The Trial by Bitter Water: An Apocryphal Tale of the Virgin Mary Being Tested for Adultery

As important as she is in the Christian tradition, the Bible doesn’t give us a whole lot of details about the life of Mary, especially prior to her conception of Jesus. To give her a backstory and fill in some gaps, the Protoevangelium of James (aka the Gospel of James) was written in the second century, probably in Syria. The author purports to be the apostle James, the brother of Jesus (by an earlier marriage of Joseph’s, according to the text), but the actual author is unknown. While parts of it are based on the canonical Gospels of Matthew and Luke, most of the material is legendary, developed to satisfy people’s curiosity about Jesus’s parentage and some of the events of his infancy.

The Protoevangelium of James was, and remains, immensely popular in Eastern Christianity, having been translated early on from its original Greek into Syriac, Ethiopic, Coptic, Armenian, and Arabic. On how the Orthodox Church views the text today, I found this Reddit thread interesting.

A later version of it, with additions and modifications, emerged in Latin by the seventh century under the name the Gospel of Pseudo-Matthew (aka the Infancy Gospel of Matthew), popularizing its stories in the West.

None of the three branches of Christianity regards these gospels as scripture—the Gelasian Decree of circa 495 officially classified the Protoevangelium as apocryphal, meaning not inspired or authoritative—but nonetheless, they have heavily influenced (in Catholicism and Eastern Orthodoxy) Christian art and Mariology.

Trying to interpret Christian artworks depicting unfamiliar scenes or details is how I first brushed up against the Protoevangelium of James and the Gospel of Pseudo-Matthew.

One such scene, which is rare but sometimes appears between images of the Visitation (or the Annunciation to Mary, or the First Dream of Joseph) and the Journey to Bethlehem, is of Mary standing before a priest, holding a cup. This, I learned, depicts the so-called trial by bitter water, or sotah ritual, an ancient Hebrew method for dealing judicially with women who were suspected of adultery. Outlined in Numbers 5:11–31, in this ritual, a suspicious husband was to bring his wife to the tabernacle to subject her to a trial by ordeal. After receiving a grain offering from the husband, the priest would mix a concoction of holy water, dust from the tabernacle floor, and curses scraped off from the parchment they were written on. The wife would be compelled to swear her innocence and then drink the cup. If she was guilty of marital unfaithfulness, she would suffer painful reproductive affliction;1 but if not, she would be unharmed and thus exonerated.

Trial by ordeal was a common legal recourse in patriarchal cultures across the ancient Near East, reflecting distrust of women’s sexuality and reinforcing husbands’ domination over their wives. That it was a sanctioned practice in the Old Testament is troubling, to say the least—but let’s sidestep that discussion for now. Let me simply commend to you the Numbers 5 visual commentary by Maryanne Saunders (Master of Studies, History of Art, Oxford), which examines three artworks based on this passage, including a feminist Jewish one.

Trial by Bitter Water (Ateni, Georgia) (detail)
Fresco, 11th century, Church of the Dormition of the Virgin Mary, Ateni, Georgia. (See a wider shot below.)

According to the Protoevangelium of James, sometime after the angel had appeared to Joseph convincing him of Mary’s fidelity, a Jewish scribe named Annas saw Mary’s pregnant belly and reported both her and Joseph to the priest for sexual sin, for they were not yet married. They maintained their innocence and were made to drink a potion that would have no effect if they were telling the truth but that would make them ill if they were indeed guilty. Of course, they came out scot-free. Their chastity was divinely confirmed.

(Related post: https://artandtheology.org/2022/12/10/advent-day-14-joseph/)

This account of the Jewish ritual of sotah is unique in that (1) it is initiated by a third party, and (2) the male partner is also accused and made to drink the potential curse. Traditionally, the ritual could be initiated only by a husband. Scholars cite the Protoevangelium author’s apparent unfamiliarity with Jewish practices—this and others—as evidence that he was not Jewish (as the historical James was).

The Protoevangelium was written at a time when opponents of Christianity were decrying the virgin birth. The pagan philosopher Celsus, for example, insisted that while pledged to Joseph, Mary had an affair with the Roman soldier Panthera, and that Jesus was the illegitimate fruit of that union. The story of the trial by bitter water was an attempt to defend Mary against the charge of adultery and Jesus against the charge of ignoble origins. It also—if one believes God was indeed the moral adjudicator in the trial—corroborates the message Mary and Joseph claimed to have received separately from an angel, that Jesus was the Son of God.

I’m sharing this episode from the Protoevangelium not because I think it actually happened but so that you have more context for an image that occasionally crops up in cycles on the life of Mary. Also, perhaps its elaboration on the scandal and consequences of alleged adultery in ancient Jewish culture helps better situate us in Mary’s time and place.

Before I quote the relevant excerpt, a little further background is in order, to explain some of what’s mentioned in the dialogues. Earlier in the Protoevangelium, we read that as an expression of gratitude, Mary’s parents dedicated her to the service of God, and that she lived in the temple in Jerusalem from age three until puberty, where she was fed by angels. When her first menstruation loomed, the priests consulted on what to do with her, lest she defile the temple with her blood. They decided to give her over to the care of Joseph, an elderly widower with grown children.

OK, so now, here are chapters 15 and 16 of the Protoevangelium of James, as translated by Alexander Walker, courtesy of New Advent (I’ve added paragraph breaks):

15. And Annas the scribe came to him [Joseph], and said: “Why have you not appeared in our assembly?”

And Joseph said to him: “Because I was weary from my journey, and rested the first day.”

And he [Annas] turned, and saw that Mary was with child. And he ran away to the priest, and said to him: “Joseph, whom you vouched for, has committed a grievous crime.”

And the priest said: “How so?”

And he said: “He has defiled the virgin whom he received out of the temple of the Lord, and has married her by stealth, and has not revealed it to the sons of Israel.”

And the priest answering, said: “Has Joseph done this?”

Then said Annas the scribe: “Send officers, and you will find the virgin with child.” And the officers went away, and found it as he had said; and they brought her along with Joseph to the tribunal.

And the priest said: “Mary, why have you done this? And why have you brought your soul low, and forgotten the Lord your God? You that wast reared in the holy of holies, and that received food from the hand of an angel, and heard the hymns, and danced before Him, why have you done this?”

And she wept bitterly, saying: “As the Lord my God lives, I am pure before Him, and know not a man.”

And the priest said to Joseph: “Why have you done this?”

And Joseph said: “As the Lord lives, I am pure concerning her.”

Then said the priest: “Bear not false witness, but speak the truth. You have married her by stealth, and hast not revealed it to the sons of Israel, and hast not bowed your head under the strong hand, that your seed might be blessed.” And Joseph was silent.

16. And the priest said: “Give up the virgin whom you received out of the temple of the Lord.” And Joseph burst into tears. And the priest said: “I will give you to drink of the water of the ordeal of the Lord, and He shall make manifest your sins in your eyes.”

And the priest took the water, and gave Joseph to drink and sent him away to the hill-country; and he returned unhurt. And he gave to Mary also to drink, and sent her away to the hill-country; and she returned unhurt. And all the people wondered that sin did not appear in them.

And the priest said: “If the Lord God has not made manifest your sins, neither do I judge you.” And he sent them away.

And Joseph took Mary, and went away to his own house, rejoicing and glorifying the God of Israel.

Here’s how that episode is adapted in chapter 12 of the Gospel of Pseudo-Matthew—again, translated by Walker, and in the public domain:

After these things [the angelic announcements to Mary and Joseph] there arose a great report that Mary was with child. And Joseph was seized by the officers of the temple, and brought along with Mary to the high priest. And he with the priests began to reproach him, and to say: “Why have you beguiled so great and so glorious a virgin, who was fed like a dove in the temple by the angels of God, who never wished either to see or to have a man, who had the most excellent knowledge of the law of God? If you had not done violence to her, she would still have remained in her virginity.”

And Joseph vowed, and swore that he had never touched her at all.

And Abiathar the high priest answered him: “As the Lord lives, I will give you to drink of the water of drinking of the Lord, and immediately your sin will appear.”

Then was assembled a multitude of people which could not be numbered, and Mary was brought to the temple. And the priests, and her relatives, and her parents wept, and said to Mary: “Confess to the priests your sin, you that wast like a dove in the temple of God, and received food from the hands of an angel.”

And again Joseph was summoned to the altar, and the water of drinking of the Lord was given him to drink. And when anyone that had lied drank this water, and walked seven times round the altar, God used to show some sign in his face. When, therefore, Joseph had drunk in safety, and had walked round the altar seven times, no sign of sin appeared in him. Then all the priests, and the officers, and the people justified him, saying: “Blessed are you, seeing that no charge has been found good against you.”

And they summoned Mary, and said: “And what excuse can you have? Or what greater sign can appear in you than the conception of your womb, which betrays you? This only we require of you, that since Joseph is pure regarding you, you confess who it is that has beguiled you. For it is better that your confession should betray you, than that the wrath of God should set a mark on your face, and expose you in the midst of the people.”

Then Mary said, steadfastly and without trembling: “O Lord God, King over all, who know all secrets, if there be any pollution in me, or any sin, or any evil desires, or unchastity, expose me in the sight of all the people, and make me an example of punishment to all.” Thus saying, she went up to the altar of the Lord boldly, and drank the water of drinking, and walked round the altar seven times, and no spot was found in her.

