TALKING TO ONE'S SON

Poem for Today - January 27, 2013

WHAT SHALL HE  

TELL THAT SON?

A father sees a son nearing manhood.

What shall he tell that son?

“Life is hard; be steel; be a rock.”

And this might stand him for the storms

          and serve him for humdrum and monotony

          and guide him amid sudden betrayals

          and tighten him for sIack moments.

“Life is soft loam; be gentle; go easy.”

And this too might serve him.

Brutes have been gentled where lashes failed.

The growth of a frail flower in a path up

          has sometimes shattered and split a rock.

A tough will counts. So does desire.

So does a rich soft wanting.

Without rich wanting nothing arrives.

Tell him too much money has killed men

          and left them dead years before burial:

          and quest of lucre beyond a few easy needs

          has twisted good enough men

          sometimes into dry thwarted worms.

Tell him time as a stuff call he wasted.

Tell him to be a fool every so often

          and to have no shame over having been a fool

          yet learning something out of every folly

          hoping to repeat none of the cheap follies

          thus arriving at intimate understanding

          of a world numbering many fools.

Tell him to be alone often and get at himself

          and above all tell himself no lies about himself,

          whatever the white Iies and protective fronts

          he may use amongst other people.

Tell him solitude is creative if he is strong

          and the final decisions are made in silent rooms. TeIl him to be different from other people

          if it comes natural and easy being different.

Let him have lazy days seeking his deeper motives.

Let him seek deep for where he is a born natural.

                   Then he may understand Shakespeare and

                   the Wright brothers, Pasteur, Pavlov,

                   Michael Faraday and free imaginations

          bringing changes into a world resenting change.

                             He wilI be IoneIy enough

                             to have time for the work

                             he knows as his own

                                                     

©  Carl Sandburg

“What Shall He Tell That Son?” 

by Carl Sandburg: 

from The People, Yes

by Carl Sandburg.

36 by Harcourt, Brace and World, Inc.; renewed 1964 by Carl Sandburg. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.

THE CALL OF CARAVAGGIO

INTRODUCTION

The title of my homily for this 3^rd Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year A, is, “The Call of Caravaggio.”

Today’s gospel presents the call of Peter and Andrew and then James and his brother John.

Artists down through the centuries have painted - how they pictured those calls.  I always liked Duccio’s painting of the scene of the call of Peter and Andrew. [Cf. below.]

Duccio was an Italian artist who produced that painting sometime between 1308 - 1311.  

Back around 1959 I was in the National Gallery in Washington, D.C. and I bought a reproduction of that painting - probably because my name was Andrew and I was thinking deeply about the call to follow Christ as a religious.

Somewhere along the line - in a transfer - from here to there - I misplaced that painting. I mentioned  this once in a sermon. Sure enough someone bought me another reproduction of that painting - and it hangs on my wall.

In preparing this homily I looked at various other paintings of the call of Peter and Andrew.

I found one that was very intriguing and I studied it. It was by another Italian artist - Caravaggio: The Call of  Peter and Andrew. 

No I’m not looking for a copy of that painting. With the beauty of the internet one can download the great masters and their great paintings - all for free.

HOW DO YOU DO ART MUSEUMS?

For the past 25 years or so - Caravaggio has become very well known. So whenever I spotted an article -  or what have you - about Caravaggio - Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio - 1573 - 1610 - I would read that article.

Words - words - words…. interesting and intriguing.  Then I found myself taking the time to look at his paintings. That’s something I don’t do enough of. Study the paintings.

Caravaggio’s the one who does those great light and dark paintings - shadow and light. His influence moves up out of Italy and others pick up his style. For example some painters up in Utrecht - in the Netherlands and  in time Rembrandt - use dark and light so powerfully. Think of paintings by Rembrandt - like his face of Christ or the Prodigal Son.

It’s cold out. The parking lots are icy. The Super Cold Bowl isn’t till next week, so you have time to type into Google “Caravaggio” and  then “Rembrandt” - and compare both artists.

Light and darkness …. I like that because someone told me to make sure I use my camera to take pictures 2 hours after sunrise - and 2 hours before sunset - when the light is coming in from the side. Sure enough better pictures.

