The Rev. Noah Van Niel
Christ and St. Luke’s
July 17th, 2022
Proper 11 (C) [Track 2]: Genesis 18:1-10a; Psalm 15; Colossians 1:15-28; Luke 10:38-42
(You can view the full service here. The sermon begins at 23:05)
Two weeks ago, I finally got myself organized enough to go over to see the M.C. Escher exhibit at the Chrysler Museum. Like many people, I was familiar with Escher only from college dorm room posters with his mind-bending staircases and perception altering patterns. But as the exhibit makes clear, very effectively, there was a lot more to Escher’s artistic output than that. I encourage those of you who haven’t seen it already to get over and take a look, the exhibit is only here until the end of August.
Many aspects of Escher’s work are interesting, and frankly a lot of fun to look at. The way he plays with illusion and reflection, the ways in which he tricks us, makes our eyes trip from 2D to 3D, gives us endless depth of field and infinite regression all on a flat surface. But I was particularly taken with a segment of Escher’s work in the exhibit called Emblems. These were a set of smaller, less visually ornate woodcuts from early in his career which consisted of a picture, a Latin motto written at the top, and a line of Dutch poetry at the bottom. Escher was recreating a tradition from back in 17th century Holland, where such emblems were collected into little books. The purpose of these books was instructional, they were meant to teach a lesson, a lesson gleaned by analyzing how the image and the text played off each other. As the notes to the exhibit put it, these books, “taught readers to look beyond the surface or literal meaning of objects and phenomena and inspired them to imagine both essential qualities and metaphysical meanings.” Emblems were meant cultivate your moral imagination as well as your visual perception; to encourage you to go deeper from the realm of representation to the realm of meaning. In a way these emblems prefigured some of Escher’s later, more famous work, which very literally took your perception beyond the immediate, beyond the possible even, and sought to reveal underlying structures and patterns in nature, architecture, and elsewhere. He somehow made the impossible real; the invisible, visible. And looking at his work, especially these Emblems, you become conscious that there is always more than meets the eye.
I think I was so taken with these works because as I sat and pondered them, I realized, this is exactly what Jesus is supposed to do. Jesus is an emblem, the emblem, of the Divine. For how better might you describe the purpose of his presence in this world than to teach us to “look beyond the surface or literal meaning of objects and phenomena,” and to “inspire [us] to imagine both essential qualities and metaphysical meanings.” Christ Jesus came to give form and character to that amorphous being, force, energy, Spirit, we call God. As the letter to the Colossians puts it, “Christ Jesus is the image of the invisible God.” In other words, through Jesus we see beyond Jesus to the greater reality which he not only incarnates in himself, but also points us to. He is an emblem, a visual symbol of that which is impossible to see or to know. And, like an Escher painting, through him we get a glimpse into a depth of reality that goes far beyond the finite into the infinite, for “in him, all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell.”
I wonder if that depth of perception is what Jesus was talking about when he has his interaction with Martha in our Gospel this morning. Jesus has come for a visit, and Martha is (understandably) busy attending to his needs. But such activity is keeping her at the surface level of Jesus. Mary on the other hand, is sitting there, soaking in his presence, listening, looking, seeing beyond. Martha, worried and distracted by many things, is missing it, missing the “one thing” the “better part.” And perhaps that better part is noticing the reality of God in their midst. For Jesus is the answer to the question that has puzzled people throughout the ages, “What is God like?” The answer: “God is like Jesus.” This is the “mystery that has been hidden throughout the ages and generations” which is now being revealed in this man. And she’s missing it. Because she’s worried about the dishes.
Too often our worries and distractions keep us on the surface level and make us miss the reality of God all around us. For it can be hard to pick up on the “essential qualities and metaphysical meanings” of existence when you’re running around from one thing to another—appointments, meetings, classes, practices, rehearsals, errands, chores—the day disappears before you know it. I think that’s why many of us have such sympathy for Martha—“Hey, Jesus, give her a break, she’s just trying to make sure everything gets done!” But what Jesus is saying is that in such an atmosphere it’s nearly impossible to cultivate any sort of awareness of God’s presence in this world. So slow down. And pay attention. Look at that which is right before you. What lesson is there to learn? Because to be attuned to those deeper meanings and realities beyond the surface is the better part not because those daily tasks aren’t important, but because they are not all there is.
This was precisely the purpose of those Emblem books. To teach you to stop, and look, and think, and go beyond that which was right before you. My favorite one was of a small burning candle, the still flame almost flickering against a deep, dark background. Wax piling up like wrinkles at the base, marking the time it had been burning and foreshadowing its eventual end. At the top was the Latin motto. Translated it read: “I’m alive! A trembling soul is consumed within me.” And at the bottom of the picture there was the following in Dutch: ‘I am myself: a light. In me you find your fate. So be not blind to the truth, shining from my glow.’ What if we learned to see everything around us like that? What if, even within this transitory life, as we are trapped among things and people that are finite and passing away, with darkness all round threatening to consume us, we hear instead the voice of the eternal calling out to us, “I am alive! There is a soul in here! See me shining through.”
The churchy word for this kind of sight is “sacramental.” A sacrament is defined as an outward, visible sign, of an inward, or spiritual grace or reality. That’s a fancy way of saying it’s something physical meant to communicate something spiritual; something visible meant to communicate something invisible. Thought of this way, Jesus was the ultimate sacrament. But so too are the bread and wine of the Eucharist, and the waters of baptism. Both of which we will get to experience today. These are some of the church’s chief emblems. This is our way of living and teaching the lesson that Jesus is trying to teach us all: that behind the stuff of life, there exist “essential qualities and metaphysical meanings”; that if we pay attention and learn to look beyond what’s right in front of us, we shall see God. Looking to Jesus we learn to look like Jesus on the world, seeing the depth and the beauty, the divinity and infinity, beneath the surface. For Jesus is not just a window, he is a lens. And looking through his eyes all of creation becomes sacramental. People become marvelous mysteries; bundles of talents and experiences and stories just waiting to be uncovered. The natural world becomes an endless source of wonders to ponder, of beauty to behold, of patterns to appreciate. Like Escher and his Emblem books, Jesus’ purpose is not just to show us something, it is to show us how to see, so that we might better be. For how might we be changed if wherever we went and whoever or whatever we looked at, we saw them aflame with the presence of living God, who is above all, and through all, and in all?
“I am alive! A trembling soul is consumed within me…..So be not blind to the truth, shining from my glow.”