Italian Musings #1: Annunciation by Fra Angelico

My body has returned from Italy and is getting ready for a new semester, but my heart and spirit have so much to ponder - I will probably be writing about my experiences in Italy for quite a while.

I had to begin, though, with my experience at the Convent of San Marco in Florence, where the Dominican Fra Angelico lived - and painted frescoes in the cells, in the hallways, and in the gathering rooms. It is now in the center of Florence, in a busy area. It was near to the Duomo - the Cathedral - even in Fra Angelico's time. Savanarola stayed here - in a suite of cells - as did some of the Medici's. It was not an out-of-the-way place, such as Assisi or Subiaco (more of them in future postings).

Frescoes are permanent art. Unlike paintings, they cannot be moved from room to room, put into storage for a while, or changed with the seasons. This was a common form of artistic decoration, but I didn't really grasp its permanence until this trip. Frescoes can be changed: but only by plastering over or chipping away the existing art work: destroying one to create the next. When one commissions a fresco, then, one commits to living with and, in the case of a religious house, meditating with the same scriptural scene for years on end. Many chapels offered a wealth of scenes - the Sistine Chapel is perhaps the best example - but the Convent of San Marco has a single image in each cell or hallway. One, in partcicular, captivated me: the fresco of the Annunciation. (See below; post continues.)

This large fresco stands at the top of the stairway leading to the cells of the monks. I was watching my step as I ascended, then looked up as I reached the top -- and it took my breath away. It was as though I had come upon the scene just as it was happening. It was as though the angel - whose multi-colored wings are simply magnificent - had just delivered his news and responded to Mary's first question - "how can this be? I am a virgin." His words still hang in the air, he waits to hear what she says next. The fresco makes time stand still, taking in this most amazing of moments.

It was Mary's face, I think, that stopped me in my tracks and held me there, and still comes to mind in quiet moments. My understanding of the Annunciation shifted in that instant. I have often pondered Mary's fiat -- her self-giving, her willingness to be the handmaid of the Lord. I have seen her as an example of courage, of love of God, of obedience, of belief, of willingness to be part of God's plan at whatever cost to herself. I was not struck silent and still on those stairs because I had never pondered this moment before. But, somehow, Fra Angelico's fresco gave me a new and different perspective. It made me ask, what was Mary thinking, what was in her heart, just before she said, Let it be done unto me?

I had always pondered on the kind of thoughts I might have: people will reject me, I might be shunned or stoned, how will I care for this child, who will help me. Thoughts about the consequences and the future after saying "Yes" to this angel. What I saw, in a flash, was that those are the thoughts of someone who has heard the rest of the Gospel story, and knows that the request was true and real. Those practical questions only make sense if one accepts - takes for granted - that the plans described by the angel are possible and real. Fra Angelico captured Mary in the moment when she ponders THAT question.

In that instant, Mary had to ask herself - probably without words, in a fraction of a second - Can God really do that? Do I believe in a God who can do this? She had prayed, with all her people, for the coming of a Messiah; she carried in her heart the stories of Exodus, of King David. But the angel's question asked her to stake her life and future on the reality of those stories. To say No would be, in some sense, to decide for a smaller God, who did some things in the past, or a general trend of history: but not a God who could act in powerful ways in a particular place and time. Not a personal God.

To say Yes required opening a space in her heart and mind large enough for God to act. As I've pondered my response to this picture, I remembered reading J. B. Phillips' classic book, Your God is Too Small. Phillips describes many of the semi-domesticated images we hold of God -- a cosmic policeman, a kindly grandfather, a despot, a clock-maker, a helper -- and pointed out that all of them, whether benificent or frightening, make us comfortable because we think we understand how God works, and have some sense of control or safety in that knowledge. The real God, Phillips says, is a God whose love is much bigger than we can understand -- and so will challenge all of our images and understandings, ultimately shattering them.

Fra Angelico's portray of Mary - her posture, her face, her gestures - all speak of this question. Can God really do this thing? In me? Her Fiat, then, is first and foremost a Credo - I believe - and only afterwards an obedience.

I was not raised in any faith tradition, and have spent much of my life in secular institutions with non-believers: I understand the thinking and worldview that accept only human action and knowledge as the explanation for all that is. For me, perhaps more than people who were raised with a faith, the Annunciation happens often: Where is God in this situation, this relationship? How does God call me to respond?

In many ways, though, I think this moment, this question of the Annunciation, is the one that is faced by every Christian every day. Can I believe that God will be at work here, in this place, through this imperect person? Fra Angelico placed this fresco so that each of the friars would face it as they went to their cells - to prayer or study or sleep. The glorious angel speaks the promise and Mary's face shows her hope and joy as she realizes the depth and breadth and height of her belief - and says Yes! Let it be done!

May each of us hear the voice of the angel, and find the space open in our own hearts for God to act.