In Salvador Dalí’s famous 1951 painting Christ of Saint John of the Cross, a crucified Jesus is viewed as if from above. The viewer looks at him head-on but sees only the top of his head. His eyes are looking downwards from the cross. His arms are stretched out as we are used to seeing him on the cross. Light illuminates the cross, but all is black behind.
The same light that shines on the cross seems to spread downward onto a scene by a lake. It’s clearly the Sea of Galilee, which is really a lake because of its modest size. Clouds hover over the lake, but some light breaks through. It seems to be the light from the cross itself but might be the faint light of a new horizon. Perhaps it’s early in the morning. Two fishing boats can be seen on the lake, although they’re partially obscured by shadows. And among those rather lonely-looking fishing boats stand what appear to be three fishermen, although because of the shadows of the painting, it’s actually difficult to tell just how many.
I’ve preached on this painting before, on Good Friday, as a matter of fact, but this painting is not just about the end. It’s also about the beginning. The beginning and the end of Jesus’s earthly ministry are portrayed in this magnificent and eerie painting by Dalí. And I’ve always been struck by the poignancy of this painting. A picture of these simple fishermen next to their boats on the seashore is nondescript and not necessarily poignant. But when the entire scene is overlooked by Jesus dying on the cross, it’s enough to cause a lump in your throat. The simple fishermen, longing for a catch, have no idea how their lives will change when Jesus calls them into discipleship.
The poignancy of this painting—we might even say the sadness—is not maudlin or sentimental. It just goes right to your gut. Jesus knows his disciples will have to persevere without his earthly presence. We can only imagine the loneliness of those former fishermen without their Lord among them in the flesh.
And yet there’s an even deeper level of poignancy that Dalí’s painting elicits. It’s the poignancy we always experience when we look back on the past with knowledge of the future. It’s the slightly hollowed-out feeling I get when I watch movies that I saw as a 10-year-old and think about what I didn’t know then and what I do know now. The way I watch those movies now is so different than how I watched them back then. I’ve changed, even if the movies haven’t. I recall all that I had to experience between then and now to get where I am today. And then I remember all the innocence I’ve lost since then, all the adult problems I’ve had to take on, all the hair I’ve lost and bodily aches that I’ve begun to experience, the grandparents and friends who’ve died, the opportunities forfeited. There’s such longing in looking back.
But there are times when I want to go back, even if for a time, to that childhood where I didn’t have to worry about filing taxes or paying bills or arranging for snow removal, or more profoundly, watching people I love get sick and die. There are times when I want to be innocent once again, to experience life with less loss, and to go back to a time before I parted with what was once so dear to me.
At the end of the day, though, I always come back to the present, and I know that there’s no other place I’d rather be. No matter the trials and sadnesses, no matter the burdens and the worries, and no matter what I’ve had to give up, what I’ve gained with age and maturity is invaluable.
In Dalí’s painting Christ of Saint John of the Cross, two moments in time coalesce to summon a pang of poignancy in the viewer, and such poignancy protects us from oversimplifying the story. It’s true that certain aspects of this story are simple and uncomplicated. Jesus calls, and Simon Peter, Andrew, James, and John respond. It all happens without any delay, which is a testament to the power of Jesus’s presence and invitation.
And at the same time, there’s nothing uncomplicated about it. It’s the most poignant and redolent of moments as Dalí’s painting shows. At that call of the first disciples, the cross hangs over it all. From that moment of response to Jesus’s summons, things will never be the same again. Because those disciples said yes without a second thought, they submitted, if inadvertently, to the lordship of One who would change their lives and the world forever.
Those ordinary fishermen were called from a local context to an international one. They were moved from the status quo of their quotidian lives to the dynamic creativity of unpredictable life fueled by the Holy Spirit. They were transformed from fishing for food merely to alleviate hunger and poverty to fishing for people to spread the Gospel to the ends of the earth. And with that call, they had to abandon so much: their careers, their comfort, their homes, even their biological families, and eventually, some would even give up their lives because they said yes to that call.
Could it be, then, that the pang of poignancy in our own lives of discipleship is the truest test of the depth of our commitment to Christ? Is it more often the case that when we consider what it means to follow him, we feel no poignancy at all? Aren’t there scores of Christians who think they can follow Christ with no loss whatsoever? Or maybe what we choose to part with is conveniently determined on our own terms.
Those of us who were baptized as infants can’t even picture a life before Christ called us into membership in his Church. But imagine, if you will, a time in your past when you weren’t officially a disciple. Or imagine a time even after your baptism when you had no desire to follow Christ. And then think about how it all changed afterwards. Think about what you had to give up to place yourself behind Jesus and follow him. Think about the losses you’ve experienced and will still experience to be a true disciple. Think about what you’re giving up even to be here today.
Do you feel the pang of poignancy? To feel the loss of something dear to us because we’ve chosen to follow Christ means that we must be on the right path. The Christian life is always pulsing with the pang of poignancy.
And yet, is there any other place we’d rather be than here and now? Would we really want to be back on the shore of that lake, working our ordinary jobs and content with just a catch of fish? Would we want to go back to a time before the Risen Christ walked by us and asked us to follow him and fish for people? Would we want to go back to a time before we knew the palpable presence of the Holy Spirit in our lives? Would we really want to go back to a time before we experienced that sense of deepest communion in the Eucharistic feast? We may have lost so much innocence and had to forsake one too many idols, but is there any place we’d rather be than here in the present, finding our true home behind Christ under the shadow and light of the cross?
It’s the call of Christ that gives us our future, no matter what must be given up. It’s the call of Christ that calls us from comfort into risk and something greater than we can imagine. It’s Christ’s call that gives us the priceless gift of hope.
The pang of poignancy reminds us that to become a disciple, we had to become poor and humble and powerless. We had to abandon our wealth, our pride, and our power. But despite all that we’ve lost, we’ve gained something eternal. We’ve gained our souls. We’ve moved from fishing for ourselves to fishing for others to invite them to be changed like us, too. And hopefully, no matter how wistful we may be about the past, we’ve lived long enough on this side of the call to trust that there’s no other place we’d rather be than right here, right now, in our true home.
Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Third Sunday after the Epiphany
January 21, 2024