Shining Face

FROM THE RECTOR

Two Sundays ago, in the middle of the 7:30 a.m. service, the sun rose high enough in the sky to shine through the window above the altar with blinding brilliance. Regulars in that congregation know that, at certain times of the year, that window will become so bright that they either need to close their eyes or shield them from its golden light. Although the effect is not as dramatic for one who is leading worship or preaching, the clergy notice when the congregation’s faces reflect that powerful brightness, creating an almost ethereal quality to our worship.

Even though the light coming from the sun through that window is powerful, it is not unwelcome. I have heard several people from the early service say how important it is for them to experience the warmth of that glow. They look forward to that twice-a-year period when, for a few weeks, the sun rises in just the right place to shine through with full effect. Within a minute or two, as the sun creeps higher in the sky, the intensity wanes, and the golden light softens, but enough of it lingers long enough for even the 8:45 a.m. congregation to get a taste of that awesome experience. 

Sitting in the pew that Sunday, I noticed immediately that I could no longer see Adelyn’s face as she preached. Even with spotlight above the pulpit shining down, the brightness of the sun left her in relative darkness. I could make out her outline and, of course, still hear her voice, but her sermon took on a detached, disembodied quality that helped me listen in a new way. I wondered what it felt like for the people of Israel to hear Moses deliver God’s word while his face, illumined by the divine presence, shone like the sun.

Then, with my eyes partially squinted shut, I looked up at the familiar window for a second or two to take in its fiery light. The image of Jesus welcoming three small children was still recognizable, but I could no longer see any of their faces. The least colorful parts of the window were the brightest, transforming the three faces and Jesus’ pale-yellow robe into almost pure light. My imagination led me to the mount of the Transfiguration, when Jesus’ divinity shone through his skin and clothes, and I wondered what the disciples who were with him saw that day.

I also noticed that Jesus, who is depicted in our window with pale skin tones and light brown hair, no longer displayed those traditional European characteristics. They were invisible, outshone by the brightness of the sun streaming through. One need not be a historian or ethnologist to realize that a first-century Palestinian Jew looked less like me than someone from the current-day Middle East, but, when the central image of Jesus in a sacred place like St. Paul’s looks a particular way, it becomes harder for us to encounter God and God’s goodness among people who look different. 

Throughout history, people have depicted deities in ways that combine the familiar and the strange. We want to recognize the one who is our god, yet we also want to acknowledge that the divine must be qualitatively different. In the Judeo-Christian-Islamic tradition, we believe that God made humanity in God’s image, but we also accept a general prohibition on depicting God in any particular form, though many Christians have relaxed their approach to that commandment. For Christians, who believe that God became incarnate in Jesus Christ, the question of what God looks like becomes even more complex.

God may not have a body, but Jesus did (and still does). In the incarnation, God united Godself not only to a particular body but also to the universality of human nature. When we depict Jesus, we are not attempting to limit the fullness of God to a specific embodied expression, but we are implicitly saying something about the nature of the flesh that God took upon Godself. In Christian history, artistic representations of Jesus have often reflected the culture of the artist, but the intermingling of Christianity with European imperial and colonial power has limited the ways that Jesus is portrayed in Christian art. How many people, whose ancestors were first introduced to Jesus by people who looked like me, have always imagined a savior who looks like he grew up in western Europe instead of ancient Palestine?

I am not suggesting that we need to replace the window above the altar at St. Paul’s, but I do believe that we must realize how our particular ways of portraying Jesus affect us and those around us. Many people in our congregation have experienced great comfort in looking up and seeing the open arms of Jesus extending outward toward them. Most of us do not need to do any work of reimagining in order to find our place in that window, but others may need to squint a little bit in order to know that they belong in that embrace, at least until the sun shines through.

When we talk about Jesus or describe the saving work of God, we need to examine the ways in which, without even realizing it, we are limiting who God is and how God comes among us to expressions of that culture that we find most familiar. There is nothing wrong with any of us meeting a savior in whom we can recognize our own personal experiences and struggles. That is the true power of the incarnation. But just because we recognize ourselves in Christ should not mean that others cannot do the same. Surely, in the end, the power of God’s love is full and bright enough to outshine any limitations we would try to place upon it, and that is a truth we all need to see.

Yours Faithfully,

Evan D. Garner