And when all the people were in the utmost astonishment, seeing that she was with child, and that no sign had appeared in her face, they began to be disturbed among themselves by conflicting statements: some said that she was holy and unspotted, others that she was wicked and defiled.

Then Mary, seeing that she was still suspected by the people, and that on that account she did not seem to them to be wholly cleared, said in the hearing of all, with a loud voice, “As the Lord Adonai lives, the Lord of Hosts before whom I stand, I have not known man; but I am known by Him to whom from my earliest years I have devoted myself. And this vow I made to my God from my infancy, that I should remain unspotted in Him who created me, and I trust that I shall so live to Him alone, and serve Him alone; and in Him, as long as I shall live, will I remain unpolluted.”

Then they all began to kiss her feet and to embrace her knees, asking her to pardon them for their wicked suspicions. And she was led down to her house with exultation and joy by the people, and the priests, and all the virgins. And they cried out, and said: “Blessed be the name of the Lord forever, because He has manifested your holiness to all His people Israel.”

Some of the differences from the Protoevangelium of James are:

  1. Mary and Joseph’s accusers are a group of unnamed religious officials rather than the scribe Annas.
  2. It’s specified that Mary and Joseph are brought before the high priest, and he’s named Abiathar. (In the Protoevangelium, the high priest, from the time of Mary’s presentation in the temple as a child to just after the birth of Christ, is Zechariah, Elizabeth’s husband.)
  3. The sotah ritual involves the accused circling the altar seven times rather than going away to the hill country and returning.
  4. Most notably, Mary vows to remain celibate for life. This passage lent power to (or derived power from?) the developing doctrine of Mary’s perpetual virginity—considered dogma by the Roman Catholic Church, as formally declared at the Lateran Council of 649, and taught, too, by the Eastern Orthodox Church, who accept the title “ever-virgin” for Mary, as recognized at the Second Council of Constantinople in 553.

One of the earliest known appearances of the trial by bitter water in visual art is on one of the twenty-seven surviving ivory plaques set into the cathedra (episcopal throne) of Archbishop Maximian of Ravenna.

Trial by Bitter Water (Throne of Maximian)
Throne of Maximian (detail), Constantinople or Alexandria, ca. 545–53. Ivory. Archiepiscopal Museum, Ravenna, Italy. [view full throne]

Standing at the right, Mary holds a vessel in one hand and a skein of wool in the other. (The Protoevangelium says she was among the young women who wove a new veil for the holy of holies.) Joseph stands across from her with a staff in hand, and behind her stands an angel, indicating divine intervention to determine guilt or innocence.  

Around the same time, the trial by bitter water appeared in another ivory made in the Eastern Mediterranean—possibly Syria.

Trial by Bitter Water (Louvre)
Detail of an ivory band depicting the Trial by Bitter Water, Eastern Mediterranean (Syria?), 550–600. Musée du Louvre, OA 11149. [view full artwork]

And in a sequence of Marian scenes on a carved ivory Gospel-book cover from France.

Trial by Bitter Water (Lupicin Gospels)
Ivory panel from the back cover of the Lupicin Gospels, France, 6th century. Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris. [view full cover]

The scene is found painted inside several of the cave churches of Cappadocia from the ninth through eleventh centuries, including St. Eustathios, Tokalı (see below), Kılıçlar, Bahattin Samanlığı, Aynalı, Eğritaş, and Pürenli Seki, as the art historian Yıldız Ötüken has pointed out.

In Old and “New” Tokalı Kilise (Buckle Church), the latter built as an extension forty years after the original, Joseph drinks the bitter water as well as Mary, as the apocryphal gospels state but which is rarely shown.

Trial by Bitter Water (Old Tokali)
Fresco, ca. 920, south wall, Old Tokalı Kilise (Buckle Church), Göreme Open Air Museum, Cappadocia, Turkey [view wider shot]

Trial by Bitter Water (New Tokali)
Fresco, ca. 960, New Tokalı Kilise (Buckle Church), Göreme Open Air Museum, Cappadocia, Turkey

So, too, at Çavuşin Church:

Trial by Bitter Water (Çavuşin)
Fresco, mid-10th century, Çavuşin Church, Göreme National Park, Cappadocia, Turkey [view wider shot]

But not at Pancarlik Church:

Trial by Bitter Water (Pancarlik Church)
Fresco, 11th century, Pancarlik Church, Cappadocia, Turkey [view wider shot]

The trial by bitter water also appears elsewhere in the Balkans, such as in Georgia and North Macedonia.

Trial by Bitter Water (Ateni, Georgia)
Fresco, 11th century, Church of the Dormition of the Virgin Mary, Ateni, Georgia

Trial by Bitter Water (Balkans)
I’m not able to confirm, but blogger Marina Golubina says this is a 13th-century fresco from Sušica (near Skopje) in North Macedonia.

Joseph's Reproach, Trial by Bitter Water, Joseph's Dream
Michael Astrapa and Eutychius, Joseph’s Reproach, the Trial by Bitter Water, and Joseph’s Dream, 1295. Fresco, north wall, Church of the Virgin Mary Peribleptos, Ohrid, North Macedonia.

Trial by Bitter Water (Macedonia)
Fresco, 1330, Church of the Presentation of the Virgin in the Temple, Kucevište, North Macedonia

In that second image in the above grouping, Mary is accompanied to the temple by her five (four?) virgin companions, named in the Gospel of Pseudo-Matthew as Rebecca, Sephora, Susanna, Abigea, and Cael.

Due to overlapping content, the Protoevangelium of James is illustrated in detail in the twelfth-century manuscript Six Homilies on the Life of the Virgin by James of Kokkinobaphos, which was made by a prominent atelier in Constantinople and is held at the Vatican Library. The trial by bitter water is divided into two separate scenes: one of Joseph drinking the cup and being escorted up the mountain, and one of Mary doing the same.

Trial by Bitter Water (Joseph) (Vatican)
Joseph drinks the cup from Zechariah, Constantinople, first half of 12th century. From a manuscript of the Six Homilies on the Life of the Virgin by James of Kokkinobaphos. Rome, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Vat. gr. 1162, fol. 184r. [object record]

Trial by Bitter Water (Mary) (Vatican)
Mary drinks the cup from Zechariah, Constantinople, first half of 12th century. From a manuscript of the Six Homilies on the Life of the Virgin by James of Kokkinobaphos. Rome, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Vat. gr. 1162, fol. 188r. [object record]

Other scenes in the sequence portray Joseph’s dream, Joseph consulting with his sons, Joseph apologizing to Mary, Annas the scribe confronting Joseph and the pregnant Mary, Annas reporting the couple to the high priest Zechariah, Mary and Joseph being brought to the temple, Zechariah talking with Joseph, Zechariah talking with Mary, and after the drink, Mary returning unharmed and Zechariah proclaiming her innocence, and then Mary, Joseph, and Joseph’s sons leaving Jerusalem.

On occasion, the trial by bitter water appears in Russian icons, such as on the walls of St. Sophia Cathedral in Vologda.

Trial by Bitter Water (Russia)
Fresco, 1685–87, St. Sophia Cathedral, Vologda, Russia

I first encountered it, though, in my studies of Ethiopian art, where it appears in a handful of illuminated manuscripts.

Trial by Bitter Water (Ethiopia)
The Trial by Bitter Water, from an Ethiopian Gospel-book, late 14th–early 15th century. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

Trial by Bitter Water (Ethiopia)
Painting from a Miracles of Mary manuscript, Ethiopia, probably 18th century. Dimā Giyorgis Monastery, Goğğām Province, Ethiopia. Shelfmark: G2-IV-2.

The trial by bitter water is almost nonexistent in Western art. One exception is a fresco inside the Church of Santa Maria foris portas (Church of St. Mary Outside the Gates) in Castelseprio, Italy. All the frescoes there, which are some of the most sophisticated and expressive to have survived from the early medieval period, exhibit a strong Byzantine influence.

Trial by Bitter Water (Castelseprio)
Fresco, first half of 9th century, Church of Santa Maria foris portas (Church of St. Mary Outside the Gates), Castelseprio, Italy. Photo: Francesco Bini.

A mosaic at the Basilica of San Marco (Saint Mark’s) in Venice could easily be mistaken for the trial by bitter water, as Mary appears to be taking in hand the same pitcher with which she draws water from the well in the adjacent Annunciation scene.

Annunciation at the Spring (San Marco, Venice)
The Annunciation at the Spring and the Handing Over of Purple to Mary, detail of transept mosaic in the Basilica of San Marco, Venice, 12th century

But the Latin inscription, Quo tingat vela paravit, indicates that the priest is handing Mary a vase of dye. This is another reference to the Protoevangelium: Chapter 10 says that after her betrothal to Joseph but before their marriage, Mary was one of seven virgins from the house of David selected by a council of priests to remake the temple veil (presumably to replace the old worn one). By lot, she was chosen to spin and weave the scarlet and purple.

Other comparable images, such as the mosaic at the former Chora Church (now Kariye Mosque) in Istanbul, show the priest handing Mary a skein of wool instead.

According to the Protoevangelium, Mary was spinning wool for this project when she was interrupted by the angel Gabriel with news of an even greater task she had been chosen for.

Those who disbelieved her about how her pregnancy came to be insisted she be brought to the temple for a trial by bitter water. Sometimes in image cycles on the life of Mary, such as the one on the Carolingian-era Werden Casket, she is shown on her way to the trial rather than at it, being led to the temple by an angel, priest, or moral police to verify her account before God.

