The Least of These

Copyright © Edward Riojas

"Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints." Psalm 116: 15

This painting is for those who have ever lost one; for those who are plagued by memories; for those who rest securely in the hands of the Savior...

A few days ago I posted a photo of a painting, then unfinished, along with the words above. It was posted on the anniversary of the decision regarding Roe vs. Wade.

Actually, my posting was an afterthought. I originally intended to post the image on the previous Sunday – Sanctity of Life Sunday – but had gotten sidetracked by the usual mundane things of life. A few days later I saw a growing pile of photos coming from the Life March in Washington D.C., along with other posts surrounding the same subject. So I posted a photo of a “very raw” painting, and had to explain the words that would appear on the painting’s banner. It struck home.

“Precious in the Sight of the Lord”
Copyright © Edward Riojas 2016.
Use of image strictly forbidden
without consent of artist.

Eventually the image was shared 85 times for an audience of nearly 15,000 viewers. The comments alone underscored the fact that I was, indeed, touching a very soft spot in the hearts of viewers. So several days later, here is the finished piece. I don’t need to explain the intent of the painting, nor do I need to describe how it may relate to your life. You know who you are; you know your brand of pain; you know the reality of it all more intimately than I could ever possibly know.

But there is something more.

As I was finishing the piece, I broke down in tears. I’ve never known the heartbreak of a stillbirth in my immediate family, and I’ve not been plagued by memories of an abortion, but the tears came just the same. This curmudgeon certainly empathizes with the “least of these,” yet my tears were not shed for them alone – I simply saw myself in that helpless child of God.

Whether because of losing a job – as I recently experienced – or because of a bleak prognosis, or because of clinging to the end of the rope, life sometimes sends us a different kind of death. Maybe you have felt this. Suddenly, the cares of this life matter so very little, because they have proven petty and useless and utterly insignificant. It is strange that we rarely think of climbing into the Savior’s pierced hands when times are peachy and when every marshmallow sky has glittery rays of sunshine. But we surely want to climb into His hands when the worst of days come. We want to cling to him. We want to hold His hand. In reality, it is He who tenderly takes us by the hand; it is He who cradles us in the hollow of His hands. This He always has done and still does, for the greatest among us to the very least.

To purchase a print
Archival-quality, signed, giclee prints of “Precious in the Sight of the Lord” are available for purchase by contacting the artist at edriojasartist@gmail.com
Sizes/prices for prints:
13” x 16” / $75
19.5” x 24” / $120

Jean-Paul Laurens: Proto-illustrator of the French School

Copyright © Edward Riojas

There’s nothing like an artist with angst.

Jean-Paul Laurens was a master of the French School during the late 1800s, and professor at the École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts in Paris. He was at the top of his game. He was teaching upstarts to rise as the crème de la crème, and doing it at one of the best art schools in the world. He had talent oozing out of his pores. And Laurens loved, loved, LOVED to paint historical scenes. But he wasn’t exactly a happy camper.

“Saint John Chrysostom Confronting Aelia Eudoxia,

Empress of Constantinople” 1894.

(Muséedes Augustins, Toulouse, France)

Jean-Paul had an ax or two to grind with the Roman Catholic papacy and its fallible history. Perhaps he had his knuckles rapped a few too many times when he was young. Perhaps he was a victim of a plaid skirt. At any rate, Laurens‘ work often focused on ugly, historical stains in the papal tapestry.

Laurens has been described as being strongly anti-clerical. Probably. To accuse him of hating all things Catholic, however, would be wrong. Rather, he had a vehement dislike of misused power and political oppression – especially in the Church. His devotion to the Faith and his respect of revered Church fathers is evident. This is obvious in his “Saint John Chrysostom Confronting Aelia Eudoxia, Empress of Constantinople.” The elderly Saint is rendered with great care and sensitivity. The artist could have easily jumped the fence and shown Chrysostom as a raving lunatic, but Laurens carefully played his cards in showing the Saint as animated; as righteously angry; as fearlessly fighting for the Faith. In contrast, the Empress is shown as immovable and unfeeling. Eudoxia decided to exile Chrysostom – ultimately condemning him to death – for his part in calling attention to her sins. Laurens has depicted the Empress as a piece of stony architecture. In spite of being surrounded by glorious light and opulence, there is little visual interest to redeem her.

