Maureen Mullarkey is a painter who writes on art and culture. Her essays have appeared in various publications, among them: The Nation, Crisis, Commonweal, Hudson Review, Arts, The New Criterion, First Things, The Weekly Standard, and The Magazine Antiques. She was a columnist for The New York Sun.

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Rodin’s “Cathedrals of France”

From Maureen Mullarkey

I should like to inspire a love for this great art, to come to the rescue of as much of it as still remains intact; to save for our children the great lesson of this past which the present misunderstands.

In this desire I strive to awaken intellects and hearts to understanding and to love.

—Auguste Rodin, The Cathedrals of France

August Rodin was an aggressive womanizer well into old age. The love of beauty that served him nobly as a sculptor served him as a man with notable difference. Francis Haskell described him as “Never a man of much moral conviction except in the practice and defense of his art.” For now, then, better to stay with the sculptor’s love of beauty as it manifested itself in his passionate admiration for Christendom’s exalted monuments.

Rodin kept voluminous notes but wrote only one book: Cathedrals of France, originally published in France in 1914 when Rodin was seventy four. It was not translated into English until a half century later. Beacon Press made up for that surprising lapse with its beautifully printed 1965 edition, illustrated with sketches from the notebooks.

The text is not an architectural treatise. It makes no attempt at scholarly appraisal or methodical observation. Compiled day by day through periodic visits to numerous cathedrals, it is thoroughly the work of an artist justifying his personal attachments. And doing so in terms of his craft.

Over decades, Rodin took notes on what he observed and made quick pen or pencil sketches. In 1908 he hired a secretary—first the Symbolist poet Charles Morice, down on his luck; then Rilke—to cull the cathedral passages in preparation for publication. He intended to reignite public sensitivity to the dignity and majesty of their Romanesque and Gothic heritage. (And, it should be added, to spur support for his own sculptural canons which absorbed so much from Gothic accommodation of chiaroscuro.) “The whole of France is in her cathedrals” he wrote, “as all Greece is epitomized by the Parthenon.”

It is open to question just how much the tenor of Rodin’s prose,  often mounting  to Symbolist excess and strains of Mallarmé, is owed to Charles Morice:

This is a morning painted by Claude Lorrain, admirable in depth. Spring is here. I breathe in the delight of spring mornings. The rooster announces the day. An immense sigh is exhaled. Oh marvel! The earth in love! Fresh and happy landscape!

Nevertheless, the bases of judgment are indisputably Rodin’s own. We are the richer for them, informed in their point and sweep by the knowledge of classical antiquity, especially Greek art and history.

Today’s readers need to discount for an overstrung chauvinism that is part ethnocentricity, part disdain for the character of modernity itself. Rodin had little patience for what he saw as the mechanized products and systems of the industrial age:

Will the genius of our race end by passing away like those pale ghosts and vanished forms that no one sees any more? Was it in historical or mythical times that the Cathedral, rowing through space by its buttresses, all sails unfurled, the French ship, the French victory, made beautiful as for Eternity, spread open at its apse the wings of a group of kneeling angels? . . .

But architecture no longer touches us. The rooms in which we consent to live are without character. They are boxes crammed helter-skelter with furniture. . . . How can we understand the profound unity of the great Gothic symphony?

In respect to the frequent crudity of nineteenth century efforts at restoration, Rodin’s distaste for modernity was both well earned and, at the same time, more modern than he knew. His championing of the Gothic seconded Victor Hugo’s earlier defense of the preservation of historic buildings. (“He understood as a poet; for cathedrals are vast poems.”) Rodin lent his voice to the still-young movement to codify principles and practices in maintaining cultural heirlooms. Reading his appraisals of vandalism in the name of restoration remain as instructive now as they were in the early twentieth century.

He was hostile to any method that spoiled the old in order to harmonize it with the new. Commenting on the pediment of Reims, he distinguished between the damaged but still original right gable and its retouched pendant piece. The right gable, untouched, still carried the power to arouse the sculptor’s enthusiasm. Not so its reconstructed companion:

But see how the other gable, restored, remade, is dishonored. The planes no longer exist. It is heavy, worked frontally, without profiles, without equilibrium of volumes. For the Cathedral, which leans forward, this gable is an enormous weight with no counterbalancing weight. Oh, this Christ on the Cross, restored in the 19th century! The iconoclast who believed he had ruined the gable did it no great harm. But the ignorant restorer! . . . By such heavy restoration the equilibrium is changed.

As if it were possible to repair these figures and ornament battered by the centuries! Such an idea could be born in minds that are strangers to the nature of art and to all truth.