Credit goes to Marina Golubina for compiling the vast majority of these images in a blog series (in Russian): Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, Part 15, Part 16. As always, I have linked each image to its online source and have done my best to provide captioning info.


NOTES

  1. When Christians claim that the Bible opposes abortion, some people point to Numbers 5:11–31 as a counterexample, since, for the woman who has conceived a child out of wedlock, the “bitter water” is essentially an abortifacient; “if you have gone astray while under your husband’s authority, if you have defiled yourself and some man other than your husband has had intercourse with you, . . . now may this water that brings the curse enter your bowels and make your womb discharge, your uterus drop!” the priest pronounces (Num. 5:20, 22 NRSV). There’s ambiguity in the Hebrew text as to whether this curse involves loss of a fetus or only infertility. ↩︎

Roundup: Films for Advent, new Advent books, and more

BLOG SERIES: Three excellent, brief musings on the season of Advent by W. David O. Taylor, published last year on his blog:

  1. “Advent is for singing not-Christmas songs”: “This is, of course, easier said than done. Hymnals fail to supply a decent list of options and congregants often clamor for the ‘traditional’ carols, the songs of triumphant appearance and glorious coming. Yet this insistence fights against the dominant concern of the Gospels. Luke especially spends the bulk of his story anticipating Christ’s birth rather than narrating his arrival. The dramatic tension lies in what’s to come—not in what’s happened already . . .”
  2. “Advent is about being neither fish nor fowl”: “In being neither here nor there, Advent reminds us of our truest identity. We are amphibious creatures . . .”
  3. “Advent is about the goodness of divine interruptions”: “The entire story of Advent is a story of interruptions. . . . May we, like the actors in God’s divine nativity drama, have eyes to see and hearts to welcome his interrupting work in our lives. May we trust that he wills our deepest good in these interruptions. May we be blessed in our trust in him.”

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ESSAY: “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel: Dark Good News” by Linda Gregerson, Image: Poet Linda Gregerson reflects, in prose, on the quintessential Advent hymn, which dates back to the Middle Ages. She grew up singing it in her Methodist church every December. “It’s ironic, really—it quite betrays me—to realize that I must have loved this hymn for its whiff of the monastery: chalice and incense smuggled in by way of the minor chord. There’s a moment, a breathtaking moment, when the meter defies expectation. Everything has been steady-as-you-go, four-four time, all quarter notes and dotted halves. But during that remarkable refrain, just when you expect to dwell on the last syllable of the holy name for a count of three, as every verse before this has prepared you to do, the hymn leaps forward and anticipates itself by half a measure. No breath, no stately pause: Emmanuel / Shall come to thee, as though rushing to arrival. Those missed beats never fail to stop my heart.”

I didn’t know what Gregerson was talking about until I looked up the notation in The United Methodist Hymnal no. 211, and sure enough, in measure 15 there are two extra beats. In all the other hymnals I have (and all the recordings of the song I’ve heard), that measure is divided into two and the regular meter sustained, with “el” held out for three beats. Interesting! It does feel unnatural to me to sing it the way she suggests, but she offers a compelling theological reason for why the arranger made that decision.

O Come_v1
This is the standard way (as far as I’m concerned) of singing “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.” Sheet music excerpt from Majesty Hymns, the hymnal of my youth.

O Come_v2
Sheet music excerpt from The United Methodist Hymnal, showing the unusual (but significant, Gregerson claims) shift from 4/4 meter to 6/4 in one of the measures of the refrain

Here’s an example of a congregation (First United Methodist Houston) singing the refrain the way Gregerson so fondly remembers:

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NEW BOOKS:

>> The Art of Living in Advent: 28 Days of Joyful Waiting by Sylvie Vanhoozer: A retired French teacher and a botanical artist, Sylvie Vanhoozer was born and grew up in Provence and now lives in Illinois with her husband, the theologian Kevin Vanhoozer. In this little illustrated book, she introduces readers to the tradition of Provençal crèches, localized nativity scenes populated by santons (“little saints”). Made from the land’s clay, the santons resemble nineteenth-century villagers, who offer up gifts from their vocations—olives, bread, wine, wood, sheep, hurdy-gurdy music, herbal remedies. (Reminds me of the presepe from southern Italy that I encountered some years ago!) The crèches are also traditionally decorated with native vegetation, such as thyme, juniper, lavender, and rosemary, freshly harvested on the first weekend of Advent. This is one of the ways in which Provençals embrace Christ’s presence in their own time and place.

The Art of Living in Advent

“I am not inviting readers to leave their place and go to some distant land in a distant past,” Vanhoozer writes. “The invitation is rather to transpose this Provençal scene into one’s own place, to live the same story in a different context. . . . The question is not ‘Did Jesus really come to Provence?’ but rather ‘Could Jesus really come here, to me?’ Could my home, my neighborhood, my church, become a crèche scene, with Christ right here beside me, in me?”

I think this book would have worked better as a literary essay, as it feels padded out to make its ninety-page count, with redundancies and somewhat arbitrary divisions. But I love how Vanhoozer draws us into this cherished and still-living tradition from her childhood and calls us to see and participate in the story of God’s coming where we live, in all its particularities.

>> Advent: 24 Kunstwerke zur Bibel aus aller Welt by Christian Weber: Rev. Dr. Christian Weber [previously] is the director of studies for Mission 21, an international mission agency of the Protestant Reformed Churches in Switzerland. His work brings him into contact with religious art from diverse parts of the globe. I’m delighted by this new (German-language) book of his, whose title translates to Advent: 24 Bible-Inspired Artworks from Around the World. Organized into four parts (“Words of Prophecy,” “Parables of Jesus,” “John the Baptist,” and “Mary”) and printed in full color, the book features twenty-four primary artworks (plus some supplementary) from twenty-two countries, providing background on and interpretations of each, as well as information about the artists and a bibliography.

Advent (Mission 21 book cover)
Advent (Mission 21 page spread)
Sample page spread from Advent: 24 Kunstwerke zur Bibel aus aller Welt, showing a woodcut by the Ghanaian artist Kwabena (Emmanuel) Addo-Osafo

A church mural from Zimbabwe, a kalamkari from South India, a gourd carving from Peru, a manuscript illumination from Armenia—these are among the artworks Weber highlights. Some of the works are of higher quality than others, but the emphasis is on how the scripture texts of the Advent season have prompted artistic responses in a variety of places outside Europe, which is the continent that has most shaped the popular imagination when it comes to the biblical story. Weber’s Advent encourages us to widen those imaginations. Despite my fifteen or so years spent researching global Christian art, Weber is always bringing new artists to my attention! You can view sample pages from the book on the publisher’s website.

The cover image is a detail of For Those in Darkness by the American artist Lauren Wright Pittman.

Weber is looking for a North American publisher to release an English-language edition of the book.

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ARTICLE/VIDEO: “Five Films to Help You Observe Advent” by Abby Olcese, Think Christian: Abby Olcese, author of Films for All Seasons: Experiencing the Church Year at the Movies, provides five movie suggestions for Advent, corresponding to the themes of Hope, Faith, Joy, Peace, and Christ. (Other churches and families, like mine, substitute “Faith” with “Love” on their Advent wreaths; Olcese’s fifth pick, for Christmas Eve, would fit the “Love” theme perfectly, but see also my suggestion below.) You can read the content as an article or watch it in video format, which includes a few film clips:

ALSO: Allow me to add one of my own suggestions: American Symphony, a 2023 documentary about musical artist Jon Batiste, whose meteoric rise to fame coincided with the return of his partner Suleika Jaouad’s leukemia. Directed by Matthew Heineman, the film follows a year in the life of the married couple, as Batiste prepared for the premiere of his boundary-breaking American Symphony composition at Carnegie Hall in September 2022 while Jaouad endured chemotherapy. It has a very Advent-y feel, by which I mean its calling on God in the darkness (Batiste is a devout Christian) and its orientation around faith, hope, and love. It’s a beautiful, intimate portrait of a marriage, of creativity, courage, and care.

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ART: Advent Wreath by Beach4Art: Beach4Art is a family of four who create beach art inspired by beautiful nature in Devon, UK. (Follow them on Facebook, Instagram, or TikTok, and see their Etsy shop.) Below are some photos of the Advent wreath they made out of twigs, stones, and shells on Sandymere beach for the first Sunday of Advent in 2023.

Enlarged in the Waiting

Winkler, Uli_Mary
Uli Winkler (German, 1969–), Mary, 1998. Bronze, height 37 cm. Private collection. [commentary]

Standing at the threshold of another Advent, we hear the invitation of Christ: ‘Come away to a deserted place and rest a while.’ And so we begin our season of growth and expectation—a time to secret ourselves with Mary, to join our hearts with hers, and to grow pregnant with God together. God invites us to a quiet place of reflection and bounty. This Advent, choose some time for silence. Make space within yourself to grow large with the abundance of God’s favor. Make this a time to fill your lungs deeply with God so that you can breathe Christ into the world.

—Thomas Hoffman, A Child in Winter: Advent, Christmas, and Epiphany with Caryll Houselander, p. 8

Waiting does not diminish us, any more than waiting diminishes a pregnant mother. We are enlarged in the waiting. We, of course, don’t see what is enlarging us. But the longer we wait, the larger we become, and the more joyful our expectancy.

