Intercessions ~ Fifth Sunday in Lent

At the start of April,/ we pray for those who will celebrate birthdays,/ anniversaries and other days of remembrance,/ asking for them the blessings of health,/ strength,/ peace and courage./ We pray to the Lord.

Our recent forgetting of the meaning and practice of words like humanity,/ decency and  civilized/ seems to have found new depths./ May we remember,/ rediscover,/ and be forgiven./ We pray to the Lord.

Since the start of the Ukraine invasion,/ more than 7000 babies have been born to mothers who are either displaced or who have become refugees./ More than half the children of Ukraine have been displaced./ We pray for them/ and for all the families which have been torn apart by this barbarity and waste./ We pray to the Lord.

"If today you hear his voice, harden not your hearts,/ the Lord says./ We pray for those whose hearts have turned to stone,/ unyielding in the promotion of dangerous lies,/ intent on the expansion of power,/ callously indifferent to human suffering and the destruction of the planet./ And for our own conversion to the things of Christ's gospel;/ may we not be distracted./ We pray to the Lord.

Soon it will be Passover and Easter./ May we not become cynical to the idea of life triumphing over death,/ light triumphing over darkness./ We pray to the Lord. 

Pope Francis visits Malta this weekend,/ the island in the Mediterranean Sea which is  a landing point for many migrants and refugees hoping for safety./ We pray for the pope's safety;/ may we learn from his visit./ We pray to the Lord.

Rottach on Lake Tegernsee

Fritz von Uhde didn't paint many landscapes. Remember, he is thought of as a genre painter, that is an artist who depicts ordinary people in the ordinary events of their days. There are no people seen in this painting, though their presence is indicated by the church tower and some nearby houses and managed fields. This painting isn't dated. I'm wondering if it is a later painting when the artist might have been experimenting with impressionist ideas and techniques. 

I like how Fritz von Uhde has us standing just this side of a few young trees. Perhaps the lake is behind us. First he takes us across a little berm or rise, then to a tree-d edge, then to the cluster of buildings, then beyond to the fields bordered with trees, then to the mountain which is fog covered with either snow or clouds at the top. It is a wonderful painting — quiet-ing, restful and inviting. 

Here is a photograph of the Church of St. Lawrence on Lake Tegernsee today. Nothing much has changed. This church which holds about 800 people was built in 1466 and originally staffed by monks. An interesting feature of the building is that windows were placed only on the south side. During the Thirty Years War (1618-1648) the parish placed itself under the patronage of the Mother of God, asking to be spared from enemy attack and destructive weather. The church and village were indeed spared, even through both world wars. Pilgrimages of thanksgiving continue to today. 

 

Older Sister ~ 1883

We don't know who these girls are. The painting's title tells us only they are sisters. They are bundled up a bit and playing piggy back. There is the table we saw in The Picture Book and the straw chair which appears in many von Uhde paintings. The wood plank floor is without carpeting. The walls are sooty or haven't been painted in a long time. But none of this matters. For all that is lacking, they have each other. Helen Keller could not speak, see or hear. Still, she said: "So much has been given to me, I haven't time to consider what has been denied." 

I notice that whenever the artist paints even part of a window he puts a potted plant on the sill. Maybe it's a signature piece that suggests we might always look for the light. There's so much darkness in our world — look for the light. 

Years ago I stayed for two weeks in a Camaldolese Monastery at the top of Monte Corona in Perugia, Italy. Before I went into the hermitage, I asked the guest brother, "What should I leave for my stay here?" He said, "We ask for nothing." I pressed a little further, "But what do you want for my staying here?" Without pausing he said, "Only your comfort." That's the real Christian answer, "Only your comfort." 

This older sister in the painting seems to understand. There are no toys around, no table loaded with food, no other persons in sight, and she picks up her sister up for a classic childhood game. The little girl is obviously thrilled with it all.  "Only your comfort.," the monk said.

Shepherdess in the Dachau Moors ~ 1890

  

Fritz von Uhde was a devout man. We might well imagine he had the 22nd psalm in mind when he painted this picture.

1 The Lord is my shepherd;

there is nothing I shall want.

2 Fresh and green are the pastures

where he gives me repose.

Near restful waters he leads me,

3 To revive my drooping spirit.

He guides me along the right path;

he is true to his name.

4 If I should walk in the valley of darkness

no evil would I fear.

You are there with your crook and your staff;

with these you give me comfort.

5 You have prepared a banquet for me

in the sight of my foes.

My head you have anointed with oil;

my cup is over flowing.

6 Surely goodness and kindness shall follow me

all the days of my life.

In the Lord's own house shall I dwell

fore ever and ever.

And what a contrast this psalm of confidence offers us. God is not a furious ruler who strikes terror in enemies, but the gentle one who carries a shepherd's staff. Here the artist depicts the pastures of repose and the restful waters. I'd suggest the painting's depiction of a shepherdess might be more biblically accurate, as women often assumed responsibility for minding the animals. Then of course, we know the gospel account of the shepherd (Luke 15:5ff) who recklessly goes off looking for the lost or wandering one, who binds it up tenderly, carrying it home. The cup overflowing? Why not the Mass-chalice containing "the blood which will be shed for you and for all."

Fritz von Uhde could not have known, of course, that some decades later (1933-1945) the name Dachau would become synonymous with the longest running Nazi concentration camp where many thousands died: Jews, Jehovah's Witness, gypsies, homosexuals, clergy (mostly Jesuits), Russians, French, Yugoslavs, Chechs. The total number of those who died in that valley of darkness, will likely never be known.

Tobias and the Angel ~ 1902

 

The scene of Tobias walking with the Angel Raphael has been depicted countless times. Here, Fritz von Uhde has had a go at it as well. I think this is a pastel, not a painting. But this is strange as Protestant bibles (and  Fritz von Uhde was Protestant) don't include the Book of Tobit (which relates the angel story) as truly biblical. They may call it apocryphal which means bible-like — good spiritual reading, but not essential.

