A friend has been posting lesser-known paintings of the Crucifixion recently. At least to me they have been, with a few exceptions. Wikipedia offers this summary of both art and music through the ages. Depictions of crucifixions did not begin until the 5th century but continue into our day.
Musically, the most famous works about this part of the Gospels are by Johann Sebastian Bach, his St. Matthew Passion and the St. John Passion. Both are very long, at three hours and almost two. The one chorale familiar to most is “O Haupt voll Blut und Wunden.” The translation is usually “O Sacred Head Now Wounded; here is a simple setting with Bach’s harmonization of Hans Leo Hassler’s melody. It’s in my hymnal as “O Savior, Thou Who Wearest a Crown” (with the big choir) with text by Karen Davidson. Here by a popular quartet, Gentri. The melody is one that is in a minor key but resolves to a Picardy third (major chord) on the last note; it’s sometimes called the “happy chord.”
Texts from what are traditionally called “The Seven Last Words of Christ” (actually 7 sentences) have been set by many composers. Here a Jesuit site offers an overview, the passages of scripture, and a homily highlighting each. The rock opera Jesus Christ Superstar (1973) has a version, but I’m not a fan.
Last week, one of my friend’s choices was the remarkable Salvador Dali depiction of the Last Supper. Dali also has several Crucifixion works. At the Met, we find “Cruxificion (Corpus Hypercubus)” which is rather cold, in my opinion; it was Ayn Rand’s favorite work, for whatever that may mean. The cross is a tesseract. In Glasgow at the Kelvingrove, when I was there last year, I did not find “Christ of St. John of the Cross.” It was on loan. I had looked forward to seeing the original because it’s one of those paintings that needs to be seen in person. I guess all do, but this one has a perspective and detail that just don’t translate into a print. A dear friend chose it for his office. We do not see Christ’s face, just the top of his head, as the Father would view the scene.
When I saw my friend’s post on Dali, I commented on the crucifixion painting, which she knew and planned to post. I remembered my late friend and my trip’s disappointment. As I was listening to a Great Books podcast about a work called “Dark Night of the Soul” by St. John of the Cross, I learned that it was his tiny 2”x2-1/2” drawing that Dali used as inspiration for his work. This happened as I was driving by Avilla Estates in Arlington; Avila was near St. John of the Cross’s birthplace. It all seemed rather startling at the time.
For years, I’ve heard the phrase “dark night of the soul” and assumed it had to do with a crisis of faith, which it does. I didn’t know it was a poem by our Spanish priest. The poem from which it comes (same title) is very short, but I am not sure what it means. Brief research suggests it’s to do with purification and “unselfing.” (The latter is the topic of my winning poem, which I cannot publish under rules of the contest.) Personal readings on request. My next encounter had more hope than this one.
In another podcast, Honestly, Bari Weiss interviewed Ross Douthat about his new book, Believe: Why Everyone Should Be Religious. They discuss why it’s logical to believe in God, from multiple perspectives. Near the end of the episode, she brings up people who believe that artificial intelligence will render humans obsolete. The answer, however, that Douthat gives is the primacy of the Divine: We should believe because it’s true.
Now back to the art. The guest on the Great Books podcast, Silvina Sironi, said about the tiny drawing, “It’s not like anything else of its time.” The perspective, the purpose, the size—none of it reflects the 16th century. Was he drawing a vision or a dream? No one knows.
Forward now to the point of this narrative. Recently, an interfaith discussion led to questions about how all this could happen, how a loving God would expect such a sacrifice. And with all these supporting—and sometimes odd—experiences, where would the sense of it come?
Execution on the cross was agonizing, intentionally so, and reserved for the worst criminals. That is was the Christ suffering, even though to fulfill prophecy, was only part of the story. People make what we call the ultimate sacrifice in every generation. Or ask any mother what she would do to save a child. No, they are not divine, but the direction of intent is the same.
The difference came before, in the Garden of Gethsemane. No one saw it happen. Perhaps the resurrected Jesus explained the agony. Perhaps the Holy Ghost shared the scene with those who wrote of it. All we can know is that it happened, and in the pain so intense that the Savior bled from every pore, he took on himself every instance of human suffering—the punishment for sin, yes, but also all pains and grief, all loneliness and fear—in that one moment we call the Atonement, the at-one-ment, which is not a linguistic trick but a contraction of the two words. Humankind reconciled to God, healing the breach from Eden, if we will accept the offering.
This children’s song explains the story, and this version has had 1.3 million views because of the interpretation of one passage. But it’s easy to miss part of the power: notice the verb change from “So He gave this gift to me” and then “So He gives this gift to me.” It continues, now and forever
it’s not that I understand this any better or more deeply than anyone else. The concept of forgiveness is the key, and perhaps the pattern of repentance and forgiveness is not easily shared. But it matters. The response from us need not be the sacrifice of a lamb, as another interfaith friend suggested. Instead, we can offer everything we are. Not have, but are.
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