“The Excommunication of Robert the Pious”

1875. (Musée d’Orsay

Laurens often used the lack of mercy as a driving force behind his pieces. Like ‘Chrysostom before the Empress,’ “The Excommunication of Robert the Pious” focuses on a damning historical event, but in this case the sacred/secular tables are turned.

Robert II of France is more commonly referred to as Robert the Pious, but Robert‘s piety was plagued by flaws in the marital realm. Robert’s father, Hugh, had arranged a marriage for his son, but as soon as pop died Robert divorced his Queen and set his eyes on another. His cousin. The Church promptly did its duty and excommunicated the King.

Lauren’s painting is decidedly sympathetic toward Robert, even though the artist knew the King would eventually set his eyes on yet a third wife. In the painting, the King slouches on his throne, holding his cousin-wife close to him. Laurens loads the canvas with theatrical devices, leading even the most clueless viewer across the stage. A heavy vertical tapestry points to the royal throne that is weighed down by the crest-fallen couple. The scepter has fallen – the King‘s hand too weak to hold it. A large candle, which sadly looks like an enormous Pall Mall cigarette, has been blown out and thrown down by the retreating, shadowy clergy as a symbol of their unequivocal verdict and condemnation.

“Pope Formosus and Stephen VI”

(”The Cadaver Synod”) 1870.

(Musée des Beaux Arts, Nantes, France)

One aspect of Laurens’ work that sets itself apart from his contemporaries’ is the unique theatrical handling of subject that went beyond the standards of the French School. He contrived pivotal moments to dramatize each event. Laurens then employed careful lighting to enhance those moments. Every nuance of gesture and pose were pushed to theatrical bounds. These ingredients pop up decades later in the work of Howard Pyle, N.C. Wyeth, a host of others during the Golden Age of Illustration, and even much later in the work of illustrators such as Frank Frazetta. To that end, it could be said that Laurens was a proto-illustrator. His intent was to tell a story, and he forced the medium to accomplish that task. Some contemporaries faulted him for trying too hard in the telling, and opinions have since waffled from appreciation to distaste. His work is certainly beautiful and esthetically fulfilling, but it is the story that first confronts the viewer, and the story is paramount to esthetic considerations.

Laurens’ talent as story-teller is evident in one final example that puts nails in the coffin and drops it in the hole. And then digs it out again. “Pope Formosus and Stephen VI,” more famously known as “The Cadaver Synod,” is so bizarre in subject that it appears as if straight out of some cheesy novel. The artist took an unsavory event in the papal annals and depicted it in, um, “living” color.

Pope Formosus was not a very popular pontiff. To his credit, neither was his successor, Pope Stephen VI, who so disliked the former that he disinterred Formosus’ body, put it on trial and condemned it to, uh, I dunno, death or something. Propping up a dead guy must have caused a stink in the Vatican, because Stephen was imprisoned soon after, and condemned to death by garroting. Nice guys.

One cannot look on such paintings and ponder their historical events without concluding that a much greater Power is certainly in control – thanks be to God. Regardless of heinous actions within church bodies, the Word shall yet remain; God‘s purpose in His Church will be brought to fruition.

Winterscapes From The Group Of Seven

Copyright © Edward Riojas

It’s Winter, and today is a snow day.

“Snow in October”
Tom Thomson. c. 1917.

It doesn’t really matter if the ground is covered with grass or mud where you are –  we’re kicking back and enjoying the snow. This is being made possible by The Group of Seven, who, being Canadian, knew a thing or two about snow.