—Romans 8:24–25 (MSG)

Advent Series 2025

Want to receive a daily pairing of art and music in your inbox during this Advent and Christmas season? Sign up here. (If you already subscribe to the blog, you’re all set.) Posts will run from November 29, the day before the first Sunday of Advent, to Epiphany on January 6. I have also planned a few poems and roundups to go out during that time.

Advent 2025 promo

Advent is my favorite season of the church year because it taps into the deep yearning I feel for this world to be set right, for God’s beauty to burst into it with an irrefutable finality—no more sin, no more sorrow. The season is a chance to practice hope, something I sometimes struggle with, as I tend to lean more cynical.

The readings, art, and music of Advent sweep me up into the grand narrative of scripture, attuning me to the ways God has always been coming to us, but fixing me especially on how in Bethlehem of Judea, he came in a very special way—as a human being—and nurturing my excitement for his imminent return to earth to wed it to heaven.

Advent themes include:

  • Lament and longing
  • Hope, peace, joy, love
  • Promise
  • John the Baptist, especially his call to repentance in preparation for the coming kingdom
  • The second coming of Christ (individual judgment, cosmic renewal)
  • The parable of the ten bridesmaids
  • The new heavens and the new earth
  • Isaiah’s messianic prophecies: a virgin conceiving, swords into plowshares, a peaceable kingdom, a great light shining on a people in darkness, a flowering branch from the root of Jesse, etc.
  • Pregnancy
  • Mary’s song
  • God with us

Based on these, I’ve curated dozens of visual and musical selections that I hope will make God’s story come alive to you in fresh ways. A thread installation, a soil-based performance, quilted detritus, a photograph from a war zone, confetti skies, stained glass oracles, a sixth-century apsidal mosaic from a Roman basilica, a medieval German New Year’s greeting by and for nuns, a Jemez Pueblo nativity in clay, a site-specific dance before a mural in Atlanta . . . these are some of the artworks that will be featured.

As for music, you’ll hear a classical setting of an Emily Dickinson poem, an adaptation of Psalm 27 by a Ugandan worship collective, a contemporary “Mass for Peace,” a Latin American song of the Annunciation, a dialogue between Mary and the infant Christ from Renaissance England, a responsory by the medieval polymath Hildegard of Bingen, offerings from many different singer-songwriters, and more.

Many of the songs will be drawn from my Advent playlist on Spotify, which I first published in 2020 but have been adding to each year:

If you know of anyone else who might be interested in an arts-based approach to Advent and Christmas devotions, please share with them the link to this post. You can peruse previous years’ entries to get a flavor:

Advent 2024 | Christmas 2024
Advent 2023 | Christmas 2023
Advent 2022 | Christmas 2022
Advent 2021 | Christmas 2021
Advent 2020 (abbreviated)

I’m looking forward to sharing what I’ve curated for the start of this new liturgical year, as time unfolds across four hallowed weeks of expectant waiting and then Twelve Days of festivity and wonder.

Roundup: “Demons” (Dostoevsky) book club, quilting in prison, church installation by Kimsooja, and more

ONLINE COURSE: Studying the novel Demons by Fyodor Dostoevsky with Brian Zahnd, January 3–March 9, 2026: This ten-week online course led by Pastor Brian Zahnd (a Christian writer and preacher I admire) will explore Dostoevsky’s “darkest and most prophetic novel”: Demons (aka The Possessed or The Devils), a social and political satire, psychological drama, and large-scale tragedy inspired by the true story of a 1869 political murder in Russia. The course sounds intriguing to me, and I’m contemplating whether I can invest the time in a seven-hundred-page book—but I did buy a copy just in case! It’s the only one of the literary master’s four novels I haven’t read.

Demons (book cover)

“Dostoevsky’s Demons changed me,” Zahnd writes on Substack. “From it I learned the danger of giving oneself to an ism instead of to Christ. Isms are idols and they often become demonic. Admittedly Demons is a difficult novel, but it’s also prophetic and timely. . . . As you read Demons, expect to be horrified, but also expect to laugh—you are meant to. During the course we will be horrified and warned, but we will also laugh and learn together.”

The live Q&As will take place the first ten Mondays of 2026 at 5 p.m. CT (6 p.m. ET).

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SEMINAR (VIDEO): How to Watch a Movie (as a Christian)” with Chris Retts and Morgan Jefferson: On his Footnotes Substack, historian Jemar Tisby recently hosted a teach-in with two team members from the Los Angeles Film Studies Center, a nonprofit educational program designed to give undergraduate students at Christian colleges and universities meaningful experience in the film industry during a semester “abroad” in Los Angeles. Chris Retts is the director of the center, and Morgan Jefferson is an instructor.

Before discussing how to watch a movie, they discuss why Christians should watch movies in the first place, beyond the obvious (enjoyment):

  1. Because general revelation can happen anywhere, even at the movies (Rom. 1:20).
  2. Because movies generate empathy, which is central to the greatest commandment (Matt. 22:37–40).
  3. Because every movie has a theology, and media literacy makes it conscious and discernable (1 John 4:1).

They also discuss the four modes of meaning that filmmakers work with; cinematic language; and four steps for exegeting (“drawing out”) a film.

How does film relate to Dr. Tisby’s work at the intersection of faith, history, and justice? He has written for years about the dangers of white Christian nationalism. He says adherents of that ideology, or any, are not evaluating a list of propositions but are buying into a narrative; and “you can’t meet a narrative with logical reasoning,” he says. “You have to invite them into a counter-narrative—a more beautiful story.” Story is why he’s interested in film, as film is an engaging, and probably the most popular (in the US), storytelling medium. “Stories shape our sense of what’s true, what’s possible, and who belongs. That’s as true for political movements as it is for movies.”

For some of my movie recommendations, see my Top 20 Films of 2024 list and “Five Films about Finding Commmunity.”

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DOCUMENTARY SHORT: The Quilters (2024), dir. Jenifer McShane: This thirty-minute documentary on Netflix follows a group of men in a maximum-security prison in Missouri who design and sew custom quilts for children in foster care using donated fabrics and old machines. They care deeply about the quality of their work—they’re proud of what they make—and are emotional about the recipients, some of whom send thank-you cards. The film is about creating beauty and meaning within strict confines, not letting destructive choices from your past stymie you from making constructive ones in the present.

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TEMPORARY INSTALLATION: To Breathe—Mokum by Kimsooja, Oude Kerk (Old Church), Amsterdam, May 23–November 9, 2025: Sorry I didn’t get this out while the installation was still up (it wrapped on Sunday), but please do explore the photographic documentation. Kimsooja’s To Breathe—Mokum explores themes of migration, belonging, and the transient nature of home; the Yiddish word in its subtitle means “safe haven.” “At the work’s heart are Kimsooja’s iconic bottari—colorful textile bundles inspired by traditional Korean wrapping cloths,” designboom writes. “Spread across the [medieval] stone floor of the church, these bundles are filled with clothing donated by members of Amsterdam’s diverse communities. Each piece of clothing represents the lives and stories of the people who contribute to the city’s rich multicultural fabric. These textile bundles serve as symbols of both personal and collective journeys, embodying the arrival and departure of individuals who have shaped the identity of the city” over its 750 years.

Kimsooja_To Breathe (Mokum)
Kimsooja (Korean, 1957–), To Breathe—Mokum (partial view), 2025. Site-specific installation at Oude Kerk, Amsterdam. Photo: Natascha Libbert.

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POEMS:

>> “On the Staten Island Ferry” by A. E. Stallings, Plough, July 1, 2025: Liberty is an American ideal—but for many in this country, an illusory one. Riding in New York Harbor with a boatload of commuters and tourists, Stallings lets settle what a young girl, pointing to the Statue of Liberty, exclaims.

(Related post: “One sonnet vs. shouted prose: Lady Liberty, Emma Lazarus, and Trump”)

>> “The Pillar of Cloud and Fire” by Anna A. Friedrich, Monafolkspeak (Substack), October 29, 2025: The poet reflects on her confusion as a child about this manifestation of God from the Old Testament, which leads her to surprising insights.

Book Review: Accumulated Lessons in Displacement: Poems by Rachel E. Hicks

. . . each day a misery and a marvel, each person also.

—Rachel E. Hicks, from “Accumulated Lessons in Displacement”

A white American born in the foothills of the Himalayas to international school educators, Rachel E. Hicks is a second-generation third-culture kid (TCK) whose writing reflects decades of living as a global nomad, exploring themes of memory, connection, suffering, exile (both physical and spiritual), hospitality, and hope. She grew up in six countries—India, Pakistan, the United States, Jordan, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and Hong Kong—and spent seven years as an adult in Chengdu, China, where she worked for the relief and development organization Food for the Hungry.

In 2013, she, her husband, and their two kids repatriated to the US, settling in Baltimore, where they live today. Hicks has lived in Baltimore longer than in any other city. But even with this rootedness, “the soil of each place in which I’ve lived still clings,” she says.

Accumulated Lessons in Displacement

In her debut poetry collection, Accumulated Lessons in Displacement (Wipf & Stock / Resource Publications, 2025), Hicks grapples with the experience of being a “perpetual pilgrim”—on her way to a particular place but also attuned to the significance of each moment along the way. “Pilgrims learn to walk a life of paradox: even though their hearts are set on their final destination, they walk through each day alive to its possibilities, people and lessons,” she wrote in a 2014 blog post.

What is “home”? How can we bear to leave home, whether forced to do so by war, famine, or natural disaster, or we choose to for opportunity or ministry? What do we do with feelings of alienation when we find ourselves in a culture not our own or in which we don’t fit well? How do we live cross-culturally? How do we make a home where we’re at? What are our responsibilities to place? Who is our neighbor?