Rodin’s personal life exemplified that lack of reciprocity between love of beauty and moral action that beauty cultists pull the shades on. Viewed in light of a bevy of mistresses scrapping over his will with a better-late-than-never mistress-made-wife, his many references to the female form and the feminine nuances of rounded elements resonate in unintended ways. Chaste analogies to architecture do not quite disguise the concupiscence that lurks even in chatter of the transcendental kind. Rodin makes of Woman—how to say it—a lovely piece of architectural moulding. Like Venus de Milo (“first source of nourishment for my intellect”), she is all graceful convexities. And, like a curving balustrade, inviting to the hand.

The fulsomeness of nineteenth century French prose aside, Rodin succeeds in revealing “the grandeurs of the Gothic soul” better than your Michelin Green Guide. There are no obligatory sights to consume. There is only the spirit of place to greet and savor. Episodic and personal, Cathedrals of France is a series of lyrical associations and descriptions that direct attention to minor churches such as those at  Chambord or Étampes. As Rodin knew: “We often learn far more from small things than from great ones.” And with him as company, we look at buildings more sympathetically as anatomies—embodiments of an élan that is so much more than style.

Bible in Glass at the Cloisters

From Maureen Mullarkey
The Gothics set stone upon stone, ever higher, not as the giants did, to attack God, but to reach up to Him. And God, as in the German legend, rewarded the merchants and the warriors, but to the poet what was granted?

—Auguste Rodin, Cathedrals of France

To the poets in stone and glass who created the great Gothic cathedrals of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, God granted the grace of anonymity. To us moderns, that seems a double-edged, if not bitter, grace. Nevertheless, it was an actual one. It enabled unnamed tradesmen to ennoble the corporate worship of their own time and endow future generations with architectural testaments to a transfigured world.

The modern poet/artist is pummeled, hustled, ultimately doomed to create an inflated entity: himself. By contrast, those peripatetic, calloused teams of gifted geniuses—and genius they had—were exempt from the crushing necessity to forge a marketable individuality. That freedom, difficult as the living of it was, yielded powerful expressions of the Christian vision, radiant in stone and pierced by deathless light.

That thought lodged with me standing in front of the unsigned grandeur of the windows that comprise “Radiant Light: Stained Glass from Canterbury Cathedral at the Cloisters.” These six Romanesque windows have never left the cathedral since they were created in the late twelfth century. They are here now only because they had to be removed from their settings to accommodate repairs to the stonework holding them.

If there exists any art that can be called Christian, it is stained glass. The term “Christian art” applies most frequently, and accurately, to Christian themes. But the term does not encompass methods of execution. Stained glass—more precisely stained-and-painted glass, a product of the marriage between master glazer and painter—belongs thoroughly to the Christian era. The splendor of stained glass depends for effect on its actual materials and techniques, distinct from subject matter.

The art of glass making itself is ancient. Pliny gives a story, possibly apocryphal, of the invention of it. It was certainly known by the Egyptians in very early times. However, it was not until early in the Christian era that anyone thought of using glass to fill windows. Remnants of glass windows have been found at Pompeii. Caligula had his palace windows glazed. Seneca mentions glazing as one of those contemporary luxuries that adds nothing to contentment of mind. It took several centuries more for the glazier to unite with the Venetian enameller in giving birth to the art of painted-and-stained glass, which is stained glass as we know it.

Figuration on the glass is thought to date back to the Carolingian era. While little material evidence from that age survives, textual references do. And it is indisputable that by the early thirteenth century, stained glass was a preeminent European art form. England and France produced the jewels of their time: Canterbury, Chartres and St. Denis.

Of the stained glass that was once the glory of Canterbury, only a remnant escaped Puritan demolition. History tells of one Richard Culmer, overseer of the cathedral under the Commonwealth, who climbed a ladder sixty steps high with a pike in his hand and “rattled down

Beckett’s glassie bones.”

A stained glass window is a transparent mosaic.  Every change of color requires a separate piece of glass. From 350 to 450 pieces of glass per meter have been counted in windows of the period. This is a stunning multiplicity of refractive surfaces, each one behaving differently. Irregularities in the glass—air bubbles, flaws—fracture the daylight coming through, and split the color of each individual shard into the dancing, vibrating glory that was medieval stained glass.

Matisse’s celebrated windows in the Chapelle du Rosaire in Vence are crude by comparison. Sublimity is gone; what is left is a see-through painting by a well-known name. Tourists make day trips to Union Church in Pocantico Hills to see his rose window [ above] and Chagall’s “Good Samaritan” window. Neither leaves the visitor feeling what medievals felt when they entered their cathedrals. The Vence Chapel and Union Church are sacred spaces, to be sure. But the object of devotion is the artist in whose name the visitor arrives and stays awhile. Guests are moved to appreciation, not to wonder, a prerequisite for prayer.

•     •     •     •

An old catechism from the diocese of Tréguier in Brittany asks the question: “What should you do upon entering a cathedral?” The answer reads: “Take holy water, adore the Blessed Sacrament, then walk all around the edifice and look at the stained glass windows.” We can say that the anonymous masters of the Canterbury windows, too, contributed to the catechism. Their modern, acclaimed descendents, lovely as they are, contribute only to guide books.