Emerging after WWI, the group aimed at portraying the rugged landscape of Canada in a unique, nationalist style, while shunning European trends. They were essentially a regional movement exuding a distinct flavor that hovered somewhere between Impressionism and the Arts and Crafts movement. The group’s title is a bit of a misnomer in that a few additional artists joined the ranks later in the game, and one of the founding members died before the group’s official emergence. Included here are works by seven members of the group, along with a piece by founder Tom Thomson.

“Winter”
Lawren Stewart Harris. 1914.

“Coast Mountain Form”
Frederick Horsman Varley. c. 1929.
(National Gallery of Canada, Ontario)

As a tribute to the quiet solitude of Canadian winterscapes, I’ve decided to let the pieces speak for themselves. What follows are a few notes about our select members.

Tom Thomson
It’s a bit odd that the powerful engine behind the group’s formation was largely a self-taught artist, didn’t get serious about painting until he was well into his thirties, and died under mysterious circumstances when he was only 40. Tom Thomson’s most creative period lasted less than a decade, yet today he is celebrated as a national treasure in Canada.

“A Clear Winter”
Arthur Lismer. 1916.
(Art Gallery of Ontario)

“Winter Morning, Charlevoix County”
A.Y. Jackson. 1933.

Lawren Stewart
If Thomson provided the impetus in forming the Group of Seven, Lawren Stewart Harris added heavy-duty momentum. His career lasted well into the 1960s, and his portfolio added immense depth to the movement.

Frederick Horsman Varley
Varley was one of the more unlikely members of the group. While he involved himself in the group’s shows and excursions across Canada, Varley’s background as war artist had a staining effect on his life and work. Varley’s images of the Great War are haunting. It is no surprise that the aritst suffered from bouts of depression, brought on, no doubt, from his exposure to the realities of war. It was no easy task to find a painting from his hand that fits our subject, but I finally found a little gem that now hangs in the National Gallery of Canada.

“Blissett Farm”
Franklin Carmichael. 1933.

“The Shadowed Valley”
Francis (Frank or Franz) Hans Johnston.

Arthur Lismer
His early fascination with painting camouflaged ships apparently was sufficient to garner attention and a subsequent wartime commission. Unlike Varley, Lismer was able to keep the war in perspective, and afterward dove headlong into the group’s genre.

A.Y. Jackson
Jackson was yet another veteran war artist, and one of its founding members. An early journey to Europe allowed him to study Impressionism, and that influence shows in some of his war paintings, including his “House of Ypres,” which has strong hints of Van Gogh.

“Snowshoeing by Moonlight”
J.E.H. MacDonald

Franklin Carmichael
The youngest founding member of the Group of Seven was Franklin Carmichael. As such, he is somewhat of a fringe member and sometimes associated with latecomers to the group. However, he was strongly influenced by founder Tom Thomson and briefly shared the elder’s studio space. Carmichael was primarily known for his watercolors, one of which is included here.

Frank Johnston
This prolific painter was employed as a commercial artist early in his career, as were many of the other group’s members. Johnston’s association with the group was brief, and he amiably parted with them to follow his own interests. The artist was one of few Canadian artists who enjoyed a successful career.

J.E.H. MacDonald
MacDonald was the oldest member of the Group of Seven, and a co-founder who helped forge the distinct style. For his pains, he endured perhaps the worst of art critics, and was a frequent target of their unfavorable reviews.

Once A Press Artist

© Edward Riojas

I once told a dear friend that I’m terrible at good-byes. When the time came for us to part ways, I simply wasn’t there. That’s how bad I am at farewells.

One would think, therefore, that I was being done a great favor a few days ago by being escorted to the office’s front door after nearly 31 years, and bypassing my own desk and colleagues. I eventually returned to collect my things and was able to talk a bit with a few former coworkers, but leaving without saying something would be wrong, especially when considering the scope of my employment, so here are a few words:

I am extremely grateful. It’s admirable for a company to stick its neck out, take a chance on a green artist like I was, and to provide for me and my family for 30-plus years – especially in an industry that is fraught with so many challenges, including change.

Measuring Time: This gross paint rag, which
had been languishing in my office desk drawer,
was my daughter’s infant T-shirt. She now has
children of her own. Yes, I burned it.

