Faith Through Art
Guildford Cathedral is hosting a series of Lent Talks entitled 'Faith Through Art'. We’re taking the opportunity to engage with and respond to paintings, sculptures, icons and poetry which has been inspired by the Gospel narrative. In doing so perhaps see those texts and our lives afresh.
Stanley Spencer
Our first talk begins with this man: Stanley Spencer.
Self-portrait (1939)
Keith Bell writes that the Wilderness paintings show Spencer seeking to re-establish, through Christ, his belief in man’s oneness with the world. Christ is presented as if he were “a pebble” or “both sides of a mountain”; and the form of his body and clothing often merges delicately with the shape of the ground’ [Stanley Spencer, Phaidon: p. 164].
In this series Christ is led into the wilderness - but rather than focusing on the temptations, we see his power and identity revealed in a series of portraits which weave together episodes from his ministry. It’s an earthy series of images: full of rocks, wild beasts and the tenderness of Christ abiding with them; and attending to God.
Made flesh
This Christ is corpulent: this really is word ‘made flesh’ dwelling among us.
He’s alone - yet with us.
He’s confronting the stark reality of the wilderness.
In solitude he’s deeply attentive to his heavenly Father.
He at ease with the richness of creation.
As Stanley looked at the panels in the ceiling of Cookham church, he told his niece that he wished to fill them, saying: ‘I suddenly seemed to tumble to the idea of trying to do the life of Christ in the Wilderness. I felt because you have not anything much in the actual life in the wilderness except temptation, that one has an excuse for imagining what his life might have been like’ [archive material cited by Stephen Cottrell in Christ in the Wilderness, SPCK:2012, pp. 7-8].
He rather delightfully describes Christ giving particular aspects of creation a ‘once over’.
Spencer continues: ‘It seemed very peaceful and it seemed a thing that, humanely, one would wish to do before entering some big life mission’. Into this season of ‘dwelling’ in the Wilderness, he inserts Jesus’ sayings; words which demonstrate not only an appreciation of nature; but which open up for us an understanding of his identity and ours; of God’s nature and our response.
Wilderness
This series was produced during Spencer's own personal wilderness: he’s separated from his wife, Hilda; involved with another woman; facing the unsaleability of some paintings and the negative impact on his reputation because of the response to his more erotic work. At a national level too, he was living amidst the upheaval of the Second World War.
Like him, we live with a tension of the delight in creation and the dereliction of physiological as well as actual wilderness. Spencer finds himself continually drawn back to Christ as a subject of his work.
In writings from the Tate Archive, he says: ‘In Christ, God beholds his creation, and this time has a mysterious occasion to associate himself with it. In this visitation, he contemplates the many familiar humble objects and places: the declivities, holes, pit-banks, boulders, rocks, hills, fields, ditches and so on. The thought of Christ considering all these seems to me to fulfil and consummate the life-wishes and meaning of all these things’ [from Pople Stanley Spencer p. 399 as quoted by Stephen Cottrell in Christ in the Wilderness, SPCK:2012, p. 13].
His words resonate with the psalmist: let everything that has breath, praise the Lord! (psalm 150:6); or Isiah's vision that the trees on of the field shall clap their hands (Isiah 55:12).
Spencer enables us to see this season of wilderness not only as a time of preparation for Jesus ministry but also as a foreshadowing of what he accomplishes. In him God is reconciling the world to Godself; in him, we and call creation are blessed in order to be a blessing. That is our calling - to be renewed in our relationship with God. A relationship marked with awe and wonder, tenderness and care.
In the wilderness Christ comes to a deeper understanding of how he is as God’s beloved Son; and he commits himself to use that power not to coerce or manipulate or dazzle us. Instead he chooses to love. And we too are invited into this deep, prayerful attention to God; not removing ourselves from the messy sometimes brutal complexity of the world (the inner as well as outer preoccupations); but nor do we deny ourselves true delight in the beauty and abundance, fragility and resilience of creation.
Eagles (1943)
Dark side of natural world: the cycle of cruelty, violence and death; the life cycle isn’t cosy or comfortable; and that’s magnified with our own complicity in it.
It’s a reality that scripture recognises: from Isaiah’s vision for the sheep and the lion cub to lie down together to Paul’s expression of creation groaning in longing for liberty in Romans.
We might want to avert our eyes in the face of the kill.
Vultures, Jesus says, will gather by the corpse.
In this image Christ lies alongside this bloody, scavenging and survival.
He both confronts the horror and looks beyond it.