The Canterbury windows remain on view through May 18th.

Hearts, Sacred and Profane

From Maureen Mullarkey

Devotion to the Sacred Heart is deeply rooted in the traditions of the Latin Church. Its prompt to compassionate meditation on the sufferings of Christ, to gratitude and contrition, is venerable. Less so is the iconography that attaches to its modern form. 

Artist Unknown (17th C.) Chambre des Reliques, Paray-le-Monial

Promoted in conformity to Margaret Mary Alacoque’s apparitions, the devotion’s iconic motif remains edifying to many. At the same time, that excised, free-floating organ looks mawkish, even grotesque—a physiological hovercraft— to many others. Paul Zalonski, a Benedictine Oblate and ardent defender of the devotion, states it this way:

Popular piety tends to associate a devotion with its iconographic expression. . . . Inconveniences can sometimes arise: iconographic expressions that no longer respond to the artistic taste of the people can sometimes lead to a diminished appreciation of the devotion’s object, independently of its theological basis and its historico-salvific content.

Certainly, the handiworks of pictorial imagination have their seasons. But change in the weather here is owed to currents deeper than mere taste. Patterned amid intellectual ferments of the Age of Discovery, the archetypal emblem of the Sacred Heart once resonated with an extra-religious charge that lost piquancy ahead of the piety that drew upon it.

Two key excitements informed the trope: Renaissance revival of dissection, plus European dissemination of priestly copies of Aztec and Maya codices. Lifting of medieval interdict against dissection triggered a revolution in knowledge of the structure and mechanics of the heart. Simultaneously, pre-Columian codices carried the frisson of ethnographic spectacles never before seen or imagined. For the first time, Europeans witnessed other peoples and their practices—specifically, ritual heart extraction.

Leonardo da Vinci. Anatomical Study of the Heart (c. 1500)

Codex Magliabicciano, Museo de America, Madrid

Biblical language is infused with references to the heart as proxy for all that it means to be human. Exodus spoke of “all whose hearts were stirred and whose spirits were moved.” Jesus, too, relied on the same metaphoric device: Thou shalt love the Lord, thy God, with all thy heart, and all thy soul, and all thy might.

Origins of Sacred Heart devotion trace back to the second century apologists. Justin Martyr (d. 165) identified Christians as “the true Israel which springs from Christ, for we are carved out of His heart.” Irenaeus (d. 145) defined the Church as “the fountain of the living water that flows to us from the Heart of Christ.” Both men were approximate contemporaries of Galen, who affirmed ancient ideas of the heart as the seat of sensation and the organ nearest the soul.

The history of the Sacred Heart is yoked to the longue durée of man’s understanding of the heart itself, both anatomically and in symbolic terms. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the heart was as much an object of exploration as the New World. Its topography, newly surveyed and mapped, was exhilarating territory. Andreas Vesalius put back Adam’s missing rib; William Harvey toppled Galen. 

Andreas Vesalius. Engraving from Humani Corporis Fabrica (1543)

 Discovery of the circulatory system encouraged debate about whether the soul could be said to have a recognizable home. Images of the human heart of Christ, palpably and convincingly pictorial, combined scientific expeditions into anatomy with the age-old understanding of the heart as the identifiable, if symbolic, home of the soul.

Arriving in the wake of Ignatius’ Spiritual Exercises Margaret Mary’s apparitions followed suit with a program (the nine First Fridays), and a mission (to propagate the devotion). Ignatian emphasis on interior visualization to assist meditation prepared ground for the later saint’s visionary endorsement of real images.

While the historical Passion found embodiment in a wealth of visual models, Sacred Heart devotion had depended traditionally on vivid verbal imagery. The language of contemplative prayer and devotional texts had been the reigning prod to empathy. But now explicit depiction had a mandate: “I will bless those places wherein the image of My Sacred Heart shall be exposed and venerated.”

Artist Unknown. Engraved endpaper (17th C.) 

Jesuits had a fitting image ready in hand. However unlikely a cloistered nun had seen depictions of Aztec heart extraction, Jesuits were among the literate elites who did. With a keen eye for pertinence, they were already applying images like the one above—quickened with the temper of the age—to endpapers of books, sometimes to church walls. Claude de la Columbière, Margaret Mary’s confessor and enthusiast, was a Jesuit.

By now, scenes of pre-Columbian practices have dwindled into Art. And we greet the human heart as a pump that can be primed, even replaced. History has drained vigor from the Sacred Heart’s seminal image. What remains is a bleached convention unequal to a revered devotion.

Pesach to Pasch, with Miriam

From Maureen Mullarkey

The calendar smiled on us this year. Passover and Holy Week coincided. The week began with the first day of Pesach, folded into the Triduum, and closed with the Paschal mystery. Bracketed by two great re-enactments of the saga of redemption, salvation history colored six successive April days.