When I first came to The Press, I was one of very few people without a degree in journalism, and immediately I jumped into a sea of journalists. I had a fine art degree, and arrived with only a few years experience in ad agencies. Frankly, I wasn’t even a subscriber. I was definitely the odd duck.

Most everything is now accomplished by computer. My office drawing board has gotten pretty dusty in recent years. Not so when I first arrived. Those were transitional years. The hot lead of linotype machines was already gone, but computers were not yet a universal thing. There were none in the art department.

The jargon was sometimes unique to the newspaper industry, and outsiders might be confused when confronted with things like grid sheets, waxers, rollers, rubylith, zipatone, flourocolor, feet, wheels, knives, lupes, flexible border tape, and pica poles. If you didn’t crop a photo before dropping it out back, you’d hear about it. If you put in the wrong coding for type from Atex, you might “gum up the rip” – and then you’d REALLY hear about it. Back then, there were still a few spikes around the office, even though stories were getting spiked electronically. And smoking – in locomotive fashion – was the norm in the office.

In the early days, every chart was plotted by hand; drawn by hand. The same with maps, and if you didn’t know where in the world someplace was, you would go to this place called a library. It has books. And maps. Text was added afterward. I still have a map of Manhattan, drawn by hand, for one of our fashion story jaunts. And yes, many of the streets are labeled – the text held in place by scotch tape.

Mac Training: I was the first artist to be sent
from The Grand Rapids Press to train with
other “Boothies” in Ann Arbor on the mighty
Mac SE – scroll, and scroll and scroll.

But a career is not merely measured by the age of things you touch. Rather, it is measured by the lives touched. During my stay, I have crossed paths with an immense crowd of extremely talented folk, whose standards of excellence, integrity, and love of their craft hovers near the stratosphere. After 30 years, many of the names have become like vanishing mist, recognizable now by precious few. It is impossible to name them all, so please don’t feel slighted by your exclusion – you ALL loom large in my memory.

Charlie Moore: The first Press person I met – even before I started working at The Press. I had won one or two cartoon contests in the now-defunct Grand Rapids Press Wonderland Magazine, which led to a few free-lance illustration projects for the same publication. Charlie – being Charlie – cheerfully offered to pick up the drawings at my parents house. I still remember the sunny day when an ancient blue car pulled into the driveway. I would soon find out Charlie’s car was a rolling kitchen pantry and drug store. I also learned to be judicious when deciding on any tableware found in the back seat. His office desk drawers were pretty much the same.

Jim Mencarelli: For the same free-lance assignment, I sat down with Jim as he enthusiastically explained the gist of his first-person story – his near-death experience while spelunking. His East Coast, gum-chewing voice thinly veiled a deeply-caring man. Sadly, his rugged, outdoorsy life would be shortened by – of all things – a cut on his finger.

Jim Starkey: The dear boss who hired me. The man who handed me keys to his Porsche on my first day so I could go to the clinic and have my blood tested. I never could find reverse in that thing, so I sheepishly returned the keys and told him that I preferred to walk. No sense in totaling the boss’s sports car on the first day.

Bob Kubiak: He was an older artist from a different department in the building, and he would often drop by to see what I was doing. He hounded me about the speed at which I could stipple a drawing, when I so chose to use the technique. Time after time he would ask the same question, so I finally timed myself – seven dots per second.

Jef Mallett: The rascally part-time artist who, if you could cut him in half, was composed of nothing but enthusiasm. All this without caffeine or drugs. It was almost annoying. He once came into work with a broken finger, and days later had to be told to have it checked out. The doctor had to re-break it. On a table. With the doctor’s knee on the finger. Now Jef has his own syndicated cartoon strip – Frazz – and presumably still has all his fingers.

Aaron Phipps: From the time he arrived as an intern in the art department, I could tell the quiet redhead was different. A school project of his own design necessitated romping through woods in search of ox-gall and ordering vellum from a British firm that was the exclusive purveyor to Her Majesty the Queen. Aaron and I discovered that the shortcomings of Adobe Illustrator 88 could be put to our advantage, so we proceeded to use the excessively-slow image rebuilding time to create animated tank battles. Yes, on company time. Aaron now runs the entire print facility.