Here's the story line in short: Tobit has a son named Tobias. Father Tobit goes blind. He sends Tobias on a journey to retrieve money that is owed him. Tobias' mother protests as she's afraid harm will come to the boy along the way. So for protection and direction Tobias finds a companion (Raphael) who will lead him to the man who owes the money. Along the way a fish jumps out of the water and Raphael instructs the boy to to keep the fish guts which will come in handy later. When the two arrive at their destination Tobias meets Sarah who seems to have had a curse put on her — a demon has seen to it that all seven of her new husbands die on their wedding night. YIKES!  Raphael tells Tobias how to turn the fish innards into incense which frightens the demon away. Tobias and Sarah marry and Tobias survives the night. Hooray! They return with the remaining fish parts to cure Tobit's blindness. But this is perhaps the most important part—  throughout the story young Tobias is intent on thanking Raphael for his assistance. Raphael keeps bringing Tobias home the essential truth — it is not he who is to be thanked, but God. Give God the Glory. 

Here the artist depicts a moment in the journey as full of bright, exuberant life. Tobias is a little guy — aren't we all? Even autocrats and war mongers for all their gross prowess and display are little before God. Look at how eager this little Tobias is — hand-holding, energized and attentive to the angel. It's interesting that Fritz von Uhde depicts the Angel Raphael in such a conventional, white-robed, gold-touched and winged way, while he otherwise paints all of his bible figures in contemporary dress. I wonder what prevented him from being more creative. Maybe he figured he had to show Raphael in standard angel apparel so that people wouldn't think this was just two guys going for a walk. 

So what might we make of this story and the image? 

Ours is a paradise world of life and light. "More's the pity" we so degrade it. 

Give God the glory. 

Perhaps I can tell a story of being shown a right path while being led along the way. 

Give God the Glory.  

Can I identify a time when I felt as if heaven (angel like) had taken me by the hand? 

Give God the Glory.  

Can I name a time when my own inner blindness had been healed? 

Give God the Glory. 

Was there ever a time in my life when I know I may have been saved from death? 

Give God the Glory. 

Playing Boy ~ 1890

 

Here's a bit of biography that may help us to appreciate this painting. Fritz von Uhde was born in 1848. In 1866 (age 18) he was admitted to the Academy of Fine Arts in Dresden. Considering the time spent there as useless, he left for the army a year later where he became a horsemanship instructor of the guard. At age 20 he was promoted to lieutenant. While traveling in Vienna in 1876 (age 28) he met the Viennese painter Hans Makart (age 36) called Painter of the Senses and The Magician of Color.  Fritz von Uhde left the army two years later intent on becoming an artist. 

With army life long behind him in 1890 and now at age 42 he painted this picture, Playing Boy. Fritz von Uhde painted children many times, but never depicting them as romanticized, precious or doll-like. Here we see a little boy in his playroom. He is wearing a smock and sitting on the floor intent upon cutting up a magazine with a pair of scissors.  

It's a sunny morning. The sun is streaming in, creating colored patterns on the carpet and lighting up the boy's forehead and blond hair. But look, under the boy's right leg there is a piece of paper with what appears to be a watercolor painting. Off a little bit from his left foot there is a soldier's helmet, a toy horse and box that might hold metal toy soldiers. Young boys are often fed ideas about weapons and soldiering. But this boy isn't paying these things any mind. Is the artist simply acknowledging this piece of his life? Is he thinking that the boy will grow up and either be conscripted or have to decide for himself about the military? Is he thinking of himself as a boy and his own childhood in which his artistic talent was encouraged. This little boy seems to have created his own first "masterpiece."

But it was that chance meeting with the artist Hans Makart that appears to have so influenced Fritz that he left the army and went off in a new and creative direction. I might ask, are there people I've met along my own life-way who have influenced me for the better, who have helped me to find my way, informed me so that I was able to choose freely the path that I would follow?

Conversely, is there someone who led me wrongly? Someone whose influence I escaped? Even that influence can be woven into a life for the better, teaching me for example, that I am stronger, more capable, more enduring or smarter than I would have otherwise imagined. For me, in all of this I see God's hand and a window into God's purposes for me.

  

In the Home for Old Women at Zandvoort ~ 1882

  

"In The Home for Old Women." In other words, this is a retirement or nursing home. We don't know who the "old woman" is, but she has her tiny room, which doesn't have much of a view. I get the feeling she has brought the last few things of her home that will fit into her allotted space. She was never wealthy. The chairs are straw, not cushioned as they would be if she'd had a fine home. They are lined up against the wall. Maybe while she sits she remembers when the chairs were placed around a table where she served lovely meals from her dishes. We see the last of those dishes piled up, some plates, cups and saucers, a pitcher, a serving bowl. There are a couple of pictures on the wall. It's a rough room. The curtain is sagging and thread bare. There's no real closet only a space curtained off behind her. 

She's taken off her heavy wooden shoes and placed them on the small worn rug. She's doing some sewing — maybe mending her own clothes or trying to earn a little money. Is the room cold or drafty — she's got a shawl around her shoulders and neck. We might wonder if she's outlived everyone else or if her children and grandchildren have moved faraway. Does she live in a silent world of no visitors? There are countries (including our own) where loneliness is said to be epidemic. I used to offer Mass in a nursing home and every Wednesday when I arrived, I'd find the lobby filled with residents. I learned later that the folks sat there hoping the next person through the door would be someone who had come to visit them.

I was told about an Asian family whose elderly grandfather could no longer be taken care of at home and so the family placed him in a nursing home. But all the members of that family relocated so they could visit him every day and bring him the food they had prepared at home.

"Is everyone, everything gone? What then?"
 St. John of the Cross 

"What will take place on the other side when all for me will be overturned into eternity; I don't know. I believe, yes, I believe only that a great love awaits me."  

St. John of the Cross

Intercessions ~ Fourth Sunday in Lent

 

A few thoughts before we pray the intercessions. A friend gave me a black and white photograph copy of this icon years ago. I have titled her: Mother of God ~ All Perceiving because she looks and sees off into the distance. Perhaps she is looking at those mind-spaces where human beings conceive and effect awful, evil things. Her maphorian looks black, but it is probably the deepest red — the color of dried blood. She presses her cheek to the Christ's head. She knows the children are endangered. The Child's head is large. He is not a tender babe, but always the Lord. It is a divine-human mind that sees and knows all — a mind filled with the thoughts of God's peace which we reject to our shame.