The Book of Exodus recounts the decisive, saving act of a God of transcendent power and majesty. But Egypt is a changeling; oppressions metastasize across borders and down millennia. Exodus remains always in process. 

So, too, does the Haggadah. Part chronicle, part prayer book for the Seder table, it is more than a text to be recited. In the words of one commentator, it is a call to “a radical act of empathy” that becomes the obligation, by birthright, of every Jew. To approach it as simply a commemorative story is to miss the sacred claim at the heart of it.

There exists a wealth of Haggadot. All editions—more than 3,000—are fundamentally the same. Yet each edition varies, inflected by those ethical realities that, in every age, become genuine questions for faith. The Exodus story is meant to be engaged, grappled with, interpreted with attention to the yokes and exiles—moral no less than societal—of one’s own time and place.

Somewhere, another Haggadah is gathering now. Others will follow.

In Christian understanding, ultimate freedom—the freedom of the Kingdom— remains an object of trust. God’s saving action, at play in the Exodus, did not cease at Sinai. Christian hope springs from confidence that He delivers His people from bondage to sin and eternal death.

The historic Exodus provides language for the eschatological one that informs Christian prayer. Christ, our Pasch—our Second Sinai—leavens us with sanctity and the promise of redemption beyond time: the resurrection of the dead. Exodus speaks of the inexpungible reality of His people. Christians, then, can recite with Jews the words of the Haggadah: “Our story begins with degradation; our telling ends with glory.”

Next year, may we greet Passover as we do Easter: with high, holy joy.

•      •     •      •

My own Haggadah, a gift from friends, reflects the sensibilities of its author and his congregants. Composed in 1981 by Rabbi Chaim Stern, a leading Reform liturgist, it absorbs passages from Tolstoy, Lord Byron (“My very chains and I grew friends”), Frederick Douglass, and Victor Frankl. Readings from the Talmud and the Midrashim intertwine with the moderns. Mark Twain, Emerson, Thoreau, and Nietzsche recline alongside Hasidic sages. Gandhi, too. John Ruskin enters to rail against wage slavery in an English iron forge. John Stuart Mill is invoked against the oppression of women. George Orwell stands to define the basis of freedom: “Freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two make four. If that is granted, all else follows.”

•      •      •      •

This year at Seder, my hosts used a Haggadah that is more attentive than mine to the leading lady of Exodus. They brought out tambourines to accompany the tale of Miriam, quick-thinking sister to Aaron and Moses.

Miriam watches pharaoh’s army sink in the rebound of the Red Sea. Lives of men and horses wash away, pitched to their death in the surge and sway of the waves. She wastes no sympathy on the sight. Quite the contrary, she throws herself into a victory dance. Elated, Miriam grabs a timbrel “and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dancing.”

My Haggadah lowers its eyes from this rapturous display of retaliatory glee (God rebuked them saying, “My children are drowning, and you sing praises!”). More to my temper is Rabbi Geela Raphael’s lively midrashic verse:

They danced, they danced
Oh, how they danced
They danced the night away
Clapped their hands and stamped their feet
With voices loud they praised.
They danced with joy
They danced with grace
They danced on nimble feet
Kicked up their heels, threw back their heads
Hypnotic with the beat. 
They danced so hard, they danced so fast;
They danced with movement strong
Laughed and cried, brought out alive
They danced until the dawn.
Some carrying child, some baking bread
Weeping as they prayed
But when they heard the music start
They put their pain away.

Accent on Miriam is meant to balance the Book, to grant equal billing to a woman too long sidelined. Recent fashion for a Miriam’s Cup, set on many contemporary Seder tables with the traditional cup for Elijah, celebrates Miriam as—how to put it?—a co-redeemer.

It is not the feminist tenor that draws me to the anecdote of Miriam and Rabbi Raphael’s spirited lyrics. Not at all. It is the episode’s exuberant rout of sentimentality. The women grasp instinctively what posture to take toward the destruction of their enemies: those terrorist overlords, cruel destroyers of their children’s wellbeing. Here is schadenfreude on a truly biblical scale. Rhapsodic, voluptuous, and unapologetic.

Radical empathy is economical; it discerns priorities, does not overreach. It knows when steel is more gracious than tears. When the tambourines are tapped, I imagine Miriam’s prayer: “Chide me tomorrow, Lord. But for now, just let me dance.”

Beauty & Accidents of Perception

From Maureen Mullarkey

Nature is terrifying. Aesthetic distance from dread of it increases only in proportion to our mastery over it. Shelter from it frees us to make art of our aesthetic promptings, so easily confused with a spiritual consciousness.