Charlie Albright: I never met the man, although I might have once seen him wandering the halls. I owed my job, in part, to him. He was a victim of Alzheimer's, and I was his replacement. It was a difficult task to clean out his flat file drawers, seeing graphics that lacked all sense and order, and knowing it was because of his illness that the Lord was blessing me.

That was Then: The Editorial Art Department,
from left, Frits Hoendervanger, Ed Riojas,
Nancy JonesFrancis, Yolanda Gonzalez,
Diann Bartnick, Aaron Phipps, and Jim Starkey.

Of course, an exhaustive list of past colleagues still would not give the entire picture. There were the readers. I worked in a bubble, but the apparent impact I had on readers is telling. While recently babysitting my entry during ArtPrize, I had several visitors relate their favorite Press illustrations from years past. One gentleman even remembered one of my cartoon contest entries. At the very least, countless visitors would see my name and exclaim, “OH, you’re the artist from The Press!”

And then there were the assignments. I had to be ready for anything. I might be working on a hilarious illustration, and the next hour I’d be on the site of a fatal house fire, talking briefly with a firefighter in the snow, and quickly working up a graphic to show the position of victims relative to doors and windows.

One last-minute assignment evolved because the Police Department’s artist was vacationing. A man was found dead and without identification. The police wanted the public’s help in identifying the man, and I was given the task with 30 minutes to deadline. Problem: He was killed by a massive blow to the face. I received two photos from which to work and bring the man “to life” – one on the slab, and one after the undertaker had done his best.

I once became a courtroom artist for a month or so, bringing the faces of some rather unsavory folks to readers. I’ve chatted with architects and pored over blueprints before doing cutaways of some of the more impressive facades of Downtown Grand Rapids. I’ve illustrated medical procedures and visually explained things in laymen’s terms so the public could have a better understanding. Through it all, it has been an honor and a privilege to invade the homes of readers for a few moments and help them understand; make them laugh; allow them to weep.

To say my efforts were unappreciated by my colleagues would be very wrong. I have a couple of ignored walls in my home that are covered with dusty awards. I have a shelf with awards stacked three and four deep. When cleaning out my office desk this week, I found two forgotten Associated Press awards with my name on them. However, there is one award that, in spite of its small size, is head and shoulders above the rest. The award was not given willy-nilly, as the following inscription testifies: 

“The Robert S. Day Award”
“Robert S. Day, a reporter and editor at The Press from 1946 until his death in 1979, was a dedicated newspaperman. His efforts contributed to the high standards of reporting and editing for which The Press continuously strives. This annual award is given in his memory to the News Department employee who most clearly personifies those standards. We hope that honoring the qualities of professionalism and commitment for which he stood will become a legacy to his life.”

Time has a way of eroding the words of men – even for such a man, and even for me. I much rather prefer to put my trust in another place. As Jeremiah 29:11 states,

“”For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.””

No, I’m not very good at good-byes. Echoing the words of a dear pastor, let me simply say that, by the Grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, I WILL see you again. If not here in time, then there – in eternity.

What's Cooking in the Kitsch

Copyright © Edward Riojas

Whether you realize it or not, most everything in your life – outside of the natural world – has somehow been influenced by someone with at least a smattering of art education. The shingles on your roof were given their color by an artist-type. A fashion designer with an art background decided how many holes should be in the buttons on your shirt. The junker car you drive got its original stylish lines from an artist. The paint on your walls – the ones flavored with names like “Oatmeal” and “Cranberry” and “Burnt Pumpkin” – were picked by an artist. Okay, maybe a few cooks infiltrated the ranks, but for the most part the man-made world has been designed by artists.

