Advent in Art No. 1 (2009) Untitled, by Lance Pearce.

Presented by Peter Skilling

The image I’m going to talk about today (and my talk itself) kind of extends some of the tensions that we’ve seen in the service already. We’ve sung and heard about the bliss and peace and joy that can be associated with the coming of God into the world. But we’ve also responsively prayed about the griefs and difficulties that can be associated with this time of year. The image I’ll be talking about is a bit on the dark side. It is not obviously about unlimited joy and peace. And, if you care to flick through the advent images that have been created this year by other Citysiders, you might note that this becomes a recurring theme. This is interesting. Even if you associate Christmas with joy and celebration, you might want to note that some of your fellow Citysiders associate other things with it as well.

There’s a bit of a cliché out there that goes that “writing about music is like singing about architecture”. I find this a bit of a silly thing to say, because I’ve personally got a lot of enjoyment and insight out of music writing. On the other hand, though, it’s quite true: if writing (or reading) about music takes the place of a direct experience of music – if it mediates it for you - then you’re in trouble. Music needs to come alive for the listener in an active, engaged, experience.

And art, I suspect, is the same. Against my convictions and commitments, I find it hard to resist being one of those art-gallery-goers who religiously reads all the little cards beside the paintings, looks serious and nods. For some reason I find it easier to read a summary of an art thing than to engage with the thing itself. And so this morning I’m conscious that I don’t want my talk to distract you from being with the image itself. I will, of course, say some things. But I hope that what I say will help ease your transition from life to church service to art engagement. If it starts to sound superfluous or distracting – if it starts to sound like I’m telling you what to think - there’s probably not too much harm in ignoring me altogether.

So… Here is an image. It includes a photograph, some acrylic paint, some masking tape, some words, some of which are crossed out. There’s quite a lot of black. It was made by Lance.

If we limit our approach to it by noting that it is here today as the first of the Advent-in-Art images, we could note that it is not your typical Advent-in-Art image. It does not have very much gold. No-one seems particularly peaceful or joyful. (btw, if you skim forward through your pack of Advent-in-Art cards you might note that this is a bit of a theme this year. And this is interesting, I think.)

We sometimes feel compelled, when we approach Christmas, to be happy. To remind (or persuade?) ourselves of Christ as the perfect gift, Christ the smiling baby (although he appears to have the wisdom and serenity of the aged). Christ as the miracle incarnation who will make things alright. And to think of Christmas as the time that will bring us peace and joy and balance at the end of years that might have been long, draining, filled with griefs and trials of every kind.

If this image expresses joy unto you and peace on earth, it suggests that they might come in unexpected and hard-won ways. It’s OK to feel slightly disgruntled or cross at this image. How dare it refuse to meet our expectations (or our psychic needs)? We need some surety of joy at Christmas and we’re not getting it here.

Allow me to play for now with the hypothesis that this image is a weird sort of infant-Jesus-and-mother-Mary shot. At the risk of labouring the point, here are (visually) some things that the image is not like. It does not look like this

or this

or this.

The child in our image does not look cherubic, radiant, authoritative, clearly God.

This is remember, an Advent in Art series. The image, we presume, must have some relationship to advent – to the incarnation of God in the world. But if it does, it defies these preconceptions. Preconceptions that are reinforced in our Christmas songs: “Little Lord Jesus, no crying he makes”; “Christian children all must be...” These images and such lyrics go together for me. When I see them I hear pipe organs, the odd soaring trumpet, choirs, prepubescent choirboys. I hear tranquillity and certainty and, yes, joy and peace and I think “God has come into the world”. God has come and made everything right.

God knows that we need such moments. But I wonder if sometimes they seduce us with an easy-fuzzy-feeling happiness that doesn’t serve us too well when our world is not suffused with cherubic joy and peace. Or, to put it better, perhaps there are other ways of reminding ourselves of God in the world. Ways that do not require us to strengthen the dichotomy between sinful world and smiling pure God.

The thing, perhaps, with these traditional images and associations, is that they make it all seem like a bit of a cheat somehow. If the infant Jesus was all mildness, obedience, goodness and non-cryingness, did he really become human? These images suggest nothing so much as a very little (but kind-of-old looking) God parachuted into our world to check things out before parachuting out again.

This image is not that. If this is indeed an image evoking the Christ child, this is a Christ child dealing with the world-as-it-is, and dealing with it as a human being – vulnerable, scared, easily overpowered. Let us note that the central part of the image is filled with a child’s torso. His gesture is open, but not relaxed. Is he scared?

His head is not included (neither is his navel, or anything below.) the absence of a face heightens my fear for his safety. I certainly fear for those who have been made faceless, anonymous, who are unable to be recognised, who can be more easily dehumanised. The boy is recoiling from an adult’s touch, although there is nothing obviously hostile about the touch. But look at how big the hand is. There’s a power imbalance. Is he scared?

Here, just briefly, are some things that this image did remind me of.

And if this all seems a bit dark, if you’d prefer to stay with the image of the Christmas story and God-in-the-world making everything OK, I can empathise. But you might want to read Matthew’s nativity narrative again. Luke’s account does seem to accentuate Jesus’ innate Godness – a litany of prophecies fulfilled and divine signs. But read Matthew. Once you’ve waded through the genealogy-part, we’re with the Magi in the stable. In verse 11 they give the gifts. From verse 12 – 15 both they and the family are warned in dreams to flee. And in verse 16 the massacre of the innocents begins. (is this image of an innocent?) Talking of the gifts of the magi (and developing this theme that Jesus’ incarnation did not separate out the human experience of birth, life, suffering and death but lived with them all together), you’ll recall that one of the three gifts was myrrh. And here in the image is the word myrrh. In a picture that might be about the Word made flesh, myrrh is the only legible word. Myrrh, in case you’re interested, is a bitter, aromatic gum resin. It used to be an important ingredient, used for perfumes, incense and medicinally. Myrrh is a bitter resin figuratively associated with sweetness, a balm that soothes heals and preserves.Think of Jesus as a man of sorrows, acquainted with bitterness and strife, but able to soothe, heal and preserve.

You might know that myrrh turns up in Jesus’ life three times. Most famously as the gift for a king at the beginning of it all, but also twice at the end – offered with wine (but refused) to relieve pain on the cross, and used in the burial process afterwards. Myrrh, if you like, ties together the majesty and the suffering of Jesus.

Those are some thoughts but they’re not very coherent thoughts. They don’t have a conclusion. They don’t provide any answers. The closest I’d want to go is to suggest that this image could help us to reflect, as we approach Christmas, on a few important questions. This image, as I’ve said, unsettles in me any conception of Christmas as a story of God bounding majestically into the world (once) and setting things to rights. Perhaps Jesus’ birth is not the miracle that can solve all your problems. Perhaps it is a challenge and encouragement to leave behind the easy and the comfortable, to embrace life-as-it-is and to live courageously and truthfully where you find yourself. NKJV John 1:3-5: In him was life; and this life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it. You might want to reflect on the life and the light that we see in Jesus. Light after all is useful, if you need to see something. But light is profoundly annoying and embarrassing if you’d prefer not to see things, or have others not see them. Light tends to make things obvious. The question might be: how do we respond to the light of Christ?

So with all of these loose ends and strands that don’t match up neatly, maybe we could close with some brief lectio divina: Same passage as above (beginning of John) from a different version. (NRSV): "What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it… He was in the world, and the world was made by him, and the world knew him not … And the word was made flesh, and dwelt among us … full of grace and truth."