25 Poems for Christmas, vol. 4

“One of poetry’s great gifts is to slow us down,” writes Peggy Rosenthal in Praying the Gospels through Poetry. “We’re used to racing ahead as we read, whether it’s a newspaper or an email memo or even an essay: language in these forms propels us forward, urging us to grab up its main points. But poetry doesn’t press ahead so much as hold us still—in the wonder of words crafted to open into another dimension.”

Below are twenty-five poems to “hold us still” this holiday season.

I’ve collected hundreds of Advent and Christmas poems over the past decade, but for this feature one of the selection criteria was that the poem must be freely available online. I chose the number twenty-five because that is standard in most Advent calendars—tools for counting down the days to Christmas. This way, you can choose, if you wish, to bookmark this page and read just one poem a day from December 1 to 25, each one a little treat.

The order progresses, in general, from Advent longing and anticipation to Christmas joy and wonder to post-nativity moments like the presentation in the temple and the visit of the magi.

For previous years’ installments, see volume 1, volume 2, and volume 3.

1. “Advent Madrigal” by Lisa Russ Spaar: I’m not sure I understand this poem, but I like it. A madrigal is a part-song, and this is a song of waiting in simultaneous belief and doubt, of being irresistibly attracted to God’s story while also skeptical of aspects. The speaker compares the moon to a flashlight that a theater usher shines down the aisle to escort folks to their seats. What does it mean that “the treetops sough // & seize with” escape? Escape from what? And that the earth has been purloined? I don’t know, but the final couplet really lands for me—about how in the dark night of our not-knowing, we make our Advent wreaths, decking them with evergreens, their round shape an O of lament and awe before the yet-to-be-seen.

Source: University of Virginia Office of Engagement

2. “Prayer” by John Frederick Nims: The first in a sequence of five poems, “Prayer” expresses a sense of emptiness and desire, beckoning an unnamed one whom I read as Christ to come and fill. “Come to us, conceiver, / You who are all things, held and holder. / . . . / Come, infinite answer to our infinite want.”

Source: Five Young American Poets, vol. 3 (New Directions, 1944); compiled in The Powers of Heaven and Earth: New and Selected Poems (Louisiana State University Press, 2022)

3. “how he is coming then” by Lucille Clifton: This poem is part of a sequence on the life of Mary; it appears between “mary’s dream” (on the Annunciation) and “holy night” (on Mary’s ecstatic birthing experience). In answer to the title, Clifton gives three similes.

Source: Two-Headed Woman (University of Massachusetts Press, 1980); compiled in The Collected Poems of Lucille Clifton (BOA Editions, 2012)

4. “Advent 2” by Anna A. Friedrich: This poem is the second in a series of Advent villanelles commissioned by the poet’s church in Boston last year to converse with one or more of the lectionary readings for each week of the season. Malachi 3:1–4 is the primary touchstone here, a formidable prophetic passage that compares God in the day of his coming to a blazing fire that refines metal. Stanza 3 references the fiery repentance-preaching of John the Baptist from Luke 3:1–6, and then Friedrich draws in another, unexpected “fire” text: Daniel 3, in which three young Hebrew men are thrown into a furnace by a Babylonian king for their refusal to worship his gods but are preserved from harm when a mysterious fourth person appears with them in the flames. Friedrich connects this story to the promise that the earth and its inhabitants will not be wholly consumed in the fire of God’s judgment—only the impurities, the dross, will be destroyed, so that all may be restored to their truest selves. Hence why, in Friedrich’s words, “We pray for His fire. We trust this flame.”

Source: Monafolkspeak, December 11, 2024 | https://annaafriedrich.substack.com/

5. “Desert Blossoming” by Amit Majmudar: A reflection on the messianic promise of Isaiah 35:1–2, this poem celebrates how, through the deserts of Israel, Jesus “scattered his verses on the secretly gravid ground,” causing the wilderness to blossom. Majmudar mentions red, the color of fire (an image he connects to the light of faith), rhyming it with “bled.” Although he uses this final word in the sense of spreading into or through—oases bleeding into one another as dry land becomes water—one can’t help but think of Jesus’s sacrificial death, his blood extraordinarily fertile, producing life. 

Source: Heaven and Earth (Story Line, 2011) | http://www.amitmajmudar.com/

Stella, Joseph_Tree, Cactus, Moon
Joseph Stella (American, 1877–1946), Tree, Cactus, Moon, ca. 1928. Gouache on paper, 104.1 × 68.6 cm. Reynolda House Museum of American Art, Winston-Salem, North Carolina.

6. “Name One Thing New” by Seth Wieck: This six-line poem takes the Teacher of Ecclesiastes to task, responding to his cynical claim that “there is nothing new under the sun” (Eccles. 1:9) with a counterexample.

Source: Ekstasis, December 6, 2021 | https://www.sethwieck.com/

7. “For My Mother at Advent” by Brian Volck: The poet recalls a simple Advent tradition his mother established in his childhood and reflects on her spiritual legacy, her lifetime of Christ-inspired kindnesses that continue to pillow him. How might we soften the hardness of the world for others?

Source: Flesh Becomes Word (Dos Madres, 2013) | https://brianvolck.com/

8. “Advent” by Suzanne Underwood Rhodes: This stunning poem makes unlikely intertextual connections, bringing Matthew 19:24 (one of Jesus’s hard sayings regarding wealth) to bear on John 1. Its unique angle on the Incarnation and its evocative imagery have inspired an experimental jazz composition and several paintings.

Source: What a Light Thing, This Stone (Sow’s Ear, 1999) | https://www.suzanneunderwoodrhodes.com/

9. “An Hymn to Humanity” by Phillis Wheatley: “Lo! for this dark terrestrial ball / Forsakes his azure-pavèd hall / A prince of heav’nly birth!” So begins this poem on the Incarnation by Phillis Wheatley (ca. 1753–1784), the first African American to publish a book of poetry. In stanzas 2 and 3, God the Father dispatches the Son to establish his throne on earth, “enlarg[ing] the close contracted mind, / And fill[ing] it with thy fire.” The “languid muse” in stanza 5 refers to Wheatley herself, whereas the “celestial nine” are the ancient Greek inspirational goddesses of literature, science, and the arts. The “smiling Graces” is another classical reference.

Source: Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral (London, 1773). Public Domain.

Father sending the Son
Michael Wolgemut (German, 1434–1519), The Father sending the Son into the world, 1491. Hand-colored woodcut from the Schatzbehalter (published by Anton Koberger, Nuremberg), 43.7 × 27.5 cm. British Museum, London.

10. “In My Hand” by Sarah Robsdottir: Mary remembers the moment she conceived Jesus, one ordinary day when sitting down to a bowl of lentil stew.

Source: Aleteia, April 9, 2018

11. “The Risk of Birth, Christmas, 1973” by Madeleine L’Engle: Best known for her children’s novel A Wrinkle in Time, Madeleine L’Engle was also a poet. Here she compares our era to the one in which Jesus was born—both are characterized by violence and hate, and yet Jesus, the embodiment of divine love, willingly entered the peril.

Source: The Weather of the Heart (Doubleday, 1978); compiled in The Ordering of Love (Crosswicks, 2005) | https://www.madeleinelengle.com/

12. “On Another’s Sorrow” by William Blake: Through the Incarnation, God lovingly, humanly, entered the world of human woe to experience it firsthand. “He doth give His joy to all,” Blake writes: “He becomes an infant small, / He becomes a man of woe, / He doth feel the sorrow too.” I featured this poem about Emmanuel, God-with-us, in a musical setting by singer-songwriter David Benjamin Blower in 2023 but was surprised that Blower omitted Blake’s final stanza, whose closing couplet I find striking, as it conveys Jesus’s continued identification with and compassion for humanity, how he moans alongside us in our suffering. For a different musical interpretation, also in an acoustic indie folk mode, see the one by Portland-based artist Michael Blake, from his 2021 album Songs of Innocence and Experience:

Source: Songs of Innocence and Experience (London, 1794). Public Domain.

13. “Missing the Goat” by Lorna Goodison: An immigrant from Kingston, Jamaica, to Toronto, Ontario, Goodison writes of the heightened feeling of exile but also of creative adaptations during the holidays as she tries to carry out the food traditions of her native country on a foreign soil where some of the ingredients are in more limited supply. For the sorrel wine, traditionally made with roselle (Hibiscus sabdariffa) petals, tropically grown, she has to make do with redbuds. And the local shops have run out of goat meat—“the host of yardies” (people of Jamaican origin) who’ve moved to the area have already bought it all up—so “we’ll feast then on curried some-other-flesh.” Despite the differences from home, Christmas is still Christmas, and she raises her “hybridized wassail cup” to her new place, her new neighbors (many of them, like her, also recent arrivals from the Caribbean), and the creation of new rituals in multicultural Toronto.

Source: Controlling the Silver (University of Illinois Press, 2010); compiled in Collected Poems (Carcanet, 2017)

14. “Word Made Flesh” by Kathleen Raine: Awarded the CBE (Commander of the Order of the British Empire) for her significant contributions to literature and culture, Raine has been described as a mystical and visionary poet. Here is her revoicing of John 1. What a powerful last two lines!

Source: The Pythoness (Hamish Hamilton, 1949); compiled in The Collected Poems of Kathleen Raine (Golgonooza, 2000)

15. “Nativity” by Barbara Crooker: In the heavy dark, in the windy cold, “love is born in the world again” every December when we retell the story of Christ’s birth.

Source: Small Rain (Purple Flag, 2014) | https://www.barbaracrooker.com/

Kuehn, Gary_Straw Pillow
Gary Kuehn (American, 1939–), Straw Pillow, 1963. Straw, plaster. Ludwig Museum, Cologne, Germany, Inv. ML/SK 5185. Photo: Victoria Emily Jones.

16. “First Miracle” by A. E. Stallings: The first miracle Jesus performed, according to the Gospel of John, was turning water into wine. Stallings reflects on an earlier miracle performed by his mother’s body, and all birth-giving mothers’: turning nutrients from her blood into milk.

Source: Like: Poems (Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 2018)

17. “What Sweeter Music Can We Bring” (or “A Christmas Carol, sung to the King in the Presence at Whitehall”) by Robert Herrick: “The Darling of the world is come”! Originally written as a song for soloists (each number corresponds to a different singer) and chorus, this poem reverses the typical seasonal imagery of Christmas, remarking how, at Jesus’s birth, “chilling Winter’s morn / Smile[s] like a field beset with corn” and “all the patient ground [is turned] to flowers.” The original music by Henry Lawes is lost, but many contemporary composers have written settings of the text, most famously John Rutter.

Source: Hesperides: Or, Works Both Human and Divine (London, 1648). Public Domain.

18. “Sharon’s Christmas Prayer” by John Shea: A five-year-old recounts the Christmas story, and when she reaches the clincher, she can’t hold back her glee.

Source: The Hour of the Unexpected (Argus Communications, 1977); also in Seeing Haloes: Christmas Poems to Open the Heart (Liturgical Press, 2017)

19. “God” by D. A. Cooper: Riffing on Williams Carlos Williams’s “The Red Wheelbarrow,” this spare poem attends to the birth and death of the incarnate God, upon which so much depends.

Source: Reformed Journal, September 3, 2024

Malinowska, Katarzyna_Juxtapose
Katarzyna Malinowska (Polish, 1989–), Juxtapose (diptych), 2021. Digital painting, 20 × 30 cm.