Not so with kitsch. The junk populating your grandma’s fireplace mantel more likely was designed by an alien. It’s so obvious. Today we take a look at some objects – I hesitate to call them art – that should contain labels warning consumers about the dangerous amounts of kitsch they contain. I’m also warning you now that even LOOKING at these things could cause convulsions and cerebral hemorrhaging, so proceed at your own risk.

Anytime the words “fiber” and “optic” come up in a conversation, pray they have nothing to do with an angel. With moving, pink wings. This piece has “heresy” written all over it. Apparently, the designer of this abomination felt the angel was lonely, because, yes, a bride and groom were added. One can only hope that it has a wind-up key underneath to facilitate “Muskrat Love” while it slowly rotates. The next time you set up a couple of tin cans on the fence for target practice, please, PLEASE take this thing with you.

You said you like cats, so here you go. What’s not to love about a lump of porcelain vaguely shaped like a cat and painted with realistic eyes? Of an alien. And, as if to avert our gaze, this thing is bedecked with some unknown fabric-feather contraption around its neck. Perhaps the cat is being garroted, in hopes of putting us all out of our misery.

You needn’t feel left out, dog lovers. I have just the thing for your dining room table – a set of Dachshund salt and pepper shakers. You will impress guests with this cute dog who can’t quite catch up to his ass. What? Need to spice things up? Just pull Fido apart and shake something out of the hole by his tail. Bon appétit!

Someone – probably a demented clown – thought this was a great idea. Everyone should have a crocheted poodle surrounding a bottle of their favorite vintage – everyone in the loony bin, that is. Apparently, someone with a complete set of Craftsman crochet hooks got tired of ugly hats and ugly sweaters, and decided to crochet an ugly dog. Does it keep the wine warm during winter? Does it keep the wine cool during tailgaters? Is this why Grandpa always walks the dog? Can I get this in a teal color? So many questions.

Logic is not a necessary ingredient in kitsch. Take this foot ashtray. I totally understand that one would want to put cigarette butts and ashes in an amputated foot. And I totally understand why that creepy big toe already has rigor mortis. And I totally understand that combustible wood was used to hold the embers of a carcinogenic stick of tobacco. I get that. But why put that hideous piece of crap on my living room table? Why?

Not all kitschy things are mass produced. Sometimes, people with bad ideas and even worse art abilities intentionally make things, one at a time, like this disposable communion cup light ball. I’m pretty sure there’s a special place in hell reserved for folks who come up with this purgatorial junk. Of course, this particularly fine example begs a disturbing question: Why do disposable communion cups come in colors? Please don’t tell me they are liturgical colors.

Now this is just wrong. Why would anyone want to put candy in a clown’s pants? Why would anyone want to put ANYTHING, including hands, in a clown’s pants. This nightmarish hunk of ceramic is vintage horror. Obviously, the idea is that before a party, the hostess rips Mr. Clown in half, stuffs him with Snickers or Laughy Taffy or something, and then offers it to the guests. This is loaded with more poor thinking than crappy candy. The guest will find themselves in a dilemma of holding candy, and desperately wishing to wash their hands after fumbling around inside a stranger’s trousers.

The Year in Review

Copyright © Edward Riojas

I fooled you.

When I first started this blog, I had a few words to say. Curmudgeons usually do. While I had a handful of ideas rattling around in my noggin, I wasn’t sure if there were enough to warrant regular posts, so I first wrote a couple of months-worth to be sure. It turns out this quiet guy can vomit words with the best of ‘em.

But a blog takes more than one person speaking his piece – it takes an audience. Blogger gives me limited feedback to protect readers. What it does allow me to see about the audience is fairly interesting. I can say with confidence that sometimes it’s a packed house out there. Other times, not so much. During those lulls, I can only assume you were vacationing near the Louvre or were lost in the Prado or were busy creating a masterpiece. Otherwise, you have no excuse.

I can also say that you’re a very diverse group. I’ve set up the blog preferences so that it only appears in English, but I consistently have readers from around the world. Pretty cool, I guess. The largest global audiences, ranked in order, are in the U.S., Canada, Russia, Germany, Ukraine, Australia, France, Sri Lanka, the U.K. and Poland, but don’t forget the odd hits from Hong Kong, Vietnam, Belgium, Brazil, the Netherlands, Sweden, Norway, Italy, Turkey, Ecuador, and a lot of other places I don't feel like spelling.

