Among the Billows
“Take heart; it is I. Do not be afraid.”
Back with John Everett Millais this week, whose quickly becoming one of my favorite Pre-Raphaelites. This is an 1851/2 painting, A Huguenot on St. Bartholomew's Day -- or, by it's full title, A Huguenot, on St. Bartholomew's Day, Refusing to Shield Himself from Danger by Wearing the Roman Catholic Badge. We might not know, except for the longer title and the white token the young man is resisting having tied around his arm, that this image depicts anything other then two lovers in the midst of an embrace stirred by the strange and conflicting emotions of youth. But the painting is accompanied by an additional quotation, "When the clock of the Palais de Justice shall sound upon the great bell, at daybreak, then each good Catholic must bind a strip of white linen round his arm, and place a fair white cross in his cap.—The order of the Duke of Guise." Behind the moment, within and without it, is a looming tragedy: the day is dawning on St. Bartholomew's Day, which shall lend its name to a tragic and infamous massacre (1572).
What is a first glance a tender moment of affection between two young lovers, then, actually symbolizes the religious-political divisions that threaten to separate them. The man's firm but loving refusal to abandon his Protestant beliefs reflects unwavering conviction, just as Peter fixated on Jesus while walking atop the waves. His face glows with the calm, loving resolve of a martyr.
Where Peter faltered, this Huguenot stands steadfast in his faith: not only despising death, but turning away pleadings of love. The woman's face is contorted with concern, even the shadows of grief. The man responds not with anger or rejection, but with a compassionate embrace, and gentle diversion of her suggestion. Here is devotion that transcends doctrine, reflecting the all-encompassing love of Christ who died for us while we were yet sinners.
Their beliefs divide, but love unites. Together under heaven's canopy, neither storms of the heart nor storms on the sea can shake the foundations of their bond. In the shadow of persecution, glimmers of hope remain that reciprocal understanding may yet carry the day.
Like Jonah in the belly of the whale, we call out to God from the depths, from a world that is torn between tenderness and terror. Our fate, on the one hand, seems sealed. What can we do but stick to our principles? On the other, we have this moment, and we can rest in a love that reaches deeper than death, and higher than the heights that, in the end, none can separate us from.
But I with the voice of thanksgiving will sacrifice to you; what I have vowed I will pay
— Jonah’s Pledge, from within the Whale’s Belly (Jonah 2:9)
Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost
Texts for This Week
Prayer
Almighty God, give us the increase of faith, hope, and love; and, that we may obtain what you have promised, make us love what you command; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.
Peace: it is I!
Fierce was the billow wild. I’m not sure where the 19th C hymnographic genius John Mason Neale managed to track down this 8th C stichera. I’d love to get my hands on the original Greek, as these are poignant verses well-deserving of a makeover.
Not primarily the text, actually, but especially the music. Neale published this text in his Hymns of the Eastern Church, and it seems to have enjoyed a modestly successful appropriation from there, but has largely fallen out of the repertoire from the mid-20th C. I had a hard time finding a representative example. The very personal recording featured here is nice. There’s also this video of a quite elaborate offertory anthem on the text.
By the way, Neale was an absolute genius, whom we commemorated this past week on our calendar (August 7th). I wrote this little assessment of his contribution for the Daily Reflectionary.
John Chrysostom, from his Homily 50 on Matthew
Jesus went up to the mountain, but the disciples are tossed by the waves again and undergo a storm, equal to the one before (cf. Matthew 8:23-27). But whereas earlier they had him in the boat when this befell them, now they were alone by themselves. Thus gently and gradually he rouses and urges them onward for the better, even to bearing everything bravely.
We see that when they were first near that danger, he was present, though asleep, to promptly give them relief. But now, leading them to greater endurance, he does not even do this, but departs and permits the storm to arise mid-sea, so they might not even look for any hope of preservation. And he lets them be tempest-tossed all night, thoroughly awakening their hardened heart.
For such is the nature of fear, which the time and rough weather together produce. And along with regret, he cast them into greater longing for himself, and continual remembrance of him.
