Dr. Stiles' Library

Recently my wife and I were at the Yale University Art Gallery in New Haven and saw a portrait of Dr. Ezra Stiles, who was the President of Yale University from 1778 to 1795. The minute I saw the portrait I knew I had to copy it. The copy is now done, and I thought it would be interesting to unpack the symbolism found in the portrait. The original is 34 inches high, but I opted for a smaller 24 inch height. The portrait was painted in 1771 by a Samuel King when Stiles was 44. At the time he was the pastor of Second Congregational Church in Newport, Rhode Island.  And, much to my disappointment, it turns out that Stiles was a slave owner. Damn. Here he is sitting in his wonderful study, surrounded by books, and he had two slaves.

Stiles was quite interested in biblical languages, and by the time he became President of Yale he was fluent in Hebrew, Aramaic, and Arabic, and even delivered a commencement address in those three languages. As President he was also the first professor of Semitic Languages.

Typically for the time, Stiles had his portrait painted with a bookshelf with the titles clearly marked. This was not intended to be an actual depiction of a bookshelf, just a representation of books he undoubtedly owned. Eighteenth century portraits of clergy often featured such bookshelves, just as portraits of wealthy merchants would sometimes include a stack of ledgers and documents. This portrait has a collection of books that Stiles undoubtedly selected carefully to indicate what the well-educated minister should be reading at that time. From left to right, top to bottom here are the books:

Newton Prin. Isaac Newton, Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica (Latin for "Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy"), first published in 1686 and revised in 1713 and 1726. Newton's major work revolutionized science and still is a major influence today. His theories concerning gravity still form the basis for physics.

Plato.  The Greek philosopher needs no introduction. A student of Socrates, Plato developed a form of idealism in which the real world that we know is but a shadow of the ideal world above. His work was very popular in the early history of the Christian Church until the rediscovery of Aristotle's work in the early Middle Ages. Platonic thought even makes its way into the New Testament, in which the author of the Epistle to the Hebrews uses Platonic idealism.

Watts.  Isaac Watts (1674-1748) was a British non-conformist (non-Anglican) minister and is best remembered as the author of many hymns, a number of which are still sung today, such as "Joy to the World," "When I Survey the Wondrous Cross," and "O God, Our Help In Ages Past." Watts also wrote poetry. On the spine of this volume appear the names "Hooker" and "Mather," referring to Thomas Hooker (1586-1647), a Congregational minister and the founder of Hartford, Connecticut. "Mather" refers to the three generation line of Boston clergy, including Richard Mather (1596-1669), Increase Mather (1639-1723), and Cotton Mather (1663-1728) who dominated the Boston religious scene for nearly a century.

Dodderidge. Philip Doddridge (1702-1751) was a British non-conformist (non-Anglican) minister, the author of many hymns and books including The Rise and Progress of Religion in the Soul and the Family Expositor, a 6 volume commentary on the Bible. The spine of this volume also has two names, "Chauncy" and "Cotton."  "Chauncy" is Charles Chauncy (1705-1787), a prominent Boston minister and a leader of the "Old Light" faction that arose during the Great Awakening in opposition to the "New Light" theology of Jonathan Edwards and others. Chauncy and the "Old Lights" emphasized a rational theology that was not based in emotion, in contrast to New Light theology that focused on the need for conversion. "Cotton" refers to John Cotton (1584-1652), yet another prominent Boston minister who was caught up in the Antinomian Controversy of 1636-38 that led to the banishment of Anne Hutchinson and Roger Williams, among others. This controversy focused on the idea of an indwelling God, an idea contrary to the rationalistic theology of the time.

Cudworth Intel. System. Ralph Cudworth (1617-1688) published his The True Intellectual System of the Universe in 1678. Cudworth was a vigorous opponent of materialism and atheism, and saw both in the writings of Thomas Hobbes, author of Leviathan. 