It is snowing as I type this. Icicles two and three feet long hang from the gutters. A struggling andromeda outside the front door is bent in two by the weight of ice. My long curving, uphill driveway, treacherous in bad weather, is impassable. No oil truck could make a delivery if my tanks were low; no EMS, if needed, could get to the door. I am snowbound. Still, I am blessed with a stocked refrigerator and a working generator to keep heat on and lamps lit if a tree limb falls on a power line. 

Watching it fall, I am reminded how much the beauty of snow— my perception of it—owes to central heating. Put another way, it is the saving fact of my lovely boiler, the electricity that keeps it going, and the indwelling charm of steam radiators that permits me to look out my double-paned window and take aesthetic pleasure in what Longfellow called the “poem of the air.”

The arts of the engineer partake as fully in the creative intelligence as any other.

Those misled by romantic poetry or far gone in devotion to pathetic fallacies—Mother Nature, the bosom of Mother Earth, our weeping planet—dote on what they insist is the intrinsic beauty of nature. A kind of demonology arises around sceptical demurral from that faith in inherency. Dissidents suffer the predictable brickbats: Materialist! Utilitarian! Shallow pragmatist! There is just no arguing with cultists. The most you can do is wish on them a sustained, possibly curative, power outage in freezing weather.

Burst pipes, numb fingers and toes, and the threat of hypothermia have a way of depressing the altitude of lyric flights. Remove the interior reverie of a well-housed, sherpa-lined and Gore-Texed admirer from the view, and what we see is a relentless, lethal threat to life. 

A few winters back, two frail, elderly townspeople here froze to death outside their own doors on a snowy day like this.

One lived alone. She had ducked outside briefly for a quick chore—to scatter crackers to birds? take out garbage?—without bothering with boots or coat. Whatever the reason, it was supposed to have taken only taken a few seconds. But, without thinking, she locked herself out. She could not get back in; neither could she get herself through the snow to a neighboring house with anyone home. It was a week day. Neighbors were at work. No one nearby was around to hear her calls for help.

The second woman was the sole caretaker of her older, bedridden sister. She had stepped out the back door, slipped on icy stairs, and fell into snowdrifts. She could not get up. The sister, asleep in a room on the other side of the house, never heard any cries.

The snow fell as indifferently on both doomed women as it does on the Alaskan cedars and Douglas firs outside my window. To anyone watching unawares, it looked lovely coming down. To the two women trapped under it—metabolic heat draining out of them— each crystal flake was a cinder from a frigid hell. Far from the warming light of the Good. 

We have art, Nietzsche wrote, so that we will not be destroyed by the truth. But his aphorism, too, was a piece of art. We are better served by taking note of how art itself can destroy the truth of things. 

 [The delightful graphic, above, was an ad for cough medicine that appeared in an Italian magazine at the height of the lethal epidemic of Spanish Influenza, 1918-20.}

Of Calendars and Memory

From Maureen Mullarkey

The sixties were generous with gifts that keep on taking. I cannot help thinking that one of them was the Church’s 1969 calendar revision for January 1. 

The Church began withdrawing recognition from the circumcision of Jesus in the sixties. Today, circumcision itself is under threat in once-Christian Europe, from Switzerland to Scandinavia. Because it is practiced by both Jews and Muslims, it is tempting to see moves against the ritual as the sour fruit of secularist ideology. And there is partial truth to that. But the entire story, followed closely by Commentary, is darker. Moreover, hostility to ritual circumcision pre-dates current concern over Muslim presence in Europe.

For centuries the Latin Rite had commemorated the date as the Feast of the Circumcision. John XXIII’s 1960 calendrical revision distanced the date from its traditional association by means of the simple descriptor, Octave of the Nativity. In 1969 Paul VI declared January 1 for the Solemnity of Mary, displacing the Circumcision. Five years later—and only twenty years after Pius XII’s inauguration of the Queenship of Mary—Montini dropped the Feast of the Circumcision from the Roman liturgical calendar.

Did Marian devotion require additional ecclesiastical encouragement? Catholics were already in possession of significantly more Marian feasts than Eastern Orthodox, Lutherans, Anglicans, or any Christian denomination. The proliferation of them over centuries calls to mind something Yves Congar admitted to having experienced in his research for I Believe in the Holy Spirit. Coming forward in time, he found increasing references to Mary where he expected the sources to mention the Holy Spirit.

Over thirty days of the General Roman Calendar are dedicated to Mary. Each of them— whether dedicated to the Immaculate Heart of Mary, Our Lady of Guadalupe, or Our Lady of Sorrows—originates in her identity as the Mother of God. Mary has claim to the entire month of May (“’Tis the month of our Mother/ the blessed and beautiful days.”) and reigns over October, dedicated to the Holy Rosary. Central to our cultural history, her image has fired Western imagination down the ages. Marian apparitions are celebrated as historic events. She is the Second Eve, “the guarantee of Christ’s true humanity,” in Jaroslav Pelikan’s phrase.

