On the cusp of Holy Week our
attention shifts from Annunciation and Nativity to Calvary; from expectancy and
birth to suffering and death. As we make
that move, this painting holds birth and death together; it draws invites us to
pay attention to an apple. An apple in the hand of Eve is a symbol of
temptation, misdirected desires, and our human propensity to mess things up. An
apple in the hand of Mary is a sign of redemption, self-giving love, God propensity
to forgive and restore.
Chris Gollon:
Madonna of the Apple (2012)
That is the overarching narrative of
salvation - of a love that gives in perfect freedom with all the risk of hurt
and failure that that entails; and a love that will not let us go when we face
the reality of human vulnerability.
Steve Summers' articulated this, drawing on Simone Weil’s theology last week. He identifies the paradox of love – of
intimacy and separation. We cannot
insulate ourselves from pain – yet we are called to hope in the midst of it. A
hope founded on God and the assurance that all shall be well.
Eliot writes that history may be
servitude; faces and places known and loved to us vanish, or are renewed. The reality of the human condition is met by
grace: Sin
is Behovely,
but / All shall be well, and / All manner of thing shall be well. All
shall be well because our hope is in the faithfulness of God’s love; his yes to
humanity. All shall be well because such hope does not disappoint, rather it
engenders trust. In stillness, in waves
and sea Eliot describes A condition of complete simplicity /
(Costing not less than everything) / And all shall be well and / All manner of
thing shall be well / When the tongues of flames are in-folded / Into the
crowned knot of fire / And the fire and the rose are one.
Hope demands that we inhabit the Gospel
story afresh. As we immerse ourselves in Holy Week, that invitation to immerse ourselves in
this narrative is more acute. It allows space to ask questions about loss and
renewal, grief and gift; questions which are more spacious than
answers.
This painting is an impossible moment of infancy and death; eternity caught in a span. It is love with us, the source of hope. Not an ending, but a new beginning. Perhaps we will catch a glimmer of hope and renewal that we come know, with baited breath, like a breaking dawn, as resurrection. That is perhaps conveyed in ‘A blinding brightness’.
This painting is an impossible moment of infancy and death; eternity caught in a span. It is love with us, the source of hope. Not an ending, but a new beginning. Perhaps we will catch a glimmer of hope and renewal that we come know, with baited breath, like a breaking dawn, as resurrection. That is perhaps conveyed in ‘A blinding brightness’.
Catherine Clancy: A Blinding
Brightness (2014)
Denise Inge thinks deeply about this resurrection
hope in her book ‘A Tour of Bones’. She
discovers that preparing to live and preparing to die are in the end the same
thing. She writes about the Spirit
brooding over us, refining us, rushing through us and drawing us on. Whispering the assurance: Do not be
afraid. As we face the frailty of our
human nature we are invited to rediscover hope by placing God centre stage and
responding to an invitation to turn, to follow to set our Christ, setting our
eyes on him. Do not be afraid. Learning to die well, learning to let go,
extends our horizon so that we might live well.
Denise’s journey takes her to various
charnel houses across Europe: each places ‘tells’ her something. At Sedlec she
ponders the quest to find a lasting hope and the story of resurrection, and
hope amidst doubt. For her it isn’t
about believing the impossible – but leaving room for the improbable…
it is the daring act of staking a claim in the unprovable. That is what makes
it hope rather than optimism, because it is active. It does more than wait to
see what will be; it acts prior to proof. It is audacious.
Such an audacious hope in resurrection is
life-enriching; it is an invitation to live without being afraid. She writes: we
think we need a dream. We are urged to ‘climb every mountain’ till we find it…
but what we really need is hope. Humans cannot life without it… Hope is not the
same thing as optimism. Optimism says that things will get better.
Hope says that the good we envisage is the good we work towards. Optimism is
largely passive: it is about waiting for what is better to come to you. Hope is
active: it goes out and does. It falls and fails sometimes, but it is tenacious
and unafraid… it will not let go of the notion that the good is real, and that
we can find it.
Have you found a lasting hope?
Anchor yourself in the eternal abiding (for me this is God). Feed yourself with
something stronger than optimism. You are in a constant state of growth and
transition, so let change transform you.
Catherine Clancy: Bird of Hope
(2014)
If hope in the resurrection is the
paradox of continuity and transformation, then we are drawn more deeply into an
act of faith: the sensing of light while it is still night. Perhaps it's an intuition shaped and formed
by the Holy Spirit, so often depicted as a bird in flight. There are powerful hints of faith and hope
and love; of a deeper communion beyond the dark cold and empty desolation,
beyond the waves and the waters. In ‘Little Gidding’ Eliot writes of a dove descending – an
incandescent flaming love redeeming us and freeing us from sin and error. Perhaps we should also pay attention to his
words in ‘Ash Wednesday’ – words of hope, inviting us to put God centre stage,
and allowing our cries to come to him:
Although I do not hope to turn
again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn…
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And the spirit of the river, spirit
of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated
And let my cry come unto thee.
© 2015 Julie Gittoes