20. “Lullaby after Christmas” by Vassar Miller: The speaker wishes sweet sleep for the newborn Christ child, wishes to keep him innocent of his fate for as long as possible—for “even God has right to / Peace before His pain.” Consisting of four sestets whose second, fourth, and sixth lines rhyme, the poem has a sing-songy quality that is jarring for the juxtaposition of words like “soft,” “warm,” and “tinkling” with the likes of “blood,” “gore,” and “die.”

Source: Onions and Roses (Wesleyan University Press, 1968); compiled in If I Had Wheels or Love: Collected Poems of Vassar Miller (Southern Methodist University Press, 1991)

21. “Journey of the Magi” by T. S. Eliot: Eliot wrote this poem shortly after his conversion to Christianity in 1927. Opening with a passage from a Christmas sermon by the seventeenth-century Anglican bishop Lancelot Andrewes, it is from the perspective of one of the magi, who made a long, toilsome journey in search of the meaning of a mysterious guiding star. After the magi’s encounter with the Christ child, they would never be the same; their paganism would no longer satisfy. The poem is about the transformative impact Christ has on those with humility enough to see him for who he is (having followed the light of revelation) and to worship him accordingly. And that transformation is in some ways painful, as it involves giving up some of the things one once held dear.

“Were we led all that way for / Birth or Death?” the magus asks. Jesus’s wasn’t the only birth they witnessed; they, too, were (re)born in Bethlehem. But spiritual rebirth is also a sort of death—the magi died to their old selves and false loves and loyalties. Thus, when they returned to Babylon, they felt like strangers in a strange land. They were now citizens of a different kingdom, and filled with a longing for its consummation.

Source: Journey of the Magi (Ariel Poems) (Faber & Gwyer, 1927). Public Domain.

Länger, Jörg_The Three Kings
Jörg Länger (German, 1964–), The Three Kings, 2013. Linocut and gesso on aluminum dibond, 38 × 38 cm. The linocut is after a 12th-century illumination from the St Albans Psalter, held at the Dombibliothek, Hildesheim, Germany.

22. “Twelfth Night” by Sally Thomas: (Scroll to second poem.) As the Christmas season draws to a close, holly berries shrivel and drop, the “candles drown themselves in waxen lakes,” “the tree’s a staring corpse,” and a spider has built a web across the mantel nativity. Thomas uses the passing of the season to reflect more broadly on the passing of time and our own dustiness and desiccation—and by contrast, the unchangeability of God.

Source: Pulsebeat Poetry Journal no. 2 (May 2022) | http://www.sally-thomas.com/

23. Untitled poem by S. E. Reid: Most reflections on the New Year are full of enthusiastic goal-setting and go-getting, but Reid, gardening in her greenhouse in the crisp cold of January, describes a “fall[ing] backwards,” “dropping into the dark,” “shivering,” herself a seed, latent in the soil, trusting God that growth will come.

Source: The Wildroot Parables, January 8, 2024 | https://sereid.substack.com/

24. “Anna the Prophetess” by Tania Runyan: Forty days after Jesus’s birth, Maryand Joseph presented him in the Jerusalem temple. Runyan imagines this event from the perspective of Anna, a woman who was widowed young and thenceforth lived at the temple into old age, devoted to prayer, fasting, praise, and prophecy.

Source: Simple Weight (FutureCycle, 2010) | https://taniarunyan.com/

25. “The Work of Christmas” by Howard Thurman: Drawing on Jesus’s mission statement in Luke 4, the great African American theologian and civil rights leader Howard Thurman urges us to continue the work of Christmas—finding, healing, feeding, etc.—throughout the year. Listen to the simple yet vigorous choral setting by Elizabeth Alexander.

Source: The Mood of Christmas and Other Celebrations (Friends United, 1985)

Kolumba and KMSKA: Medieval and contemporary art in conversation (part 2)

This a continuation of yesterday’s article. In part 1 I shared three room highlights from my visit to Kolumba museum in Cologne, Germany, run by the city’s Catholic archdiocese; in this final part I will do the same for KMSKA in Antwerp, Belgium, whose Old Masters galleries received a “contemporary injection” in an exhibition that wrapped this week. All photos are my own.

[Content warning: This article contains female nudity: a controversial Renaissance painting of the Virgin Mary, and three photographs of women who have just given birth.]

KMSKA, Antwerp

The Royal Museum of Fine Arts Antwerp, or KMSKA for short, is a world-famous museum whose collection spans seven centuries, from the Flemish Primitives to the Expressionists.

When I was there last month, the featured exhibition was Collected with Vision: Private Collections in Dialogue with the Old Masters, which ran from April 4 to October 12, 2025. Organized in conjunction with Geukens & De Vil Projects, it interwove postwar and contemporary works by internationally renowned artists from Belgian private collections with the existing museum collection, “expanding the transhistorical approach already in place. The exhibition offers a reflection on the history of art collecting and asks probing questions about social issues such as gender, power and identity. The role of museums and collectors is the focal point. Do the interventions create a harmonious dialogue with 700 years of art history, or do they give rise to challenging contrasts?” Featured artists included Cindy Sherman, Olafur Eliasson, David Claerbout, Francis Alys, Christian Boltanksi, Tracey Emin, Marlene Dumas, Luc Tuymans, and Louise Bourgeois.

The galleries of the exhibition were organized by theme: Holy, Impotence, Horizon, Image, Entertainment, Profusion, Lessons for Life, Fame, The Salon, Heroes, Evil, The Madonna, Suffering, Redemption, Prayer, Heavens, and Power.

I’ll spotlight what I consider the most successful and intriguing pairings.

First, the “Madonna” room, anchored by the famous Madonna Surrounded by Seraphim and Cherubim by the late medieval French court painter Jean Fouquet. It’s the right wing of a diptych that originally hung above an altar at the Collegiate Church of Notre-Dame in Melun.

Fouquet, Jean_Madonna Surrounded by Seraphim and Cherubim
Jean Fouquet (French, 1410/30–1477/81), Madonna Surrounded by Seraphim and Cherubim, ca. 1450. Oil on panel, 92 × 83.5 cm. Koninklijk Museum voor Schone Kunsten Antwerpen (KMSKA, Royal Museum of Fine Arts Antwerp).

The painting is historically significant—I first encountered it in a college art history course. Commissioned by Etienne Chevalier, treasurer to King Charles VII of France, it portrays the Virgin Mary as the Queen of Heaven, baring her breast ostensibly to nourish the Christ child with her milk. She was probably modeled after Agnès Sorel, the king’s recently deceased mistress and mother of three of his daughters, considered the ideal of feminine beauty at that time in western Europe: pale-skinned, with a high forehead, and fashionable in her ermine cloak.

Though I can appreciate the technical excellence of this painting and the intense reds and blues of the angels, I don’t really like it. Mary seems cold, not very maternal. There’s also an eroticization of her body—not because her breast is exposed, which was common in Marian art, but because it seems to be on display for the viewer; her son’s not interested in feeding—that’s wholly inappropriate for the subject. Why you’d want to memorialize your boss’s sex partner in such a way is beyond me. I’m no prude, but I much prefer Jan van Eyck’s Madonna at the Fountain, on display in the same room:

van Eyck, Jan_Madonna at the Fountain
Jan van Eyck (Flemish, 1390/99–1441), Madonna at the Fountain, 1439. Oil on panel, 19 × 12 cm. Koninklijk Museum voor Schone Kunsten Antwerpen (KMSKA, Royal Museum of Fine Arts Antwerp).

This small painting originally hung not in a church but in someone’s house. Though there’s still an air of formality, it has all the tenderness and connection that the other one lacks. Mother and son embrace in a garden of roses, irises, and lilies of the valley, he reaching round her neck and holding a string of prayer beads, she gazing adoringly at him. They stand beside a fountain, recalling Jesus’s discussion in John 4 about the “living water” he gives to those who thirst. The original wood frame bears the artist’s motto: “As well as I can.”

The deeply engrained portrait of motherhood embodied by the Virgin Mary is juxtaposed most potently with a series of three black-and-white portraits of new mothers by the Dutch photographer Rineke Dijkstra.

"Madonna" gallery
Gallery 2.17 (“The Madonna”) from the KMSKA exhibition Collected with Vision: Private Collections in Dialogue with the Old Masters

The accompanying text read:

Jean Fouquet portrays motherhood as something sacred. Mary as a symbol of purity and devotion is richly dressed in cool colours. Rineke Dijkstra homes in on the vulnerable reality. Her mothers are scantily clad and marked by childbirth. Both works are innovative: Fouquet may have painted his Mary for the first time from a real person, and in its day the painting was regarded as ‘modern’. Dijkstra shows motherhood in all its rawness, a taboo usually withheld from view.

Dijkstra, Rineke_New Mothers
Rineke Dijkstra (Dutch, 1959–), Tecla (Amsterdam, The Netherlands), Julie (Den Haag, The Netherlands), and Saskia (Harderwijk, The Netherlands), 1994. Digital prints. Private collection. [Composite photo by author]

Julie wears hospital pads and mesh underwear, which women often do for several weeks after giving birth to manage postpartum bleeding and urinary incontinence. As for Tecla, blood is running down her leg. And Saskia bears a scar from her cesarean section. A linea nigra (dark line) zips down the abdomen of all three, a temporary pigmentation increase caused by increased hormone levels. I love this triptych that shows motherhood’s glorious, messy, alterative impact on the body—the real physicality of the vocation of bearing children into the world.

I wish there were more imagery of Mary like this, as it would, I think, deepen the wonder of the Incarnation and enhance women’s ability to identify with Mary and thus further enliven her story.

Also in the Madonna gallery was a unique “light poetry” installation by Nick Mattan and Angelo Tijssens—one of seventeen spread throughout the second floor, collectively titled Licht dat naar ons tast (Light that reaches for us). KMSKA had commissioned this couple to bring to life the short verses the museum’s late writer-in-residence Bernard Dewulf had written in response to the galleries’ stated themes.

“Inspired by the museum’s many reading and praying figures, as well as James Ensor’s expressive hand sketches, [Mattan and Tijssens] sought a subtle way to make [Dewulf’s] words tangible,” the museum writes. Their solution was to project them onto the gallery floors from brass cylinders suspended from the ceiling. The words shine like faint specks of light, becoming legible only when a visitor holds their hands, a sweater, or something else up to the light.

Here my husband “holds” a poem written in the voice of Mary:

Light that reaches for us
Nick Mattan (Belgian, 1987–) and Angelo Tijssens (Belgian, 1986–), Licht dat naar ons tast (Light that reaches for us), 2023, featuring seventeen poems by Bernard Dewulf. Commissioned by and permanently installed at the Koninklijk Museum voor Schone Kunsten Antwerpen (KMSKA, Royal Museum of Fine Arts Antwerp).

“Madonna” by Bernard Dewulf

Virgin, mother, wife –
I have two breasts
that stand for my three souls.
I show you one of them,
and whose it is is yours to choose.

Translated from the original Dutch by David Colmer

Kind of cheeky! Dewulf speaks of Mary’s three identities and lets us decide if the breast she bares in Fouquet’s painting represents her naked innocence, her nurturing impulse, or her desire to please her husband. (Traditionally in art, it has always stood for the second.)

Though I can’t read Dutch and thus had to consult the KMSKA app for translations of the poems, the thrill of discovery was there in each room. View other visitor engagements with Licht dat naar ons tast on Instagram.

The next gallery I entered was themed “Suffering.”

Suffering gallery
Gallery 2.19 (“Suffering”) from the KMSKA exhibition Collected with Vision: Private Collections in Dialogue with the Old Masters

As one would expect, it’s inhabited by several Old Master paintings of Christ’s passion, most notably a triptych by the Flemish Baroque artist Peter Paul Rubens.