All honor is due the woman who gave flesh to our Redeemer. A Galilean country girl, with capable hands and dusty feet, clothed the uncreated God in creaturely humanity. That is miracle enough to stun us onto our knees and keep us there. Catholics are in no danger of forgetting it. Rather the opposite. We risk making a godling of the Mother of God.

What we jeopardize is precisely what the Feast of the Circumcision held in view: the Jewishness of the woman and her son. The Logos entered history enfleshed as a Jew. To assume flesh was to assume ethnicity as well. Ours is not a cosmic Christ but a Jewish one.

“We are all Semites,” Jacques Maritain was fond of saying. If we leave our Jewish taproot untended, let it wither, we untether ourselves from Jesus of Nazareth. The old Feast of the Circumcision helped keep us mindful that the truth of Jesus is two-fold. His divinity does not erase his humanity.

True man, Jesus of Nazareth was a faithful Jew, subject to that first, infant blood-letting that symbolized his people’s inherited covenant between God and Abraham. Raised in an observant family, he read Torah in synagogue, ate, dressed, and prayed in the spirit of first century Judaism.

Michael Novak, in his 1994 essay “Jacques Maritain and the Jews,” had this to say:

Christianity needs a vital and living Judaism, in the concrete world of history as it is, in order to help it to understand its own inheritance. For many of the foundation and preconceptions and starting places of Christian life have been, and still are, protected and nourishied in a vital Judaism. This witness of Judaism is concretely indispensable to keeping the Jewish tradition alive also within Christianity itself.

Jesus’ Judaism bestows an ancestral bond between Christians and Jews. Once, we had a holy day of obligation to remind us of the imperishability of that kinship. Not any more. It is gone at that very moment in “the concrete world of history as it is” that—with Islam rising—we are chastened by its absence.

•     •     •    •

Richard Prosquier, a French Jewish cardiologist born in Poland in 1945, tells of his father being ordered to drop his trousers by the Nazis in order to establish his identity. It is safe to say that when such orders come again, it will not be Muslims asked to expose themselves. 

Note: Direct comments to

Keeping It Lite

From Web Exclusives
Anna Ancher. The Funeral (1891). Statens Museum for Kunst, Copenhagen. It was a gift from the Sixties, our user-friendly funeral Mass. Every time I attend one, I come away convinced that resurrection . . . . Continue Reading »

Act of Mercy

From Maureen Mullarkey

Visiting the sick

Artist Unknown. Visiting the Sick, from a series of works of mercy. Florentine School (14th C.). Vatican Museums, Vatican City

From “Visiting the Sick,” a tutorial by Ariel Scheib:

Visiting the sick ( bikur holim) is considered an act of loving kindness (gemilut hasadim). The concept of bikur holim is first introduced in the Bible when God visits Abraham while he is recovering from circumcision (Genesis 18:1). It is from this instant on that Jews are required to emulate God in visiting the sick. Jews are required to visit all who are ill, including gentiles. . . .

Rabbis believe that one who visits the sick takes away a sixtieth of his pain.However, a person is discouraged from visiting the sick where it would be a stress to the patient or cause embarrassment. It is understood that the visitor will enjoy many blessings and a happy life, filled with good friends and family. According to the Talmud, one should not visit the sick too early in the morning or too late at night and never stay too long because it may be too demanding for the patient. Furthermore, relatives and friends should immediately come to the side of the sick. The Talmud also states that the sick should not be informed of the death of a relative or friend, as it may cause them heartache and more pain.

Many Rabbis debate whether Jews are permitted to visit the sick on Shabbat, the day of rest and joy. While Beit Shammai prohibited such a practice, halakhah agrees with Beit Hillel that visiting the sick on Shabbat is an extra good deed. ART86321

Eva Bonnier. Young Girl Reading to an Invalid (19th C.).National Museum, Stockholm.

Make known to me what is my end, O Lord, and what is the length of my days; that I might know how frail I am.

Lo, thou hast made my days but a span, and my life is as nothing; every man is but a breath.

Man passes away like a mere shadow; his worrying is all in vain; he gathers up and knows not who shall reap.

And now what do I wait for, O Lord? My trust is in thee.

From Psalm 38

Joseph’s Magnificat

From Maureen Mullarkey


Titian. Madonna of the Cherries (c. 1515). Kunsthistorsches Museum, Vienna

The Cherry Tree Carol is a seasonal jewel. It dates back to the cycle of mystery plays performed in Coventry during the Feast of Corpus Christi, around the year 1400. History has brought to life various renditions of it, all of them indebted to the vagaries of memory, an era’s substitution of newer phrasings for antiquated ones, or simply the preferences of singers. Folklorists, liturgists and musicologists agree that it is really more accurate to speak of a Cherry Tree series than of a single carol.