I can also see how many hits each post has received. I could here itemize them for you, and I could say that I will tailor future posts accordingly, but I won’t. There’s nothing fun or genuine in giving an audience what it always wants, especially when there’s a curmudgeon involved. Suffice it to say that my “edge” is appreciated. I guess.

My general impression is that some of you come here for the inspiration or insight or questionable taste. Some of you come for the laughs. Whether for laughs or tears, I fooled you. What I REALLY did was make you look at art. Maybe you’ve never been to an art museum. Maybe you’ve never taken an art course. If, however, you’ve poked your nose in here as a weekly regimen, then you’ve looked at 144 pieces of art over the past year. Pretty impressive – even for an art survey class.

Part of the fun in writing for this blog is that I must do some research on my own, especially when the well is looking a little dry. I found a few surprises while hacking through the dense forest of art history, and stumbled over many things I didn’t know.  In some circles that’s called learning, but let’s not spoil things. This has been a good place to get things off my chest, to take a look at art through a different lens, and to occasionally pour out my heart. Above all, it’s been fun. Let’s see if I can keep things that way.

Comfort for Christmas

Copyright © Edward Riojas

Half of the family I was born into has died, and it’s Christmas.

Pardon my reality check, but a lot of folks are hurting this time of year, and it's not because they aren’t getting the latest Star Wars action figure. Death and separation are unwelcome guests during the holidays. Having them show up on the doorstep and linger in an empty chair profoundly hurts.

All of us were born into a family. Love them or hate them, this time of year makes us want to be with family, but often that is not possible. In my own family, Dad died of a massive heart attack, my sister died of brain cancer, and one of my brothers committed suicide. It’s been years since the last death, but that doesn’t matter. The passing of time doesn’t always help. For those of you who have experienced some of the same, you already know this. For those of you who don’t, mend those fences and gird your loins, because it will happen.

I thank the Lord we don’t use the thoroughly British holiday greeting of “Happy Christmas!” because, if you’re separated from someone,  the “happy” part might not be there. Joy, however, is an entirely different matter. That is why today I’m focusing on a detail of the Nativity that sometimes gets glossed over – the company of heaven.

“Assumption of the Virgin”
Francesco Botticini. 1475-76.
(National Gallery, London)

For the most part, the rank and file of heaven does not resemble anything we know this side of paradise. Types of angels are named in Scripture, but outside of the seraphim, little description is given. We can only guess as to the function and appearance of ranks known as cherubim, seraphim, thrones, virtues, choirs, angels and archangels. Because of this, conjecture is always a main ingredient in artistic depictions. To complicate things, artists often foolishly borrow from the imagery of classical antiquity, ending up with winged infants and women that are straight out of Greek and Roman mythology. And, sorry folks, but little Suzy won’t be getting a pair of wings this Christmas when a little bell rings – that’s just a crock of horse manure. She probably wasn’t an angel in this life, so what makes you think she will be one in the next?

“Empyrean” illustration for the “Divine Comedy.”
Gustave Doré. 1861-68.

Anyway, tradition places the ranks of heaven in concentric circles around the throne of God, so artistic depictions have followed suit. Francesco Botticini’s tempera painting, “Assumption of the Virgin,” used this formula, placing heaven on ascending planes parallel with the earth. While Botticini’s vision of heavenly beings seems rather limited, he used an old, but simple device of the circle to represent eternity.

Gustave Doré put a more modern twist on a much older interpretation. Orthodox imagery always shows heaven as a sphere, and Doré did his best to reflect this in his engraving of the Empyrean in Dante’s “Divine Comedy.” The angelic figures swirl in an endless orbit around the shining presence of God. There is a kind of atomic feeling in his work, where angelic neutrons orbit a divine nucleus.