Spring has begun./ It is the season which says, "See, we can change."/ May we not despair of believing this./ May we hold on to hope that the world can be a peaceful place./ May we delight in beauty and goodness wherever it remains./ We pray to the Lord.

More than ten million people have been displaced in Ukraine,/ moving to what they hope are safer places within Ukraine,/ or having left it for other countries./ We pray for them in their un-imaginable sorrow and fear./ We ask blessings for those who welcome them to safety./ We pray to the Lord.

Pope Francis has said,/ "Unfortunately, the violent aggression against Ukraine does not stop,/ a senseless massacre when every day there is a repetition of slaughter and atrocities./ There is no justification for this!/  I plead with all those involved in the international community to truly commit to ending this abhorrent war."/ May we understand./ We pray to the Lord.

As Pope Francis consecrated Ukraine and Russia to the Immaculate Heart of Mary this week,/ we remember the Gospel words of Jesus:/ Blessed are the clean of heart,/ and ask for the turning of our own hearts to the things of God's peace./ May we move beyond the tolerance of others/ to the love of others./ We pray to the Lord.

This week powerful and destructive tornadoes swept through New Orleans/ We pray for those who are now homeless,/ sad,/ fearful./ We ask blessings for first responders and helpers./ We pray to the Lord.

We entrust our families to God's care,/ as well as our neighbors,/ work colleagues and fellow parishioners./ We remember prayerfully those who are alone./ Bless visiting nurses,/ home health care workers/ and those whose parish ministry is the visiting of the sick and the homebound./ We pray to the Lord.

The Artist's Daughters on the Veranda ~1901

 

Fritz von Uhde's family wasn't rich, but they were quite comfortable. Here, it's as if we are standing in the middle of the family living room. But then we move through that space to the veranda where we see two of the artist's three daughters chatting at the open window. Finally, we look out past them and into the lush garden. The painting takes us beyond the beyond. Of course, the artist is depicting a physical place, but really this moving through three spaces, each beyond the other, is a mental or spiritual movement. Notice too that the light increases with that deepening movement.

For some people the beyond is financial security, a bigger house, a more fabulous vehicle, a better position, ever increasing notoriety or reputation. We all make choices. I am thinking of three psalms which express the "going beyond" for the Christian. Perhaps especially the Lenten-Christian. Fritz von Uhde was a spiritually motivated man — I expect he would understand.

Like the deer that yearns

for running streams,

so my soul is yearning

for you, my God.

My soul is thirsting for God,

the God of my life;

when can I enter and see

the face of God?

Psalm 41:2

O God, you are my God, for you I long;

for you my soul is thirsting.

My body pines for you

like a dry, weary land without water.

So I gaze on you in the sanctuary

to see your strength and your glory.

Psalm 62:2,3

My soul is longing and yearning,

is yearning for the courts of the Lord.

My heart and my soul ring out their joy

to God, the living God.

Psalm 83:2,3

A Children's Procession in the Rain ~ 1887

 

Fritz von Uhde was Protestant, but this Catholic May procession caught his attention. And it is May, isn't it — the trees along the boulevard are leafed out. I can't tell if it is First Communion morning or the May Crowning procession, which would have included the parish's First Communicants. If it was First Communion morning the procession would surely be more formal—hands folded, looking straight ahead, no talking.

And it's either just starting to rain or the rain is letting up.  One girl in the procession is walking under an umbrella. Are the adults in the crowd opening or closing umbrellas? Either way, the rain doesn't seem to have spoiled the day. The altar boys in red cassocks and surplices are struggling against the wind with banners on tall poles. One woman in the forefront is holding on to the brim of her straw hat. It's a happy day which seems to have brought out everyone. We see in the bottom left corner, someone has even brought the family dog along.

I'm pleased for anything that causes me to remember my own First Communion Day: the white, blue-lined chasuble the pastor wore with the embroidered picture of Mary on the back. And that there were long kneelers inside the sanctuary, beyond the rail, where we knelt to receive Communion in groups of about twelve. Boys wore wide, white bows on their left arms with a gold stamped chalice and host. 

Thinking about that white  ribbon-bow now sixty-six years later. No one explained anything about it; it seems to have been just part of the required costume. But I am thinking about it now and why it was/is meaningful — May I be all tied up in the things of Christ — bound up in the loveliness of Christ's teaching.

The Picture Book ~ 1889

 

I imagine these girls are two of the artist's daughters. They appear to be at home, wearing aprons, seated and standing at a table that doubles as a desk. There are a couple of books and some papers piled up. The standing girl is leaning on her right forearm — emotionally leaning in to what her seated sister is sharing. I like the sweet detail of  her left hand tucked into the apron tie.

Both girls are old enough to be readers, but the painting's title tell us it's a picture book they're enjoying. Do you remember your first books? They were most likely picture books with minimal text. I am thinking of the 1950's Golden Book series I grew up with: Farmyard Friends, The Wonder of Nature, A Golden Book of Prayers for Children and My Little Golden Book About God. Can you imagine that — books about God for children, for sale in a supermarket?! These books were more about the pictures than the simple text.

I don't remember the verbal instruction of the 2nd grade nun who prepared us for First Communion, but I remember well every picture she showed us — the great oil cloth images she flipped on an easel and the picture on the cover of my boyhood catechism — Jesus, seated under a wide-armed tree with children gathered around him. And the gospel scene paintings in my father's grown-up missal: The Nativity, the Baptism of Jesus, his healing the blind man,  sitting with the woman at the well, Jesus on the cross, Jesus leaving the Easter morning tomb, Jesus ascending. 

In the Incarnation, God has a human face. This means God has become picture-able. And in his teaching Jesus continually creates pictures for our imagination: a woman adding  yeast to bread-flour, a man searching for a lost sheep, a field filled with wild flowers, a father whose son leaves home, a farmer who goes out to sow seed in his field...

And Jesus teaches us (through mental pictures) that in order to have a life with God, we need to look deeply at  the faces of those around us and love them: a leprous man, a mourning mother, a blind man, a hemorrhaging woman, the little children and their mothers. a woman bent over, a crazed man who's hurting himself...