Eusebiu. Hist. Eccl. Eusebius of Caesarea, a bishop in Caesarea in the late third and early fourth century, wrote a number of works including his Ecclesiastical History, which covers the first three centuries of the Christian Church. He also wrote a biography of the emperor Constantine.

Livy  (Titus Livius) wrote a long history of the Roman people beginning with the foundation of Rome through the reign of Augustus. He was often seen as a model historian.

Du Halde’s Hist. of China. Jean-Baptiste Du Halde (1674-1743) was a French Jesuit historian. He published his General History of China in 1735, and it was quickly translated into English and published in 1738. It offered a comprehensive overview of the geography of China along with its history, culture and religion. Du Halde never travelled to China himself, but based his work on the eye witness accounts of a number of Jesuit missionaries.

Rashi’s Commentary on the Talmud. Rabbi Shlomo Itzhaki (known by the acronym “Rashi” (RAbbi SHlomo Itzhaki) lived in France from 1040-1105. His commentaries on the Talmud and the Torah have been influential in the development of Jewish thought since his time.

After looking at this shelf of books, several things become clear. Stiles saw Christian theology and faith in a rational manner. It is telling that the works of Jonathan Edwards do not appear on his shelf, while the name of Charles Chauncy appears on one of the books. Stiles was also very interested in science, hence the presence of Newton’s famous work on his shelf. This brings us to the mysterious symbols to the left of Stiles.

First, the strange design in black on the column to Stiles’ right. This is the pattern of the orbit of a comet. The circle represents the orbit of the Earth around the Sun. The long elliptical orbit is of a comet, which travels far away from the earth before returning. Without a doubt, this is a picture of the orbit of Halley’s Comet, which was first identified by William Halley in 1758. Undoubtedly Dr. Stiles knew about the comet and was interested in the science, again as demonstrated by his interest in Newton.

In the upper left corner of the painting is a turquoise blue disk with the name of God (YHWH) in Hebrew letters at the center. Above the Tetragrammaton, as it is called, are the words “All Happy in God.”  Around the center are three concentric rings of what appear to be meteors or comets rushing away from the center. A cross is at the bottom of the disk with two smaller circles of meteors. One can only assume that the movement of the meteors symbolizes the radiance of God’s name.

This painting is a fascinating look into the mind of one of Connecticut’s most prominent clergy during the 18th century.

From the Past Will Come the Future

I’m in a dour mood today. Don’t read beyond this if you don’t want to be pulled into my dour mood. In a few weeks I will be attending the last reunion at Andover Newton Theological School, where I attended seminary during the 1980’s. It will be a good chance to catch up with friends I haven’t seen in a long time, and a chance tor reflect on the seismic changes happening in the mainline church.

In the last two months more seminaries have announced significant changes. Episcopal Divinity School in Cambridge, Massachusetts will not grant degrees after this academic year, and their future is uncertain.  Pacific School of Religion in Berkeley, California plans to demolish all but one building on their campus and build a senior housing complex, while reducing their operation to one building. Andover Newton decided recently to relocate to Yale Divinity School in New Haven, Connecticut. Just a barebones administration and four faculty will relocate. The campus will be sold.

The world of the church that I knew is crumbling at a dismaying rate. I fear that mainline denominations are one and a half generations away from collapse, at best. My generation is aging, and we will all be retired in the next ten years. After that, the second career people will retire, and the younger generation now in seminary will continue for awhile.

I know this sounds dour, but it is happening at an alarming rate. I fear for the church for several reasons. I fear for the loss of an educated clergy. Not because it is traditional, but because it is necessary. It is necessary for clergy to be educated about the Bible. There is more to know than what you can pick up on a few blogs online. Studying the Scriptures takes more than just reading the passage over a few times. For me, it involves reading (in the case of the Old Testament, plowing) through the texts in the original language, reading commentaries, and reflecting on the meaning of the passage. I didn’t learn to do this on my own. I learned it in college and seminary. In another fifty years, who will be left who will do such work? Will the church, what’s left of it, suffer for such a loss?

