IN THE SANCTUARY
The Kiss of Christ as Communion
by Jennifer Awes-Freeman
Jennifer Awes-Freeman is a visiting assistant professor at the University of St. Thomas in St. Paul, Minnesota, as a postdoctoral fellow at the Louisville Institute. She recently completed her doctoral work at Vanderbilt University; her dissertation, “Erasing God: Carolingians, Controversy, and the Ashburnham Pentateuch,” is a study of Trinitarian doctrine and images during the transition from Late Antiquity to the early Middle Ages. During the summer of 2016, she was a postdoctoral fellow at the Medieval Institute at the University of Notre Dame, for which she began a translation of Hrabanus Maurus’ In honorem sanctae crucis. Jennifer’s research interests include images of divinity, iconoclasm, material culture, gender studies, the mutual influence of art and theology, and book culture in the digital humanities.
Jennifer Awes-Freeman is a visiting assistant professor at the University of St. Thomas in St. Paul, Minnesota, as a postdoctoral fellow at the Louisville Institute. She recently completed her doctoral work at Vanderbilt University; her dissertation, “Erasing God: Carolingians, Controversy, and the Ashburnham Pentateuch,” is a study of Trinitarian doctrine and images during the transition from Late Antiquity to the early Middle Ages. During the summer of 2016, she was a postdoctoral fellow at the Medieval Institute at the University of Notre Dame, for which she began a translation of Hrabanus Maurus’ In honorem sanctae crucis. Jennifer’s research interests include images of divinity, iconoclasm, material culture, gender studies, the mutual influence of art and theology, and book culture in the digital humanities.
“This is the body of Christ, Jennifer, broken for you.”
A summer evening at an old church in downtown St Paul. A vaulted ceiling that could just as well have been the innards of an ancient ship. Creaky wooden floorboards that felt warm and soft, heated by the late-afternoon sun falling through stained glass windows. As I prepared to dip my piece of bread into the chalice of wine, the pastor instructed in a hushed tone, “This is the cup of the new covenant, shed for you.”
I had been attending that church for years—had participated in communion hundreds of times—but it was that day, that moment, in which the sacred caught me off guard. The pastor’s casual insertion of my name was a liturgical act of intimacy that surprised me. It being a relatively large and social church and me being a relatively young and introverted person, I thought rather naïvely, how does he know my name? The specificity of the eucharist bowled me over. “This is the body of Christ, Jennifer, broken for you.”
Over the years, there have been other personal encounters—other iterations of the ordinary made extraordinary akin to the clack-clack of branches described by Frederick Buechner in his book, The Alphabet of Grace: “The occasional, obscure glimmering through of grace. The muffled presence of the holy. The images, always broken, partial, ambiguous, of Christ.”1 One such instance occurred in the same church, around the same time. I was waiting in line in the women’s restroom when a young mother bustled in with a baby of maybe nine months. She looked at me and smiled apologetically in advance of her question, “Hold-him-will-you?” In fact, it was really more of a statement, as the child was already in my arms and the mother in the bathroom stall before I had a chance to answer. Still several years from having my first child, I was sheepish and awkward, but buoyed the baby in my arms as best I could. Body: meet body.
What follows here is a meditation, both academic and personal in nature, on the role of the body and materiality in experiencing the divine. This essay acknowledges the ability of physical touch, particularly that of the kiss, to express and reveal spiritual truths.2 The act of kissing another can be vulnerable, sensual, and ecstatic. The holy kiss can also be an act of erasure—of pasts, of self—even as it unifies. Yet the flesh of the body becomes a ground for divine revelation. The power of this holy touch, in both literal and metaphorical senses, is recorded and prescribed in biblical texts, expounded upon by patristic and medieval authors, enacted in liturgies, and envisioned in images. Several questions inspire and guide this examination: In what ways are liturgical acts of intimacy grounded in biblical and ecclesial traditions? How do the strands of eucharist, incarnation, embodiment, and revelation entwine and diverge? And what meaning can be gleaned from ordinary gestures made extraordinary?
The most bodily book of the Bible, the Song of Songs, is filled with fleshy, sexual, sculptural imagery. The Song is often interpreted by Christians as an allegory for the marriage of Christ the bridegroom and the bride, his Church. From its first lines, “Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth! For your love is better than wine, your anointing oils are fragrant, your name is perfume poured out” (Song of Songs 1:2-3), the book drips with sensuality and anticipation. This passionate intimacy offers an image of encounters with the divine—seeing God face to face or “as a friend.” Intimacy requires some form of proximity, which in the human experience means physicality and imperfection. Thus, we might wonder, what does it mean for us, the bride, to beckon Christ the bridegroom to kiss us “with the kisses of his mouth”? Could communion be such a “kiss”? Medieval biblical commentators were compelled and confused by the imagery of Song of Songs. Many of them understood the kiss to be an image of the incarnation—a kiss between divinity and humanity. Others, such as Thomas of Perseigne, described the kiss as a loving action among the Trinity: “the Father who kisses, the Son who is kissed, and the kiss itself, the Holy Spirit.”3
Perhaps the obvious—or at least, in a patriarchal society, natural—interpretive response to the Song of Songs is to imagine that, as bridegroom, Christ inseminates the Church in some sense. However, Christian theologians have historically preferred to describe the relationship in maternal terms: Christ gives birth to the Church. Visually, this is most explicitly expressed in the moralized Bibles from the twelfth to fourteenth centuries (e.g., Fig. 1), which pair the image of Eve being taken out of the side of Adam with Ecclesia similarly being born out of the side (wound) of Christ on the cross.
