The Painted Prayerbook

n the Middle Ages, artists depicted the raising of Lazarus with styles that varied but drew upon standard elements. The artists presented the viewer with the entire scene: a commanding Jesus summons forth Lazarus, who appears in some state of enshroudment. A crowd gathers around; typically, at least one of the bystanders holds his or her nose, underscoring practical Martha’s observation: “Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days” (John 11.39). The Limbourg Brothers offer such a depiction in Les Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry (The Very Rich Hours of the Duke of Berry), which was, as its title suggests, one of the most lavish Books of Hours of the medieval period. You can visit The Raising of Lazarus to see their view of the scene (with an abundance of nose-holding folks).

The Saint John’s Bible, the first Bible to be entirely illuminated and lettered by hand in more than 500 years, presents this scene from a strikingly different perspective. Rather than placing the viewer near the bystanders outside the grave, the illuminator, Donald Jackson, locates the viewer inside the shadowy tomb. We are close enough to smell the death-garbed Lazarus. But we see from a perspective very close to the waking man’s own: our gaze follows his toward the opening of the tomb, where Jesus stands drenched in light.

The shift in perspective beckons us to see that as Jesus calls to Lazarus, he calls also to us. How are you feeling challenged to move this day?

Prayer of Confession

God of compassion,
we acknowledge the times
we have lived too long
with the words that others have put
into our mouths,
with the pain they have written
onto our bodies,
with the terror they have burned
into our hearts,
with the shame they have inscribed
onto our souls.
We know the times we have clung
to sackcloth not of our making,
when we have lived
clothed in weariness,
cloaked with anger,
and enshrouded by sorrow.
We grieve the occasions
when we have lived with alienation
rather than association,
when we have sought isolation
rather than consolation,
when our wounds within
have shut others out.
We confess our fear of the dark
and our uncertainty of the light.

Yet you have placed within us, God,
a longing for survival,
a hunger for your wholeness,
a yearning for your comfort,
and a hope for all our healing.
Bless our mouths
to name our wounds,
that we may not fear them;
our bodies,
that we might cherish them;
our hearts, that we may delight
in their longings,
and our souls, that we may trust
the wisdom of the stories they hold.
Grant us the courage
to be touched by you,
that when our days of weeping
are done,
we may wear your garments of gladness,
see one another in the light
of your love,
and stand together in the power
of your resurrection.
In the name of the risen Christ,
we pray. Amen.

Prayer © Jan L. Richardson, from In Wisdom’s Path: Discovering the Sacred in Every Season.

This entry was posted on March 8, 2008 at 1:47 PM and is filed under art, Gospel of John, lectio divina, lectionary, Lent, medieval. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.