Rubens, Peter Paul_Christ on the Straw
Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, 1577–1640), Epitaph of Jan Michielsen and His Wife Maria Maes (aka Christ on the Straw, Madonna, and Saint John), 1618. Oil on panel, 138 × 178 cm. Koninklijk Museum voor Schone Kunsten Antwerpen (KMSKA, Royal Museum of Fine Arts Antwerp).

Rubens, Peter Paul_Christ on the straw (detail)

The central panel shows the dead Christ being laid out on a marble slab and wrapped in a shroud by Joseph of Arimathea, while his mother and Mary Magdalene (and the apostle John in the background) mourn him. The left wing shows Mary supporting the pudgy little baby Jesus as he takes some of his first steps, while the right wing shows John, whose symbol is the eagle, writing his Gospel that will place Jesus’s death in the context of the larger story of his life of ministry and his resurrection.

This painting, along with Anthony van Dyck’s Lamentation over the Dead Christ and The Holy Trinity by a follower of Rubens’s (which shows God the Father cradling the dead body of God the Son in an image type sometimes referred to as the Mystic Pietà), are juxtaposed with three photographs by Nan Goldin that show the impact of AIDS on her friend, the Parisian gallery owner Gilles Dusein, and his partner, the artist Gotscho.

Photos by Nan Goldin
Nan Goldin (American, 1953–), Gilles in Hospital, Gilles’ Arm, and Gotscho Kissing Gilles, 1993. C-prints. Private collection.

Dusein’s emaciated arm, resting weakly on a hospital sheet, recalls the limp arm of Christ in paintings of the Deposition and Entombment; and Gotscho’s kiss, the love and grief of Jesus’s mother and friends as they watched their loved one suffer and succumb to death.

By displaying these disparate artworks from vastly different contexts across from each other, we are encouraged to draw connections between the suffering of Christ and that of the LGBTQ+ community. While Christians in Rubens’s day would sit before images of Jesus in pain or sorrow or having died a torturous and untimely death, and deepen their empathy and love, so too might we do well to sit prayerfully, humbly, empathetically, with contemporary images of suffering, seeking to enter the stories they tell.

Calvary by Antonello da Messina (another version of which is at the National Gallery in London) also hangs in this gallery. While the crucified Christ seems at peace with his death, the other two on their crosses writhe in pain.

Antonello da Messina_Calvary
Antonello da Messina (Italian, 1430–1479), Calvary, 1475. Oil on panel, 52.5 × 42.5 cm. Koninklijk Museum voor Schone Kunsten Antwerpen (KMSKA, Royal Museum of Fine Arts Antwerp).

Antonello da Messina_Calvary (detail)

Compare these figures to contemporary Belgian artist Berlinde de Bruyckere’s Schmerzensmann (Man of Sorrows), on loan from the collection of David and Indré Roberts (see wide-view photo above). The piece consists of a wax and resin mold of a contorted human form, its skin stretched and broken, its legs wrapped around a tall rusty pole.

“Man of Sorrows” is also the title of an Early Netherlandish painting by Albrecht Bouts and a modern painting by James Ensor, which KMSKA displays side-by-side.

Bouts, Albrecht_Man of Sorrows
Albrecht Bouts (Flemish, 1451/55–1549), Man of Sorrows, 1500–1525. Oil on panel, diameter 29 cm. Koninklijk Museum voor Schone Kunsten Antwerpen (KMSKA, Royal Museum of Fine Arts Antwerp).

The earlier one is an incredibly moving image of pathos. Christ wears a thick, twisted, mock crown whose thorns dig holes into his forehead and draw blood. His eyes are red with tears and sunken in, and his lips are turning blue with the pallor of death. I find it quite beautiful, insofar as an image of suffering can be beautiful. (That’s a topic for another day.)

Ensor, James_Man of Sorrows
James Ensor (Belgian, 1860–1949), Man of Sorrows, 1891. Oil on panel, 20 × 15.5 cm. Koninklijk Museum voor Schone Kunsten Antwerpen (KMSKA, Royal Museum of Fine Arts Antwerp).

The Ensor painting, on the other hand, is decidedly not beautiful. In fact, I think it’s the ugliest image of Christ I’ve ever seen, with his crumpled face, scraggly hair, and bared teeth. There’s something very unsettling about his expression, and no wonder, as the curatorial text informs that Ensor drew inspiration from the masks of demon characters in Japanese theater. “His [Ensor’s] Jesus screams with rage about the injustice inflicted on him,” the label says. Is that what that expression is? To me he looks sinister. Like he’s growling at us. And I dislike his dinky crown that he wears like a headband; give me Bouts’s gnarly one instead.

I’m in favor of Christ images that show the rage he must have felt, but I don’t think Ensor is successful if that was his aim. To name a few modern artists who were: Guido Rocha (Tortured Christ, 1975) and David Mach (Die Harder, 2011), both of whom capture Jesus’s cry of dereliction on the cross.

The final themed gallery I’ll call out is “Heavens.”

Heavens gallery
Gallery 2.22 (“Heavens”) from the KMSKA exhibition Collected with Vision: Private Collections in Dialogue with the Old Masters

The dominant Old Master work is a set of three panels from the upper tier of a colossal altarpiece that Hans Memling painted for the church at the Benedictine Abbey of Santa Maria la Real in Najera in northern Spain. All the other panels are lost.

The museum titles the central panel God the Father with Singing Angels—but I think the figure is more properly God the Son, Jesus Christ, portrayed as Salvator Mundi (Savior of the World). In his left hand he holds a cross-surmounted crystal globe, signifying his dominion over the earth, and with the other hand he gestures blessing. He wears a tiara and a red cope decorated with gold-thread embroidery, pearls, and precious stones, and his collar bears the words Agyos Otheos (Holy God).

Memling, Hans_God the Father with Singing Angels
Hans Memling (German Flemish, ca. 1430–1494), God the Father with Singing Angels, 1483–94. Oil on panel, 164 × 212 cm. Koninklijk Museum voor Schone Kunsten Antwerpen (KMSKA, Royal Museum of Fine Arts Antwerp).

Surrounding him is a musical band of angels, singing his praises from songbooks and, in the flanking panels, playing a variety of wind and string instruments: (from left to right) a psaltery, a tromba marina, a lute, a trumpet, a shawm, a straight trumpet, a looped trumpet, a portative organ, a harp, and a fiddle.

Memling, Hans_Music-Making Angels
Hans Memling (German Flemish, ca. 1430–1494), Music-Making Angels (left), 1483–94. Oil on panel, 165 × 230 cm. Koninklijk Museum voor Schone Kunsten Antwerpen (KMSKA, Royal Museum of Fine Arts Antwerp).

Memling, Hans_Music-Making Angels
Hans Memling (German Flemish, ca. 1430–1494), Music-Making Angels (right), 1483–94. Oil on panel, 165 × 230 cm. Koninklijk Museum voor Schone Kunsten Antwerpen (KMSKA, Royal Museum of Fine Arts Antwerp).

This ensemble probably evokes for you a particular sound—something like Tallis or Palestrina—soaring polyphonic vocals, a gentle yet majestic accompaniment. But instead, a different soundtrack played, audibly, in the room: songs from the 1967 debut album of the American rock band the Velvet Underground, several of which use religious language to describe the experience of doing drugs. “Heroin” opens like this:

I don’t know just where I’m going
But I’m gonna try for the kingdom, if I can
’Cause it makes me feel like I’m a man
When I put a spike into my vein

And I’ll tell you things aren’t quite the same
When I’m rushing on my run
And I feel just like Jesus’ son

This aural element was complemented, on the gallery wall, by the guitar of Lou Reed, the band’s lead singer and songwriter. It’s signed by Andy Warhol, who produced and championed the Velvet Underground & Nico album and made its banana cover art, replicated on the instrument.

Lou Reed's guitar
Lou Reed’s “Banana Guitar,” from a private collection

Adding to the mix, in the corner of the room was an installation by the Copenhagen-born and -based artist Olafur Eliasson, called Lighthouse Lamp. “Affixed to a tripod, a lamp situated within a Fresnel lens—a compact lens which was developed for lighthouses—emits a band of white light in 360 degrees,” the artist’s website explains. In this space, the beam takes on a triangular shape.

Eliasson, Olafur_Lighthouse Lamp
Olafur Eliasson (Icelandic Danish, 1967–), Lighthouse Lamp, 2004. Mixed media. Collection of Filiep and Mimi Libeert.

There was also an altarpiece of The Last Judgment and the Seven Acts of Mercy by Bernard van Orley, which references Jesus’s teaching in Matthew 25 about one’s entry into heaven being contingent on whether, in this life, you feed the hungry, give shelter to the homeless, visit the prisoner, and so on.

The “Heavens” gallery begs the question: How does one define “heaven”? Is it a physical place? A state of mind? An encounter? I think of related words like bliss, beatitude, communion, the sublime.

The celestial scene painted by Memling—and remember, it’s only partial, as the rest is missing—is beautifully rendered, but it also encapsulates what has become the popular cliché of heaven: angels on clouds, strumming harps, and a regal God swaying his scepter. Music-making, angelic beings, and the reign of God are all certainly a part of how the Bible describes heaven. But it’s also so much more. It’s a garden and a city. It’s healing and restoration. It’s the righting of wrongs. It’s all things made new. It’s jubilee. It’s a wedding—deep and lasting union between God and humanity. It’s an eternal interlocking of God’s space and ours (earth). It’s a global, transhistorical community of faith, gathered together around Christ their head, worshipping him in diverse languages, musical styles, dances, and other cultural expressions. It’s the culmination of the greatest story ever told.

Today, Memling’s vision of heaven probably fails to captivate most people, even Christians. So it’s an interesting experiment to compare it to how others conceive of the concept.

Eliasson’s Lighthouse Lamp wasn’t a commission on or explicit treatment of the theme, but the curator saw fit to place it beside Memling, because heaven is often conceived of as a light-filled space, and light can evoke the divine. For this reason, Memling painted his background gold. What’s more, the three-sidedness of Eliasson’s light beam may, for some, evoke the Trinity, the classical Christian doctrine of Father, Son, and Holy Ghost that Memling alludes to with the three precious stones on the fibula of Christ’s mantle.

Still, other folks experience what could be termed “heavenly” transcendence through the use of mind-altering substances, as did the members of the Velvet Underground, whose drug trips gave birth to their experimental music—which, in turn, has taken others to a transcendent place.


Whether in special exhibitions or displays of their permanent collections, I want to see more of this in museums: bringing old and new artworks into conversation with one another around universal themes, in the same room. (In some museums, the labels sometimes cross-reference works in other galleries, but that’s not the same.) Although there are benefits to the traditional approach of laying out art chronologically to give you discrete pictures of different historical eras and allow you to progress by time period, a thematic approach that compiles works from across time also has its benefits.

I’ve found cross-temporal art displays to be especially vitalizing, because instead of trying to tell history, they more naturally invite personal reflection and tend to be less academic in tone. Such an approach makes the art accessible to a larger number of people, especially those who don’t frequent museums. It helps us see the relevance of the Old Masters (or whatever the museum’s collection focus) for today—how the subjects they depicted often address topics or questions we still ask or wonder about or that reflect aspects of the common human experience, such as joy, suffering, family, death, betrayal, or festivity. Creating relationships between works made centuries apart, highlighting similarities and differences, can give us a broader perspective.