The fourteenth-century Rothschild Canticles presents a more complicated relationship between Christ and the Church in its depiction of their mutual pursuit as bridegroom and beloved of the Song of Songs. A prayer book thought to have been commissioned by a woman in what is now western Germany, the Rothschild Canticles is an assemblage of biblical, liturgical, and theological texts—including excerpts from Augustine and Bonaventure—accompanied by 46 extant images.4 A small, unassuming book that is easily cradled in the hand, its scale invites close inspection and intimacy. In fact, I once had occasion to view the manuscript at its home in the Beinecke Rare Books Library. In the twentieth century, its pages had been cropped and rebound into two volumes, the material effect of which is a small but dense book. As I excitedly (but carefully!) paged through its miniatures, dazzled by the minutiae, a librarian startled the solitude of my reading room to inform me that I was leaning too close to the manuscript (he had been watching me on security cameras). He curtly handed me a magnifying glass and returned to his monitors.
In these images, not only does Christ instigate relationship with the bride as he is seen leading her into his wine cellar, or reaching through a window for her hand, but the bride also takes initiative. One of the most arresting examples depicts the beloved about to pierce Christ’s side (Fig. 2). It is part of a two-page opening unaccompanied by text. The top register of the left-hand page shows the beloved and Christ meeting and embracing in a garden (“A garden locked is my sister, my bride…” [Song of Songs 4:12]). In the lower register, the beloved is poised with a lance in hand. She pulls back her headdress in order to take aim at her holy target. If the viewer traces the angle of her lance, its diagonal leads us directly to Christ’s side—as if we participate in piercing the Savior in the imaginative act of completing the motion.5
On the facing page, the reader encounters Christ at the moment after he has been pierced—he is the Man of Sorrows, temporally ambiguous, and, in this unusual case, fully nude. As the Rothschild Canticles itself is materially dense, so this particular image presents a thematically condensed composition. Quite practically, the dynamic spiral of Christ’s body allows him to maintain his divine modesty. But the pose also transverses time, as he is tied to the pillar of his torture and simultaneously nailed to the instrument of his crucifixion. Finally, the composition engages the viewer, as Christ’s own hand invites the reader’s gaze to his wound in his side.
Of course, Christ is a unique victim and the very space created by the lance is also important. In the Christian tradition, the Savior’s sidewound is symbolic of womb, birth canal, and nourishing breast. In fact, the NRSV translation of Song of Songs 1:1 that I quoted above is misleading (as most English translations of this verse are); instead of “love,” the original Hebrew (and the Latin Vulgate) declare of the bridegroom, “for thy breasts are better than wine.” Christ’s sidewound is also understood as an aperture, and in this instance in the Rothschild Canticles, we can imagine if we were to peer into it, our view would be that of the mystical union—depicted in the top register of the facing page—taking place within the sacred heart of Christ. In his fifteenth-century commentary on the Song of Songs, Denys the Carthusian interpreted the bridegroom’s breasts, “as the secrets hidden in the heart or bowels of Christ, that is . . . by which he nourishes the hearts of his faithful.”6
I was quite pregnant during the Lenten season in which I was received into the Orthodox Church. “Great with child,” as one friend liked to joke, I lumbered my way through the liturgy, and delighted at feeling my baby kick in response. On the final Sunday of Lent, to initiate Holy Week, the Church celebrates what is referred to as “forgiveness vespers.” At the end of the service, the congregation forms a line approaching the priest. Facing each other, the priest and the first person cross themselves and bow, or make prostrations as they are able, and take turns saying, “Forgive me, sister, a sinner,” or “Forgive me, brother, a sinner,” and in response, “God forgives.” They exchange hugs, kisses on the cheek, and sometimes both. The person then stands to the left of the priest. Next, the following person enacts the same exchange, first with the priest, then with the previous person, and so on and so on, until the entire congregation has asked for and given forgiveness.