“I believe that many—all?—of us live our lives with some sense of exile,” Hicks writes on her blog. “We experience it and are aware of it to varying degrees, but it’s there. So many of our quests, our longings, our purpose-seeking, and the stories we create and tell are about trying to find our way home. Home being that place—literal or figurative—in which we feel wholeness and true belonging.”

Accumulated Lessons is divided into two parts: “Bright Sadness, Bitter Joy” and “A Deeper Knowing.” The term “bright sadness”—a translation of the Greek word charmolypê—comes from the Eastern Orthodox tradition, and it describes the paradoxical state of mourning over sin while rejoicing in God’s grace. It can also describe the paradox of living a life of joy amid suffering.

I was trying to learn the word for joy

that settles awkwardly in grief’s nest, an oversized bird.
I didn’t want to scare it away.

So says the speaker in the book’s title poem, “Accumulated Lessons in Displacement.” Unfolding over eight sections, this persona poem draws on Hicks’s own experience of abrupt displacement from Kinshasa as a teenager, as well as the experiences of Bosnian refugee friends, and Syrian refugees she had only read about in the news.

It opens with a reflection on “home” in all its ordinariness—the yellow coffee cup, the dusty houseplant, the sunlit window seat—and laments that “no footpath exists leading back to these things,” which, the reader is led to presume, have been destroyed by armed conflict, or its residents blocked from returning by threat of death.

The poem contains several arresting images, like the green threads of a sweater on barbed wire tracing a path across miles. A boy who collects bullet casings to make a necklace for his sister. Charred diary pages dancing around a blown-out living room, “ma[king] a strange poem in my heart.”

Hicks wrestles with the savage violence humans are capable of:

It makes no sense that a soldier can press a button

and somewhere a baby ignites into flame.
And he goes home and brushes his teeth.

What we do to each other, to other created souls.
Always I carry this burden like a child on my hip.

Another powerful poem in the collection is “Visit to Sarajevo,” where Hicks describes visiting the Bosnian-Herzegovinan capital with her friend Dragan, who was forced to flee it as a young married adult with a child in the 1990s after the city was besieged by Serbian forces. Hicks had met Dragan and his family in 2000 through her husband, Jim, who worked alongside him at a refugee resettlement agency in Phoenix, Arizona, and the families became close. Meeting up years later in Dragan’s hometown, Dragan leads Hicks through the once-familiar streets “in a haze of pride, nostalgia, nightmare,” giving her a tour of sites both historically significant and deeply personal.

Hicks’s passport country too has its national traumas, one of which was precipitated by 9/11, when in 2001, terrorists flew planes into the World Trade Center in New York City, killing almost three thousand people. In “Disaster Chaplaincy Training,” she describes a course she took, taught by a Ground Zero worker, to become further equipped for her work in China, which was focused on disaster preparedness and response. In the course, she learned how to “loiter with intent” in zones of disaster, “acclimat[ing] to [suffering’s] pungency.” Make sure, said the instructor, to “let them see you cupping a small ball / of hope—toss it up, catch it.”

Nationwide crisis struck the US again when on April 12, 2015, a young Black man from Baltimore, Freddie Gray, died of a spinal cord injury while in police custody, allegedly due to police brutality—though none of the six involved officers was ultimately held responsible. Gray’s death led to civil unrest in Baltimore (which Hicks had recently made her home) and throughout the country, as citizens demanded recognition, in word and practice, that “Black lives matter.”

Hicks wrote “The Morning After Freddie Gray’s Funeral” while Baltimore was on lockdown. Fumbling for words, she tries to explain to her children what’s going on as she, too, tries to educate herself more deeply about the history of racism in America and the longstanding grievances of the Black community she lives in. In the poem, she harvests mint from her garden to brew a gallon of black mint tea to share with her neighbor—

             as what? An offering, apology?

A way to say I’m trying—learning
about all that fuels these fires still
smoldering this hushed morning?

The staining of the clear water as the tea steeps becomes a metaphor.

Accumulated Lessons in Displacement addresses global suffering, more localized suffering, as well as personal and family suffering.

One example of the latter has to do with Hicks’s daughter’s diagnosis, following an ankle sprain, with complex regional pain syndrome (CRPS), Ehlers-Danlos syndrome (EDS), and postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome (POTS), chronic conditions that cause extreme nerve pain. “Bright Sadness” describes a return car ride from a fruitless medical visit, her daughter crying and gasping in agony in the back seat, when offhandedly, Hicks insists, “Turn your cries into opera!” This unexpected and ridiculous suggestion defuses, if for just a moment, the intense situation, resulting in “joy-laughing” amid plaintive contralto tones all the way home.

“Post-Miracle (I)” celebrates her daughter’s miraculous healing, holds the strange, tentative, empty-handed feeling of a fervent prayer request graciously granted. But then comes “Post-Miracle (II),” written when, after two months of her daughter being pain-free, the CRPS returned. Hicks wrestles with gratitude for the brief reprieve and anger at God’s “undoing” the miracle. She wonders about some of the healings Jesus performed in the Gospels, and whether they stuck.

“Post-Miracle (II)” is one of the few poems in the collection with end rhyme, each quatrain following an abba pattern. Perhaps the choice to work with a rhyme scheme for this particular subject represents, consciously or subconsciously, her attempt to make things rhyme again, to harmonize the reality of chronic pain with a good and loving God, to impose structure on the chaos.

Several of Hicks’s poems engage with biblical stories: the Suffering of Job, the Parable of the Prodigal Son, the Massacre of the Innocents, Zacchaeus encountering Jesus, the Walk to Emmaus. She performs poetic midrash, imaginatively interpreting and expanding the texts to connect with them on a deeper level.

Besides the biblical authors, some of her literary conversation partners in this collection are Frederick Buechner, Henri Nouwen, Simone Weil, Czesław Miłosz, Dostoevsky, G. K. Chesterton, Gregory of Nyssa, Paul Kingsnorth, and Karen Blixen.

Although there’s a heaviness to much of the material, it’s not overwhelming, as small graces are woven throughout: complimentary walnuts from a fruit shop owner on a winter Sunday; laughter over language barriers; refreshment from a water hose; the scent of turmeric and cardamom at a Punjab store in Baltimore, reminders of the poet’s birthplace; “the comfort of the priest’s thick thumb / upon my forehead, the signature of / Jesus,” on Ash Wednesday; dandelions and buttercups brushing ankles; a cairn at West Clear Creek; the monks at Great Lavra, Greece, making room for the dispossessed; bundles of sheep ascending limestone slopes at dawn in the Cotswolds; the delightful word cusp; her son’s euphoria upon gliding down a mountain on skis; the slow labor of opening a pomegranate and obtaining its ruby-red seeds for her daughter to eat.

The book is shot through with joy—a joy that coexists with suffering and that is sustained through faith.

“These are poems to live by—to help you stay human, love people, find joy in sorrow, pay attention to the world around you, open yourself to God, welcome mystery, and understand our times at a deeper level,” Hicks wrote in an email announcing the launch of the book. “You’ll journey all around the world and find it—in spite of its sorrow—full of beauty and worth loving.”

One of my favorite poems is “Just Before,” a perfect reading for the upcoming Advent season. It spans four cities of the world—places where people work, play, pray, and rest; places of economic disparity, of spiritual longing as well as mundane concerns—in each imagining the moment just before Jesus returns. In the midst of our threshing corn or lighting a lamp or settling a legal dispute or herding sheep, Jesus will come with a beauty that blossoms all the way out to the horizon, calling all nomads home.

“Just Before” by Rachel E. Hicks

When Jesus comes again
in all his glory, somewhere in
the Sichuan mountains tires will crackle
over corn spread out on the road—
easy threshing—while a small child
urinates in the gutter, absorbed
in watching the car shoot by.

As the first rent opens
a fingernail tear in the hazy sky,
a woman in the foothills above Rishikesh
will lay down her firewood burden
and light the clay Diwali lamp
in the chilling dusk,
circling her cupped hands in blessing.

In the pause before the clamor
of heaven’s trumpets,
the jurors’ waiting room in Baltimore’s
civic court will throb with the quiet
turning of pages, a buzzing phone
in the hand of a tired man, berating
himself for forgetting to bring coffee.

Just before we are aware of him,
Jesus will pause to survey the view;
two shepherd boys amidst boulders
in the Wadi Rum hills south of Amman
wipe sleep from their eyes and stand amazed
at the blood-red poppies at their feet
stretching to the eastern horizon.


Purchase Accumulated Lessons in Displacement here. (Update, 11/14/25: Wipf & Stock is offering a 50% discount through November 30, 2025; use code CONFSHIP at checkout. Media mail shipping is free.)

“Just Before” is reproduced with permission from Wipf and Stock Publishers, www.wipfandstock.com.