And for this museumgoer (pointing at myself) who is attracted to medieval and early Renaissance art and sometimes bypasses the contemporary galleries, the integrative approach is more engaging. Giving contemporary works a point of connection with the works I’m already inclined to like helps me enter into them more easily and fruitfully, and I’m more likely to spend time with them than if they were segregated.

New and old don’t have to be equally represented—Kolumba skews heavily contemporary, whereas KMSKA lets its strengths shine with the Old Masters, and yet the occasional unexpected intervention from years past or future always caused me to pause and be curious. Over the last several years I’ve been noticing other museums engaging in similar playful exchange—plopping a contemporary work into the medieval section, or vice versa, in a way that provides some kind of illumination.

This was my first and only visit to KMSKA, and as I understand, there’s not the same degree of intermixing of old and new year-round; this was a special exhibition that brought in contemporary works from outside, as the institution itself owns very few. But they did do something similar last year with the exhibition What’s the Story?, and the dangling light poems by Bernard Dewulf are a permanent fixture in the Old Masters galleries.

Have you been to a museum where works from different time periods were displayed side-by-side to create a discourse, and if so, did that choice enhance your engagement, insight, or appreciation? I’d love to hear what other museums are doing this!


This article took me some forty hours to write and to select and edit photos for. If you appreciate learning about my museum experiences and having access to high-resolution, downloadable art images, would you please consider adding to my “tip jar” (PayPal), or sponsoring a book from my Amazon wish list? Thank you!

Roundup: Trilingual antiwar song, rock-hewn churches of Ethiopia, “Sacred Harp Singing in the Age of AI,” and more

PRAYER: “God, I Wake” by Rev. Maren Tirabassi: A morning prayer for Ordinary Time.

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SONG: “Sólo le pido a Dios” (I Only Ask of God), performed by the Alma Sufí Ensamble: This is a cover of a 1978 song written in Spanish by the Argentine folk rock singer-songwriter León Gieco—a personal prayer that he would not be unfeeling, not numb to injustice. In a November 2023 collaboration with the Alma Sufí Ensamble, Gieco joined the Argentine Jewish cantor Gastón Saied (also a guest artist) and the ensemble’s own Nuri Nardelli, a practicing Sufi (Muslim mystic), in singing the song in Spanish, Hebrew, and Arabic, respectively. “Three languages, one heart. And one prayer for peace in the Middle East,” they write. View the original Spanish lyrics and English translation here.

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VIDEOS:

The following videos are two of thirteen—the ones focusing on the continent’s Christian heritage—from the docuseries Africa’s Cultural Landmarks, produced by the Metropolitan Museum of Art in collaboration with the World Monuments Fund and directed by Sosena Solomon. The series was commissioned to coincide with the reopening of the museum’s Arts of Africa galleries this May, after being closed for four years as part of a major redesign and renovation of the Michael C. Rockefeller Wing.

>> “Rock-Hewn Churches of Lalibela, Ethiopia”: “Stepping into one of the rock-hewn churches of Lalibela is an experience unlike any other. Carved directly from volcanic rock, from the top to bottom, unlike traditional buildings built from the ground up, the eleven wondrous churches of Lalibela are monumental expressions of devotion and symbols of Ethiopia’s spiritual heartland. Visually captivating and rich with personal insights from priests entrusted with care of the churches, this documentary reveals how these sanctuaries—both magnificent and fragile—face the constant threat of erosion. Meet the dedicated guardians balancing conservation and sacred duty, to ensure Lalibela’s living pilgrimage tradition thrives for generations to come.”

Bete Giyorgis, Lalibela, Ethiopia
Bete Giyorgis (Church of Saint George), Lalibela, Ethiopia, 13th century

>> “Rock-Hewn Churches of Tigray, Ethiopia”: “High in Ethiopia’s Northern Highlands, the rock-hewn churches of Tigray stand as breathtaking sanctuaries of faith carved into sandstone cliffs. For centuries, some 120 rock-hewn churches, and the paintings and artifacts preserved within their walls, were protected by their remote locations. However, during the 2020–2022 war in Tigray, some churches were targeted, and the use of heavy weapons resulted in vibrations that caused cracks in the stone. Through evocative imagery and intimate testimonies, this documentary explores the endurance of these remarkable sites of devotion, as local priests reflect on the spiritual and cultural legacies at risk.”

Madonna and Child (Abuna Yemata, Ethiopia)
Virgin and Child wall painting, 15th century, inside Abuna Yemata Guh (The Chapel Near the Sky) in Tigray, Ethiopia, which contains the best-preserved medieval paintings in the region

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ESSAY: “Shaped for People: Sacred Harp Singing in the Age of AI” by Mary Margaret Alvarado: From Image journal’s summer 2025 issue: “What is that, I thought, when I first heard shape note singing. It was groaning, and some voices keened. It was loud. It was muscular, this music. There was glory, but it was not pretty. The voices did not blend, and the sound was not nice. All I knew was that I wanted to hear it again. Maybe it seemed to me like an aesthetic that does not lie? I feel surrounded, often, by aesthetics that do lie. . . . So there’s a contrarian appeal to a song that sounds sung by humans in their (young, old, crooked, fat, gorgeous, hairy, halt, jacked, sexy, bald, injured, hale) human bodies . . .”

Writer Mary Margaret Alvarado reflects on her experiences participating in shape-note hymn sings, a democratic form of communal music making using the “sacred harp” of the human voice. She provides an abridged history of such singing, which developed in late eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century New England but is now carried on throughout the US and in the UK and Germany. I’d love to take part in a shape-note hymn sing someday, as I’ve long been drawn to the sound and tradition, which I know only from recordings. Besides the small gatherings organized by local communities, there are also large conventions, and I’ve been intrigued to learn that, despite the hymns’ deep rootedness in Christianity, non-Christians are often among the attendees.

Below are a few of the hymns Alvarado mentions in her essay: “Youth like the Spring Will Soon Be Gone” (MORNING SUN), “David’s Lamentation” over the death of his son Absalom, and “I’m Not Ashamed of Jesus” (CORINTH). Traditionally, the singers start by singing through an entire verse using only the four syllables of the Sacred Harp notation system (fa, sol, la, mi) as their lyrics, to orient themselves to the tune.

To browse previous Art & Theology posts that have featured hymns from the Sacred Harp tradition—albeit not all performed in a traditional manner; several are arranged for soloists or otherwise stylistically adapted—see https://artandtheology.org/tag/sacred-harp/.

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NEW ALBUM: Radiant Dawn by the Gesualdo Six: Released August 1 by the British vocal ensemble the Gesualdo Six, this album features “an ethereal combination of trumpet and voices to explore different shades of light . . . from the soft, golden glow of a summer evening as shadows lengthen to the shimmering of moonlight on calm waters,” writes director Owain Park. “Some texts contrast the terror of darkness with the brilliance of dazzling sunlight; others explore the blurred boundaries between heaven and earth. Plainchant threads this programme together . . .” A range of composers are represented, from the Middle Ages to the present day.

Several of the songs are based on biblical episodes—Simeon’s response to having held the Christ child in the temple, the transfiguration of Christ on Mount Tabor, the arrival of the holy women at Jesus’s tomb on Easter morning, the walk to Emmaus—or passages such as Psalm 5:2 (“O hearken thou . . .”) and Revelation 21:23 (“And the city had no need of the sun . . .”). There are bedtime prayers, a meditation on the glory of the angels, an O Antiphon for the approach of Christmas, and settings of contemporary poems, like “Grandmother Moon” by the Mi’kmaq poet Mary Louise Martin and “Aura” by Emily Berry, about the death of her mother. View the track list at https://www.hyperion-records.co.uk/dc.asp?dc=D_CDA68465.

Below, from the album, is the Gesualdo Six’s performance of “Night Prayer” by Alec Roth, a setting of the Te lucis ante terminum, featuring Matilda Lloyd on trumpet. “The stark setting reminds me of the ravages of war,” one YouTube user remarks. “The singing, of a prayer sent out over the carnage, blessing those who have suffered. Sacred space indeed.”

Mother-child artworks by Elizabeth Catlett

Last month I saw the exhibition Elizabeth Catlett: A Black Revolutionary Artist at the National Gallery of Art in Washington, DC, an impactful display of over two hundred prints and sculptures from throughout Catlett’s illustrious seven-decade career. Organized in partnership with the Brooklyn Museum of Art, where it first opened last year, the show focuses on Catlett’s advocacy, through her art and her on-the-ground activism, against poverty, racism, war, and gender oppression—her promotion of human dignity and freedom for all. Her work especially celebrates the beauty and strength of African American working-class women.

The exhibition title comes from a speech Catlett delivered in May 1970 by phone from Mexico to attendees at the Conference on the Functional Aspects of Black Art at Northwestern University outside Chicago, which she could not attend in person because the United States refused her entry to the country on the grounds of her allegedly dangerous politics: “I have been, and am currently, and always hope to be a Black revolutionary artist, and all that it implies,” Catlett stated.

Born in 1915 in Washington, DC, and raised there, Catlett witnessed class inequality, racial discrimination, and US imperialism firsthand, which formed her consciousness and influenced the direction her art would go. After graduating from Howard University, she spent time teaching in Durham (North Carolina), New Orleans, and Harlem and studying art in Iowa and Chicago before permanently settling in Mexico in 1946, becoming a Mexican citizen in 1962. She married the Mexican printmaker and muralist Francisco Mora in 1947, and they had three children together, all sons.

Black motherhood is a recurring subject in Catlett’s work, starting with her MFA thesis project in 1941 at the University of Iowa, a limestone sculpture of a mother and child that won first prize at the America Negro Exposition in Chicago that year but that is now lost. “Black women have been cast in the role of carrying on the survival of Black people through their position as mothers and wives, protecting and educating and stimulating children and Black men,” Catlett said. “We can learn from Black women. They have had to struggle for centuries.”

The social justice framework of the current retrospective exhibition leaves plenty of room for Catlett’s depictions of mothers with their children. What follows are photos I took of some such works.

Catlett, Elizabeth_Mother and Child
Elizabeth Catlett (American, active in Mexico, 1915–2012), Mother and Child, 1956. Terracotta, 28.6 × 17.8 × 17.8 cm (11 1/4 × 7 × 7 in.). Museum of Modern Art, New York.

My favorite is a terracotta sculpture made just a year after the lynching of fourteen-year-old Emmett Till, whose mother Mamie Till’s response was an important catalyst of the civil rights movement. It brings two bodies—that of mother and infant son—into one volume. Art historian Leah Dickerman remarks on

the uncanny way that it seems both intimate and monumental at once. Intimacy lies in the way the weight of the child’s face presses against the mother’s breast, the mother’s right leg pushed back to stabilize her balance and her head nestled against the child’s scalp, breathing in that smell. Tenderness, both affectionate and shielding, is conveyed so keenly it almost aches. . . . Catlett seems to capture, somehow, the idea of remembering something fleeting, the sculpture a tiny memorial to loving protection that cannot be maintained.

Catlett, Elizabeth_Mother and Child (detail)

Platformed across from this sculpture is another, in mahogany, this one modernist, abstracted:

Catlett, Elizabeth_Mother and Child
Elizabeth Catlett (American, active in Mexico, 1915–2012), Mother and Child, 1970. Mahogany, 49.5 × 33 × 21 cm (19 1/2 × 13 × 8 1/4 in.). Currier Museum of Art, Manchester, New Hampshire.

