St. George and the Power of Purpose – Praying Through Art

I was spending a college semester abroad in Florence, Italy. That day, we were visiting the Bargello, one of Florence’s great sculpture museums. We made it up to the second floor of the medieval palace and turned the corner into the Donatello room – a feast for any eyes, and especially for those of a college kid studying art history. Yet, almost immediately, my attention was uncannily riveted by a marble figure on the far side of the cavernous space. It was as if that figure was addressing me personally, insistently demanding my full attention.

As I recall, everything else faded into the background. I turned away from the group tour and stepped through the maze of other sculptures, drawn irresistibly by the force of this sculpture, until I found myself face to face with St George.

As in all of Donatello’s works, the marble had been superbly molded, so that the skin looked as if it would be soft to the touch. And the marble itself seemed to vanish within the entrancing depiction of the various materials compromising the figure’s clothing and accoutrements. The proportions were effortlessly natural, and the entire composition seemed almost to be breathing. It’s presence was powerful.

But I couldn’t explain the poignant reaction I was having simply by Donatello’s technical mastery. He had captured more, much more. That “more,” whatever it was, pierced me, resonated in the depths of my soul, called out to the very core of my identity.

Who Is St. George?

St. George, the ancient tradition goes, was a Cappadocian officer in the Roman Imperial Guard, raised by his mother in the Christian faith during the period of persecutions. While returning from a successful military campaign in Anatolia (modern day Turkey), he rescued a local King’s daughter from the clutches of some kind of terrible dragon, showing supernatural strength (which he attributed to his faith, not to himself) in his defeat of the monster. Later, he professed his faith boldly before the Emperor Diocletian, who used blandishment and torture to try and make him recant. All to no avail, the saint continued to profess his faith, convert witnesses, and even perform miracles as the persecuting authorities attempted to break his spirit. He finally received the martyr’s crown by being beheaded in the first years of the fourth century.

If you were commissioned by the local Armorer’s Guild to fashion a life-sized figure of such a saint, as Donatello was in 1415, where would you start? How would you depict his heroic virtues of courage, humility, faith, and self-forgetful service? Most artists choose the dramatic encounter with the dragon. But Donatello didn’t. Rather, he chose simply to show the man himself. And that choice made all the difference.

Donatello’s St. George is standing in his armor and cloak, bareheaded, leaning slightly on his shield, the tip of which is touching the ground in front of him. His strength, his youth, his vigor – all these qualities shine forth brilliantly. But something else, some mysterious characteristic, brings them all together and elevates them. That elusive quality, enhanced by the technical perfection and reverential human beauty of the figure, was what struck such a deep chord in my own heart when I first encountered the sculpture.

It took years of reflection and admiration before I was able to put a word to that mysterious quality. But I think I have.

The Power of This Presence

Donatello’s St George is imbued with something that today’s world is in dire need of, something that I too was searching for in those years prior to my conversion to Catholicism: This mesmerizing marble figure embodies passionate and life-giving purpose. This man, standing with this weight forward, poised for action, his head held high, and his gaze intent on the horizon before him, knows what his life is for. He knows where he is going. And that destination is filling him with quiet determination, with unwavering meaning, and also with a dynamic joy that brings an almost other-worldly light to his marble features.

Yes, St. George was a soldier, and he remains a patron saint of soldiers. But he was first and foremost a soldier of Christ, eager to bear witness to his Lord and build Christ’s Kingdom on earth, to the point of risking his reputation, his career, his fortune, and even his very life. This purpose united and elevated his natural gifts and talents to the point that he became a saint. And somehow, Donatello has captured this inner secret and permitted it to penetrate every facet of the sculpture.

This is the power that Christ can give to each and every soul, a true purpose, worthy of the inestimable dignity of every human heart and capable of unifying all the disjointed chards of life in a post-modern world.

The sculpture somehow gave me a taste of that transforming power of Christian purpose, and I began from that moment on to desire a fuller share of it. And the desire sparked by this work of art was so intense that I still consider that encounter as the first step on my path to the priesthood. It was the first inkling of my vocation, the first echo of my call.

St. George, holy martyr of God,  pray for all of us to let Christ’s purpose take possession of our hearts!

Rediscovering a New Path to God – Praying Through Art

Prayer is demanding – especially in such a noisy world. When we are honest with ourselves, we recognize that it isn’t always easy to hear God’s voice, to connect with God. We constantly need to seek new ways to do so. Prayer is a “battle” as the Catechism reminds us (#2726), but it’s a battle we can always win, if we just keep fighting. Jesus promised as much: “Seek,” he said, “and you shall find” (Matthew 7:7).

A little while ago, Pope Benedict spoke about a place we can go to find God, to help our life of prayer. This place has been central – dramatically so – in my own spiritual journey. The Holy Father seemed to be speaking right from his heart as he encouraged all Catholics to go back to this place in their efforts to find God in prayer. Here’s what he said:

On several occasions in recent months, I have recalled the need for every Christian to find time for God, for prayer, amidst our many daily activities. The Lord himself offers us many opportunities to remember Him. Today, I would like to consider briefly one of these channels that can lead us to God and also be helpful in our encounter with Him: It is the way of artistic expression, part of that “via pulchritudinis” — “way of beauty” — which I have spoken about on many occasions, and which modern man should recover in its most profound meaning… Dear friends, I invite you to rediscover the importance of this way for prayer, for our living relationship with God. (Wednesday Catechesis, 31 August 2011)

I didn’t grow up Catholic. In fact, I didn’t grow up with any faith. After I became an evangelical Christian as a teenager, I imbibed deep prejudices against the Catholic faith. And yet, God had created me to be his priest. How could I hear that calling through the thick walls of my anti-Catholicism? I couldn’t. But God found a way around those walls. It was the “way of beauty,” which during my college years and through my studies in history and art history became a way of profound prayer for me, though I wasn’t expecting it. I fell in love with the Church (the cause of every priestly vocation) only after I had fallen in love with Catholic art, architecture, and culture. Art was the Trojan Horse God used to invade and conquer my heart.

I would like to answer the Pope’s invitation to “rediscover the importance of this way for prayer,” and, with God’s grace, to help you do so as well. And so, in the coming weeks, I will try to start posting some brief spiritual reflections on great works of Catholic art. Instead of academic reflections, I will try to make them bridges to prayer, to a new place where we can encounter the God who has us “engraved on the palms of his hands” (Isaiah 49:16), since that has been my own experience. I hope and pray that these reflections will not add to the noise of the world, but help open up a path away from it, and into God’s quiet embrace.