Christa: the cross, shock and dignity

This is the text of a Lent Talk given as part of the "Faith through Art" series at Guildford Cathedral. As a result of tech glitches, we started late and had to rely on a black and white copy of Edwina Sandys' "Christa".  This is the approximate text with some additional images and links including Sandys' own site and reflections on "Christa" thirty-years on can be found in an article in the Huffington Post

Alexandre Getsman and Edwina Sandys in front of CHRISTA Image and interview from New York Social Diary: 18 November, 2011

On her website, Edwina Sandys describes herself as a  'New Yorker by choice and marriage'.  It is perhaps unsurprising that, given her father Duncan Sandys was a Cabinet Minister and that her grandfather was Winston Churchill, she considered standing for Parliament. 

It's even less surprising then that as an artist, her work is very much inspired by political and social themes - including gender. There's a sense of joy and playfulness in her work - whether we are looking at images of flowers or expressions of female embodiment. And in her wit we find wisdom and challenge. 

She is most well known for Christa a bronze sculpture of a female Christ figure on the cross. First shown in 1975 it was displayed in a range of galleries and churches before being installed at the Cathedral of St John the Divine (New York) in 1984. As the first such representation, the work created considerable furore - the inevitable outrange and voices moved by the emotional power of the work.  

What do we see when we look on this image?

Are we shocked or inspired by the suffering, composure and strength?

The human desire to identify with Christ Jesus in his humanity is an enduring and universal concern.

The human desire to explore what it means for God to be with us in the fullness of our humanity is reflected in a multiplicity of images.

We are provoked to look beyond the pale, male, blond, blue eyed Jesus of some western art, to think about a rich spiritual and religious iconography. Every generation and culture seeking to mark that likeness. 

Christ and Culture

More than that,  as members of Christ’s body, through baptism, we want to make visible our ‘in Christ-ness’ as a community; in all our diversity. Whatever our class, occupation, gender, age, health or ability we seek to find our place within this body - to belong, to be accepted and valued.  Many artists and projects run by St Paul's Cathedral, for example, have created collages or mosaics taking our faces and transforming them - together - into the face of Christ. 

Original Mosaic

The cross too becomes such a marker of belonging. 

The cross is a ubiquitous symbol. Some make the sign as we proclaim the Gospel or before preaching - reminding us of the love of God before speaking/listening. We mark out or see the sign of the cross as we receive the gift of forgiveness and blessing. It is expression of the embodied reality and cost of God’s love poured out for us in Jesus Christ.

It’s a gesture made by lots of sportsmen and women when they prepare to compete: coming on to the pitch, preparing to leave the blocks, taking a penalty.

It’s an item of jewellery: a sought after fashion accessory; a bold statement of faith in workplace; a cherished birthday gift.

It’s a piece of art: an elaborate design tattooed, perhaps entwined with words of faith or a loved one’s name; or for our Coptic brothers and sisters, received at baptism; an indelible mark of being 'in Christ' as in the image below: Coptic wrist crosses

It’s a near universal symbol of Christianity: it is used in worship – in gesture and image; our churches are identified by it in layout and external signage. We literally follow the cross in our liturgy. We receive the sign of the cross on our foreheads in baptism; an invisible sign of God’s grace, God’s yes to us and of our commitment to live in love.  It has been, and in some places continues to be, a sign that is controversial, a marker of identity or power; of radical challenge or of conformity.  

We follow the cross.

It was not always a marker of Christian faith; rather it was a scandalous sign of brutal and shameful torture. The turning point came at the end of a time of intense persecution in the 4th century. People began to travel to the Holy Land to visit and pray at the places associated with Jesus’ life. Among them was Helena, mother of the Emperor Constantine. She oversaw the excavation of various sites and was said to have uncovered a cross, believed to be the cross of Christ.  

That discovery, and our devotion,  stirs reflection on the breadth and depth of God’s love and forgiveness that we recall in these weeks before Christ’s passion.

Yet sometimes owning a symbol diminishes its power to transform us. A sign of death has become in Christ a sign of love and compassion. Yet we domesticate it; or use it to exclude or marginalize. It is then that we need artists and others to shock us into thinking again about its meaning.

The cross is a scandal.

During her Confessions tour Madonna performed “Live to tell” whilst hanging on a giant mirrored cross wearing a crown of thorns. Unsurprisingly she faced a strong negative reaction from religious groups.  Her performance was described as blasphemous, distasteful and heretical.   

How should we react? Is it offensive or does her performance provoke us to think about how challenging the cross is?  

Madonna’s response to such criticism was to say that her main intention was to highlight the plight of millions of children dying from poverty and hunger in Africa. 

As she performed, the death toll of victims is counted on a screen behind her; the words “in Africa 12 million children are orphaned by AIDS” are projected onto the stage. Images of children fade in and out as she sings.

Perhaps  it is only scandalous nature of the cross that can do justice to the extent of human suffering today; perhaps it is only the cross that can call us back to our humanity made in the image of God; does the cross provoke us to recall the enormity of God’s love and forgiveness of us; challenging us to respond with repentance and compassion.

Madonna: Live to Tell

As “Live to tell” comes to an end, Madonna steps down from the cross.  She kneels, removes the crown of thorns, and bows her head.  

In another ubiquitous sign, she adopts the posture of prayer.  Above her scroll quotations from Matthew 25: And God said…whatever you did for the least of these brethren. 

Whatever you did for the least of these...

How do we respond to the hungry, the naked, the homeless, the excluded, the abused and the marginalized?

God’s love is different: humble, self-giving, generous, challenging and forgiving.  

Howe is such love revealed today. To quote Madonna:

How will they hear
When will they learn
How will they know 

They will hear and learn and know when we ourselves embody the love poured out in self-giving. 

