Receiving His gaze slowly
The epitome of the icon is Christ’s disfigurement in His sacrifice for us.¹ He emptied himself of human likeness in order to reveal the divine will of his Father. Recognition of this act of love guides my worship of all icons. I understand that Christ wears down the screen of His image so that the invisible gaze of God may reach through the work to me, while I aim at His gaze to the best of my ability with my own reverence and love.
Throughout his work, Marion is very intentional with his words, his message all the more powerful: “The icon is crossed by the veneration of my gaze in response to a first gaze.”² The first gaze being that of the invisible Father is purposeful because God always sees us first, in every turn of life. He loves us first, and sent down His one and only Son to demonstrate that. He sees us first, because we as imperfect human beings take time to recognize Him and all that He does. Furthermore, the screen that Marion describes is not for God. In other words, God never struggles to see us. I am the one who needs time to break down the screen as I slowly approach God — just as I would in the liturgy — and He bit by bit unveils Himself. I cannot see all at once, unlike Him, but through worship I try. Christ is helping me see past the image with my gaze as he “completely [effaces] the glory of his own image.”³
My worship of God implies my love for Him. I know I cannot match His infinite love, considering His sacrifices through Christ and continual forgiveness of sins. But I strive to approximate it. When I assume a prayerful posture in front of an icon, there is a “crossing of gazes”, with my gaze “seeing another gaze that sustains mine, confronts it, and eventually overwhelms it.”⁴ Overwhelms is an accurate word, considering His eros. How Marion discusses the gaze crossed with an icon illustrates its playfulness, writing “Christ does not offer only himself to my gaze to see and be seen…it is a love not only for him but for his Father….I might see also and especially the Father.”⁵ Marion directly brings Christ into the conversation. Christ, by interacting with me, mediates my experience of the invisible Father.
During the consecration of the bread and wine at the Mass, I worship as they become the body and blood of Christ. A Madonna altarpiece directly in my line of sight will naturally evoke Eucharistic interpretations.⁶ The altarpiece Virgin and Child with Sts. Jerome and Dominic by Filippino Lippi serves well to explain this. The kneeling of St. Jerome tells me to approach in reverent devotion. The paleness of Christ’s body is intense, bringing the Host to mind as I prepare to receive communion.⁷ I realize that His invisible gaze is directed towards me, through the intentional eyes of the infant Christ. This is not a screened image, but rather a living icon calling on me. I return a gaze, attempting to see beyond the visible, and contemplate Christ’s sacrifice which I am to receive in the present.
Outside of the liturgical setting, Fra Angelico’s frescoes require different kinds of contemplation depending on the worshipper: “purification to illumination to perfection.”⁸ I find Spike’s theory of religious formation to be analogous to the slow approach towards God and the gradual unveiling of an image to its full iconic quality.⁹ When standing in front of Fra Angelico’s Noli Me Tangere, I may not see any eyes directly looking into mine, but the invisible gaze persists. As Christ looks down to Mary of Magdalene, I realize that His gaze to her is actually to me.
Fra Angelico’s use of dissemblance shows figures unlike what they refer to, challenging my humanistic preconceptions of art. In portraying something contrary to my expectations, he invites me into deeper worship. This references religious life quite well: there is so much about God that I cannot understand, but my lack of comprehension encourages me to contemplate the divine mysteries even more. When I learn that the flowers represent the blood of Christ, His beautiful sacrifice and love becomes apparent. The door behind Mary of Magdalene makes me inclined to enter this space of contemplation of Christ’s resurrection.¹⁰ This closely follows Gadamer’s idea of playfulness. The cloisters, walkways, and entryways in Fra Angelico’s work show there is no separation between me and the fresco.
Praying in person before the Ghent Altarpiece, I would be overwhelmed by the beauty of this iconographic art and its symbolic, playful, and festive qualities. In the panel featuring the Adoration of the Lamb, the Lamb has an intense gaze towards me. It is as if He is calling on me to surrender myself to the work and fully appreciate His self-emptying act. The physicality of the Lamb’s violent sacrifice is not merely representative of what He did for me, but rather is the full embodiment of that act of eros. The normal passage of time fades away as the scenes draw me to the past, ground me in the present (in the sacrifice made manifest in the Eucharist), and help me understand the future of our salvation.
Cited Works:
[1] Jean-Luc Marion, The Crossing of the Visible (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2004), 61.
[2] Marion, 60.
[3] Marion, 61.
[4] Marion, 57.
[5] Marion, 57.
[6] Beth Williamson, Altarpieces, Liturgy, and Devotion (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004), 385.
[7] Tim O’Malley, PhD, January 15, 2021 lecture.
[8] Chloë Reddaway, Transformations in Persons and Paint: Visual Theology, Historical Images, and the Modern Viewer (Brepols Publishers, 2016), 147.
[9] Tim O’Malley, PhD, January 15, 2021 lecture.
[10] Tim O’Malley, PhD, January 15, 2021 lecture.