Oh, Jesus,

who teaches us to be with God

through your gospel scenes —

pictures for heart and mind,

may we learn from you.

In The Morning ~ 1889

  

"Looks like it's going to be nice day." Fritz von Uhde seems to have thought through this painting — notice how careful he is about details. The painting is filled with bright morning light. The water in the drainage ditch is reflective of the sky. There's a dirt path that has been worn down (the woman hasn't yet stepped onto it) with low-growing field flowers on either side. 

The fellow on the other side with the haying rake over his shoulder might be just another field hand, but I suspect he's the woman's husband — has he got his lunch pail in his right hand and some kind of carafe or bottle strapped to his back? He'll likely be out in the fields all day. And they're big fields aren't they; the forested horizon is way off in the distance.

This woman is ready for the day as well — her hair is pinned up, she has a spring in her step. There's a slight breeze moving her apron. We're able to see sunlight through the thin fabric. She carries two big watering cans that will be very heavy when they're filled. Is she going to lug water all day?

And you and I have begun a new day as well. Here's my morning prayer...

O God, who keeps watch through the night,

you have brought me to a new day.

Oh, that I would be at once aware of

   and grateful for its gifts —

   the water, the breath, the tea,

   the bread,

   the light,

   this moment of prayer,

   the nearby presence of dear ones,

   if even my pets.

But joy is fleeting,

   and I know myself,

   asking please to keep despair far away,

   and its siblings

   of grumbling-dissatisfaction,

   dread and anxious predicting,

   negativity and waste.

Let me see what surprise there is in today —

   something new of Christ

   to strengthen my heart,

   returning gently through the hours

   with sighs of love and thanks.

Girl With Cat ~ 1885

  

I sense this is a servant girl who is just beginning her work day. Her apron looks clean enough. The wash barrel hasn't been filled yet. Maybe it's early morning light we see through the lower-level window. The lantern on the wall isn't needed. There's a geranium on the sill. I think the artist has the plant even leaning a bit towards the window to catch the most light. That might well be a small bible or prayer book in the young lady's hands. She's not a glorious saint, but there is a very thin outline of light around her head. Maybe this is the artist's way of acknowledging the girl's closeness to God in simplicity and humility. The kitchen cat is looking on — perhaps patiently waiting for breakfast. It's a pleasant scene. I like to imagine the place is quiet — it's her space and the upstairs family hasn't roused yet. Likely with the ringing of a bell, she'll have to switch gears, putting down her devotions to take care of the demands of others. Lots of people live this way.

A side note about Julian of Norwich

Julian of Norwich (AKA Juliana) was born in 1342 in Norwich, England. She died in 1416. She wrote The Revelation of Divine Love, perhaps the most beautifully intelligent and spiritually insightful pieces of literature produced during the Middle Ages. Juliana spent the latter part of her life as  recluse in a small cell attached to St. Julian's Church. The cell contained a narrow, slit of a window looking into the church so she could see Mass and receive Communion and a larger window through which food (and waste — no bathroom) could be passed and where she might sit and talk with visitors seeking spiritual advice. Juliana wrote:

 "The greatest honor we can give God is to live gladly because of the knowledge of His love."

But she also kept a cat, which may have helped to keep down the mice population. Important, considering the plague passed through Norwich three times. But perhaps she allowed a pet simply for companionship. Here is a contemporary icon of Juliana painted by Robert Lentz. He has included her cat in the image, which I think is quite charming. I believe Mr. Lentz asks us:

"What is your relationship with the two-legged, four-legged, winged, finned, rooted and flowing creatures of the earth?"

Interior (Sisters) ~ 1896

  

Fritz von Uhde's wife died at an early age, leaving him with the care of three daughters. He loved to feature them in his paintings. I'm thinking of the parents in parts of the world where there's war or disaster, fighting so hard to stay together, to create a sense of normalcy. 

Here we see the girls in two rooms, the two younger are in an outer room, brightly lit with a big window. But it's an opaque window—the artist seems to want us to stay inside with him. These girls are at a round table which is perhaps the breakfast table doubling as a desk. Did the flowers on the table come from the family garden? Today, someone might think the girl is working on her laptop. But that's her sewing box with the top open. The youngest girl might be cutting a piece of fabric. Is that a doll's dress laid out on the table? Or is she already so skilled with a needle and thread she is sewing a simple dress for an infant? 

The oldest girl (a young lady really) is at the sideboard and looking over at the dining room table. I imagine she is thinking, "How many will there be for dinner? What dishes will we need?" The paint strokes the artist used to depict this oldest daughter seem energy-charged. We might call to mind the gospel account of Martha and Mary with their contrasting contemplative and busy energies. Luke 10:38-42. We're not one or the other, but both energies are in us, and to be called upon for God and the world, whether it is the close at hand world of our immediate relationships, or the larger world we can help to heal as we're able.

Intercessions ~ Third Sunday of Lent

Volnovakha Hospital ~ Ukraine

 

Pope Francis has called the city of Mariupol a martyred city/  and spoken of  other Ukrainian cites as having been turned into cemeteries./ We pray with him/ for this massacre to end swiftly./ We pray to the Lord.

More than three million people,/ mostly women and children/ have fled Ukraine./ We ask blessings for the many who are assisting the displaced in other European countries./ We pray for those who were vulnerable even before the invasion began:/ the disabled, the elderly, the poor, the homeless, the sick./ We pray to the Lord.

We pray for our poor planet and the ecological disaster which every war brings about./ For the healing of our abused earth./ For those who work to save the living things:/ the air,/ water,/ forests,/ fields, animals./ We pray to the Lord.

Propaganda dulls hearts and fosters division  and hatred./ We pray for those who spread lies./ We pray for those who bravely tell the truth,/ risking imprisonment./ We pray to the Lord.

We pray for ourselves and our families and parishes./ May we not become cynical complainers/ May we be patient and accepting of inconveniences./ We ask to be shown how we can help where there is suffering,/ tears and pain./ We pray to the Lord.

