Gothic Art

Gothic art is said to originate with the Church of Saint Denis in Paris. Clearly, though, this Church represents only a kind of symbolic beginning, the true origin of the Gothic being impossible to pin down as it developed organically out of the Romanesque. In fact, the movement was so organic that it was only centuries after it replaced Romanesque as the preferred style across Europe (especially in the North and West) that it was even given a name. 16th-century Renaissance artists who sought a return to the more strictly Classical rejected the Gothic as a "barbaric" corruption of the "purity" of more Classical forms. The term "Gothic" is, then, retrospective and pejorative, being a reference to the violent Sack of Rome by the Gothic barbarians.

In one sense, these Renaissance artists were correct. Gothic is a kind of "corruption" of Classical purity and simplicity. The Gothic is, I would argue, a legitimate development of Classical art via the Romanesque. While similar development can be seen in all the artistic media, it's most clearly seen in the two styles' monumental architecture. For instance, let's compare these two arcades, one from the Pantheon in Rome, and one from Notre-Dame de Paris:

Both have columns with bases, shafts, and capitals, supporting an architrave and entablature with similar detailing, atop which sits a cornice. Even though in the former this all supports a pediment and in the latter the structure continues upward, the only significant difference between the two arcades is that in the Gothic example the columns can be skinnier, and in exchange more numerous, as a result of the arches which distribute the weight amongst them. (This is one of the ways in which Gothic architecture is able to feel so light and airy. By splitting the weight up amongst a larger number of thin columns, one prevents the heavy clunkiness of a small number of immense columns.)

Nevertheless, development though it is, it is true the Gothic accumulates and innovates forms which "corrupt" Classical purity. Let's look at a reconstruction of the Parthenon's facade verses that of Cologne Cathedral:

I've chosen the Parthenon specifically because it's of the Doric Order rather than the more ornate Ionic or Corinthian to illustrate my point more forcefully. Even though the proportions of the two buildings are similar, this may be hard to recognize simply because of all the decoration glued onto the Gothic facade. Where Classical architecture was largely content to leave its structure as it was, for the most part adding only what was necessary to hold the roof up in a beautiful and orderly manner, the Gothic feels compelled (almost obsessively) to slap on as much ornamentation as the underlying bones of the structure can hold up.

I said the Renaissance was right to call this development a corruption. The trouble is, the Renaissance was incorrect in rejecting it. What the Gothic did was take the Classical (and true) notions of form (function), beauty (proportion), and truth (honesty of construction), and capitalized on them to create something both imminently Classical. The Gothic "baptizes" the good in pagan art which was attained by human reason, by adding the supernatural, the heavenly, the grace of Christ. Gone is the reticent austerity of Classical architecture, a building can now be a Sacrament of Truth, a material vehicle for the transmission of God's Life to us.

By virtue of the God made Man, things which were formerly unreachable, purely spiritual realities, are now accessible in and through the material world. Wood, stone, and glass are no longer mere tools to hold a roof up, but great mysteries that point to God's participation in the World. Suddenly they contain within them, analogically, hints of Christ's ongoing interaction with us. A wooden beam now calls to mind the Wood on which hung the Savior of the World. A stone, the Rock on (or out of) which Christ builds his Church. Glass, the heroes of our faith, the saintly intercessors, through whom Heaven's Light falls on the faithful. A Church building can become, quite literally, Heaven on Earth:

Heaven's Light: The Supernatural in Disney's Tangled, The End

Tangled ends with the unlikely hero Flynn dying on the floor, stabbed by the evil, sorceress step-mother in order that she may keep Rapunzel's regenerative powers from doing any one any good but herself. Rapunzel cuts a deal with her step-mother: she will submit to slavery if only she is allowed to heal her knight-in-shining-armor, which she proceeds to do despite Flynn's protest. In the end, Flynn sacrifices himself on behalf of Rapunzel's freedom, cutting all her hair short and robbing it of its healing magic. Rapunzel cradles her dead Beloved in her arms and sheds a tear:

Flynn knew that in order for his beloved to "have life, and have it abundantly" (Jn 10:10), he needed to give up his own. Yet, surprisingly, after he does so, at that moment when it seems all hope is lost, Rapunzel's tear falls on his cheek. Turns out they too carry the "light of the Sun" and Flynn is healed.