I wonder if in part, Sandys' "Christa" serves a similar function to Madonna's live performance. 

It provokes us to think about the scandal of the cross; to the scandal of human suffering.

It provokes us to think the reality of God with us: the God who humbled himself to take on our humanity, raises up our human nature. 

We are saved - healed, restored, forgiven - through the cross of Christ. The word became flesh: taking on our flesh, male and female.

And perhaps that's the real heresy: denying God's image in us, male and female. 

After much discussion with those Sandys' called the "earthly powers", "Christa" is now displayed at St John the Divine. 

Edwina Sandys, "Christa" photo by Hiroko Masuike

The New York Times

In an interview with Nettie Reynolds in 2015, she said: I didn’t make Christa as a campaign for women’s rights or Women’s Lib as such but I have always believed in equality and I am glad that Christa is just as relevant today as it was in 1975. I didn’t make Christa just for women.  Men also suffer and that is one of the meanings of Jesus on the Cross. In the past there were matriarchs in many societies and religions, and gender was not always a factor. Today women are finding their way to take their place in the Christian church and in society in general. Most women of my generation have been stamped with the idea of Man’s superiority over Woman which is hard to throw off without seeming aggressive.  I hope that Christa continues to reveal the journey of suffering that we all have in common.

"Christa" 

The "Christa" continues to reveal the journey of suffering that we all have in common. Then suffering we share. 

As we look at Sandys Christa, might we consider the impact of God’s love revealed in Jesus afresh. He is God with us, alongside us. It also says something about our humanity.  

The pursuit of our desires can have a corrosive effect on others: we hurt them by our selfishness, lack of consideration, impatience, anger and unkind speech.  The prophets were continually reminding the people of Israel to turn things around – to but God’s love first and allow that to shape our relationships.  

But human pride and self-sufficiency gets in the way; we have a human tendency to mess things up.  Yesterday, we remembered the martyrdom of Perpetua and Felicity and their companions: the account of their death reduces us to tears.

We hear of their faithfulness and courage; their companionship and dignity. We heard of the  bodies of two young women: naked and exposed; then clothed but mortally wounded. 

I’d never associated Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poem God’s Grandeur with the crucifixion until I looked at this image.

He begins: The world is charged with the grandeur of God.

It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;

It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil

Crushed.

Crushed. 

Christ is crushed with us; with our humanity, the generations who have, in Hopkins poem Have trod, have trod, have trod. 

Yet glory and grandeur is revealed; the world is charged; recharged with life and beauty. 

And the final stanza: the Holy Ghost over the bent / World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

Detail: "Christa"

Blog: Christa or Christo, Tomato or Tomawtoe

God’s response to our human frailty and cruelty is not to condemn the world but to bring healing and reconciling love.  

That gift is something that we are to receive and also embody.  It subverts and deepens our understanding of reciprocity in love; it extends to us an invitation to life which is eternal.  Jesus life and death are an embodiment of God’s love with us in all the complexity, tension and fearfulness of human life. His risen life demonstrates that our human propensity to mess things up does not have the final word.

Love wins.

The "Christa" calls us to think afresh about the vulnerability and power of embrace: her arms outstretched. We are do likewise.

Reaching out in compassion and speaking out for justice are acts of faithfulness to Jesus. To ignore them and pursue our own ambitions and concerns is the real heresy; denying God’s image in us and in the other. The cross calls us to be with others, not simply doing things for them and returning to our normal lives. It is costly and inspirational. 

Does this Christa draw us back to the imagery of God mothering us: gathering us like a hen shelters her brood?

Detail: "Christa"

The letter to the Philippians includes one of the earliest creedal statements or hymns to Christ. It reminds us that we are called walk in the steps of the one who did not cling to equality but humbled himself, taking the form of the servant.  It means responding to the one who came into the world not to condemn but to save – to redeem, restore, heal and transform us.

The cross is a gesture and a piece of body art; it’s a sentimental item of jewellery and pious religious imagery; it is a statement of faith and a neutral sign of artistic beauty.  Ultimately it is a scandal: a stumbling block. 

Christa reminds us of the scandal of the enfleshed love of God.

How could it make sense that the God’s Son would be arrested, beaten, condemned and executed as a common criminal? 

We have been desensitized to the shame and horror of the cross, a brutal instrument of Roman execution.  Instead of seeing the cross as a reminder of God-with-us - amidst the sufferings as well as the joy of the world, we have turned it into a harmless sign; or a symbol of ecclesial piety.

Often Christians have misguided belief that we “own” it – and try to protect it at all costs. However, our ownership of the symbol can be distorted in judgment and condemnation of others.  Perhaps Madonna provocative performance focuses our attention on some of the very things Christ was most concerned about; even if she does offend our sense of propriety.

We need to be shocked into being reminded that the cross is a sign of the extent of God’s love for us – giving life for us; that we are to hold on to that as a challenge as we remember all those who suffer and the hurt we cause.  

On a global scale it shapes our response to injustice, persecution and violence; at a local level it shapes our response to one another - those we mock or judge; those we undermine or envy.  God’s love is different: humble, self-giving, generous, challenging and forgiving.  But, to quote Madonna:

How will they hear
When will they learn
How will they know 

We like James and John are asked: can you drink the cup I drink or be baptised with the baptism I am baptised with? Do we respond with the reckless abandon of those brothers? With the boldness of Peter? Or faithful grief-stricken waiting of Mary Magdalene?

How will they hear
When will they learn
How will they know

They will hear and learn and know when we ourselves embody the love poured out in self-giving. What might that look like for you and me as we continue our lenten pilgrimage?

Let us pray.

© Julie Gittoes 2018

Christ in the Wilderness

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)

Fitzwilliam Museum (University of Cambridge), Cambridge, UK

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