For the thousands who have been injured since the start of the Ukrainian invasion,/ and for those who have died./ In some cities there is no one left to bury the dead./ For the millions who are worried about the fate of loved ones./ We pray to the Lord.

Let the Little Children Come to Me ~1885

 

Then some little children were brought to him, so that he could put his hands on them and pray for them. The disciples strongly disapproved of this but Jesus said, "You must let the little children come to me, and you must never stop them. The Kingdom of Heaven belongs to little children like these!" Then he laid his hands on them and went on from there." Matthew 19: 13-15

"The disciples strongly disapproved." Disapproved of what? That Jesus eats with the wrong people. Talks to the wrong people. Stays with the wrong people. Touches the wrong people. Did you ever think of this? Some Christians over the millennia seem to have caught this, like a bad virus, from these early disapproving disciples. So much disapproving. Tysk-ing instead of rejoicing! 

And of course, this is the kind of Fritz von Uhde painting that so many disapproved of—making Jesus contemporary. How can you disapprove of this — Jesus has come to town and is seated, where, in the town meeting place, the church hall. And indeed, we see the parents brought their children to be blessed by Jesus. There is the woman by the window encouraging a shy girl. There is a dad inside the door holding his hat in his hand. There's a cluster of grown-ups, some even holding infants. But it's the little children who are standing in the light near Jesus. One is resting on his right leg. One is reaching out to take Jesus' hand. Most are shy, heads down, not sure of how to approach Jesus. They are poor children — bare footed or with worn shoes.

But the window beyond Jesus is open. Something new, fresh and of life enters with Christ. What is that for you? A fresh perspective? A new idea or way of going about things? An expansion of what it means to be pro-life or whole life? An enlightenment of what it means to be a religious-spiritual person?

And why does Jesus so often feature children? Why does he put them center stage? Why does he say God's rule belongs to them? I'd suggest it's because children are eager to learn; they are teachable. More often than not, children are curious; they want to know. Children want to grow up. Be like that, Jesus says. Don't stop growing! Jesus says. 

Lastly, when we were baptized chrism-oil was placed on our foreheads. Chrism has a remarkable scent, suggesting that as followers of Jesus we ought to be living in such a way that we leave behind us, wherever we go, the lovely fragrance of Christ. But oil is also shiny — that I would be reflective of Christ. And here on the wall of this greeting room is a small mirror. Look carefully, is that Jesus we see reflected in that mirror? Might that be true of all of us and each of us — may we mirror Christ. Our hearts, yes of course, but our minds too. 

Beggar ~ c 1906

This fellow has a unique look and expression — perhaps he really existed and posed for this painting. He's not wearing the oversized coat; it's simply thrown over his shoulders. Did it come from an old clothes bin? He's not old, but his pale face looks thin or hollowed out. I expect he hasn't had a good meal in some time. I get the feeling he's afraid, or maybe startled. Does he expect he'll be arrested or pushed aside?

Of course, he's got a story too. Who is he? Where is he from? Who are his family? How has it come to this — that's he's standing all alone and hoping for some kindness? Where does he sleep? Is he unwell? How does he get by? Why does it happen that in countries like our own, which boasts of greatness, people so easily fall into ruin?

It's said that the best kept secret of the Catholic Church is its social teaching. Social teaching is about justice. In four years of seminary, I never heard the words social teaching mentioned even once. Why should that be? I wonder if we're afraid of it? Afraid we'll have to give up something?

 "We are all beggars, each in his/her own way." 

Mark Twain

"True compassion is more than throwing a coin to a beggar. 

It demands of our humanity that if we live in a society that produces beggars

 we are morally commanded to restructure that society."

 Martin Luther King Jr.

"When I give food to the poor, people call me a saint.

When I ask why the poor have no food, they call me a communist."

Dom Helder Camara

Abandoned ~ 1891

 

The title of this picture is Abandoned — a powerful word that means deserted, left or forsaken. Poor woman. Who has broken her heart? What news has so overwhelmed her? Has she been rejected or thrown away, degraded or shamed? Has someone walked out on her? 

The artist's palette is very dark. There is a clock on the wall—she will remember the time, the exact moment when she received crushing news. There is an empty basket on the floor behind her in shadow, perhaps reflective of her own inner emptiness.

She can't lift her head yet to see that her simple table is by a window where the curtain is pulled back and some light is coming through. There is also a small plant on the sill. It looks fragile, but it is there nonetheless. 

Perhaps all is not lost and eventually she will come to trust that help will see her through. We have the expression, "Time heals all wounds." I don't think that's true. I'd say instead, God heals. Psalm 147:3 reassures us.

The Lord heals the broken-hearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit." Another translation says it this way: "He heals those that are broken in heart, and gives medicine to heal their sickness."

No one goes through life without heartache at least once or twice. We can all tell some personal story about the truth of the psalm verse. Lent is a good time to express fresh gratitude for that healing. 

I have also found that hardship builds character. If my life had been all joy and ease, I'd never know what courage is, or strength, or perseverance. I don't know how to describe the strength, courage and perseverance of the Ukrainian men, women and children. Or maybe it's too soon to talk about any of that — this terrible suffering is so profound and ongoing. We could understand despair.

The Old Seamstress ~ 1891

This elderly woman mends clothes to make ends meet. Hers are working hands. We see through her window that the snow is piled up outside. The sewing projects are piled up as well, in the basket on the floor and on the table nearby. She's sitting on the rustic straw-seated chair the artist often includes in his paintings. But this lady (who undoubtedly sits for long stretches of time) has added a thin cushion for a bit of comfort or support. There's a heavy curtain behind her which she's pulled back to maximize the light. I imagine she spends the day in silence. Does she have sufficient food? Is her room heated? 

These are the people who are left behind in Ukraine's cities these days — the elderly, the homeless, the poor, the weak, those without resources. Did you read about the children in the pediatric cancer hospital being left behind — the children having been moved to the basement for safety. There are reports of shells raining down around an orphanage and the complete destruction of a maternity hospital.