September 14th is the feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross. This is followed immediately by September 15th's feast of Our Lady of Sorrows. When the Blessed Virgin and St. Joseph went to the Temple, as was the custom, to present the child Jesus to Simeon the High Priest, he prophesied Jesus' death on the Cross. In the same breath he said to Mary, "A sword will pierce through your own soul also," (Lk 2:35).

There is a parallel being drawn here between Christ's sufferings on the Cross and Mary's at his feet. As Christ's "soul" was pierced by Longinus' spear, so his Mother's soul would be pierced in sorrow as she stood at her dying son's feet. Of course a mother would grieve for her son dying in horrible pain, but does this passage point to something else as well?

Recently we took a look at rood screens and their place in traditional ecclesial architecture. What we didn't talk about is why they're called rood screens. Atop a great many of these screens or beams stands the Rood, Old English for cross. Inevitably, under the cross on either side stand Our Lady and John, the Beloved Disciple:

It is significant that it is John specifically, continually referred to as "the disciple whom Jesus loves" that stands at the foot of the Cross with Our Lady and his Mother. Of course, God loves all his children, but, as Jesus himself said, "Not every one who says to me, 'Lord, Lord,' shall enter the kingdom of Heaven, but he who does the will of my Father," (Mt. 7:21). But what is the will of the Father? St. Paul tells us that "we are children of God, and if children, then heirs, heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ, provided we suffer with him in order that we may also be glorified with him," (Rom. 8:16-17).

In other words, our salvation is dependent on our suffering like Christ: humbly, lovingly, and on behalf of others. St. Peter tells us that "one is approved if, mindful of God, he endures pain while suffering unjustly," (1 Pet. 2:19). Like John, if we are to be faithful and "beloved" servants of Christ, we must stand with him in his agony. We must live a life of humility and suffering as he did.

Amazingly, though, according to Paul, our suffering can do even more good than just getting ourselves into heaven: "I rejoice in my sufferings for your sake, and in my flesh I complete what is lacking in Christ's afflictions for the sake of his body, the church," (Col. 1:24).

Wait a second. Did he just say what I think he said? How can it be that "Christ's afflictions" on our behalf "lack" anything? Of course, strictly speaking, they don't. Christ's sacrifice was all-sufficient. What, then, could St. Paul mean?

What is lacking in Christ's afflictions is the application of his grace to the individual. Christ's death on the Cross redeemed the world, it didn't save it. In other words, Christ did everything necessary for it to be possible for us to be reunited with God, but it is up to us whether we will take advantage of the redemption he offers or not. St. Paul is telling us how to do that: be like Christ, humbly submit ourselves to the pain the world has to dole out, unite our sufferings to his, and so become true Christians, or "little Christs."

In this way, we participate in Christ's redemption of the world. Not adding anything, for one cannot add to something infinite. One can, however, cooperate with it. The love and suffering of the Church makes Christ's sacrifice effective in the world, just as Rapunzel's sadness brought about the happiness Flynn's sacrifice had made possible.

If, by our suffering, we can cooperate with Christ in the salvation of the world, surely the Blessed Mother, forced to witness the brutal death of her sinless, divine Son, should be the preeminent cooperator. This is what Simeon prophesied, and why Catholics name her Coredemptrix.

Why should Rapunzel's tears make her Beloved well again? Why should suffering heal? How is it that our suffering and, primarily, that of our Blessed Mother can work good in the world? Because it makes us like Christ. When we suffer willingly and in a good spirit, not seeking it out, but accepting it when it comes (and it will come), we hang ourselves on the Cross with Christ, which is exactly what he told us to do: "Take up your Cross and follow me," (Mk. 8:34). Thanks be to God, "as we share abundantly in Christ's sufferings, so through Christ we share abundantly in comfort too," (2 Cor. 1:5).

Of Rood Screens

The chancel screen at Westminster Abbey. It might say

something about the state of the Church of England that

they erect a temporary altar here and cut the church in half

so it doesn't seem so cavernous when no one shows up.

In a great many churches there is a screen, or at least a beam, dividing the nave (where the people do their thing) from the chancel (where the ministers do their thing). A lot of the time this screen is all the average parishioner would be able to see. At King's College Cambridge the rood screen is actually a wall 6 feet thick. You may have noticed at the Royal Wedding that the screen at Westminster Abbey is so thick one passes under it via tunnel and the orchestra camp out on top. It even has a gate in it.