What will this mean for preaching? In our tradition, this is at the core of worship. We don’t gather just to sing hymns and share announcements. We gather to hear the word of God read and spoken. The read part, from the Scriptures. The exposition of the word, spoken.

In my previous blog entry I wrote about how I use handwritten notes when I preach, and that I don’t read my sermons. That’s because the word is preached by speaking. It is always spoken. How did I learn to do that? I learned it in seminary. Who will teach the next generation to preach? Will preachers in the future just read by rote sermons they found online, canned messages with no connection to the present context? I don’t know.

I will undoubtedly be retired in a decade. I would be able to teach someone how to preach if the need arose, but would there be a demand? Will the church suffer for it? Yes.

The church will suffer because the world we live in is much more complex than it has been in the past. Technology that provides us with marvelous tools also inflicts toxicity, and enables isolation. When we actually talk to one another we don’t always know how to do that other than shout at each other in the way we do on social media.

I fear that God has abandoned the church. Not the church as a whole. The church as we have created it, the church that has been as it is for a couple of centuries.

Natalie Sleeth wrote one of my favorite hymns, “In the Bulb There Is a Flower,” a marvelous reflection on death and resurrection. In the second line she writes, “From the past will come the future; what it holds, a mystery.” I grieve the coming loss of the church as an institution, but I pray that what God will create will continue to preach in witness to the power of the resurrection.

On handwriting in the digital age

I am a dinosaur. I know it, and am proud of it. I am at the age where I can remember life without computers and the Internet. Don’t get me wrong, both are wonderful things. I just remember what life was like without them.

I can remember when it was a big deal when a movie premiered on television. I can remember that each August the Wizard of Oz was on national television, and everything stopped cold. In the slightly previous generation it was said that during the commercials during “I Love Lucy” the water pressure in cities would drop as people used the bathroom and flushed in unison.

And, I still write things by hand. Notes at meetings, and most especially, notes for my sermons.

There are really two ways to preach--one is to read your sermon from a manuscript, or to preach extemporaneously. I do the latter, using anywhere from six to eight pages of handwritten notes. A sample is shown here.

Awhile ago a colleague suggested that because I didn’t write my sermons on my computer and didn’t read them from an iPad, I would be considered old-fashioned. So I am. Let it come. I will retire in about ten years, maybe do a couple of interim positions before retiring completely.

I have been preaching for thirty six years, and have never regretted doing it the way I do. No, it isn’t trendy, and I don’t wear trendy clothes either. If that’s what is going to attract people to my church, then that’s pretty shallow. Although some evidence may argue to the contrary, I refuse to believe that my children’s generation is shallow enough to place image before substance.

Many people don’t write by hand that much. No surprise there. A lot of people don’t read books, either. We have ways of communicating that don’t involve a pen and paper--texting, email, Twitter, and all the other forms of electronic instant gratification. Using pen and paper is becoming a lost art.

So, my use of handwritten notes for preaching is a form of rebellion. It is quaint, I guess. The stylish thing is to use an iPad. I understand, that it’s easier than bringing paper into the pulpit. It’s just a modern version of typing out the sermon. It still leaves me cold. Then again, reading a sermon from paper (or an iPad) leaves me cold too.

A number of years ago a parishoner asked me if I could make a copy of my sermon, as it had resonated with him. I told him that I use handwritten notes, and that he probably wouldn’t be able to read my handwriting. He said that he was able to read pretty bad handwriting. So, I copied the notes for him. He told me the next week that he couldn’t read my handwriting, and he appreciated the effort. I told him I sometimes can’t read my own handwriting either. That’s what appears as a pregnant pause.

People will ask me on a Saturday sometimes if I have my sermon done for the next day. I’ll always say “no.” They will ask when it will be done, and I’ll respond that it will be done when I’m done preaching it.  Preaching is always spoken. It’s another one of those arcane things that we do in the church. It isn’t electronic. It’s me and my handwritten notes talking to a group of people.