Years ago I thought I was called to be a hermit monk. While I spent two weeks alone in a hermitage in the woods to test it out a bit, I asked the religious sister who managed the property, "What does a hermit do?" She said, "He reads the New York Times in the morning and then goes to pray." While I've never met another priest who understands this, I think many of the people who tune in here will understand. I invite you to join me these early days of Lent to pray specifically for those who are left behind. 

Potato Skins ~ 1885

 

Poor bedraggled young woman. She's got a clothes line strung up in her room with some raggedy things hanging up to dry by the open window. She's peeling potatoes. Across from her are some wilted leafy vegetables on an old table and more shriveled potatoes that look like stones. 

But you know what's most telling about her? Her black dress tells us she is in mourning. We don't know who died — a parent, a sibling, a husband, a fiancé? We don't know, but she is encased in sadness. 

Of course, we've noticed there is a single black crow perched at the edge of the nearby table. The bird seems to be attentive to her. We know the artist isn't just showing off, "Oh look, I can paint a bird." This crow is there for a reason. Perhaps the bird is a kind of companion  — an injured or orphaned bird she took in and cared for and is now sticking around.  Animals do that sometimes.  

Black birds often get a bad rap — as if the crow is there simply to support the funerial tone. I'd suggest that's too simple. Animals have different meanings in different cultures. Catholic saints are sometimes  depicted with animals by their sides. In some cultures a single black crow means you may be experiencing a prophecy about the future or that a transformation or change is on the horizon. A black crow could  suggest you are getting ready for a new journey, or that you may soon experience a new freedom (spread your wings). 

Wouldn't any of these broader meanings be appropriate for this poor girl who wears black, toiling away, a lonely drudge. Perhaps the painting comes to us, a nudge, to send prayerful good wishes when we see persons who look so broken or under-it-all. I won't see them though if I'm in the habit of walking with my head down or live in a zoom world — narrowed down and laser focused on what I've got to get done as fast as possible. 

A tour of the Gospels makes clear, Jesus sees everyone; he misses nothing.

Little Heathland Princess ~ 1889

  

What a lovely title: Little Heathland Princess. Heathland is a wide-open landscape of infertile, acidy soil — a scrubland of low growing, woody vegetation, grasses and scattered trees. We're right there aren't we, in the midst of these native plants and grasses. The little girl even has a long, bent strand of yellowed grass in her mouth! 

Fritz von Uhde paints children as they really are. He never romanticizes them. This little girl is standing at the bottom of a hill or berm. The plants around her in the foreground are painted in great detail. The horizon is high up and fading off. 

She's a poor girl. Years ago she might have been called a waif — a homeless, neglected or abandoned person, someone who is helpless, who suffers hardship. Is that distant, hazy building we see through the plants where she lives? Does it perhaps suggest how distant or disconnected she is from family or relationships in general? Her large, bare feet are dirty; her hair is not brushed. Her dress is pitifully faded and clumsily patched with black thread. The original sleeves have been torn off. 

One observer said that the girl is staring out at us defiantly. I wouldn't say that. I'd say she has a lot on her mind as she looks out at us who are a little beneath her at the bottom of the rise.

Her hands are not boldly on her hips but hidden behind her back. Is she hiding something? Has someone bullied or been mean to her? We might think, "Oh, she is so carefree." I don't think so. We might imagine her inner life is as tangled as the grasses and flowers around her. Over her shoulder on the right side and coming out on an angle, is a tall, dark-leaved thistle. Thistles are symbols of suffering. 

All around the world there are suffering children. Some are near; others faraway. There are the children of divorce or where there is domestic violence or addiction. The children who find school to be a taxing struggle. Children who are friendless or kept on the margins by classmates. There are the children who suffer for the sins of war. Insane men make wars and children suffer and die. I want my heart to be sensitized to them. Is that possible — to hold them all in my heart?

Notice that the artist has called her a princess. If indeed she is a waif — someone for whom life is all loss, she is seen to be precious, at least by the artist.

Intercessions ~ Second Sunday of Lent

More than two million refugees have fled Ukraine these past two weeks./ Among them are hundreds of thousands of children./ We pray for them/ mindful that some are disabled or unaccompanied by adults and remain particularly vulnerable./ We pray to the Lord.

Bless and strengthen Pope Francis and religious leaders everywhere who are working/ if even behind the scenes,/ to restore peace in Ukraine./ Bless the families and organizations who are taking in refugees,/ even entire families./ We pray to the Lord.

We pray for our planet and for every living thing./ Sustain farmers,/ agricultural works and all who provide the world with food./ Awaken nations to the vulnerability of the earth and the need to protect it./ There will always be deniers of every kind,/ "Bless them; don't curse them," Jesus says./ We pray to the Lord.

This Lenten weekend,/ we pray for Christians around the world who come together for worship./ May the proclamation of God's word be clear./ May we not be distracted by lies./ We pray to the Lord.

For the sick,/ the wounded,/ the addicted,/ those damaged psychologically or spiritually./ We pray for those who are without shelter, food or friendship./ We pray to the Lord.

There are already signs of spring,/ the season which perhaps more than any other says, "Yes, we can change."/ We pray for ourselves during Lent,/ may we understand and allow for god to evolve and change as as God desires./ We pray to the Lord.

We pray for the dead during this time of invasion,/ for those who mourn them and struggle to bury them./ For those who now face loneliness,/ deep sadness and even poverty for the loss of a loved one./ And let us pray for soldiers caught in the awfulness of bombing and killing — many are young and feeling demoralized and conflicted./ We pray to the Lord.

The Holy Family in the Workshop ~ 1892

 

 

Remember, genre artists aren't concerned with what others consider "beautiful." We might say they tell it like it is. That's certainly the case here, isn't it? The Holy Family in the Workshop. This holy family is dressed as if living in 19th century Europe, not Palestine 2000 years ago. Mary is a lovely young mother. Perhaps as a concession to tradition, the artist has dressed her in blue. She wears a tied scarf or shawl around her neck and shoulders. We might imagine she has brought the barefoot toddler out to the shed to see Joseph. 

This is a poor family. Joseph's tools are limited and primitive. He is using an ax to plane a piece of wood. Mary's chair doesn't look very stable. There's laundry hanging on a line along the walls. Mary isn't sewing or sitting at a spinning wheel but, like mothers around the world, she is teaching and delighting in her little one who is learning to walk. But is there a sense of premonition in Mary's expression?