Light and darkness - the theme of today’s First Reading from Isaiah [8:23-9:3] and also today’s gospel from Matthew [4:12-23]. How do I do Bible reading? What light - what insights - am I looking for? Where are those dark places where I hide? Where does Christ the Light of the World want to shine?

How do you do pictures? How do you do art museums? How do you do spiritual reading from novels, non-fiction and the Bible?

P.S. These are rhetorical questions....

Somewhere along the line I found myself doing art museums differently than I did when I was younger. You know the old New Yorker magazine cartoon. The husband and wife are tourists. They arrive at the big art museum. Going up the stairs, the husband pointing - says to his wife, “You take that side. I’ll take this side.”

Somewhere along the line - after realizing I forgot every painting in a art museum - 5 minutes after  I left - I got the insight to change my patterns.  Now I walk up the front steps and head for the gift shop. I look at the post cards and the big coffee table art books on display to see what artist might be featured. If I see a painting  that looks very interesting, I jot down it’s name.  Then I go looking to find it. Now I skip most of the paintings in those high ceiling rooms in an art museum.

Okay I like the earphones sometimes - but I forget most of that stuff too. I rather really  see one painting that some artist might have spent days and weeks and months on - than have a jumble of paintings and images in my short term memory that look like a bowl of  vegetable soup sloshing and swishing around in my mind.

So one painting - really looked at  - then studied - has the impact for me.

In fact, when I do that, I’ve often walked out of an art museum - and realized this whole world is an art museum. I see particulars better: a dented car, a dark green dumpster - a lady with a red plaid scarf walking along the avenue with 6 dogs in tow or a fur coat old lady crossing the street with an aluminum cane. What a great world we’re living in. How do you do art museums? How do you do life?

BACK TO CARAVAGGIO

We’re tourists in Rome. We’re in a big piazza.  We spot this church. We look at the name:  St. Luigi dei Francesi Church. Never heard of it.  We go in. Surprise they have three Caravaggio’s - 3 paintings on St. Matthew.  We end up spending about 45 minutes there - looking at those paintings mainly.

Off to the side I noticed  books for sale - mainly a book entitled: The Bible of Caravaggio - by Mario Dal Bello. I buy a copy. In time I realize it was a smart buy - because  I have looked at  it dozens of times - especially the 21 delicious paintings - all Bible Scenes - by Caravaggio - with comments - especially when I’m preparing a homily - wondering if Caravaggio pictured the scene of the day.

 I pulled it out yesterday to see if it had his paintings of today’s gospel from Matthew. Nope. It does have The Call of Matthew with thought provoking comments.[Cf. above on the cover of the book.]

It also triggered the title of this homily: The Call of Caravaggio.

It also triggered the idea to check the internet to see if he did a painting on today’s gospel. Sure enough I found his painting on line:  The Calling of Saints Peter and Andrew [1603-1606],

Light and darkness …. As I looked at the painting I looked to see what Caravaggio might be saying - might be wondering about - what he might want to picture.

He has Peter standing there with a big fish in his right hand. Next, Peter’s left hand is in the exact center of the painting. It’s empty.

In the same story in Luke - both hands would be empty. In this painting, is he wondering if Peter is saying: If I stay as a fisherman, at least I have caught fish; if I follow Jesus, what will I catch with my life?

Is that the question of every Christian: stuff or emptiness if I follow Jesus?

Is that what Caravaggio was saying, contemplating, wondering about? We don’t know.

Next he has Andrew, Peter’s  brother standing next to him - with his hand pointing at himself - sort of saying, “Who me? You want me to follow you? Are you kidding?”

What does a calling mean? What does a following mean?  Does Christ still call people?

Caravaggio died at the age of 48 of a fever. He was in exile - often  on the run - because he had killed someone - in an argument about a tennis match. There are court records that he was in fights from time to time. As to his life - there are all kinds of stories about his morals, but we don’t know for sure. There are many takes on his life.

Who knows me? What are their takes on my life? How do they picture me? How do they paint me? What scene from my life, stands out for them? What are the mistakes on their takes on my life?