There is something to be said for this separation of the average Joe from the most sacred action being performed up front. Wait a second, you might say, isn't it important for all of us to see what's going on and be a part of it? Isn't Church all about coming together and being a community? Doesn't "liturgy" mean "work of the people"? Yes, but that is exactly what it means: work of the people, not you, or me, or anybody else considered singly. Worship is the eternal work of God's People, the Church Universal, enacted here and now by her ministers, not us.

We laypersons play a part in this action of worship, but in a very different way. We are participants insofar as we are members of the Universal Church, and it is the action of the Church which is being undertaken. In other words, our participation in the worship of the Church doesn't depend on us doing anything; it depends on us being something: namely, a baptized Christian. The sacred ministers, on the other hand, (those in Holy Orders) are they that actually perform the work, if only on behalf of all of us (the Church on earth and in heaven). Nevertheless, it is only they which can do so, never us, for they are the only ones who, by virtue of their Ordinations, have been given the ability to stand on behalf of the Church Universal. I can only act as an individual.

This is why the Sacrament of Holy Orders has the name it does. Because by bestowing on individual men the ability to act on behalf of the whole Church, it creates order out of chaos. And that is how St. Paul tells us we must worship: "decently and in order," (1 Cor. 14:40).

What Does Heaven Look Like?

Have you ever had a child ask you what Heaven looks like? Perhaps you remember asking your parents that question when you were a child.

At first, I might think to say something clever like, "There's no point in trying to describe it, because it's better than anything you can possibly imagine. You've never experienced anything even close, so you have no frame of reference." Of course, in one sense this is true. Heaven is on such a higher level than anything we've encountered that it's impossible to "understand" what it will be like.

I think, though, it's too easy in our sometimes over-spiritualized, over-intellectualized religion to resort to clever, cop-out answers like that one. We too easily forget that Christianity is and has always been the meatiest, grungiest, most down-to-earth religion there is. That's what it's all about, of course, God humbling himself to become Man—to be born of a little woman in a stable. The essence of Christianity is contained in simple, day-to-day things like a baby, water, bread and wine, and motherhood.

There are those who would try to convince us that Heaven is only a state of consciousness after death. Really, Heaven is whatever we want it to be. It'll be whatever makes us happy.

False. Remembering that Christianity is a nitty-gritty religion, we must never forget that we believe in the bodily resurrection of the dead. Every living soul will be reanimated at the end of time to inhabit either Hell or the re-created Earth—real, concrete places, just as solid as the ground you're standing on now. In fact, in The Great Divorce, C.S. Lewis' Heaven is even more solid than the Earth is now, not less.

What we may not realize, then, is that the best answers are those cliché, earthy, almost embarassing ones Holy Scripture itself gives us:

"golden lampstands," (Rev. 1:12),
"white garments" and "golden crowns," (Rev. 4:4),
"golden bowls full of incense," (Rev. 5:8),
"massed choirs singing," (Rev. 19:1),
"[walls] adorned with every jewel," (Rev. 21:19),
"[streets] of pure gold, clear as glass," (Rev. 21:21).

Sound familiar? In short, Heaven looks like this (I recommend clicking the button to watch it on YouTube so you can full screen it):

I was particularly struck by the arresting order to everything, especially the shot from 2:35 to 3:18. The architecture, the shapes, the structure, the colors, the materials, the light, the movements, the symmetry, the sounds—all of it comes together in harmonious order to worship and imitate the God who created this world in the first place, who himself hangs on the cross in the middle of it all, perfectly static and perfectly active at the same time, incessantly exuding love, more than anyone could ever need. A relationship of simultaneous and infinite giving and infinite receiving between God and Man, incarnated in the person of the God-Man Christ. It is the "marriage supper of the Lamb," (Rev. 19:9).

I was also struck by the people—the rag-tag assembly of low-lifes, who spend 99% of their time just going about their daily business, trying to get by, and will never do anything of note. These are the heroes of Christianity. These are the true Saints. The fathers who work tirelessly without complaining to support their families. The mothers who happily and lovingly sacrifice their bodies so that the world can be brightened by the faces of her children. The older siblings who willingly step up to become like assistant parents when 9 kids just gets to be too many for mom to handle without any help.

Heaven looks just like the world we live in now, except, everything will be what it has the potential to be, and more.