One fascinating detail is the tall, delicate wild flower that's grown in through the window or the space between the wall-planks on the left side of the painting. Renaissance painters routinely added white lilies to signify Mary's chastity.  Fritz von Uhde has chosen a native flower instead. Jesus will later teach us in the Sermon on the Mount, "Blessed are the clean of heart." 

Grow me up, Mary,

to be a real disciple,

a real Christ-learner.

Grow me up to be fair,

judgment free,

aware, kind and patient.

Grow me up, Mary —

plugged in to how things really are,

without falling for the deceptions,

listening to lies and the hype.

I'm God's holy child too,

your child too, Mary —

grow me up well.

Amen.

Prayer Before the Pochaev Mother of God

 

In our early Lenten reflecting upon the paintings of Fritz von Uhde, a prayer interlude...

The Pochaev (Ukrainian) Icon of the Mother of God dates back to 1340. The story relates that the Virgin Mary appeared to two monks and a young shepherd. Hint! We might think of the shepherds of Bethlehem — the first to hear of Christ's birth and the shepherd children of Fatima.  When the apparition ended a single footprint was left in the rock. Hint! We might think of the Virgin Mary Guadalupe who appeared barefoot and the Lord's mandate to service in the washing of feet. As often happens, a monastery was established at the site. Two hundred years later a visiting Greek bishop gave the original Pochaev icon to the monks as a gift. This icon is of the Tenderness style. Doesn't the world need more tenderness? The icon became known as Wonder-Working as a result of the miracles which accompanied it—most notably the healing of a woman's blindness and a captured monk's wondrous release from slavery.

Prayer for Deliverance Before the Pochaev Mother of God  Icon

O Mother of God, as Anna Hoyska was cured of her blindness, deliver the powerful from the blindness which refuses to see the God-bestowed dignity of each human person.

As the holy monk, dungeon-enslaved, was freed and restored to his Pochaev monastery, deliver persons imprisoned in war-torn cities, bombarded and enflamed. 

As you turned back the Turkish invaders intent on capturing the monastery, O Mother of Christ,  deliver the nation of your bright appearing from the assault of those who rain down flame and terror.

As the Christ in your arms leans on your shoulder, blessing our weary world with his right hand, deliver those struggling to hold on to their faith in God.

As you hold a white handkerchief in your left hand, O Lady, deliver those who know only anguish and tears — the littlest ones and their mothers exhausted with weeping.

As your icon is called the Sacred Relic Between East and West, deliver us from the dividers, the doubters, the hate-stokers, the apologists, the minimizers. Deliver us from all foolish, even stupid media-talk, which frustrates restoration and peace.

As your icon is celebrated as Wonder-Working, deliver us from the fears which weaken faith. Show yourself for the cessation of this horror, this overwhelming awfulness.

Deliver us from the shelling of schools, maternity homes, orphanages, ambulances, playgrounds, churches and hospitals. 

Deliver the women and children hiding in subways, basements, underground shelters and even church crypts. Deliver those hiding in rubble; those running for shelter.

Deliver us from the scorching of earth, the burning of trees, fields and farmland, the abandonment of animals.

Deliver us from nuclear assault, cluster bombs, thermobaric-vaporizing-vacuum bombs, which suck precious oxygen from the air to expand blasts, depriving even those sheltering underground of air.

Deliver us from Christians who glorify you, Mother of God and your Divine Child, while dropping bombs on mothers and children. Deliver us from practical atheism.

Deliver the young conscripts sent into war, who embrace false patriotism, who don't even know where they're going or what they are being sent to do.

Deliver us from men who deny water, food, electricity and medicine from civilians. Deliver the children from a life without schools, friends, family security — all deprivations which will scar them for life.

Deliver the women who are giving birth away from safe places and loved ones. Deliver the children who need hospital care.

Deliver us from war profiteers — those who make money off the death, blood-spilling wounds and the destruction of war .

Deliver us from clerics whose prayers are tepid, who preach diplomatic sermons and hierarches whose peace messages are weak — hoping to stay on the safe side of power.

Deliver us from the sacrilegious bombing of cities — sacrilegious because God's children live there.

Deliver us from the blasphemy of war — blasphemous because God's paradise-earth is sacred: the air, the water, the land, the living things.

Deliver us from a Lenten time — called the "Churches Springtime" — which in truth becomes a wasteland of inflicted suffering.

Deliver us from media outlets which hide the bloody truth, and war apologists, especially of the Christian kind, who are not outraged by war's sins and the affront to God. 

Deliver the 21st century world, once again resorting to the foolish and wasteful, outdated notion of war, destroying homes — the kitchens where family meals are prepared, living rooms where families gather, nurseries where children should sleep peacefully.

Deliver us from leaders who reveal themselves as criminals — leaders who become crazed enemies of humanity.

Deliver us from the power-greed, money-greed, land-greed of men which makes for invasions and war's despoilment; war's heartbreak.

Prayer Before the Pochaev Mother of God ~ Adapted for Today

My gracious Queen, my hope, Mother of God, shelter of orphans, and intercessor of travelers, strangers, refugees, displaced persons and pilgrims. Joy of those who sorrow, protectress of the wronged, see our distress, see our affliction. Help us, for we are helpless. Feed us, for we are needy strangers and pilgrims. You know our offenses, forgive, heal and resolve it as you will. For we know no other help but you, no other intercessor, no gracious consoler but you, O Mother of God, to guard and protect us throughout the ages. Amen

The Flight Into Egypt ~ 1895

 

The Flight into Egypt. We know the gospel story: Matthew 2:12-15.  It is also told in greater detail in the apocryphal gospels, especially those venerated by Coptic (Egyptian) Christians. And while the story is not found, only alluded to in the Quran, later Muslim writers tell of it.

Herod wants the king-baby gone and so he begins to wreck havoc. Attentive Joseph, guardian and protector, sets out for the safety of Egypt. Here Fritz von Uhde shows the three in their flight. Are they off the muddy road because it's easier to walk on the grass or to avoid leaving foot prints behind? Though we are viewing the family from a bit of a distance, we can see the terror in Mary's face, the tight-clutching of her child. We can feel her haste; just short of running.