The Hen (1954)
But Jesus Christ also lies alongside a mother hen - tenderly gathering her chickens; brooding over them.
The rhythm of life here is one of protection, comfort, safely and embrace.
Yet embrace itself is a complex: there’s a certain amount of risk and vulnerability involved.
Open our arms; waiting; risking coolness of rejection or anticipating the warmth of another; and we are enfolded together. But for an embrace to be an embrace, we have to loosen our grip, let go and more apart.
We will sing the psalmists words in compline a little later: hide me under the shadow of your wing.
With God there is a place of refuge even in wilderness; but we are sheltered in order that we might spread our own wings.
As a hen gathers, so God in Christ draws us back into this circle of love, this rhythm of life. It’s all embracing
Consider the Lilies (1939)
This has to be one of my favourite images of Jesus: this is an image of life in abundance.
It is rich and earthy, fingers of this rotund Christ are plunged into soil; eyes fixed not on exotic, perfumed lilies but the ordinary daisy - frustrating those who like neat lawns and delighting children and adults alike as we make chains.
Here is the creator rejoicing in creation - not in cosmic grandeur but in intricate beauty.
Spencer was inspired by a child crawling on the grass. He said of this auspicious moment that it gave ‘a sense of the Creator brooding over his creation, and the analogy between what a baby might do and what God might do is near in its feeling’ [archive material cited by Stephen Cottrell in Christ in the Wilderness, SPCK:2012, p. 50].
It is full of playful wonder and curiosity: utter attention - the sustained loving gaze with which God looks on us.
The Scorpion (1939)
God the loving creator chooses to dwell with us without compromise.
A scorpion seen as an aggressor with a wounding sting or fatal venom.
If a child asks for an egg, says Jesus, who would give a scorpion?
Yet this creature is held by God: in the hands of Jesus it is met with a tender and loving gaze; it is not crushed or destroyed.
And as we approach Holy Week we become acutely aware that this Jesus will indeed destroy the sting of death.
Foxes have Holes (1939)
Foxes are very keen to sunbath and make themselves at home on the cathedral close; yet here they are in what Spence calls ‘a sort of “placeless” place… you are in a sort of nowhere and nowhere is not home, and this a double home - one for the foxes and one for Christ - brings about a homely feeling that I want without altering anything else in Nature’ [archival material cited by Stephen Cottrell in Christ in the Wilderness, SPCK:2012, p. 69].
In the Gospels Jesus talks about having no where to lay his head - unlike the birds of the air or foxes in their den.
In this image Jesus abides with us; at home in this world. And yet there’s a restlessness. Jesus doesn’t come to the wilderness to escape but to deepen his understanding of his call as God’s Son.
The way of reconciliation will walking the way of suffering; He will be lifted up on a cross to draw the whole world to Godself; perhaps we glimpse that in his posture in this image. Arms opened wide for us.
Driven by the Spirit into the Wilderness (1943)
Driven.
There's power and energy in this image in the landscape: stoney ground with hills and trees; greys and greens infused with light.
And Jesus Christ is striding into the frame: fearless determination; his feet firmly placed, his weight pushing forward; his arms outstretched; his hands firmly grasping the branches.
The Gospels describe the way in which Jesus is driven into the wilderness by the Spirit: the same Spirt which descended at his baptism to assure of his identity as God’s beloved Son is now compelling him into the wilderness.
His human vulnerability before the unpredictable expanse of creation; vulnerability of God with us in all its strange beauty.
There is space and struggle.
Here in the desert, Jesus commitments himself to loving the world. Tempted as we are, yet without that fracturing of relationship, or selfish desire, we call sin. In the weakness of our flesh, God loves in a way that it so real it hurts; so real it saves.
The tempter's questions, prompts and offers to Jesus are lens through which we see the power of love. In the human frailty of hunger, Jesus faces the relentless psychological nagging 'if you are the Son of God do x or y.'
Satisfy your hunger: no, says Jesus, for we are sustained not by bread alone. No, I will not love the world simply by satiating physical desires or colluding with greed. This love gets to the heart of what is real - what sustains us; what choices do we make?
Accept earthly power: no, says Jesus, seizing glory and authority in that way is not God's way of loving. Love that dominates, coerces and bullies isn’t real. He’s driven here by the Spirit to confirm that commitment to love that waits with us; reshaping fear and grief into hope and joy.