The questions I ask when I look at Caravaggio’s paintings - or anyone’s pictures or paintings - is to be conscious of the questions he raises for me at the time.

I’ve read at times that we can read the Bible by reading the words of the Bible - and this was the great Protestant gift to the Christian life - at the Reformation - and with the invention of the Printing Press. Or we can go with the great Catholic Tradition: read the paintings - the stain glass windows - the paintings in the art museums - or the coffee table picture books - to sit looking right into the face and stories of Jesus or others and what have you in the pictures.

What hits you more?

That painting by Duccio moved me at the age of 19. I was also impacted big time when I saw for the first time the major red icon of Christ in the National Cathedral in Washington DC. I sat down in the silence of that enormous church  / basilica - and that moment comes back to me every time I drop into the upper church in DC.

 Now I’m letting the paintings of Caravaggio impact me.

Do you have a favorite painting that is hanging on the wall of your house or your soul - or your favorite church in your mind -  that says a lot to you - and your life? What is that painting or picture calling you to?

CONCLUSION

For 350 years a painting of Caravaggio sat in a storeroom in Buckingham Palace. It was in horrible shape.  The experts thought it was a copy of a painting by Caravaggio - The Calling of Peter and Andrew.

Someone suggested research. Surprise what was thought to be a copy - perhaps worth 50,000 pounds - was a Caravaggio. It took 6 years - 6 years of restoration and is now estimated to be worth at least 50 million pounds.

What a great parable. We are worth what we are worth - as is - but if we let Christ restore us - even it takes 6 or 60 years - we are worth a lot more.

And like Caravaggio - and like his paintings - we all have strong light and strong darkness in us. That’s who we are. Hopefully we all have at least one great biblical story in us - for the world to see and read and experience when they experience us.

So we come to church and hear these readings - or look at the cross - or one of our stained glass windows - and maybe one of these scenes we see or hear about is key to our life. It  is us for the taking - and for the making  - and  for the remaking of me. Amen.

OOOOOOO

 NOTES:

Top: Portrait of Caravaggio  - from around 1621 - by Octavio Leoni (1578-1630)

TAKING THE TIME 

TO SENSE HOW A CHILD SEES

Poem for Today - January 26, 2014

BOY AT THE WINDOW

Seeing the snowman standing all alone

In dusk and cold is more than he can bear.

The small boy weeps to hear the wind prepare

A night of gnashings and enormous moan.

His tearful sight can hardly reach to where

The pale-faced figure with bitumen eyes

Returns him such a god-forsaken stare

As outcast Adam gave to Paradise.

The man of snow is, nonetheless, content,

Having no wish to go inside and die.

StiII, he is moved to see the youngster cry.

Though frozen water is his element,

He melts enough to drop from one soft eye

A trickle of the purest rain, a tear

For the child at the bright pane surrounded by

Such warmth, such light, such love,

          and so much fear.

© Richard Wilbur

“Boy at the Window” 

by Richard Wilbur: 

copyright 1952 

by The New Yorker Magazine, Inc. 

reprinted from 

Things of This World 

by Richard Wilbur, Harcourt, 

Brace & World, Inc. 

13 YEARS OF AGE

Poem for Today - January 25, 2014

PORTRAIT  OF A GIRL

WITH COMIC BOOK

Thirteen’s no age at all. Thirteen is nothing.

It is not wit, or powder on the face,

Or Wednesday matinees, or misses’ clothing,

Or intellect, or grace.

Twelve has its tribal customs. But thirteen

is neither boys in battered cars nor dolls,

Not Sara Crewe or movie magazine

Or pennants on the walls.

Thirteen keeps diaries and tropical fish

(A month, at most); scorns jumpropes in the spring;

Could not, would fortune grant it, name its wish;

Wants nothing, everything;

Has secrets from itself, friends it despises;

Admits none of the terrors that it feels;

Owns a half a hundred masks but no disguises;

And walks upon its heels.

Thirteen’s anomalous - not that, not this:

Not folded bud, or wave that laps a shore,

Or moth proverbiaI from the chrysaIis.