Roundup: “Nagamo” by Andrew Balfour, “A Timbered Choir” by Josh Rodriguez, and more

SPOTIFY PLAYLIST: November 2025 (Art & Theology)

Among this month’s thirty spiritual songs of note are three by Indigenous artists of Turtle Island (North America):

>> “Ambe Anishinaabeg” from Cree composer Andrew Balfour’s Nagamo project, which explores the intersections of Indigenous song and Anglican choral music. The Ojibway text of “Ambe Anishinaabeg” was gifted to Balfour by Cory Campbell: “Ambe Anishinaabeg / Biindigeg Anishinaabeg / Mino-bimaadiziwin omaa” (Come in, two-legged beings / Come in, all people / There is good life here). On the album (and the playlist), the text is set to the “Gloria in excelsis Deo” by the late English Renaissance composer Thomas Weelkes; but in another iteration, captured in the following video, Balfour pairs the text with the music of William Byrd’s “Sing Joyfully” (itself a setting of Psalm 81:1–4). (Balfour has also written original music for Campbell’s text.) See the third roundup item for more about Nagamo.

>> “Jesus I Always Want to Be Near to You,” a solo by Doc Tate Nevaquaya (1932–1996) on Native American flute. Nevaquaya, who was Comanche, played an important role in the revival of the Native American flute in the 1970s, expanding the repertoire and playing techniques. This instrumental is one of twelve from the album Comanche Flute Music, originally released in 1979 by Folkway Records, which also includes Nevaquaya’s adaptations of non-Comanche flute melodies, his own compositions, and one piece by his son Edmund. As he states in his introduction to this track, “Jesus I Always Want to Be Near You” is an original Christian hymn written by the Comanche people. I couldn’t find the lyrics, but to listen to some more Comanche hymns, with words, see this video by Comanche Nation tribal members Anthony Nauni and Chad Tahchawwickah, and this recorded gathering at Lawton Indian Baptist Church in Oklahoma.

>> “naká·yè·ʔr sihskę̀·nęʔ (may it be that you have peace)” by Tuscarora singer Jennifer Kreisburg, a song of blessing from the new Yo-Yo Ma EP Our Common Nature. According to Sony Classical, the song expresses “hope for a future where humanity and nature coexist in harmony.” I just started listening to the album’s wonderful companion podcast, for which four of the seven episodes have been released.

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Also for November: See my Thanksgiving Playlist [introduction], comprising a hundred-plus songs of gratitude, with a few recent additions at the bottom; and my Christ the King Playlist [introduction], which I made for the final feast of the church year, celebrated Sunday, November 23, this year.

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ALBUM: Nagamo by Andrew Balfour: In May and June 2022, the Vancouver-based vocal ensemble musica intima teamed up with composer Andrew Balfour to create Nagamo (Cree for “sings”), a concert and CD recording that reimagines the Anglican choral tradition through an Indigenous lens. A child of the Sixties Scoop, Balfour was born in 1967 in the Fisher River Cree Nation near Winnipeg but at six weeks old was forcibly removed from his birth family by child welfare authorities of Manitoba and adopted by white parents. He says his childhood was happy, and that he was fortunate to have been put in a men and boy’s choir from a young age, where he received a musical education and international travel opportunities; but of course, the sudden rupture from his culture of origin left wounds.

With Nagamo, Balfour seeks to bring together his identities as Cree and as the son of Anglicans of Scottish descent, who raised him in the church (his father was a minister); his love of Renaissance choral music, much of which voices polyphonic praises to the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and an Indigenous spiritual sensibility. The album comprises two original compositions (including one in Scots Gaelic), five Renaissance songs retexted (not translated) in Cree or Ojibway, and five unaltered works by William Byrd and Alfonso Ferrabosco. “The concept mines the fantastical question of what might have happened musically should Indigenous and European musics and cultural expressions come together in a manner collaborative and respectful, rather than divisive,” writes music journalist Andrew Scott for The WholeNote.

Examples of the adaptations include “Four Directions,” a recitation in Ojibway of the four cardinal directions—Ningaabiianong (West), Giiwedinong (North), Wabanong (East), Zhaawanong (South)—set to Thomas Tallis’s “Te lucis ante terminum” [previously], a prayer for protection through the night. And “Ispiciwin” (Journey), whose musical basis is Orlando Gibbons’s “Drop, drop, slow tears,” a Christian hymn of contrition, but whose Cree lyrics make reference instead to a smudging ceremony, a sacred cleansing ritual practiced by many Indigenous peoples. Here’s a mini-documentary about the Nagamo project:

Balfour “re-imagines how settler and Indigenous spiritualities can interact with one another. In essence, Balfour imagines a new system of power relations where both spiritualities can co-exist and engage in dialogue without the power imbalances of colonization,” Lukas Sawatsky writes in his master’s thesis Converging Paths: Settler Colonialism and the Canadian Choral Tradition, the final chapter of which explores Nagamo as a case study of “the reclaiming of settler-originated aesthetic models and genres by Indigenous people for their own storytelling purposes.” Sawatsky continues, “Through the lens of the Anglican choral tradition, Balfour synthesises his Indigenous cultural identity into music that proudly celebrates both parts, without resolving their differences. Through this, Balfour looks towards a world where the settlers and Indigenous people can exist without settler colonialism.”

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EVENT RECORDING: “A Timbered Choir: The Witness of Creation,” Wheaton College, Illinois, October 28, 2025: Last week the Marion E. Wade Center and the Conservatory of Music at Wheaton College presented “A Timbered Choir: The Witness of Creation,” an evening of music and poetry inspired by J. R. R. Tolkien’s and Wendell Berry’s love of creation and visions of stewardship. Readings and reflections by Wheaton professors from across the disciplines of biology, literature, and art culminated in the world premiere of a new Wade Center commission, a fifteen-minute choral cycle by Josh Rodriguez called A Timbered Choir, which sets to music three poems by Berry. “It was my aim to create a work which captures a sense of awe: at the trees which play such an important role in our fragile ecosystem, at the beauty and life-giving pleasure they provide for us, and at our urgent responsibility to care for them,” Rodriguez explains. “In this three-part tale on the life of trees, the audience is invited to witness an opening lullaby about the birth of the forest, followed by a desperate lament on the destruction of nature’s life-giving biodiversity, and a concluding celebration of nature’s resilience.”

The Wade Center is dedicated to promoting the study of seven British Christian writers: Owen Barfield, G. K. Chesterton, C. S. Lewis, George MacDonald, Dorothy L. Sayers, J. R. R. Tolkien, and Charles Williams. Wendell Berry—an American poet, novelist, and farmer especially known for his “Sabbath poems,” an expansive series he wrote over decades during his Sunday walks in the woods—is not part of their archive. But Wade Center Director Jim Beitler says they built this recent event around Berry because they want to encourage learners not just to look at the seven authors but to look with them, at the things they cared about. The center identified particular resonance between Berry and Tolkien.

Here are the time stamps from the video recording. The songs are performed by the Wheaton College Concert Choir under the direction of John William Trotter:

Also, the Armerding Center for Music and the Arts, where the event was held, is hosting tree-related art in the lobby: Cross of the Feast by Sung Hwan Kim (a crucifix in wood and mixed media made for a past KOSTA [Korean Students All Nations] Conference at Wheaton), permanently installed; and a set of graphite drawings by David Hooker, on display through Christmas break.

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ARTICLE: “Regarding the Face of God: On the Paintings, Drawings, and Notebooks of Paul Thek” by Wallace Ludel, Triangle House Review: Last month I wrote about a chalk drawing by Paul Thek that the Archdiocese of Cologne curated for its latest exhibition at Kolumba museum. In preparation for writing, I did some basic research about the artist, who’s best known for his “Meat Pieces,” and was led to this fascinating article that focuses instead on his paintings, drawings, and notebooks, especially the religiosity and contradictions they are charged with.

Writer Wallace Ludel describes Thek’s “Diver” paintings of 1969–70, speculated to have been inspired by an ancient fresco inside the Tomb of the Diver in Paestum, Italy, as “at once ebullient and lonesome, womb-like and deathly.”

Thek, Paul_Diver
Paul Thek (American, 1933–1988), Untitled (diver), 1969. Synthetic polymer on newspaper, 26 1/8 × 36 1⁄4 in. (66.4 × 92.1 cm). Kolodny Family Collection. Photo: Orcutt & Van Der Putten. © Estate of George Paul Thek.

Thek identified as a “predominately gay” Catholic man and was even accepted as a novice by a Carthusian monastery in Vermont shortly before he died of AIDS in 1988. From 1970 onward, he kept notebooks where he copied long passages from spiritual texts and wrote his own devotional musings, as well as made drawings and watercolors and recorded various diaristic thoughts and mantras. One set of the pages, for example, titled “96 Sacraments,” enumerates ninety-six activities—“to breathe . . . to pee . . . to do the dishes . . . to forget bad things . . .”—each followed by the refrain “Praise the Lord.” This list evinces the spiritual influence of Brother Lawrence, who talked about “practicing the presence of God” in all things, which Thek remarked on in a 1984 letter to the Carthusians.

Thek, Paul_96 Sacraments
“96 Sacraments,” page from Paul Thek’s notebook #75, ca. 1975. Watermill Center Collection, Water Mill, New York. © Estate of George Paul Thek.

Thek is an artist I had never heard of prior to seeing his work exhibited at Kolumba. Visiting art museums, taking note of the works that intrigue you, and following up afterward with online searches to see and learn more is a great way to develop knowledge of the art that’s out there and to start to identify some of your own personal favorites—which is one of the primary questions I get asked. (“Where do you find all this art?”)