God has come into the world of those in flight—those who have been made homeless by the arrogance, greed, paranoia, power-quest of leaders. For days now we have seen the pictures of highways packed with the cars of families fleeing western Ukraine as Russian invades. The road Joseph and Mary hurry along is muddy and rutted. Jesus was born into the world of empire—Rome occupying their homeland. This scene reminds me of a war-rutted road used to move armies of occupation. There is some melting snow, the trees are barren because spring has not yet come. They echo the trees we see, shredded by bombs.

We're taught that God doesn't change. But in the Hebrew scriptures God is a terrifying war-maker and now, in Christ, has stopped making war and come into our world in tenderness, a baby crying and soothed by a young mother. God has turned God's human face to us. God seems to have at least changed tactics. It's as if the old war-method hasn't worked—the people he called his own and for whom he provided through wars and conquests still went their own way. It seems we're incapable of learning.  Jesus said, "We played at weddings for you but you wouldn't dance, and we played at funerals and you wouldn't cry!" Matthew 11:17.

Anyway, there's mud and the look of terror in this painting. But there's also lots of spring-green grass and a dawning sky. Maybe the artist is holding out hope for us. Meanwhile, we might do what we can for the world's children—the littlest who suffer the most while the adults make a mess of things. Mary-like, we can do what we can to hold the children close—to  calm their fears; to heal their wounds.

Maybe you are familiar with this wise Jewish saying: "Whoever saves a single life is considered by scripture to have saved the whole world."

The Holy Night ~ Triptych

  

It might seem odd to begin Lent with a painting of the Christmas-Nativity. Not at all. It's an image of the Incarnation. A young Carthusian monk wrote home telling his family that in the Charterhouse (a Carthusian monastery) his favorite feast day was Christmas, even though there was no Christmas tree, no gifts, no cards, no manger scene, no carols. "The Word became flesh and dwelt among us." That's the Incarnation. When I was a boy, those words signaled hundreds of people in a packed church to genuflect in unison as we recited the Nicene Creed. The Incarnation is for everyday — it's the Christian heartbeat. When I embrace the Incarnation, nothing is again the same.

Painted between 1888-1889, this work is a triptych — a painting in three parts. It is one way of showing the different aspects of the story and bringing them into a unified whole. Of the four Gospels, Matthew and Luke tell the story of Jesus' birth. That story has fascinated artists for centuries.

It is winter. At the center and looking through the open doorway beyond, we see the trees are bare. We might imagine we can hear the wind whipping through the place—a decaying barn or shed—an abandoned place. Mary is on a mattress that's been left on the floor. Not the kind of place one would hope to deliver a baby. The young mother is poor but not depicted as from the ancient world. 

Mary is at the center. We know who she is as there is a pale aureole or body-halo around her. The Mother and Child are facing each other. Indeed, Mary's eyes are riveted on the child. Is he sleeping? Perhaps he's just been fed. Mary's hands are folded. She is the first disciple, teaching us from the start, that if we are to access the Glory, we must be people of prayer. What's the glory? That God is not fed up with us, gotten bored with us nor furiously angry with us, but has come down to be with us in our poverty and ignorance.

Notice that a great earth-colored cloak has been spread out over Mary. The Jesus-child is like a seed sprouting out of the ground of humankind. The lantern on the wall casts a glow. Jesus said, "I am the light of the world." 

In the left corner there is a pile of rags where we see Joseph seated on the bottom rung of the ladder leading to the loft. Is he shown sitting at the bottom of the ladder because he is awaiting the elevation of his thoughts to God's thoughts? But for now he is perplexed, facing outside. He is trying to make sense of all this. There is the dawn sky. Joseph will come to an understanding (a dawning) sufficient for him to undertake the role of guardian and protector to both the mother and her child. 

Remember the song of Zechariah (John the Baptist's father - Luke 1:78): "Because the heart of our God is merciful, and so the day will dawn upon us from on high, to shine on men who sit in darkness and the shadow of death, and guide our feet into the way to peace."  What's this dawning? The dawning of salvation? What's that? The start of a new kind of human person. The dawning of a new way of being with God and one another.

On the left we see a little procession of shepherds. They are an image of humankind dressed in rags— humanity, old and stooped. They carry sticks as they stumble along—again an image of humankind navigating the rough terrain of history. History is fundamentally the telling of the human story from one war to the next. Looking like a ruined landscape, there is a wall of earth and roots behind them. A lantern has been placed on the path-floor as if the travelers have just arrived at the place where they've been told they'll find the child. The lantern reminds me of the paraffin lanterns Carthusian monks carry through dark corridors on their way to chapel where they pray together from 11 PM to 2 AM. While the world sleeps the monks keep prayerful vigil.

On the right there is a whimsical scene—child-angels sit on rafters, dangling their feet, singing their Christmas night song. As if they are corporeal, they have entered through the ruined roof. The angel on the far right holds the musical score. I especially like this piece of the triptych—a reminder to have some fun, that religion can get terribly bogged down in debates, fights, divisions, disciplines, punishment and institutional problems. I often have the sense that more than a few religious people believe that their work is to exhaust themselves in the effort to get to heaven. But it's  really the other way around isn't it—the first movement (of our religion any way) is heaven's descending to be with us here below.  The priest-poet Gerard Manley Hopkins wrote that in Christ, heaven has descended to us from above and that Christ would have come to us even if there had never been any great Adam and Eve fall. That Christ would have come, simply for love of us.

This story told by Matthew and Luke, and which Fritz von Uhde has depicted, is a very great drama. It is heaven's lesson of simplicity. God's simplicity. A divine-child crying for his mother's milk. No stripes on sleeves. No designating headgear. No colored capes, buttons and sashes. No decorations, medals, insignia. No titles. No initials after a name. No certificate-diploma wall. The simplicity of God! 

O Jesus,

may we know you in simplicity,

 as light —

of a new day,

of a new way.

even as we stumble along

a wrong path, 

cold, dark and easily chosen.

May we find our way back to the light.