But for me, there is only one golden variant. Every year, and with liturgical patience, I wait for Advent so that I can play Paul Hilliers fertile, musically captivating arrangement for his Theatre of Voices. Ensemble singing does not get any lovelier than this.

A great part of my delight in the carol lies in its rendering of a very human Joseph, more assertive than the meek onlooker of conventional variants, the add-on of too, too many nativity scenes. Hilliard’s Joseph is a ballad figure closer to Titian’s visualization of him in The Madonna with Cherries . (Of the two men, Joseph is the darksome one on the left; the graybeard is Zacharias, father of John the Baptist, who offers the cherries.) The carol begins:

When Joseph was a young man,
A young man was he,
He court’d the Virgin Mary the Queen of Galilee.

The carol omits the more common verb married. You can just see him, not the aged caretaker of a virgin, but newly betrothed, and entranced with a young girl. They are out walking, he and his queen. It is a lovely stroll through an orchard of apple and cherry trees, all heavy with fruit. Suddenly Mary startles him with: Joseph, gather me some cherries, for I am with child. She had to have been waiting for the moment.

Her disclosure is no easy one for a man in love to swallow. The tempo of the carol quickens to convey the catch in Josephs heart:

And Joseph flew in anger,
In anger he flew.
Let the father of the baby gather cherries for you.

Good for Joseph! There is no earthly reason a good man should take kindly to the humiliation of having been cuckolded. The robust carol-making mind had no difficulty imagining a masculine response. It is not the one expected from the neutered bystander popular piety has made of the man who taught his son more than simply the family trade.

An observant Jew, Joseph guided the boy’s study of the Torah; took him to the Temple for the feasts of Pesach, Sukkot and Yom Kippur. Hetaught his son what it meant to be a Jewish male in Roman occupied Galilee. It is no stretch to think he told his boy the story of Judah Maccabee and his brothers. A chronicle dear to late Second Temple Judaism, it was a polestar to the virtue of anger. That Joseph’s son learned such a lesson has been drained out of gospel readings for so many years we have forgotten Jesus’ stark reference to the viper’s nest, the millstone, and the doors of the wedding feast open to some, closed to the balance.


Picking Sweet Cherries. Miniature illustration in the Tacuinum Sanitatis, a medieval health handbook (before 1400).

Joseph deserves better. My carol grants Joseph that burst of anger which was certainly his due. Other renditions in the doubting Joseph repertoire register Josephs dismay, but most keep a polite distance from any novelistic quote. They nod to his state in a more detached fashion:

Then Joseph he to shun the shame
Thought her for to forsake.

In most variants, it is Gods angel who visits Joseph in a dream and puts him straight. Hilliers fertile adaptation diverges from the common trope. It bypasses the angel and, consistent with the earliest versions, turns to the awaited babe. There is a brief hush in vocal pitch: sound comes muffled from the womb. The unborn Jesus does not chide Joseph or offer justification. Mystery eludes explanation. Instead, the infantfledgling king that he ischarges the cherry tree to lower its boughs that the mother might have some. The tree obeys. Mary gathers cherries “while Joseph stood around:”

Cried she, Look, thou Joseph!
I have cherries by command!

Girlish glee leaps in those lines; and no small spot of triumph, too. Joseph understands. Aching with remorse for having thought unkindly of his beloved, he whispers to the child: Pray, tell me, little baby, when your birthday will be? An ingenious device. Again, a direct quote, imagined in sympathy with a man who, with that single tender question, indicates acceptance of this strange paternity. Set aside the mystery and austerity of it, fatherhood it remains. And Joseph bows to it.

In this sweet carol we hear Joseph’s terse, elliptical Magnificat .Pray, tell me, little baby, when your birthday will be? So like a man to phrase consent that way.

14th c. nativity

Anonymous. Nativity fresco (14th C.). San Michele, Cremona

Joy to you, dear readers. Christ, our Saviour, is born on Christmas Day.

Jubilate Deo!

Christmas Quiz

From Maureen Mullarkey

The National Association of Scholars, the good guys in academia, have conjured up a quiz to conjoin final exam time and Christmastime. Try it.


Otto Kubel. Illustration from O Schoene herrliche weinachtszeit,(Oh beautiful magnificent Christmas time) by A Jaserg, c. 1920s-30s, published in Nuremberg.

1. All of the following British actors have portrayed perennial sourpuss and miser Ebenezer Scrooge. Which one also had a distinguished academic career?
A. Reginald Owen
B. Patrick Stewart
C. Albert Finney
D. Alistair Sim

2. Which of the following jazz pianists composed the theme and incidental music for the 1965 TV classic, A Charlie Brown Christmas?

A. Billy Taylor
B. Vince Guaraldi
C. Ramsey Lewis
D. Dick Wellstood

3. Who was the American basso profundo who sang Youre a Mean One, Mr. Grinch for the 1966 cartoon version of Dr. Suesss How the Grinch Stole Christmas?

