As I marched through the Uffizi Gallery, I could see how, as the Renaissance progressed, artists made the figures in their paintings less like icons and more like human beings. Suddenly, I found myself looking at a painting of a very real, very young woman. She was kneeling in a dark wilderness. Her hair and face were radiant. I first thought this was an anachronism, like the blue-eyed, blond Jesus of a certain era of popular art. Then I saw what better observers have seen. She was suffused with light. We say every Sunday, “God from God, Light from light…” The girl had been given the same gift of light — light nourishing, pure, powerful. Even her blue robe was richer and brighter than any earthly fiber.
The 1463 painting is “The Adoration of the Christ Child” by Filippo Lippi. In it, Mary’s delicate features mixed tenderness, awe, and astonishment. Her hands are clasped together gently in prayer; her slender fingers seem to be on the verge of trembling. She is looking down at her newborn boy, lying exposed on the ground. I recalled the shock I felt 38 years ago when I first realized my wife and I were in charge of an utterly helpless child who was more precious than anything we had ever imagined. In the painting, moreover, there is no stable, no St. Joseph, no Magi, no shepherds. There are only two other people pictured: St. John the Baptist, in the form of a young boy, and the founder of the monastery for which the painting was commissioned.
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Mary’s look is full of awe and love, but awe can bring bewilderment, and love always brings vulnerability. I imagine from her expression that she sensed, even before a wise old man told her, that “a sword will pierce even your own soul.” Her faith was not daunted, but neither was her pity lessened. She had been given the greatest gift, and the deepest anguish. At the same time, the painting reminds us that, even as she kneels in this dark wilderness, she is accompanied by the greatest of powers. At the top is the Father, indicated by a pair of hands. The dove of the Holy Spirit dives down, blazing with the Holy Spirit. She will never be alone, even when she seems to be.
Seeing the painting in Florence, Italy on a trip last summer, I was reminded that art can be as powerful as words in conveying truth. The painting underlines the way God’s work has made us more deeply and truly human. Before Lippi and his peers came on the stage, art was about gods and goddesses, kings and queens. Then, artists began to see the glory in ordinary people. This reflects how the Lord has selected otherwise ordinary people, such as Abraham and Ruth, to change the world. The summit of this was his anointing of a young girl in an obscure Middle Eastern land to be the Queen of the Universe.
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It’s a reminder that the Blessed Virgin Mary was a girl who had been visited by a messenger from God with news that 2,000 years later still baffles many. Pregnant, she traveled with her husband in a land troubled by foreign occupation and simmering unrest to give birth far away from her family. We rightly are in awe of the Queen of Heaven! Let us also take heart from the brave, young woman in this painting, and remember that great things can also come to ordinary people like us, with all our cares, troubles, and needs.
Finally, let us remember that inspiration can strike even when we least expect it. You might think that being in one of the world’s great art museums would have primed me to get the most out of paintings. However, we had spent the previous week of our trip in Rome, where we trudged past miles of paintings and sculptures. Then the Uffizi welcomed us with art on every wall and the ceiling too. As guidebooks and more experienced travelers had warned, I had reached a point where I didn’t think I could absorb anything new about sacred art. I was half-wishing I could see one of those paintings of dogs playing poker, just to rest my overloaded brain.
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Promptly, I was confronted with Lippi’s painting of Mary glowing and grieving, foreseeing joy and wonder, yet accepting also toil and sorrow. It’s a reminder that experiences of the sacred can break through anything that weighs you down, from boredom to despair. And, of course, this need not happen in a world-famous museum. One day, after returning home, I took a walk around a lake near my house. The day was so gorgeous and the park so quiet that for once I turned off my phone and just welcomed the quiet. I looked at the blue sky and the sunlight on the leaves. It was my final realization: There are sacred masterpieces all around us.