I like it that way. I believe they do to. Instead of reading to them, I’m talking to them. That's the bottom line.

Sound From the Past

Lately I’ve been spending a lot of time in the basement, working on my woodturning lathe. In particular, I’ve been working on a couple of chess sets. I do things in spurts until I get tired with it, then move on to something else. I will get back to a few paintings that I haven’t finished, but right now, woodturning feels just right.

I remember many years ago that our family was in a museum of some sort, I can’t remember where. It was when I was a kid. I remember there were rooms from several different 19th century shops, and you could press a button and hear sounds that would have been heard in the particular shop you were looking at. Workshops have always felt like home to me. My father always had one in the basement, and I have many fond memories of working on projects with him, and sometimes alone. Since we’ve moved to Rocky Hill I have the best workshop I’ve ever had, and it’s ours. We own the house (that is the bank does, for the next 29 years more or less). This time around I dont’t feel as though I’m just camping out for the next five or six years until it’s time to move again. 

So, my workshop is shaping up. Last night as I was turning the second king for my oversized South German/Czech chess set, which is related to the Vienna Coffee House style, I was listening to the sound of the knife as it was  cutting the wood and I realized I had heard that sound before. Not just recently, because I’ve done a lot of turning over the last few years. It was almost an archetypal sound, one that you can’t quite put your finger on but sounds so familiar. After a few minutes I realized it was one of the sounds I had heard in the museum so many years ago, that sound that stuck with me.

I discovered woodturning in high school. I made a few things, none of which I have now. I realized that I really enjoyed it.  After high school I worked in a pewter shop, learning how to spin pewter. Then I left a year later and went to college. Spinning is done on a lathe. I never quite got the hang of that, but it was interesting.

Then, many years went by until someone gave me a lathe, which is the one I use now. It’s almost meditational, because you have to focus on what you’re doing. The rule is that you never look away from your work when you have the tool engaged with the piece of wood you’re turning. One false move and you could have that tool stuck in your shoulder, or worse, in the middle of your forehead. One tiny slip is all it takes. So, focus is the thing.

I learned a number of years ago that my great grandfather (my paternal grandmother’s father) was an expert woodturner. I always knew that he had a woodworking shop where they made victorian trim for houses, and furniture. I have a piece that was made in his shop. But apparently turning was his specialty. I thought about him as I reflected on the sound my tool made against the wood. It reminded me that it is an old sound, the same sound that a woodturner would have made centuries ago. It was not a sound made by a table saw or a router. Sure, the machine was run by electricity instead of water or steam power, but it was an old sound that my great grandfather would have been very familiar with.

It’s funny how little things can bring me back in time. Time to go downstairs and make a couple more chess pieces.

Poverty and the Spiritual

A few weeks ago Anita and I went to the Yale Art Gallery. I’ve known about it for a long time but had never been. One painting in particular I wanted to see was Vincent Van Gogh’s “Night Café.” This famous painting has been in New Haven  for about fifty years. He painted it to settle his debt with the café owner, who was also his landlord.

The painting depicts an all-night café in Arles, France, where Van Gogh was living at the time. He described the café in letters to his brother: “Night prowlers” can take refuge there when they have no money to pay for a lodging, or are too drunk to be taken in.” He later described his goal in making the painting: "In my picture of the Night Café I have tried to express the idea that the café is a place where one can ruin oneself, go mad or commit a crime.”

A place of desperation, perhaps?

Van Gogh was a deeply spiritual person, to use contemporary terminology, but he rejected organized Christianity as an institutionalized faith that did not address the basic needs of people. He attempted to prepare for the ministry, spending several years working among the poor in both England and his native Holland. His mentors felt he spent too much time among the poor. He gave up his hopes of being a pastor and floundered for awhile before discovering art. His early paintings are dark, and depict the poor as they live their lives in desperation. Several years into his brief, ten year art career he discovered color, and the style that he is known for was born. Van Gogh struggled with depression and anxiety during his adult life, and committed suicide in 1890 at the age of 37.