Perform a stunt: no, says Jesus, I won't take a short cut. I won't put God to the test. Real love doesn't change human hearts by performing dramatic feats of reckless showmanship. Such love is superficial and fleeting: it doesn't forgive or heal; it doesn't challenge or embrace. That’s not the love of Christ in the wilderness.
As the final lines of Malcolm Guite’s poem “Stones into Bread” [Canterbury Press, 2014: p. 9] expresses it:
He lives for all from one sustaining Word,
His love still breaks and pierces like a knife
The stoney ground of hearts that never shared.
God gives through him what Satan never could;
The broken bread that is our only food.
He Departed into a Mountain to Pray (1939)
I have vivid memories of my dad kneeling to pray at the bedside each night.
Here Jesus adopts a similar pose.
But he's kneeling on the earth; resting his arms on the mountain top; eyes raised; hands pointing beyond.
A posture of petition; attention; orientation; encounter.
The wilderness is a place where we will be unsettled and even surprised.
It’s an invitation to be still: to be open hearted.
We might cry out with questions, frustrations and hurts; raging against the night.
We might whisper the deepest longings; or hear our name breathed by God’s Spirit, calling. Softly.
We might get distracted by the noise around us; the aches of our bodies; the list of things to do.
We might recite the familiar prayer of our hearts, unthinkingly yet faithfully.
We might be at a loss for words; voiceless; speechless; bewildered, waiting.
We might close our eyes or open them wide; fall to our knees or stretch out our hands.
We might repeat one word, one phrase of a psalm; hearing our emotion morph into prayer.
In his book Say it to God, Luigi Gioia writes: 'prayer is always already there, already going on in our heart, wherever we are, whatever we do, whatever our feelings’ (Bloomsbury, 2017: p. 1).
It’s like breathing: keep it simple; keep it honest.
There we might find God; and find ourselves.
Rising from Sleep in the Morning (1940)
Say it to God.
It’s not just about words.
It’s about deep attention: to what’s going on within and without.
It’s about all that we are: the past which forms us; from an unremembered infancy to the most recent interaction; the inescapable weaving together of memories; of heartbreak, contentment and delight. The people, the stories; the things that make us laugh and the raw nerves which zing with emotional energy when touched.
It's about a future yet to unfold: with anticipation of of a good night’s rest; the unfinished tasks we carry into tomorrow; the plans for next week, the diary months ahead. And the bigger dreams and hopes; the things we know we aspire to; and the unexpected gifts of opportunity and encounter. And the fears too. The uncertainty, that our mind cannot fathom; that planning cannot control.
Our past and our futures; the personal and the political; the choices we made and decisions we confront.
It’s about the moment of breathing in the present; the here and now.
For here we are. Alone with our thoughts; our sighs; our wilderness.
For here we are. Together before God in fellowship; strangers and friends.
And one of the most striking things about this image: is the was Jesus Christ models both a deep attention to past, present and future - and he boldly, instinctively holds and directs it - to his heavenly Father.
It’s a radical orientation at the beginning of a day. It’s posture which is utterly rooted in the shell craters of our world - in solidarity with our messy, complex, fragile, creative humanity. It’s a posture which is also utterly rooted in God - a beloved Son reaching upwards in perfect love and complete trust.
In his ministry Jesus walks his land: pausing to eat with some and meeting others on the road; being rejected in his home town and begged to stay by a foreigner. Bringing good news every step of the way - with challenge, encouragement, blessing, forgiveness, healing and peace.
All that movement comes from these repeated moments of intense focus; of profound intimacy. We are invited to share in this pattern of a prayerful life - aligning our wills with God’s; breath by breath; living lightly and intensely moment by moment. It’s challenging and life giving. And even when we stumble and fall, as we surely will, God’s Spirit still cries within us.
But the fruit of this life is that we we might blossom like flowers in the wilderness, for thinking of this painting, Spencer himself said: ‘I think I was, perhaps thinking of a flower opening' [archive material cited by Stephen Cottrell in Christ in the Wilderness, SPCK:2012, p. 33].
The very last words before we pray belong to him too, reminding of of how he sees Jesus Christ living out God’s delight in creation: ‘ Christ like to feel the fact that he was a man and that he might do a lot of the normal things that a human might do, such as going to bed and getting up in the morning: that it would be a very wonderful experience - that it would be, so to speak, the first getting up of a human being - almost like a rehearsal of the act - that the joy would consist in the waking and the awareness of his great lover ‘God’ [archive material cited by Stephen Cottrell in Christ in the Wilderness, SPCK:2012, p. 33].
© Julie Gittoes 2018