“Angel Appearing to the Shepherds”
Thomas Cole. 1833-34.
(Chrysler Museum of Art, Norfolk, Va.)

Thomas Cole, side-stepping the genre of his Hudson River School, gave a different perspective in his “Angel Appearing to the Shepherds.” The artist ripped into a dark composition, as if heaven was being torn open for us to see. A single angel is visible, back-lit by the glory of heaven. A few additional angelic figures hint at an innumerable host beyond our view. Meanwhile, the right of the painting is cut by the vertical light of a star pointing to the stable.

“And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”” – Luke 2:13-14

Luke’s record of the event gives us a glimpse of the heavenly host – the winged armies of heaven. But Scripture doesn't stop there. Hebrews 12 declares:

"But you have come to Mount Zion and to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and to innumerable angels in festal gathering, and to the assembly of the firstborn who are enrolled in heaven..." – Hebrews 12:22-23a

That "assembly of the firstborn" is a group beyond the angels. They are familiar to us, but are veiled from our view. And if the angels were jubilant at the birth of our Lord, consider the din and the company recorded in Revelation:

"Then I looked, and behold, on Mount Zion stood the Lamb, and with him 144,000 who had his name and his Father's name written on their foreheads. And I heard a voice from heaven like the roar of many waters and like the sound of loud thunder. The voice I heard was like the sound of harpists playing on their harps,  and they were singing a new song before the throne and before the four living creatures and before the elders. No one could learn that song except the 144,000 who had been redeemed from the earth." – Revelation14:1-3

Herein lies Joy. While we praise our Lord here in time, we know they praise Him there in eternity. In our minds; in blessed memory, we hear it. I hear the voice of my father, Agapito, and perhaps you hear your father's voice, too. Can you pick them out of the roar? Robert, Diane, Bud, Vi, Martin, Heinrich, Katie and Stephen. Names and numbers beyond the telling, yet each individually precious to our loving God who descended from His royal throne.

Heaven ripped at its seams to announce our Savior's birth to man, and we join in parallel praise of God with us. In fact, we join with the whole Christian Church on earth. Therein lies even more Joy.

Chancel of Töllsjö Church,
showing semi-circular communion rail,
or “altarring.”
1858, with 2014 renovations.
(Töllsjö, Sweden)

The mashup of earthly and heavenly praise sung for our earth-born King is sometimes taken a step further. A feature among some old Scandinavian sanctuaries are semi-circular communion rails. Perhaps that doesn’t seem so odd, given rail variations running the gamut from straight lines to U-shapes. What is odd – and significant – is that those semi-circular communion rails are symbolically part of a full circle. The other half of the imaginary circle continues outside the church building and into the churchyard – the cemetery. The liturgical phrase, “...together with all the company of heaven...” suddenly takes on a much deeper meaning when realizing we are shoulder-to-shoulder with the saints – all of them. There is no separation, neither of time nor space. There are no borders. There are no walls. There is no distance that can be measured.

We may not be able to see or touch those whom we dearly miss, but the reality of the spiritual realm has little to do with what is visible or tactile. It is probably for our own good that the visible glory of heaven is withheld from us, or we would complain, as did those who saw heaven’s reflection in the face of Moses – a man yet this side of paradise.

Of course, there is much more to Christmas Joy than wrapping your head around an empty chair. There is no point in singing at all unless you understand the significance of God wrapped in swaddling cloths, and of His love wrapped around us. The truth of God among us; the truth of the Lord stooping down from His heavenly throne to save us from our sin; the truth of The Christ coming in time to be the ultimate sacrifice for sinful man is what gives Christians real joy. It is the peace that surpasses all understanding.

Those who hold steadfastly to the Hope of the Resurrection know that painful separations are only temporary. The flighty happiness of this world is supplanted by a profound Joy in anticipation of the next, made possible through the manifestation of our God-made-flesh; our Savior, on that first Christmas morning. Somewhere deep within the walls of our broken and lonely hearts, the prophetic words of Isaiah echo, ““Comfort, comfort my people,” says your God.”