A few weeks ago, Murray and I went to
an exhibit at UW-Madison’s art
museum. It was an exhibit of the
beautifully illuminated St. John’s
Bible. This Bible is impeccably
handprinted in calligraphy on vellum, with artwork interspersed throughout the
manuscript. Thousands of hours have gone
into its making. It is gorgeous. And moving.
And inspiring. And it has the
ability to be one of those “thin places”
where humanity and divinity meet.
In the museum, the selections of this
Bible are set up much like other art exhibits---along the walls are cases with
pages underneath glass. The middle of
the rooms are empty, except for some benches upon which one may sit, and all
the art is along the edges of the space.
This provides for a few different ways to “see”
the exhibit.
As a viewer who isn’t
really that invested, one could stand in the center of the room, or sit on one
of the benches, leaving space between you and the art, and simply view from
afar. It would be a quick way to view
the entirety of the exhibit, but one wouldn’t
be able to see much detail---just an overview.
Probably enough to be able to recognize the piece if you happened to see
it again, but far less chance of actually being inspired or moved by the work. Quick, painless, and basically non-affective.
Or, as I saw one or two people doing,
you could enter the exhibit and get closer to the cases, but move along at a
fairly rapid pace. Glimpsing into each
case, perhaps picking up a detail or two, catching a spark of the inspiration
that created these masterpieces, but also getting done swiftly. “Walk-by”
viewing, if you will.
Both of these strategies for viewing
the exhibit would enable one to claim that he or she had “seen”
the exhibit, but neither of these strategies allows for engaging with the
artwork or for the images to transform understanding or inspire the viewer.
There is another strategy: one could
do what we did and invest in the undertaking.
We went there to see this exhibit---to see it. We stopped and spent time at each case---trying
to grasp what was there---really see it and question and wonder why the colors
were chosen or the images. We read the
blurbs on the side explaining each page.
I soaked up the Hebrew that was within the text, drinking in the beauty
and love spilled upon each page. Great
art is an icon---letting us see through the image into the truth or the reality
behind the image. One must give icons
time to open as we gaze upon them.
Patience is required. Time is
required. Effort is required. One must be willing to allow for some
vulnerability—openness—to
let the art “speak.”
The Greeks in today’s
Gospel walk up to Phillip and say: “We
want to see Jesus.”
We want to see Jesus. I wonder if they know what they are
asking. To see Jesus is to see God
revealed. Maybe they simply mean that
they want to stand at a distance, like the art viewers in the middle of the
room, and watch Jesus from afar. Not
getting too close. After all, when we
get close to God, the reality is not only will we see God’s
revelation, but we will be revealed before God.
Danger, Will Robinson, danger. Do
we really want to reveal ourselves to the Creator, Redeemer, and Sanctifier? After all, is it going to be safe to show our
true selves to the Almighty---to expose our tender hearts and flesh to God’s
creative fire?
Maybe these Greeks are thinking---“We’ll
stand here and you bring Jesus over there and we’ll
take a looksee---a safe inspection from a distance---dabble, if you will, at
this invitation to come and follow, come and see. This way, the effects of standing in the
presence of such love and light will be limited…..and
controlled by me.”
Or, maybe they were a bit more
adventurous. Maybe they were like those
who quickly walk past the exhibit; they intend to get up close, but not for
long. Still just testing the
waters. “Show
me this Jesus,” perhaps they are thinking, “and
I’ll
give him a brief jot of my time. I’ll
let him come near---but, just for a bit.
A moment. Don’t
want to take too many risks here. After
all, this is my life we are considering letting this Savior, this Messiah,
influence. Gotta keep some control on
this.”
Or, perhaps, these are bold and
courageous Greeks. Maybe they are
willing to make themselves vulnerable to this Christ. Willing to bring the entirety of their lives
before this Jesus and stand within inches of God’s
consuming love and let it soften their hearts, change their perspectives,
enlargen their vistas, and break open their worlds, their lives, their being.
God doesn’t
invite us to be acquaintances. God
deeply desires to be an intimate lover.
A lover of the entirety of who we are---right now---with all our warts
and wounds and messy bits. God yearns
for us to be fully invested in this relationship with the divine. To draw close and see, taste, and touch the
details of the revelation of God in Jesus.
Jesus--who is revealed in our
gathering together---we living members of the Body of Christ. As we come together and look into each other’s
eyes, the imago dei—the image
of God—looks back at us through our
neighbor’s eyes. We gather in the Lord’s
Name because it is that Name which is the foundation of our truest identity—marked
as Christ’s own forever.
And marked as Christ’s
own, Jesus is further known to us when we take our part in his ongoing ministry
to the world: when we serve, when we give, when we welcome in the stranger, the
outcast, and the marginalized. By doing
the work of Christ, serving our brothers and sisters, we come to a richer and
deeper relationship with Christ---seeing more clearly this Savior and Lord of
ours by being his hands, his feet.
As we break open Scripture and hear,
read, mark and inwardly digest the living Word, Jesus is revealed—a
long drink of water to quench our thirst of longing, and we draw closer. It’s
not so much that we analyze the text, but that we make ourselves available so
that the text can analyze us.
And we partake in the
sacraments---these conduits of the Holy Spirit---as St. Ambrose said, the
sacraments are where we meet Christ face to face. As we come to the table, as we participate in
Baptism, as we receive oil for anointing, the distance between us and God, that
is created by our everyday living, is decreased.
If we take notice, we can feel the breath of
God on our faces---blowing in new life.
We can taste the lifeblood of Jesus on our lips, hear the lovewords of
God in the whispers of prayer and Scripture.
We can feel the pulse of Jesus’
heartbeat as we share the Peace and stand near our neighbor.
This is no casual observance. This is no walk-by viewing. This is intimate connection with God who
desires us with an all-encompassing, life-changing, mind-blowing love. A God who has shown us that pain and
suffering need not defeat us nor end us.
New life is possible. Do not miss out on what it is we are really doing
and experiencing here. What we
participate in each week---this love feast that is the Eucharist.
The mystic and theologian Hildegard
of Bingen wrote: "With my mouth," God says, "I kiss my own
chosen creation. I uniquely, lovingly, embrace every image I have made out of
the earth’s clay. With a fiery spirit I
transform it into a body to serve all the world."
We want to see Jesus. Do we understand this request? What it means? What it requires of us? Episcopal priest
Robert Hendrickson writes, "A life of rigor in prayer, service, and
community is not about acts of willpower or the strength to assert the firmness
of our will, but of the willingness and the faith to surrender to the Holy
Spirit."
Friends, we are not called to bring
Jesus into our lives. We are called to
bring our life into Jesus' life.
May we be bold enough to draw
near. Courageous enough to see and be
seen. Let us surrender and be changed,
transformed, shaped into our truest selves.
May God’s consuming fire have its way
with us that we might burn brightly for all the world to see and know and be
drawn to the love of Christ. May God’s
Kingdom Come.
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