A. Thurl Ravenscroft
B. James Earl Jones
C. Tim Riley
D. Larry Hooper

4. Which popular country and western singer produced a hit Christmas album in the 1950s, on which Here We Go AWassailing was a huge favorite?

A. Tex Ritter
B. Hank Williams
C. Tennessee Ernie Ford
D. Charlie Pride

5. Which actress was given a co-starring role at age 9 in the 1947 film Miracle on 34th Street?

A. Debbie Reynolds
B. Anne Bancroft
C. Natalie Wood
D. Tippi Hedren


Anonymous. 19 C. Christmas card.


1. In Book VIII of St. Augustines autobiographical Confessions, he tells the story of his conversion. He was sitting in a garden when he heard a childs voice saying, take up and read. Augustine reaches for a Bible and reads the passage that it opens to. What is that passage?

A. For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life. (John 3:16, RSV)
B. Let us conduct ourselves becomingly as in the day, not in reveling and drunkenness, not in debauchery and licentiousness, not in quarreling and jealousy. But put on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make no provision for the flesh, to gratify its desires. (Romans 13:13-14, RSV)
C. I can do all things in him who strengthens me. (Philippians 4:13, RSV)
D. None of the above.

2. In Petrarchs Ascent of Mont Ventoux, the poet recounts the progress of his climb. As he stood at the top, he pulled St. Augustines Confessions from his pocket and read the first passage that it opened to. What is that passage?

A. You have formed us for Yourself, and our hearts are restless till they find rest in You.
B. Too late did I love You, O Fairness, so ancient, and yet so new! Too late did I love You! For behold, You were within, and I without, and there did I seek You.
C. And men go forth to wonder at the heights of mountains, the huge waves of the sea, the broad flow of the rivers, the extent of the ocean, and the courses of the stars, and omit to wonder at themselves.
D. None of the above.

3. In Book VIII of Rousseaus autobiographical Confessions, he tells the story of his conversion. As he walked from Paris to Vincennes to visit Diderot, he read an essay which was to be published in the Mercure de France. He read a question which, he said, caused him to become another man. What was that question?

A. Has the progress of the sciences and arts done more to corrupt morals or improve them?
B. What is the general will of Man?
C. What is the origin of inequality?
D. None of the above.

4. In 2004, pop singer Usher released Confessions, which sold nearly 1.1 million copies in its first week. What was the central theme of the record?

A. A late-modern re-reading of St. Augustines Confessions in the context of the dancefloor.
B. His argument that parallels between Augustines and Rousseaus Confessions were not strategically planned by Rousseau but were purely accidental.
C. His breakup with TLCs Chili.
D. All of the above

5. Never confess! Never, never! This advice came from

A. Stanley Fish
B. Joseph Conrad
C. Charles Dawson
D. None of the above


Anonymous. Christmas greeting card (c. 1870)


1. Which of the following contains an acrostic based on the first letter of each verse?

A. Adeste Fidelis
B. The O Antiphons of Advent
C. Puer Natus Est
D. It Came Upon a Midnight Clear

2. Who composed the Concerto Grosso in G minor, subtitled “The Christmas Concerto”?

A. Antonio Vivaldi
B.J.S. Bach
C. Archangelo Corelli
D.Jean-Baptiste Lully

3. Which of the following popular Christmas carol tunes was originally titled Tempus Adest Floridum , and was used for springtime activities?

A. God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen
B. Good King Wenceslas
C. Angels We Have Heard on High
D. The Coventry Carol

4. Which of the following motets was composed for the Advent season, but also contained a coded political message that could have landed the author in serious difficulty?

A. Vigilate by William Byrd
B. Laudate Dominum by G.P. Palestrina
C. Hodie, Christus Natus Est by Jan Sweelinck
D. Saul, Saul, Was verfolgst du mich ? byHeinrich Schutz


Jessie Wilcox Smith. Children of Dickens. A Calendar for 1912 illustrating Tiny Tim and Bob Cratchit on Christmas Day.

NAS offers this morose entry :

Thoreau writes in Walden, ” The mass of men live lives of quiet desperation.” Which of the following is not true:

A. Quiet Desperation is a flavor of Ben & Jerry’s vanilla ice cream with fudge-covered waffle cone pieces and a caramel swirl.

B. The New York Times misquoted Thoreau’s sentence, adding “and die with their song still inside them.”

C. Quiet Desperation is the name of a surrealist reality show chronicling the struggle of a manic-depressive comedian in Boston.

D. Among the many novels, memoirs, and self-help books that make use of Thoreau’s phrase, Quiet Desperation is the title of a Conan Doyle-H.P. Lovecraft mash-up in which Sherlock Holmes battles various Elder demons.

Note : More quizzes more of everything worthwhile at the NAS website here .