While taking a class on Old Testament Poets at Reformed Theological seminary, the professor offered an answer to the question why the Bible includes so much poetry. He proposed, “Poetry speaks to our whole person. It feeds our intellect, it stimulates our imaginations, it addresses our wills, and it touches our emotions. It causes us to slow down and think.”
I would say that this is not only true of poetry in the Bible, but of all forms of art birthed from minds and hearts tuned to God’s word. Thomas Merton, quoting another theologian, described art as “a calculated trap for meditation.”
Art, rooted in truth, is an invitation to look a little more deeply
at something you might not see at first glance.
Not only can art be a “calculated trap for meditation” for the observer, it can serve the same purpose for the artist.
For example, I have recently been introduced to a work of art called “The Isenheim Altarpiece” by Matthias Grunewald. The painting, in its depiction of suffering, is stunning. Christ’s fingers are grotesquely twisted. His body is pocked with black sores and marred with barbs. His feet, stretched on the nail, are ripping under his weight. His lips have the bluish green color of death. My eyes lingered over every detail, and each made an indelible impression as I meditated on the scene.
I wonder what it must have been like for Grunewald to spend days meditating on the suffering and death of the Savior as he painted. How many months did he spend painting the details of Christ’s mangled fingers, or stretching the lines of his muscles insufferably far? What did he think as he smeared black on the canvas to form the tear in Christ’s foot? What was it like to mix paint the color of death?
I wonder if Grunewald stepped back from this process with a greater understanding of Christ’s suffering. I think this is true for all artists as they ply their trade. They meditate as they create, and then invite observers into their meditations.
Art can be a "calculated trap" for both the artist and the observer.
Interestingly, Grunewald uses “creative license” to insert John the Baptist into the scene. John would not have been at the crucifixion, having been beheaded well before Christ’s arrest and execution. However, Grunewald portrays him pointing to Christ’s marred body on the cross with the phrase, “He must increase, I must decrease” painted in Latin above his arm. John directs our gaze to Christ.
While alive, John testified that he was not the light. He was born to shine light on someone else, to direct the gaze of others toward the rightful recipient of all glory and honor. By placing John in the scene, it seems Grunewald communicated that John’s testimony continues. Did Grunewald feel the same about his art? Did he step back from this masterpiece with the hope that his work would not garner him fame, but move others to see and meditate on the greatness of Christ?
All forms of art, whether painting or poetry, photography or pottery, capture our eyes, hearts, and minds to direct them toward something. John’s testimony continues to speak in the lives and works of all artists seeking to direct our gaze to Christ. By meditating on the Truth, who is Christ, artists so moved by his glory will, by their work, invite others to do the same.
All of us, all of Him.
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