Vincent Van Gogh, Night Cafe, Yale University Art Gallery

Van Gogh’s paintings, for the most part, are not religious, but many have a theological or spiritual meaning. Many of his paintings portray the beauty of creation. His portraits celebrate the uniqueness of individuals. His earlier paintings, although not nearly as well-known as his later works, depict the grinding pain of poverty. That is also a theological concept.

People often ask where God is amidst suffering. It is natural to feel abandoned by God in the midst of suffering. Although not an easy answer, one response is that God is present in suffering. That isn’t to be trite. God is present with us in the midst of our suffering, present in the person of Jesus. In Christ, God is present in the suffering of the poor. And, God is present in the hands of those who offer hope to the poor. Van Gogh understood this, and unfortunately the world did not understand. I wonder if the world ever will understand.

Copying the Masters

Hans Holbein self portrait, 1542 (my copy)

One of my favorite museums is the Isabella Stewart Gardiner Museum in Boston. It’s an odd museum, an oddity in a city full of museums of various sorts. I enjoy going there even though the old museum (they have a new wing for rotating exhibits) never changes aside from the occasional painting or object being removed temporarily for conservation.

Mrs. Gardiner stipulated that the collection remain the same, including the building itself. It is a wonderful turn of the century mansion with architectural elements collected across Europe, and of course, many paintings.

The way the paintings are displayed is in the manner of a home at that time. Many of the smaller paintings are on stands, back to back, with a chair in front of each one. I’m sure that at one time visitors were allowed to sit in the chairs, but not now. This sort of arrangement is conducive to the sort of intimacy I look for in the display of art. Even if I can’t sit in the chair in front of a painting, I still get the feeling of intimacy, of having the small Giotto or Bellini to myself, to converse with it.

What does this have to do with copying paintings? Quite a bit, actually. I have never been one for art prints. Of course, many enjoy art prints, and that’s perfectly fine. For me, viewing a print of a painting is too many steps removed from the original. For one, the print is generally smaller than the original. The sense of size is lost. Also, it’s not a painting. There is no texture, no impasto, no depth in a print. Standing in front of a Picasso I can see how he applied the painting, sometimes almost like spreading icing thickly on a cake. It gives me the feeling that I’m looking over the artist’s shoulder.

Jan Van Eyck self portrait, 1433 (my copy)

I would never claim to be as good an artist as Van Gogh, Van Eyck, Rembrandt, Holbein, or anyone else. I copy paintings so that I can have my own. It’s almost like collecting them. I’ll never be able to afford a Rembrandt, obviously, but I can copy one of his Heads of Christ and enjoy it as his image, even though I’m the artist, having copied it as closely as possible.

For me, intimacy is an absolute necessity in art, whether I’m contemplating a painting I’ve copied or viewing one in a museum. It is the intimacy of the artist and me. For that moment, the artist and I are having a conversation, often over the span of centuries. That’s why I especially enjoy copying self portraits by artists. Van Eyck’s self portrait (1433) is a great example. The artist portrays himself as he is--getting older, needing a shave, and just basically being human. Hans Holbein painted several self portraits, one in the form of a sketch which I have turned into a painting. He’s just another guy.

Vincent Van Gogh self portrait, 1887 (my copy)

Vincent Van Gogh’s self portraits are deeply psychological, as many self portraits are. His seem to be even more so. I chose to copy one that I have actually seen in the Wadsworth Athenaeum in Hartford, Connecticut, just a short distance from where we live. In this painting he depicts himself as looking back over his shoulder at a world that he seems to distrust. He wasn’t a fool. The world can’t be trusted, not completely.

I’ll post some more copies from time to time as I add to my collection. Right now I’m working on a copy of Mantegna’s Adoration of the Magi, currently at the Getty Museum in California.