It shows a mother holding her baby in a swaddle, his or her head gleefully poking out from the folds. While the baby seems happy, the mother seems stressed, as she turns her head away and grabs her head with her hand, which I interpret as her taking a deep breath to compose herself for several more hours of caregiving before bedtime.

Another mahogany sculpture is borrowed from the New Orleans Museum of Art:

Catlett, Elizabeth_Mother and Child
Elizabeth Catlett (American, active in Mexico, 1915–2012), Mother and Child, 1983. Mahogany, 134.6 × 33 × 33 cm (53 × 13 × 13 in.). New Orleans Museum of Art, Louisiana.

The adjacent wall text quotes art historian Melanie Anne Herzog, author of Elizabeth Catlett: An American Artist in Mexico:

Becoming a mother, Catlett told me, was her most creative endeavor. She returned to the theme of maternity throughout her career in sculptures that illuminate the intimate physical bond between mother and child, a child’s comfort in its mother’s embrace, and the anguish of mothers who know they cannot protect their children from future harm. Catlett’s boldly corporeal rendering of maternity centers Black and Brown women in her depiction of this universal theme. I feel the fierce tenderness of this stately standing figure cradling her child, its body melded with hers. Her pensive expression and resolute stance call us to reflect on what she has endured and what her child, too, will encounter in the world that awaits.

One of Catlett’s earliest prints of the mother-child subject is a lithograph from 1944:

Catlett, Elizabeth_Mother and Child
Elizabeth Catlett (American, active in Mexico, 1915–2012), Mother and Child, 1944, printed 1945. Lithograph, image: 19.7 × 14.3 cm (7 3/4 × 5 5/8 in.); sheet: 31.4 × 23.8 cm (12 3/8 × 9 3/8 in.). Canton Museum of Art, Canton, Ohio.

The label notes how it “recasts Christian Madonna and Child iconography in the context of a racially segregated United States. A leafless tree in the background and the mother’s protective clutch hint at the brutal history of lynching and violence against Black people.”

Even after her move to Mexico, Catlett remained connected to the Black liberation struggle in the US. Her Torture of Mothers from 1970 is based on the photograph by Bud Lee published on the cover of Life magazine’s July 28, 1967, issue, showing a twelve-year-old Black boy lying in a pool of his own blood in the middle of a street in Newark, New Jersey, having been shot by two stray police bullets. The police were trying to suppress the riots that had erupted in protest of the beating of a Black cab driver in Newark by two white police officers, and while Joe Bass Jr. was outside playing with his friends, he got caught in the crossfire.

Catlett, Elizabeth_Torture of Mothers
Elizabeth Catlett (American, active in Mexico, 1915–2012), Torture of Mothers, 1970. Hand-colored lithograph, sheet: 38.1 × 56.5 cm (15 × 22 1/4 in.); framed: 48.3 × 66 cm (19 × 26 in.). Collection of Juanita and Melvin Hardy.

“Catlett’s composition visualizes the emotional toll such events have on Black mothers and women of color more broadly,” the gallery label reads—mothers whose minds are continually haunted by the racial violence, sometimes even state-authorized, that threatens the safety of their boys. “While Catlett was tracking police brutality in the US, she was also aware of similar state violence against Mexican youth, including the mass shooting of student protestors in 1968 by police at the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México where Catlett taught.”

Several of the mothers in Catlett’s art are posed in a protective embrace that seeks to shield their children from harm. The arms of her 1982 Madonna, for example, wrap around a son and a daughter, though her averted eyes look worried:

Catlett, Elizabeth_Madonna
Elizabeth Catlett (American, active in Mexico, 1915–2012), Madonna, 1982. Lithograph, sheet: 76.2 × 56.5 cm (30 × 22 1/4 in.). Stanley Museum of Art, University of Iowa, Iowa City.

In African American families, children are often raised by their grandmothers. Reflecting adaptability and support, such kinship care is memorialized in These Two Generations, which shows in profile a young boy and the primary maternal figure and caregiver in his life: his grandma.

Catlett, Elizabeth_These Two Generations
Elizabeth Catlett (American, active in Mexico, 1915–2012), These Two Generations, 1979, printed 1987. Lithograph, image: 48.3 x 55.7 cm (19 x 21 15/16 in.); sheet: 56.7 x 76.2 cm (22 5/16 x 30 in.); framed: 69.9 x 80 cm (27 1/2 x 31 1/2 in.). Collection of Otis and Harryette Robertson.

Skipping ahead to this millennium, the exhibition includes Danys y Liethis, a portrait of the artist’s niece and great-niece:

Catlett, Elizabeth_Danys y Liethis
Elizabeth Catlett (American, active in Mexico, 1915–2012), Danys y Liethis, 2005. Offset lithograph, sheet: 71 × 50.8 cm (27 15/16 × 20 in.); framed: 91.4 × 71.1 cm (36 × 28 in.). Collection of Barbara J. Luke.

Lastly, suspended from the ceiling at the exhibition’s entrance/exit, is Catlett’s most unique mother-child sculpture, Floating Family:

Catlett, Elizabeth_Floating Family
Elizabeth Catlett (American, active in Mexico, 1915–2012), Floating Family, 1995. Mexican primavera wood, overall length: 304.8 cm (120 in.). Collection of the Chicago Public Library.

It’s striking! Art historian Elissa Yukiko Weichbrodt writes beautifully about it on her Substack, whose words I’ll close with:

In many of her depictions of motherhood, Catlett unifies the mother and child into a single form, emphasizing their intimacy. But I’ve been thinking about her large-scale sculpture Floating Family, which usually hangs above the circulation desk at the Legler Branch of the Chicago Public Library. Here, mother and daughter are still tethered together, but instead of standing upright they are now perfectly horizontal. Are they maple seed pods, spinning and falling to the earth to plant something new? Or a rotor, lifting upwards, leaving gravity behind? Despite the seeming precarity of the moment, the mother’s face is calm and set, and the daughter looks up at her, trusting.

I imagine that it does something different in the context of a library than as the closing object in a museum retrospective. For me in October, after seeing so many sculptures of mothers cuddling their children close, this work evoked the particular terror and thrill of parenting adolescents. Now, it suggests more than that: the labor and love we give not only our children but our communities and the way that hope can sometimes feel like a free fall.


Elizabeth Catlett: A Black Revolutionary Artist will continue through July 6, 2025, at the National Gallery of Art before traveling to the Art Institute of Chicago for its final leg from August 30, 2025, to January 4, 2026. You can purchase the exhibition catalog here and view some of my other photos on Instagram.

Christmas, Day 9: Pretty Little Baby

LOOK: What You Gonna Name That Pretty Little Baby? by Aminah Brenda Lynn Robinson

Robinson, Aminah_Mother and Child_reduced
Aminah Brenda Lynn Robinson (American, 1940–2015), What You Gonna Name That Pretty Little Baby?, 1992. Pen and ink on typewriter paper. © Aminah Brenda Lynn Robinson Trust.

Aminah Brenda Lynn Robinson (1940–2015) was an artist working in multiple media whose work celebrates Black history and culture. She was a lifelong resident of Columbus, Ohio, and bequeathed her art, writings, home, and personal property to the Columbus Museum of Art, who established the Aminah Robinson Legacy Project in 2020.

The drawing above is one of twenty-six from Robinson’s excellent book The Teachings: Drawn from African-American Spirituals (Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1992). These drawings, she writes in the introduction, “have grown from the stories and songs that were given to me by my family and my early teachers, and I offer them here to the children of today’s troubled world and the children of tomorrow. They carry a message of dignity, knowledge, and wisdom . . . speak of survival, of freedom and determination, of love and faith, of justice and of hope . . .”

The artist’s estate is represented in the US by Fort Gansevoort in New York, which is currently showing Aminah Brenda Lynn Robinson: Character Studies through January 25.

Another exhibition of her work, Aminah Robinson: Journeys Home, a Visual Memoir, will be touring nationally for the next few years: to the Springfield Museum of Art in Ohio (February 1–July 13, 2025), the Newark Museum of Art in New Jersey (October 16, 2025–March 1, 2026), the Mobile Museum of Art in Alabama (March 26, 2026–January 9, 2027), and two remaining venues to be announced. This is a major exhibition that brings together Robinson’s drawings, prints, paintings, textiles, collages, homemade books, dolls, “hogmawg” sculptures (made of a mixture of mud, clay, twigs, leaves, lime, animal grease, and glue), and “RagGonNon” pieces (monumental swaths of fabric encrusted with buttons, beads, and other found objects) to create a portrait of her life.

LISTEN: “Mary, What You Gonna Name That Pretty Little Baby?,” African American spiritual | Arranged by Alex Bradford, 1961 | Performed by Princess Stewart and Marion Williams on Black Nativity: Gospel on Broadway! (Original Broadway Cast), 1962

Mary, Mary, what you gonna name that pretty little baby?
Mmm, mmm, pretty little baby
Mmm, mmm, pretty little baby
Glory be to the newborn King

Some call him one thing, I think I’ll call him Jesus
Mmm, mmm, sweet Jesus
Mmm, mmm, (ain’t he sweet?) sweet Jesus
Glory be to the newborn King

Some call him Jesus, I think I’ll call him Wonderful
Mmm, mmm, wonderful
Mmm, mmm, he’s so wonderful
Glory be to the newborn King

Some call him Wonderful, I think I’ll call him Emmanuel
Mmm, mmm, King Emmanuel
Mmm, mmm, (ain’t he the king?) Emmanuel
Glory be to the newborn King

Some call him Emmanuel, I’m gonna call him the Prince of Peace
Mmm, mmm, Prince of Peace
Mmm, mmm, Prince of Peace
Glory be to the newborn King

Some call him Prince of Peace, I’m gonna call him Jesus
Mmm, mmm, sweet Jesus
Mmm, mmm, (ain’t he sweet?) sweet Jesus
Glory be to the newborn King

Mary, Mary, what you gonna name that pretty little baby?
Mmm, mmm, pretty little baby
Mmm, mmm, pretty little baby
Glory be to the newborn King

This Christmas spiritual, a dialogue between an unnamed visitor and the new mother Mary, has been recorded by many artists. I think I like the original cast recording from the Langston Hughes musical Black Nativity best, featuring soloist Princess Stewart on the first verse and Marion Williams on the remaining six, backed by the Stars of Faith.

But here’s a handful of other versions I like. Because the song was passed down orally, it has taken on different lyrical variations and accrued new verses. Some reference the wise men.

>> “The Virgin Mary Had One Son” by the Staple Singers, arr. Roebuck “Pops” Staples, on The 25th Day of December (1962):

>> “The Virgin Mary Had One Son” by Josh Garrels, on The Light Came Down (2016):

>> “What ’Cha Gonna Call the Pretty Little Baby” by the National Lutheran Choir, dir. David M. Cherwien, arr. Ronald L. Stevens, on Christ Is Born (2016):

>> “Glory to the Newborn King” by Chicago a Cappella, dir. Jonathan Miller, arr. Robert Leigh Morris, on Holidays a Cappella Live (2002):

>> “Virgin Mary Had One Son” by Joan Baez and Bob Gibson, live at the 1959 Newport Folk Festival (see also “Virgin Mary,” a bonus track on the 2001 Vanguard reissue of Baez’s 1966 album Noël):

“Christmas Bonus: Magnificat” by Stewart Henderson (poem)

In the Home of an Italian Rag-Picker
Jacob Riis (Danish American, 1849–1914), In the Home of an Italian Rag-Picker, Jersey Street, ca. 1890. Photograph, 7 15/16 × 9 3/4 in. (20.2 × 24.7 cm).