“O Great Spirit” by Jennifer Reeser (poem)

Great Spirit of the God who is alive,
Whose risen Son I seek before the dawn,
Who makes the black and gold sunflower thrive,
The earthworm loosen soil beneath the lawn;
Great Spirit, grant my great-grandmother’s looks
Attend me while I rub her cherry hutch.
Great Spirit, grant my late grandfather’s books
Preserve his signature I love to touch.
Surround and show to me that massive cloud
Of witnesses—undauntable or docile.
Allow their countenances to enshroud
My shoulders, spoken of by Your Apostle.
Send generous Nunnehi to my steeple,
Returning me, at last, to my dark people.

From Indigenous: Poems, © 2019 Jennifer Reeser. Used by permission of Able Muse Press.

Note: Nunnehi are spirit people in Cherokee mythology. The Cherokee word has been translated as “The People Who Live Anywhere” or “The People Who Live Forever.”

Jennifer Reeser (born 1968) is a formalist poet of Anglo-Celtic and Native American descent. Her seven poetry collections are Strong Feather (2022), Indigenous (2019), Fleur-de-Lis (2016), The Lalaurie Horror (2013), Sonnets from the Dark Lady and Other Poems (2012), Winterproof (2005), and An Alabaster Flask (2003), and she is anthologized in Christian Poetry in America since 1940 (2022). In addition to writing original poems, she also translates poetry from Russian, French, and Cherokee. A member of the Cherokee Nation, she divides her time between Louisiana, where she was born and raised, and the Cherokee Reservation in Indian Country near Tahlequah, Oklahoma.

Roundup: “Ask of Old Paths,” “An Axe for the Frozen Sea,” Crypt of the Three Skeletons, and more

BALTIMORE-ANNAPOLIS CONCERTS:

This November near where I live in Maryland there are at least two concerts by Christian artists I’d like to invite you to:

>> Matthew Clark, November 1, 2025, Crownsville, MD: The Eliot Society, an organization I volunteer with, is hosting Matthew Clark, a singer-songwriter from Mississippi, for an evening of music and stories this Saturday. Tickets are $10; wine, coffee, and refreshments will be served. Here’s Clark’s song “Ordinary Artists”:

>> Ordinary Time, November 22, 2025, St. Moses Church, Baltimore: Longtime friends Peter La Grand (Vancouver), Jill McFadden (Baltimore), and Ben Keyes (Southborough, Massachusetts) make up the acoustic folk trio Ordinary Time. They’re performing a free concert at McFadden’s church in a few weeks, which will be followed by Q&A around the role of music in the communal life of the church. Here’s their song “I Will Trust (Isaiah 12)”:

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BOOK REVIEW: “How Does Your Garden Grow? Grace Hamman on Medieval Conceptions of Virtue and Vice” by Victoria Emily Jones, Mockingbird: I reviewed Grace Hamman’s latest book, Ask of Old Paths: Medieval Virtues and Vices for a Whole and Holy Life, for Mockingbird. Check it out!

Ask of Old Paths

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FREE AUDIOBOOK: An Axe for the Frozen Sea: Conversations with Poets about What Matters Most by Bel Palpant: “A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us,” Franz Kafka wrote in a letter to his friend Oskar Pollak in 1904. That quote is the source of the title of Ben Palpant’s new book, one of my favorites of this year. An Axe for the Frozen Sea is a collection of one-on-one interviews Palpant conducted with seventeen acclaimed poets of faith, exploring the human experience, especially everyday joys and struggles, and the writing life. Featured poets include Scott Cairns, Marilyn Nelson, Robert Cording, Li-Young Lee, and Jeanne Murray Walker. I was really compelled by the conversations.

An Axe for the Frozen Sea

An Axe for the Frozen Sea is available for purchase in print, but it also kicked off the new podcast Rabbit Room Press Presents, serialized audiobooks of select titles from the publisher. All the book’s content, read by the author, can be listened to for free in this format. Highly recommended!

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ARTICLE: “Bone chapels and their strange art” by Lanta Davis, Christian Century: If my last blog post piqued your interest in Christian bone chapels, you’ll want to read this article Lanta Davis wrote last November about her visit to the crypt of Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini in Rome. With a scythe-wielding skeleton overhead and arches, garlands, chandeliers, and mock clocks made of human bones, you’d be forgiven for thinking you mistakenly wandered into a haunted house. But in fact this is a sacred space, its unusual decoration the devotional labor of a seventeenth-century friar. Davis reflects on how the bone installations transform the ugliness of death into something beautiful, rearranging death into surprising forms—such as a skull with butterfly wings made from shoulder blades—that culminate in the Crypt of the Resurrection.

Crypt of the Three Skeletons
Cripta dei Tre Scheletri (Crypt of the Three Skeletons), one of five bone chapels built in 1626–31 under Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini (Our Lady of the Conception of the Capuchins) in Rome. Photo © Museo e Cripta dei Frati Cappuccini. Click for more photos.

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SONG: “Bones” by Mark Shiiba: The title track of Mark Shiiba’s debut album from last year references the placard that greets visitors to Rome’s Crypt of the Three Skeletons (see previous roundup item): “What you are now we used to be; what we are you will be.” This saying was a common memento mori, which I first learned when studying Renaissance art in Florence as a junior in college: Io fu già quel che voi siete, e quel chi son voi ancor sarete, reads the inscription above the fictive cadaver tomb that Masaccio painted inside Santa Maria Novella.

Shiiba’s song is jaunty in tone, and when he shared an excerpt on Instagram, he set it to the similarly sprightly animated short The Skeleton Dance (1929) by Walt Disney, which is based on medieval “danse macabre” imagery. Perhaps that seems to you unbefitting of such a serious subject as death—but since its inception, the church has proclaimed Christ’s ultimate defeat of death. “Where, O death, is your victory?” the apostle Paul taunts. “Where, O death, is your sting?” Death is lamentable, but it’s not the end of the story. The playfully arranged “bones at the bottom of a church in Rome” anticipate the resurrection of our bodies on the last day.

Bone chapel, anti-Nazi martyrs’ memorial, and contemporary stained glass at the Basilica of St. Ursula, Cologne

(All photos in this article are my own, taken either by me or my husband.)

I knew very little about the virgin martyr St. Ursula before visiting the basilica dedicated to her in Cologne, Germany, last month. She’s the patron saint of the city, where, according to hagiography, she was murdered sometime in the fourth century.

There’s no historical veracity to her story, which is why her name was removed from the Catholic calendar of saints when it was revised in 1969. But her feast day is still observed by many on October 21.

St. Ursula alabaster
Johann T.W. Lentz, St. Ursula (detail), 1659. Alabaster. North transept, Basilica of St. Ursula, Cologne. This reclining figure of the saint lies over her Baroque tomb made of black marble.

As legend has it, Ursula was a Romano-British princess and a Christian. She was engaged to be married to a pagan prince. To delay the wedding, she successfully requested that she first be allowed to take a three-year pilgrimage to Rome, and that she be accompanied by eleven thousand virgins (a ridiculous number that was likely embellished from what was originally eleven). On their voyage, she converted all eleven thousand to the faith.

On their way back to Britain from Rome, they were traveling through Cologne when it was besieged by the Huns, a group of nomadic warriors from Central Asia. Ursula and her companions refused the soldiers’ sexual advances and were slaughtered as a result. One version of the legend says the women’s souls then formed a celestial army that drove out the Huns, saving Cologne.

The earliest possible reference to Ursula and company—though they are unnamed and unnumbered—is a stone plaque dated to 400. Now incorporated into the choir wall of the present Basilica of St. Ursula, it mentions a basilica restored on this site by the Roman senator Clematius to commemorate the “martyred virgins coming from the east, in fulfillment of a vow, . . . holy virgins [who] spilled their blood in the name of Christ.” This inscription not only provides the seed of what would become the Ursula legend; it’s also the earliest evidence of Christianity in Cologne, attesting to the presence of a church there in the fourth century.

It wasn’t until the tenth century that the name Ursula emerged, identified as the leader of the group of virgins, and that their number, which had previously ranged from two to thousands, became fixed at eleven thousand. The women were never officially canonized, but their veneration as saints grew immensely in the twelfth century after a large, late antique Roman cemetery was discovered in 1106 near the aforementioned Church of the Holy Virgins in Cologne during an excavation project to expand the city’s fortifications. The skeletal remains in the hundreds of graves were purported to be those of the martyred women (notwithstanding the presence of many men’s and children’s bones among them).

The discovery of these putative relics called for the rebuilding of the predecessor church to house them. Construction began in the second quarter of the twelfth century, and it’s that structure, with later renovations, refurbishments, additions, and (post–World War II) restorations and repairs, that stands today. The church was elevated to the status of minor basilica in 1920.

Basilica of St. Ursula, Cologne
Basilica of St. Ursula, Cologne
West facade, where you enter

Basilica of St. Ursula
The nave and the main tower of the Basilica of St. Ursula are Romanesque, but the choir was rebuilt in the Gothic style.

Shrine altar
Shrine altar in the choir apse, containing the relics of Ursula, Etherius, and Hippolytus. Behind it are grilled reliquary niches and paintings of the Legend of St. Ursula from from the “long cycle” of 1456.

Chancel windows
Chancel windows by Francis William Dixon, 1892. Left: St. James the Greater, St. Andrew, and St. Peter, accompanied by angels; lower register: Isaiah, Isaac, and Abraham. Center: Christ enthroned, with Mary and St. John the Baptist (Deesis) at his side; lower register: St. Ursula of Cologne with her companions. Right: St. James the Lesser, St. Matthew, and St. Thomas, accompanied by angels; lower register: Daniel, Malachi, and Joel.