Is the one age defeats the metaphor.

Is not a town, like childhood, strongly walled

But easiIy surrounded; is no city.

Nor, quitted once, can it be quite recalled -

Not even with pity.

 © Phyllis McGinley

                                                                                                          “Portrait of a Girl With Comic Book” 

by Phyllis McGinley: from Times Three 

by Phyllis McGinley. 

Copyright 1952 by Phyllis McGinley.

ON FOOT

On foot beats driving every time ….

Those in cars might miss the sight

of tree roots and what they can do

to sidewalks - causing cracks and

pushing up bricks and cement ….

Walking on foot - one sees the poetry

of frozen footprints in snow and ice

as well as of dead leaves  lingering

in corners and under wooden porches

and dead cigarettes outside churches.

Walking strengthens legs and lungs -

and gives one a feel for variations

of wind - breeze - gusts - gales -

as well as chance meetings with

neighbors - the mail carrier and 

a baby smiling at us - as a mom

in sporty gear glides by us with a baby

carriage in front of her - and sometimes

we spot a perfectly good ballpoint pen

someone dropped on the sidewalk

and we end up using it for a year

and a half - - or we spot both halves

of a photograph of a couple -

ripped in two lying next

to a tough plastic garbage can.

What happened? Did roots

or the push of underneath stuff

erupt and disrupt their dream

of a picture perfect future?

On foot beats driving every time ….

Sidewalk stories  - a novel in

progress - the stuff we can read

as we walk on foot on snow, on ice,

as well as on the boxed cement or
red or yellow brick roads of life.

© Andy Costello, Reflections, 2014

15 YEARS OF AGE? 

WHAT'S IT LIKE?

Poem for Today - January 24, 2014

FIFTEEN

South of the bridge on Seventeenth

I found back of the willows one summer

day a motorcycle with engine running

as it lay on its side, ticking over

slowly in the high grass. I was fifteen.

I admired all that pulsing gleam, the

shiny flanks, the demure headlights

fringed where it lay; I led it gently

to the road and stood with that

companion, ready and friendly. I was fifteen.

We could find the end of a road, meet

the sky on out Seventeenth. I thought about

hills, and patting the handle got back a

confident opinion. On the bridge we indulged

a forward feeling, a tremble. I was fifteen.

Thinking, back farther in the grass I found

the owner, just coming to, where he had flipped

over the raiI. He had bIood on his hand, was paIe --

I helped him walk to his machine. He ran his hand

over it, called me good man, roared away.

I stood there, fifteen.

- William Stafford  ©

“Fifteen” by William Stafford: 

from The Rescued Year 

by William Stafford. 

Copyright 1964 

by William E. Stafford. 

WATCHING ONE 

ANOTHER WATCHING

Poem for Today - January 23, 2014

CORNER

The cop slumps alertly on his motorcycle,

supported by one leg like a leather stork.

His glance accuses me of loitering.
I can see his eyes moving like a fish

in the green depth of his green goggles.

His ease is fake. I can tell.

My ease is fake. And he can tell.

The fingers armored by his gloves

splay and clench, itching to change something.
As if he were my enemy or my death,

I just standing there watching.

I spit out my gum which has gone stale.
I knock out a new cigarette

which is my bravery.

It is all imperceptible:

the way I shift my weight,

the way he creaks in his saddle.

The traffic is specific though constant.
The sun surrounds me, divides the street between us.

His crash helmet is whiter in the shade.

It is like a bull ring as they say it is just before the fighting.

I cannot back down. I am there.

Everything holds me back.
I am in danger of disappearing into the summer dust.

My Levis bake and my t-shirt sweats.

My cigarette makes my eyes burn

but I don’t dare drop it.

Who made him my enemy?

Prince of coolness. King of fear.

Why do I lean here waiting?

Why does he lounge there waiting?

I am becoming sunlight

My hair is on fire. My boots run like tar.

I am hung-up by the bright air.

Something breaks through all of a sudden,

and he blasts off, quick as a craver,*

smug in his power; watching me watch.

© Ralph Pomeroy

*[Craver = an intense,

quick desire]