My soul magnifies the poor
the sore
the raw
and my spirit rejoices in God
my downcast
my outcast
my twig-bone wrong caste
for He regards the low estate
the no-go estate
the empty plate
and squats there with those generations.

For at Whose Name the cosmos shakes
and canyons quake
sought sanctuary within a womb
a young girl’s chaste, unopened room
a sparse, unblemished catacomb
and holy is He amongst the lame.

His mercy is on those who fear Him
hear Him
those near Him
in desert flapping bivouac or dehydrated barrio.

The night sky rolled out by His arm,
the preening proud ignore His balm
and slink towards the warlock charm
of their small ambitions;
and those on thrones end up alone
replaced by fly-pecked innocents.

He only eats with the hungry,
and if they don’t, He too refrains;
and as for the rich –
a table cannot be found for them.

My soul magnifies the poor
the sore
the raw
and my spirit rejoices in God
my outcast.

From the collection Homeland by Stewart Henderson. Copyright © 1993. Published by Hodder & Stoughton. Used with the author’s permission.

Stewart Henderson is a poet, song lyricist, and broadcaster. His children’s poems, taken from his three best-selling children’s collections (Poetry Emotion, All Things Weird and Wonderful, and Who Left Grandad at the Chip Shop?), are included in the UK’s national education curriculum. As a song lyricist, the music magazines Q and Mojo place his lyrics alongside those of Randy Newman and Radiohead. And as an award-winning presenter and producer of many documentaries for BBC network radio, he continues in the grand tradition, established by the likes of Dylan Thomas, Louis MacNeice, Cecil Day-Lewis, and others, of leading poets being commissioned to make primetime programs for Britain’s national broadcaster. Liverpool-born but long since residing on the southwest fringes of London, Henderson has been a regular participant, since its inception in 1974, in the Greenbelt Festival, an annual summer event in England dedicated to the arts, faith, and justice, for which Henderson served as a board director for twelve years.

Medieval roundup: Julian of Norwich, stained glass at York Minster, Jewish hymn from Andalusia, and more

PODCAST EPISODES:

>> “Jack’s Bookshelf: Julian of Norwich” with Dr. Grace Hamman, Pints with Jack: The “Jack’s Bookshelf” podcast series explores the authors and books that influenced the life and writings of C. S. Lewis. Hosted by David Bates, this episode covers Julian of Norwich (ca. 1343–after 1416), an English anchorite and mystic who authored what editors call Revelations of Divine Love or The Showings, the first English-language book by a woman. The most famous quote from this work is “Sin is behoovely, but all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.” Medieval scholar Grace Hamman [previously] unpacks the quote and discusses other key passages and themes from Julian, as well as what little we know of her biography. An excellent introduction!

>> “Ben Myers—The Divine Comedy,” Life with God: One of the many gifts my parents have given me over the years was a four-month study-abroad stay in Florence during my junior year of college, where one of my courses was devoted to reading and studying—in its original Italian and in the author Dante Alighieri’s hometown!—the masterful trilogy of narrative poems known as La Divina Commedia, or The Divine Comedy in English. Moving through hell, purgatory, and heaven, it is an allegory of the soul’s journey toward God. I enjoyed hearing Dr. Benjamin Myers [previously], director of the Great Books Honors Program at Oklahoma Baptist University, discuss this deeply influential work from the early fourteenth century, and sharing one of his own poems, “Listening to Reggae at the Nashville Airport.”

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VIRTUAL TOURS OF CATHEDRALS:

Cathedrals are, among other things, repositories of sacred art. I’m so appreciative of digitization initiatives that seek to make some of those treasures available to global publics online. Here are two admirable examples.

>> The York Minster Stained Glass Navigator: York Minster in northeastern England has the largest collection of medieval stained glass in the UK, with the earliest pieces dating from the late twelfth century. On behalf of the Chapter of York, the York Glaziers Trust is undertaking to photograph it all. These photos are available for viewing online through the cathedral’s “Stained Glass Navigator,” which enables you to hover over panels to identify the scenes, zoom in for higher resolution, and see where each panel in situated in the context of the window’s larger narrative.

I especially recommend exploring the extraordinary Great East Window, which depicts the beginning and the end of all things. The top section opens with the seven days of creation, followed by other select scenes from the Old Testament, but the bulk of the window—and my favorite sequence—consists of scenes from the book of Revelation. The bottom row depicts historical and legendary figures associated with the history of York Minster.

St. John takes the book from the angel (York)
John Thornton of Coventry (British, fl. 1405–1433), St. John Takes the Book from the Angel (Rev. 10:8–11), 1405–8. Stained glass panel from the Great East Window, York Minster, York, England. Photo courtesy of the York Glaziers Trust.

The Dragon gives power to the beast (York)
John Thornton of Coventry (British, fl. 1405–1433), The Dragon Gives Power to the Beast (Rev. 13:1–3), 1405–8. Stained glass panel from the Great East Window, York Minster, York, England. Photo courtesy of the York Glaziers Trust.

Satan chained in the bottomless pit (York)
John Thornton of Coventry (British, fl. 1405–1433), Satan Chained in the Bottomless Pit (Rev. 20:1–3), 1405–8. Stained glass panel from the Great East Window, York Minster, York, England. Photo courtesy of the York Glaziers Trust.

>> Life of a Cathedral: Notre-Dame of Amiens: Located in the heart of Picardy in northern France, Amiens Cathedral is one of the largest Gothic churches of the thirteenth century, renowned for the beauty of its three-tier interior elevation, its prodigious sculpted decoration, and its stained glass. This website put together by Columbia University’s Media Center for Art History offers a detailed virtual tour of the cathedral, drawing attention to its architectural features and artworks, from the many stone relief sculptures over its four portals (my favorite) to the octagonal labyrinth that adorns the marble floor in the nave to the early sixteenth-century misericords in the choir stall.

Voussoir close-up, Amiens Cathedral
Detail of voussoirs from the south transept portal of St. Honoré at Amiens Cathedral, ca. 1240, featuring Adam working the ground, Noah building the ark, Jonah being disgorged from the fish, Hosea marrying Gomer, and other biblical figures and vignettes

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SONG: “Adon Olam,” performed by the Maqamat Masters, feat. Nissim Lugas: The well-loved text of this traditional Hebrew prayer in five stanzas probably originated in medieval Spain, having been first found in a thirteenth-century siddur (Jewish prayer book) from Andalusia. Drawn from the language of the Psalms, it praises God for both his transcendence and his immanence. He is incomparably great, the ruler over all, and yet he’s also a personal God, a refuge for those who call on him. The prayer’s title and opening phrase translates to “Master of the Universe” or “Eternal Lord.”

Various tunes have been used for the singing of this prayer over the centuries. The Maqamat Masters perform it here with a melody based on the traditional Armenian folk tune NUBAR NUBAR, arranged by Elad Levi and Ariel Berli. They also add to the prayer a few lines from the ghazals of the Persian Sufi poet Saadi (1210–ca. 1292), about the burning fire of God’s love; Lugas sings this Farsi passage from 3:06 to 4:08.

“Maqamat Masters is a unique group of musicians that coalesced around their work together teaching at the Maqamat School of Eastern Music in Safed, Israel,” 12 Tribes Music writes. “Each of the musicians is a master in a different traditional musical genre from the Middle East, and they bring their personal voices and decades of explorations together, to create a magical, new and innovative sound.”

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VIRTUAL EXHIBITION: The Faras Gallery: Treasures from the Flooded Desert: In 1960, Faras, a small town in Sudan near the Egyptian border, was one of the archaeological sites designated for flooding by the waters of the Nile to create Lake Nasser. Responding to an international call by UNESCO to preserve the area’s cultural heritage before it would be buried beneath the new reservoir, a Polish team led by Professor Kazimierz Michałowski proceeded with salvage excavations in 1961–64. Their efforts uncovered the wonderfully preserved ruins of a medieval cathedral, active from the eighth to fourteenth centuries (it was built on the remains of an early seventh-century church) and containing over 150 religious paintings, a trove of Nubian Christian art. By agreement with Sudan, half of the findings went to Poland’s National Museum in Warsaw, while the other half are kept in Sudan’s National Museum in Khartoum.

Nubian Madonna and Child
Wall Painting with Bishop Marianos under the protection of Christ and the Mother of God, early 11th century, excavated from Faras Cathedral in modern-day Sudan. Secco tempera on plaster, 247 × 155.5 cm. National Museum, Warsaw.

Excavation of Faras Cathedral

Curated by Paweł Dąbrowski and Magdalena Majchrzak and hosted by Google Arts & Culture, this virtual exhibition spotlights the wall paintings and artifacts from Faras that are housed in Warsaw. It discusses the importance of the discovery of the cathedral and the technical challenges of detaching the paintings (tempera on dry mud plaster) from the walls. It also includes digital reconstructions of the cathedral’s interior and exterior in 3D stereoscopy, as well as video elements. Here is one of the four videos from the exhibition:

Landmark exhibition “Ethiopia at the Crossroads” explores cross-cultural influences on Ethiopian art

All photos in this post, except for the last one (of the processional icon), are my own.

(Note: WordPress seems to have disabled the feature that allows you to expand an image upon clicking, but if you’re reading on a computer, you can right-click an image and open it in a new tab to view it in full resolution; if you’re reading on a phone, you can pinch to zoom.)

Located in the Horn of Africa and with access to the Red Sea, Nile River, Mediterranean Sea, and Indian Ocean, Ethiopia stands at the nexus of historical travel, trade, and pilgrimage routes that brought it into contact with surrounding cultures and influenced its artistic development. Coptic Egypt, Nubia, South Arabia, Byzantium, Armenia, Italy, India, and the greater African continent were among those influencers. But Ethiopia not only absorbed influences; it transmitted them too.

A major art exhibition is centering Ethiopia’s artistic traditions in a global context. For Ethiopia at the Crossroads at the Walters Art Museum in Baltimore (running through March 3), curator Christine Sciacca has brought together more than 220 objects from the Walters’ own extraordinary Ethiopian art collection and private and institutional lenders both domestic and international. Icons, wall paintings, processional crosses and hand crosses, illuminated Gospel books and psalters, sensuls (chain manuscripts), healing scrolls, and more are on display throughout the galleries, whose walls have been painted bright green, yellow, and red—the colors of the Ethiopian flag. To round off the exhibition, guest curator Tsedaye Makonnen, an Ethiopian American multidisciplinary artist, was tasked with curating a few works from contemporary artists of the Ethiopian diaspora.

Ethiopia at the Crossroads exhibition view

The majority of objects are Christian, made for liturgical or private devotional use. Ethiopia is one of the world’s oldest Christian nations: in the early fourth century, persuaded by a missionary from Syria, King Ezana of Aksum embraced Christianity, and it has been the dominant religion of Ethiopia ever since. But the exhibition does also include some Islamic and Jewish objects.

One of the first works you’ll encounter is a mural that would have originally been mounted on the outer wall of an Ethiopian Orthodox church sanctuary (mäqdäs), portraying the Nativity, the Presentation of Christ in the Temple, and the Adoration of the Magi.

Nativity, Presentation of Christ in the Temple, and Adoration of the Magi, Ethiopia, 18th century. Glue tempera on overlapping canvas pieces mounted to a new stretched canvas, 49 3/16 × 66 15/16 in. (124.9 × 170 cm). Walters Art Museum, Baltimore. [object record]

Remarkably, at the Nativity, there is a feast taking place, and Jesus is feeding his mother with what looks like a Communion wafer! As the theologian Lester Ruth has said, “The sound from most baby beds is a cry to be fed. But the cry from the manger is an offer to feed on his body born into this world.”