The reason the Basilica of St. Ursula was on my list of stops was I wanted to see its so-called Golden Chamber.

The Golden Chamber

The largest ossuary north of the Alps, the Goldene Kammer (Golden Chamber) is decorated with the bones of, allegedly, St. Ursula and her eleven thousand travel mates, which are artfully arranged across the walls in geometric patterns, rosettes, and even words! Unlike most other relic displays I had seen before, where the relics are kept in some kind of encasement and usually only partially visible, this one puts many of the bones right out in the open, making the whole room a walk-in reliquary.

Golden Chamber
That’s me at the left, taking it in.

Golden Chamber
Golden Chamber
Golden Chamber

A Baroque marvel, the Golden Chamber was established on the south side of the church in 1643 through a donation by the imperial court councilor of the Holy Roman Empire Johann von Crane and his wife, Verena Hegemihler. It replaced a smaller medieval camera aurea (treasury and relic chamber), where the bones had previously been displayed. Crane and Hegemihler oversaw the design and construction of the space, with its ribbed, star-studded, sky-blue vault, and the arrangement of the bones into their present form.

Golden Chamber

Above the altar, tibias, fibulas, femurs, humeri, and other bones spell out “Sancta Ursula Ora Pro Nobis” (Saint Ursula, pray for us). Also rendered in bones are the name Etherius—Ursula’s fiancé, who converted to Christianity at her insistence and met her in Cologne to die with her—and a mention of the holy virgins.

Golden Chamber
Golden Chamber
Golden Chamber

Other sections of the wall use vertebrae, pelvic bones, ribs, shoulder blades, and so on to create ornamental designs like hearts, spirals, webs, flowers, and crosses.

Golden Chamber
“IHS” is a popular Latin acronym for “Iesus Hominum Salvator” (Jesus, Savior of Humankind).

Golden Chamber
Golden Chamber
Golden Chamber

Similar visual displays of bones in charnel houses, writes art historian Jackie Mann, had become increasingly common in Europe by the late fourteenth century.

The shelving cabinets below the bone decor belong to the second phase of furnishings around 1700. They contain niches that house 112 reliquary busts (most of them produced between 1260 and 1400 and made of polychromed wood), as well as gilded acanthus tendrils that encompass some 600 skulls. Out of reverence, many of the skulls are at least partially wrapped in red velvet with gold and silver embroidery made by the nuns of the nearby Ursuline convent.

Golden Chamber
Golden Chamber
Inside a reliquary bust
Inside a reliquary bust
Skulls
Skulls

Occasionally, where the wrapping has slipped, you’ll see an eye hole staring back at you.

Skulls

To account for the presence of men’s bones in the ancient Roman churchyard, the legend of St. Ursula was adapted in the twelfth century to include male martyrs—namely, Etherius and his retinue. That’s why the Golden Chamber contains several male busts alongside the female.

Golden Chamber

To the average person, the Golden Chamber is a weird, macabre spectacle. But for Catholics, displaying human bones is not meant to be creepy or horror-inducing. Rather, by bringing remnants of the dead into spaces of the living, we are reminded of: (1) our own mortality, (2) the community of saints that transcends time, and (3) the promise of universal, bodily resurrection (dem bones gonna rise again!).

Memento mori (“remember you will die”) was a common trope in seventeenth-century art and devotion, meant to increase one’s awareness of the fleetingness of life and to encourage one to live in light of heaven. Mann calls the Golden Chamber an “immersive memento mori.” Again, the traditional Christian summons to remember our mortality is not meant to frighten. It’s meant to inspire us to live whole and holy lives.

While death is an ending in one sense, it’s also an entry into life immortal. The Golden Chamber gathers together the fragments of local saints that had been scattered in ancient burial ruins, preserving them for the saints of later generations as a witness that our bodies will never be finally lost; they will be raised and renewed by God on the last day and reunited with our souls. Christians treat the remains of the deceased with honor in recognition that our bodies—including the framework of bones that support our soft tissues, protect our organs, enable our movement, store minerals for our use, and produce our blood cells—are not just temporary shells encasing who we really are, but rather are a part of who we are. Hence why we proclaim, in the Apostles’ Creed, that “we believe . . . in the resurrection of the body.”

Memorial for the Martyrs of Today

While the Golden Chamber is the primary draw for visitors to the Basilica of St. Ursula, there are other sights in the church worth spending time with, ones I was not expecting. One of them is the Gedenkstätte für die Märtyrer der Gegenwart (Memorial for the Martyrs of Today), a chapel in the south transept that commemorates the Christians in Cologne, both religious and lay, who were killed for resisting the Nazi regime—or, in the case of Sr. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross (Edith Stein) and Elvira Sanders-Platz, for being ethnically Jewish.

Memorial for the Martyrs of Today
Gedenkstätte für die Märtyrer der Gegenwart (Memorial for the Martyrs of Today), designed and built by the firm Kister Scheithauer Gross, 2003–5. South transept, Basilica of St. Ursula, Cologne.

Memorial for the Martyrs of Today

Made by the architectural and design firm Kister Scheithauer Gross, the chapel consists of a double-shelled, slightly transparent canvas construction printed on the inside with the names and dates of the martyrs, as well as quotes they gave before their deaths. Sunlight enters from the window to the right of the chapel, causing the space to glow. There’s a small bench on each of the three sides, for people to sit and pray or reflect.

In the center is a life-size wood crucifix. The gaunt Christ figure is pierced all over and bears a deep wound in his side where the centurion’s spear went through. Like those whose names surround him, Jesus preached and pursued love and justice, ultimately laying down his life—a loss that God turned to gain in the Resurrection and in the redemption of the world.

A language barrier prevented me from effectively asking the staff person, or understanding the answer, whether the crucifix was carved in the early 2000s specifically for the chapel, or if it’s medieval. There’s no info inside the church about this chapel.

Crucifix
Crucifix

The Memorial for the Martyrs of Today is an example of what Christian martyrdom looked like in Cologne in the twentieth century. Fr. Otto Müller, Br. Norbert Maria Kubiak, writer Heinrich Ruster, medical student Willi Graf, Catholic Youth leader Adalbert Probst . . . The stories of the many individuals who were executed for subverting Hitler, for calling out his evils, in the name of Christ are far more compelling to me than the fabulous and convoluted story of an ancient princess killed in a land invasion and then heroized—for her virginity?

Contemporary Stained Glass

I also liked the contemporary stained glass in the church. In the choir, there’s a set of eight windows by Wilhelm Buschulte—abstract compositions in yellow, white, and gray.

Wilhelm Buschulte
Stained glass windows by Wilhelm Buschulte (German, 1923–2013), 1962, choir, Basilica of St. Ursula, Cologne

Wilhelm Buschulte

In the south aisle are two round-arched windows by Will Thonett, also abstract: a grid of blues, grays, and lavender, with yellow circles and thin vertical bands.

Will Thonett
Stained glass windows by Will Thonett (1931–1973), 1967, south aisle, Basilica of St. Ursula, Cologne

To the right of these are three Mary-themed windows by Hermann Gottfried. The primary scene of the first one is the Annunciation. A giant red rose appears in the background, probably a reference to Mary as the Rosa Mystica. Below this scene, to the left, is the Creation of Adam and Eve, and to the right, the Expulsion from Paradise; these contextualize Christ’s conception in the greater narrative of scripture. The peripheral scenes in the middle register show the magi following the star to Bethlehem.

Hermann Gottfried_Annunciation
Stained glass window by Hermann Gottfried (German, 1929–), 1984, south aisle, Basilica of St. Ursula, Cologne

The central window portrays the Coronation of Mary. I believe both figures in the left lancet are Christ—crowning his mother as Queen of Heaven, and at the bottom, crushing the serpent, as the protoevangelium in Genesis 3:15 prophesied. Beneath the enthroned Mary on the right is a smaller vignette, which I think may be Mary again, also stepping on the serpent’s head, since by her cooperation with God’s plan, she shares in the victory over Satan. This imagery is also related to Woman of the Apocalypse described in Revelation 12, whom Catholics interpret as Mary. The hand of God dispenses blessing from above.

Hermann Gottfried_Coronation of the Virgin
Stained glass window by Hermann Gottfried (German, 1929–), 1984, south aisle, Basilica of St. Ursula, Cologne

The final window in this trio portrays the Descent of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost. The two quadrants at the bottom right show Moses before the burning bush, in which Mary appears; Catholic teaching compares Mary to the burning bush of Exodus because for nine months she held the fire of divinity within her womb (God incarnate) and was not consumed. On the left Moses is receiving the tablets of the law on Mount Sinai, an event often read in parallel with the story of Pentecost in Acts 2, where God writes his word not on stone but on people’s hearts by giving his Spirit to dwell within them.

Hermann Gottfried_Pentecost
Stained glass window by Hermann Gottfried (German, 1929–), 1984, south aisle, Basilica of St. Ursula, Cologne


If you’re ever in Cologne, I encourage you to include the Basilica of St. Ursula on your itinerary. Entry to the church is free, but the Golden Chamber costs €2 (only cash is accepted, I believe). There are six large standing posters in the narthex that provide a timeline, in German, of the church’s history, and when I was there, there were two attendants who were available to answer questions, one of whom spoke some English.

For more comprehensive photos of the church’s art and architecture, see https://www.sakrale-bauten.de/kirche_koeln_st_ursula.html and https://www.winckelmann-akademie.de/wp-content/uploads/Koeln_St._Ursula.pdf.