A House Divided
“Here are my mother and my brothers!”
Hugo Simberg’s “Wounded Angel” (1903) reminds us of the deep and strange brokenness of the world we live in: a brokenness that pervades our readings for this week. What might this battered angel, carried on a stretcher by two sullen looking boys represent? The lilies in her hand are wilted, representative, perhaps, of the trammeling of all that is pure and innocent and holy that descends from above by the intractable bentness of human nature and experience. Certainly, the boy in back shoots daggers with his chilling look: we sinners are implicated as angelic wounders in an unseen battle that rages ever around us. But then again, the sullen youths themselves look not-so-innocent: the kind of kids you might imagine to throw rocks at and beat up an angel for no particularly good reason, and to be resentful about being made to take responsibility for their shenanigans.
But is this not precisely what we learn from Genesis 3? Are these not the “depths” into which we have fallen, from which we cry out? “If you, Lord, should mark iniquities, O Lord, who could stand!” The very people whom the Messiah came to save accused him of casting out demons by the prince of demons, and family of the Son of God himself thought he was out of his mind, and his own mother led something of a minor insurrection to try to dissuade him from this deadly path.
Yet, the angel's presence, however wounded, signifies that hope is not lost. The divine still breaks into our fallen world, though we may fail to recognize or receive it. As Paul reminds us, we carry this treasure in jars of clay to show that the surpassing power belongs to God, not to us. Though outwardly wasting away, inwardly we are being renewed day by day by beholding an eternal glory that outshines our shadowstained, faltering light.
We rightly lament the brokenness embodied in Simberg's haunting image, but we need not despair. The painting acts as an Ecclessiastes-like reminder of the harsh realities and cruel paradoxes of the world. But it also points, through the angel's presence, to the glimpses of transcendent beauty and truth that can break through, however dimly. May this powerful image inspire us, like these boys giving impossible and paradoxical aid despite themselves, to live as Christ's ambassadors of redemption in this fractured, beloved world.
So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day.
— II Corinthians 4:16
Third Sunday after Pentecost
Texts for This Week
Prayer
Grant, O Lord, that the course of this world may be so peaceably ordered by your providence, that your Church may joyfully serve you in quiet confidence and godly peace; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.
Ya Alaymi!
Gnawa Diffusion is a popular French Algerian the band based in Grenoble, France. Although drawing from roots of Algerian folk music (gnawa), the group is noted for its mix of reggae and roots music. They are very popular in Algeria, and well known in many other countries including Morocco, Tunisia and France. The video features their performance at the Afro-Pfingsten Festival in Winterthur, Switzerland in 2013, including one of their most popular song, Ya Alaymi.
Despite the infections and lighthearted vibe that predominates in song, the subject matter it treats is actually quite serious. “Ya Alaymi” is an Arabic expression common in the Gulf that can be used to express surprise, alarm, frustration, or calling for attention. The song obliquely draws attention to the tragedies facing the Alegerian people as a result of the Algerian civil war (1992-2002) and ongoing poverty and unrest in the home country, as well as the discrimination and lack of opportunity facing the community in France. It is a plea for social justice, equality, and recognition of the struggles of marginalized communities, highlighting the importance of both embracing cultural heritage, and breaking free from societal constraints.
The concerns of Algerians may seem inaccessibly remote to us, but the exceptional musicality and the universality of the themes that they play with draw us in. We remember that we share with them the suffering of division and uncertainty that flows from Genesis 3 and the lament “out of the depths” for the personal and collective brokenness that sometimes threatens to descend into hopelessness. But our hope is established in being gathered around Jesus and remembering that while the things we see are temporal, the things unseen are eternal; and that these light momentary afflictions we are experiencing are preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison.
What might it look like to practice this hope in coming alongside the stranger and the foreigner who is suffering among us?