One of history’s most famous Ethiopian painters is Fre Seyon, who worked at the court of Emperor Zara Yaqob (r. 1434–1468) and was of the first generation of Ethiopian artists who painted icons on wood panels. He was also a monk. He likely introduced one of the characteristic features of Ethiopian icons of the Virgin and Child: the archangels Michael and Gabriel flanking them with drawn swords, acting as a kind of honor guard.

Fre Seyon triptych
Fre Seyon (Ethiopian, active 1445–1480), Triptych Icon with the Virgin Mary and Christ Child Flanked by Archangels and Saints (center), Twelve Apostles and Saints (left), and Prophets and Saints (right), mid- to late 15th century. Tempera on gesso-primed wood. Institute of Ethiopian Studies, Addis Ababa University, acc. no. IESMus4186.

My two favorite details of this triptych by Fre Seyon are (on the right wing) the image of the Ancient of Days surrounded by the tetramorph, his wild gray locks being blown about, and in the center, the bird that Christ holds, its feet grasping at a three-branched twig. On a literal level, the bird is a plaything for the boy that charmingly emphasizes his humanity (in the late Middle Ages, at least in Europe—I’m not sure about in Ethiopia—it was common for young children to keep tame birds as pets). On another level, the bird may be symbolic. In traditional Western art, Jesus sometimes holds a goldfinch, a bird with distinctive red markings that’s fond of eating thistle seeds and gathering thistle down and thus came to be read as a prefiguration of Christ’s thorny, blood-spilt passion. I’m not sure whether Fre Seyon intended a symbolic significance for this bird.

The Ancient of Days, enthroned in the tetramorph

Here’s another triptych from the exhibition, this one from a century and a half later:

Virgin and Child triptych
Triptych Icon with the Virgin Mary and Christ Child Flanked by Archangels, Scenes from the Life of Christ, Saint George, and Saints Honorius, Täklä Haymanot, and Ewostatewos, Ethiopia (Tigray), early 17th century. Glue tempera on panel, 16 3/4 × 22 5/16 in. (42.5 × 56.7 cm). Walters Art Museum, Baltimore. [object record]

The composition of the Virgin and Child is based on prints of a painted icon from Santa Maria Maggiore in Rome brought to Ethiopia by Portuguese Jesuit missionaries—but it innovates. As the wall text notes, “Mary’s cloak stretch[es] out in either direction to embrace the scene of Christ Teaching the Apostles below. Umbrella-like, Mary appears as both the protector and personification of the church.”

Harrowing of Hell

On the right wing, angels hold up chalices to collect the blood that flows from Jesus’s wounds on the cross, while below that, Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus carry Jesus’s wrapped corpse to the tomb. On the left wing is one of my favorite traditional religious scenes: the Harrowing of Hell, or Christ’s Descent into Limbo, in which, on Holy Saturday, Jesus enters the realm of his dead to take back those whom Death has held captive, first of which are our foreparents Adam and Eve. Below that scene is an image of the dragon-slaying Saint George, a late third-century figure from the Levant or Cappadocia who is the patron saint of Ethiopia.

At the bottom center is a scene of Christ teaching the twelve apostles, plus two Ethiopian saints. They all hold hand crosses, like those carried by Ethiopian priests and monks.

Hand Cross with Figure
Hand Cross with Figure, Ethiopia, probably 18th–19th century. Wood, 13 3/8 × 4 3/16 × 9/16 in. (34 x 10.7 × 1.4 cm). Walters Art Museum, Baltimore. [object record]

Coptic-Arabic Book of Prayer
Coptic-Arabic Book of Prayer, Egypt, 18th century. Tempera and ink on parchment, 11 3/4 × 9 in. (29.8 × 22.8 cm). Melikian Collection. [object record]

One of the hallmarks of the exhibition is its multisensory nature: attendees are immersed not only in the sights of Ethiopia but also in the sounds and smells. Scratch-and-sniff cards invite people to take a whiff of frankincense, which would have filled the censer on display. Or to smell berbere, a hot spice blend that would have been stored in the woven baskets nearby.

Frankincense

This olfactory element was produced by the Institute for Digital Archaeology, which, as part of its efforts to record and preserve ephemeral culture, has launched an ambitious program to preserve the heritage of smells. “The aim is to provide the technical means for documenting the aromas of today for the benefit of future generations – and to find new methods and opportunities for experiencing the odors of the past.”

Also in the exhibition there are screens where you can watch videos of Ethiopian Orthodox worship, including music and liturgies, where you will see some of the objects in use. You can also listen to interviews with members of the local Ethiopian diaspora community. (The Washington metropolitan area has the largest Ethiopian population outside Ethiopia.)

Further contextualizing the objects and enhancing the sense of place, pasted onto the wall is a blow-up photograph of a Christian holy-day celebration wending through the streets. This serves as a backdrop to two physical artifacts present in the room: a qämis (dress) and a debab (umbrella).

Dress and umbrella
Left: Dress (qämis), Ethiopia, 20th century(?), cotton, Peabody Essex Museum, E72559. Right: Umbrella (debab), Ethiopia, 20th century, silk and velvet, Peabody Essex Museum, E68713.

The inscriptions on many of the Ethiopian icons and manuscript illuminations, which identify the figures and scenes, are in Ge‘ez (aka classical Ethiopic), an ancient South Semitic language that originated over two thousand years ago in what is now northern Ethiopia and Eritrea. It’s no longer spoken in daily life, but it is still used as the language of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church and taught to boys in Sunday school. I really wish I could read it, as it would be a great help in interpreting the Ethiopian images I come across in my studies!

Contrary to what some may assume, Ethiopians in the medieval era were not an isolated people. They traveled—to Rome, to Jerusalem, and so forth. Evidence of Holy Land pilgrimage is suggested by an early fourteenth-century Gospel book that includes the domed Church of the Holy Sepulcher as the backdrop for Christ’s resurrection:

Crucifixion and Resurrection
Gospel Book with the Crucifixion and Christ’s Resurrection, Ethiopia (Tigray), early 14th century. Ink and paint on parchment, 10 1/2 × 6 11/16 in. (26.7 × 17 cm). Walters Art Museum, Baltimore, W.8.36, fols. 6v–7r. [object record]

This is an extraordinary book, one of the oldest surviving Ethiopian manuscripts and the oldest in North America. Ethiopian artists weren’t yet depicting Jesus on the cross, so to represent the Crucifixion, this artist has painted a living lamb surmounting a bejeweled cross, with the two thieves crucified on either side.

Also from the fourteenth century, a manuscript opened to a page spread of Christ’s Entry into Jerusalem:

Triumphal Entry
Christ’s Entry into Jerusalem, folios added from an earlier Gospel book to a Ta’ammera Maryam manuscript, Ethiopia, 14th century. Tempera and ink on parchment. Private collection.

I like how the scene extends across both pages, creating a sense of forward progression, and the two onlookers above the city gate.

One of my favorite objects from the exhibition is a sensul from Gondar depicting ten scenes from the life of Mary. A sensul is an Ethiopian chain manuscript, in this case pocket-size, created out of a single folded strip of parchment attached to heavy hide boards at each end, which creates a small book when folded shut. Here’s a detail showing the Annunciation:

Annunciation (from a sensul)
Annunciation, from a Gondarine sensul (chained manuscript), Ethiopia (Gondar), late 17th century. Ink and paint on parchment, each panel 3 5/8 × 3 1/8 in. (9.2 × 9 cm). Walters Art Museum, Baltimore. [object record] [GIF]

It’s a common misconception that Ethiopians have always depicted biblical figures as dark-skinned to reflect the local population. Such treatment didn’t become normative until the eighteenth century, although some earlier artists did choose black complexions for holy persons:

Virgin and Child
Virgin and Child, from a Psalter with the Wəddase Maryam (Praise of Mary) and Mähalǝyä Näbiyyat (Canticles of the Prophets), Ethiopia, 15th century. Ink and pigments on parchment with wooden boards, open: 8 7/8 × 6 11/16 × 3 15/16 in. (22.5 × 17 × 10 cm). Toledo Museum of Art, Ohio. [object record]

Portrait of John the Evangelist
The Opening of the Gospel of John, from a Gospel book, Ethiopia, ca. 1504–5. Tempera on parchment, 13 9/16 × 10 7/16 in. (34.5 × 26.5 cm). J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles, Ms. 102, fols. 215v–216r. [object record]

Virgin and Child triptych
Triptych Icon with the Virgin Mary and Christ Child Flanked by Archangels (center), the Kwer‘atä re’esu (Man of Sorrows) and Saint George (left), and Saint Gäbrä Mänfäs Qeddus and Abba Arsanyos (right), Ethiopia (Gondar), late 17th–early 18th century. Tempera on gesso-primed wood. Institute of Ethiopian Studies, Addis Ababa University, acc. no. IESMus3492.

In the triptych shown above, not only is the infant Jesus depicted as Black, but he also wears a necklace made of cowrie shells, which are traditionally given to Ethiopian children for protection!

My favorite artwork from the exhibition is probably this triptych:

Crucifixion triptych
Triptych Icon with the Crucifixion (center), Entombment and Guards at the Tomb (left), and Temptation in the Wilderness and the Resurrection of Christ (right), Ethiopia, late 16th century. Tempera on gesso-primed wood. Institute of Ethiopian Studies, Addis Ababa University, acc. no. IESMus4126.

Its central panel depicts the Crucifixion, Christ’s head bowed in death and his fingers gesturing blessing, even as his palms are nailed. At the top, the sun and the moon mourn his passing. As we saw before, angels catch the blood that drips from his body (notice the cute little hand sticking out from behind his torso!). At the base, the two larger-scale figures are the Virgin Mary and St. John, while next to Mary on a smaller scale is Longinus, the centurion who pierces Christ’s side with a spear.

The left wing shows the Entombment of Christ, with two guards, wearing pointed turbans, sleeping at their post. The right wing shows a scene that the label identifies as “Temptation in the Wilderness” (presumably a translation of the inscription on the tree) but that looks to me more like an Agony in the Garden. Below that is the Resurrection, with Christ holding a victory banner, standing atop Hades. An angel blows a shofar and the dead rise up out of their graves, following Christ, the firstfruits of the resurrection (1 Cor. 15:20–22). Christ wears a short-sleeved, knee-length jacket with frog closures, and bunched sleeves and trousers, both of which reflect clothing from regions east of Africa.

The wall text notes the fine, wavy lines used to render the figures’ draperies, perhaps influenced by Armenian artists from the Lake Van region.

Armenian Resurrection
Yovsian of Vaspurakan (Armenian), Leaf from a Gospel book with the Resurrection of Christ and Visit of the Women to the Tomb of Christ, ca. 1350. Tempera on cotton paper. Private collection.

Here’s another Crucifixion, this one painted in what’s called the Second Gondarine style, characterized by smoothly modeled figures, often with darker skin tones, and wide horizontal bands of red, yellow, and green filling the background:

Crucifixion-Mocking diptych
Diptych Icon with the Crucifixion (left) and the Mocking of Christ (right), Ethiopia, late 17th–early 18th century. Wood, polychrome, 13 1/2 × 9 7/8 in. (34.3 × 25.1 cm). Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, Richmond. [object record]

The squiggles behind Christ at the top left may simply be a decorative motif, but to me they look like falling stars, an apocalyptic sign, and as if the sky is weeping.

The right panel of the diptych shows Christ being cruelly fitted with a crown of thorns.

