

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The Baptism of Christ

1305
Giotto, The Baptism of Christ, circa 1305
"Yah, I wanna get washed up!" -Jesus, Godspell

I cannot pretend that The Baptism of Christ captivated me with its composition. That's not to say that I don't appreciate the theatrical staging of the piece, the driving focus on Jesus created by the rift in the rocks and the forceful downward thrust of God's arm, nor that I don't understand the rich blues, blacks, and reds that have endured seven-hundred years after they were first put to plaster. One could even persuade me, with little coaxing, to admit that the interplay of color in the heavens makes the piece's sky my favorite of all those in Giotto's work. Seriously, I'd like to have that painted on my ceiling. But these elements are not what made me choose to cover this work.

So what compelled me to choose the work for this weeks post? I just like the story behind the painting. The Baptism of Christ by John the Baptist marks one of the most important points in the life of Jesus of Nazareth. In this moment, the Son of God puts himself on the same level as the people he had come to save. He humbles himself to John and accepts the baptism by water so that he may go on and baptize others.

That's why it strikes me as so odd that we insist on being prideful. Sure, a high score on the ACT or the highest essay grade in the class is great, but Jesus is supposed to be God's son. That's a pretty big deal. The man who the very heavens are said to have opened up for insisted that he be baptized by a poor man from the woods. He also dined with prostitutes and liars and thieves, and washed the feet of his disciples. The story compels me because it conflicts with so many parts of day to day life. It begs us to better ourselves. To take ourselves less seriously. The Messiah did it, now why can't we?

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Lamentation over the Dead Christ

Giotto

Giotto, Lamentation over the Dead Christ, 1305
When all the people who had gathered to witness this sight saw what took place, they beat their breasts and went away. Luke 23:48

Much has already been said about Giotto's Lamentation. The emotion coursing through the painting is overwhelming. The angels are spectacular. The tree on the top of the rocky cleft is barren, but promises new leaves come springtime, foreshadowing Christ's resurrection.  There is not just one woman named Mary present, but three. John and Joseph of Arimathea look on. The two huddled figures create depth. But textually, Giotto didn't have much to draw from. Surprisingly, neither Matthew, Mark, John, nor Luke go into much detail about the immediate aftermath of the crucifixion.

Besides a Jewish temple being ripped in two and an earthquake heralding a zombie apocalypse where the dead rose from their graves and "went into the holy city and appeared to many people" (Matthew 27:53), no one gives a detailed account of the mourning over Christ. In fact, according to John, Mary wasn't even there. Just after the soldiers crucified Jesus and shared his clothing among themselves, Jesus asked John to take Mary away and "from that time on, this disciple took her into his home" (John 19:27). Add that to Luke's terse description above, and Giotto's scene seems less and less probable.

I was looking forward to experiencing the emotion of Lamentation in the Bible as well as in Giotto's fantastic fresco, but after reading through four different accounts of the crucifixion, I was a little let down. However, in a last ditch effort to understand Giotto's fresco through verse, I stumbled upon a homily given by the late Pope John Paul II at the Colosseum of Rome on Good Friday in 2003. 

It, frankly, blew my mind. Pope John Paul II not only captured Mary's anguish over her dead son, he did so by tying six different chapters and verses together into one coherent argument. He meditated, "In the mystery of the Redemption, grace - the gift of God himself - is interwoven with a 'price' paid by the human heart. In this mystery we are enriched by a gift from on high (Jas 1:17), and at the same time 'bought' by the ransom paid by the Son of God (cf. 1 Cor 6:20; 7:23; Acts 20:28). And Mary, who more than anyone was enriched by gifts, pays all the more. With her heart. Inseparable from this mystery is the extraordinary promise spoken of by Simeon during the Presentation of Jesus in the Temple: 'And a sword will pierce through your heart, so that the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed' (Luke 2:35). This promise has also been fulfilled. How many human hearts bleed for the heart of this Mother who has paid so dearly!...Pietà." 

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