Two other passion images I want to share are a Last Supper wall painting and an Entombment from a disbound album.

Last Supper
Last Supper, Ethiopia, 18th century. Tempera on linen, mounted on panel, 16 3/4 × 24 in. (42.6 × 61 cm). Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, Richmond. [object record]

Entombment
Album Leaf with the Entombment of Christ, Ethiopia (Sawa?), late 17th century. Pigments on vellum. Minneapolis Institute of Art, 2009.39.3y. [object record]

In the Last Supper, Jesus and Judas both dip their bread (injera!) into the same bowl and exchange a knowing glance.

In the Entombment, Jesus, wrapped in white linen, is lowered into the ground, mourned by several of his women followers. The portrayal of his mother Mary’s weeping, her hands covering her eyes and her face stained with tears, is particularly poignant. This leaf is from a set of forty-four, now matted separately but originally arranged in series and likely painted on several long sheets of parchment that were sewn together and folded accordion-style to form a sensul.

One of the most extraordinary objects on display is a rare folding processional icon that adopts the form of a fan, from the late fifteenth century:

Processional icon (Ethiopia)
Folding Processional Icon in the Shape of a Fan, Ethiopia, late 15th century (Stephanite). Ink and paint on parchment, thread, extended: 24 1/4 × 154 1/8 × 4 3/4 in. (61.6 × 391.4 × 12 cm). Walters Art Museum, Baltimore. Photo courtesy of the museum. [object record]

Thirty-eight identically sized figures span the surface of this elongated parchment: the early Christian martyrs Julitta (Juliet) and Cyricus, St. George, St. John the Baptist, the archangel Michael, the Virgin Mary, the archangel Raphael, St. Paul, the Ethiopian artist-priest Afnin, and unidentified Old Testament patriarchs and prophets. There would have been a wooden handle attached to either end that, when pulled together, created a double handle for a giant wheel to be displayed during liturgical processions and church services (see here). As the museum website notes, “The Virgin Mary, whose hands are raised in a gesture of prayer, is then at the top of the wheel. By depicting Mary in the company of saints and angels, the icon powerfully evokes the celestial community of the church.”

This is just a sampling of all the wonderful art objects that are a part of the Ethiopia at the Crossroads exhibition. I’ll share more photos on Instagram (@art_and_theology) in the coming weeks.

I strongly encourage you to go see this! I think it would be enjoyable for children as well, especially Christian children, who will be able to identify many of the painted stories. For Christians, it’s an opportunity to connect with our artistic heritage and with African church history. If you can’t catch the exhibition at the Walters in Baltimore before it closes March 3, it will be traveling to the Peabody Essex Museum in Salem, Massachusetts (April 13–July 7, 2024), and the Toledo Museum of Art in Ohio (August 17–November 10, 2024).

Also, a catalog is coming out in April, where you will find photos of all the artworks in addition to illuminating essays.

Roundup: “Africa & Byzantium,” “Ethiopia at the Crossroads,” and more

ART EXHIBITIONS:

Two major exhibitions of African art are currently running in Manhattan and Baltimore, containing many Christian objects, some of them never before seen in the US. I attended both, and they’re excellent. I want to write a full-on review for each, but because I don’t know that I’ll have time to do so before they close, I wanted to at least make you aware of them in this abbreviated form in the hopes that you’ll have a chance to go see them. I will share more photos soon.

>> Africa & Byzantium, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City, November 19, 2023–March 3, 2024: Curated by Dr. Andrea Myers Achi. “Art history has long emphasized the glories of the Byzantine Empire (circa 330–1453), but less known are the profound artistic contributions of North Africa, Egypt, Nubia, Ethiopia, and other powerful African kingdoms whose pivotal interactions with Byzantium had a lasting impact on the Mediterranean world. Bringing together a range of masterworks—from mosaic, sculpture, pottery, and metalwork to luxury objects, paintings, and religious manuscripts—this exhibition recounts Africa’s central role in international networks of trade and cultural exchange. With artworks rarely or never before seen in public, Africa & Byzantium sheds new light on the staggering artistic achievements of medieval Africa. This long-overdue exhibition highlights how the continent contributed to the development of the premodern world and offers a more complete history of the vibrant multiethnic societies of north and east Africa that shaped the artistic, economic, and cultural life of Byzantium and beyond.”

Annunciation (Egypt)
The Annunciation, from a miscellany, Egypt, Fayyum Oasis, 913–14. Ink on parchment, 10 9/16 × 13 13/16 in. (26.8 × 35.1 cm). Collection of the Morgan Library and Museum, New York. Photo: Victoria Emily Jones.

_DSC8288
Diptych with Saint George and the Virgin and Child, Ethiopia, late 15th–early 16th century. Paint on wood, 20 1/2 × 26 5/16 × 1 3/16 in. (52 × 66.8 × 3 cm). Collection of the National Museum of African Art, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, DC. Photo: Victoria Emily Jones.

Exhibition tour:

Smarthistory video of one of the extraordinary early icons on display, borrowed from St. Catherine’s Monastery in Mount Sinai, Egypt:

>> Ethiopia at the Crossroads, Walters Art Museum, Baltimore, December 3, 2023–March 3, 2024: Curated by Dr. Christine Sciacca. “Ethiopia at the Crossroads is the first major art exhibition in America to examine an array of Ethiopian cultural and artistic traditions from their origins to the present day and to chart the ways in which engaging with surrounding cultures manifested in Ethiopian artistic practices. Featuring more than 220 objects drawn from the Walters’ world-renowned collection of Ethiopian art and augmented with loans from American, European, and Ethiopian lenders, the exhibition spans 1,750 years of Ethiopia’s proud artistic, cultural, and religious history.

“Seated in the Horn of Africa between Europe and the Middle East, Ethiopia is an intersection of diverse climates, religions, and cultures. Home to over 80 different ethnicities and religious groups, a large portion of the historic artistic production in Ethiopia supported one of the three Abrahamic faiths (Judaism, Christianity, and Islam), all of which have early roots in Ethiopia. As one of the oldest Christian kingdoms, Ethiopian artists produced icons, wall paintings, crosses of various scales, and illuminated manuscripts to support this religious tradition and its liturgy. . . .”

The exhibition will travel to the Peabody Essex Museum in Salem, Massachusetts, April 13–July 7, 2024, and to the Toledo Museum of Art in Ohio August 17–November 10, 2024.

Ethiopian sensul
Detail of a sensul (chained manuscript), Ethiopia, 15th–early 16th century. Parchment, ink, paint, and leather. Collection of the Peabody Essex Museum, Salem, Massachusetts. Photo: Victoria Emily Jones.

Mänbärä Tabot Icon
Mänbärä Tabot Icon with Eight Panels and Painted Scenes, Ethiopia, ca. 1850. Carved wood and glue tempera. Private collection, United States. Photo: Victoria Emily Jones.

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SPOTIFY PLAYLIST: February 2024 (Art & Theology): An assortment of psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs, old and new.

Also, as Lent starts on February 14, don’t forget about my Lent playlist! Since its original publication in 2021, I’ve added songs to the bottom.

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BLOG POST: “The True Purpose of Theology” by W. David O. Taylor: Professor Taylor shares seven things about theology that he opens his first theology class lecture with each term at Fuller. So important. I hope I reflect these on my blog.

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HYMN: “O Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go” by George Matheson: I first shared this hymn at Art & Theology back in 2019; it’s one of my favorites. Here are two more videos of the song that are worth checking out.

>> Sung by Kristyn Getty and Dana Masters: Keith and Kristyn Getty, a powerhouse couple in the Christian music industry, have chosen “O Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go” as their Family Hymn of the Month for February, providing some background on the writer, a free sheet music download of their arrangement, and a video performance from 2021 with guest vocalist Dana Masters. The Gettys’ large platform among evangelicals is sure to get this lesser-known hymn into many homes!

>> Sung by Westminster Chorus: Here Westminster Chorus (from Westminster, California) performs David Phelps’s a cappella arrangement of the hymn in Petrikirche in Dortmund, Germany. I previously shared a video of Phelps singing this version with three of his fellow Gaither Vocal Band members, which is itself moving, but with a thirty-four-person choir, the effect is tremendous.

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VIDEO: The Greeter’s Guild Goes to Times Square: Ryan Pemberton, director of community cultivation for Image journal, introduced me to “the moustachioed motivator of the high street,” Troy Hawke, in the January 18 installment of ImageUpdate. His videos are so delightful! Pemberton writes,

Call me quaint, but at the start of a presidential election year, what I’m most looking for in books, film, and certainly in public life is kindness. Under the circumstances, I can’t stop recommending Troy Hawke to friends. A character created by British comedian Milo McCabe, Hawke is a 1930s throwback, eloquent in speech and dapper in dress. His go-to wardrobe includes a smoking jacket worn over loose-fitting linen pants and Oxford dress shoes. As founder (and only member) of the Greeters Guild, he offers hyper-specific and articulate compliments to strangers—guests entering a Waitrose, commuters at a public transit hub, or those stopping at an EV charging station. After being invited to “try that in New York,” Hawke has been spotted offering compliments to passersby in Central Park. His intentional and attentive praise is a refreshing contrast to so much vitriol pouring its way through my screens and speakers. These public encounters call to mind Kierkegaard’s Works of Love, in which he notes that the work of love is to see and name the love already present in others, and, in so doing, to catalyze that love’s growth into its fullest expression (all while refusing to take credit—it was there the whole time). In this way, Hawke is both prophetic and timely. Fred Rogers, in an interview offered toward the end of his life (captured in the 2018 documentary Won’t You Be My Neighbor), shared that the most pressing work facing our species in this millennium is “making goodness attractive.” To that end: Thank you, Mr. Hawke; I can’t look away.

Christmas, Day 8: They named him Jesus

LOOK: Virgin and Child from the Rabbula Gospels

Virgin and Child (Rabbula Gospels)
Virgin and Child, from the Rabbula Gospels, Syria, 586 CE. Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, Florence (Plut.1.56, fol. 1v).

Among the earliest works of Byzantine iconography, this painting is from a sixth-century manuscript of the Gospels in Syriac (Peshitta version), completed at the Bēṯ Zaḡbā Monastery in northern Syria. It shows the Virgin Mary standing under a colorfully patterned aedicule, holding her son Jesus, who faces us. Perched on the roof are two peacocks, a symbol of resurrection and eternal life.

For a blog post on one of the Rabbula Gospels’ other full-page miniatures, see here.

LISTEN: “Jesus” by Glen Woodward, arr. Valeria A. Foster, 2000 | © 2000 GIA Publications, Inc. | Performed by choral students from Western Michigan and Calvin Christian High Schools and Calvin University, dir. James Abbington, with Brandon A. Boyd on piano, February 9, 2023

Jesus
Jesus
Jesus, Jesus
Jesus

I worship you
I worship you
Jesus, Jesus
Jesus

I love you, Lord
I love you, Lord
Jesus, Jesus
Jesus

Eight days after his birth, Jesus was circumcised as the Jewish law stipulates (Lev. 12:1–3) and given his name: “When the eighth day came, it was time to circumcise the child, and he was called Jesus, the name given by the angel before he was conceived in the womb” (Luke 2:21). Thus many churches celebrate January 1 as the Feast of the Holy Name of Jesus.

The name Jesus—or Yeshua (יֵשׁוּעַ), as he would have been known to his fellow Aramaic speakers (“Jesus” is the Greek transliteration)—means “Yahweh saves.”


This post is part of a daily Christmas series that goes through January 6. View all the posts here, and the accompanying Spotify playlist here.