The line, too long for a smallish building (as most Orthodox churches in America are), is inadvertently converted into a large circle by virtue of the confines of the space. Although this is not dictated by the liturgy itself, the effect of the transformation of a linear, individual experience to a circular, communal one is fitting. As is characteristic of the Orthodox Church, it is a physical and engaged liturgy, with many opportunities for the missteps and bumbles that make the liturgy exactly that--leitourgia, a work of the people. It inevitably begins with sheepish smiles and even some giggling. Friends greet one another, grannies smear their lipstick on young faces. You can feel whiskers on your cheeks, and smell cologne, perfume, and sweat. My own movements were slow and labored, as I inevitably bumped my large belly into my fellow congregants, straining to bend over in order to hear the embarrassed voices of the youngsters in line. As the awkwardness and even the joy of the liturgy recedes, an ache can slowly form in the stomach or a certain tightness rise in the throat, triggered by the repetition of intimately facing friends and strangers alike, and then being humbled—often to the point of tears—by their breathy “God forgives” between kisses, embraces, crossing, and bowing.
The Orthodox liturgy also likens communion to a kiss, as in one of the prayers of St. John Chrysostom, the fourth-century archbishop of Constantinople, in which he employs images of purification:
And as you did not abhor the kiss of [the prostitute’s] sin-stained and unclean mouth, do not abhor my mouth, worse stained and more unclean than hers, nor my stained and shamed and unclean lips, nor my still more impure tongue. . . . But let the fiery coal of Your most pure Body and Your most precious Blood bring me sanctification, enlightenment and strengthening of my lowly soul and body . . .7
Chrysostom adapted this imagery from Isaiah’s vision of God and resulting despair at his own unclean state. In response, a seraph took a burning coal from the altar and touched it to Isaiah’s mouth, saying, “Now that this has touched your lips, your guilt has departed and your sin is blotted out” (Isaiah 6:7). God then sent out the cleansed Isaiah to declare his message. In a similarly apocalyptic vision of God, Ezekiel saw the tetramorph, or four living creatures, accompanying the chariot of the Lord with “something that looked like burning coals of fire” in the middle. Like any reasonable person, Ezekiel fell flat on his face when confronted with the glory of the Lord; God propped Ezekiel back up, commissioned him to speak on God’s behalf and commanded him to eat a scroll of “lamentation and mourning and woe” (Ezekiel 2:10). And for Ezekiel, “it was as sweet as honey” (3:3).
Like the burning coal and the bitter-made-sweet scroll, Christ’s body and blood purifies our lips, mouths, and bodies. In the preparation of the eucharist, a little warm water is mixed with the wine and bread—a reference to the water and blood that exited Christ’s sidewound at the crucifixion. It is also an image of the vivifying power of the Holy Spirit, as the priest prays, “Blessed is the warmth of your holy things always, now and ever and unto ages of ages. Amen,” to which the deacon responds, as he pours the water in a cruciform gesture, “The warmth of faith, full of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” The eucharistic elements are not cold and soggy when received via liturgical spoon, but warm and wet—enlivened, rather like an intimate kiss with a lover. Shortly before partaking of communion, the congregation has prayed, “Of Your Mystical Supper, O Son of God, accept me today as a communicant; for I will not speak of Your Mystery to Your enemies, neither like Judas will I give thee a kiss; but like the thief will I confess You: Remember me, Lord, in Your Kingdom.”8 As the faithful approach the altar, they sing again and again, “Receive the Body of Christ; taste the fountain of immortality. Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!” After all have participated, the priest raises the chalice before the congregation and declares, “Lo, this has touched your lips, and shall take away your iniquities, and cleanse your sins.” To which the congregation soon responds, “Let our mouths be filled with Thy praise, O Lord, that we may sing of Thy glory; for Thou hast made us worthy to partake of Thy holy, divine, immortal, and life-creating Mysteries.” This liturgical moment creates the sense that the morsel of wine-soaked bread has physically produced a song of praise.
But the liturgical kiss is not limited to the biblical tapestry of the liturgy’s text and the sacrament of communion. Icons are of great importance in both public and private devotion in the Orthodox Church. Since at least the time of the iconoclastic controversy in the eighth century, Orthodox Christians have held that depictions of Christ are not just licit but are indeed necessary testaments to the reality of the incarnation and God’s affirmation of the goodness of creation. For the Orthodox, to deny an image of Jesus is to deny the incarnation. For this reason, icons of Christ (and the saints) are shown venerated, that is, respected, through the forms of bowing, crossing oneself, lighting a candle, and (of course) kissing. In fact, priests sometimes remind female congregants to refrain from wearing too much lipstick, as it leaves residue on the icons and can even permanently stain liturgical cloths (though I confess that I quite like the effect of Jesus’ likeness being smudged with the bright red lipstick of some benevolent babushka, as it is not difficult to justify a ninety-year-old woman having a sense of entitled familiarity with a one-hundred-year-old icon, which is essentially her contemporary!).
Kissing proxies have also long been used in the West, though the Roman Church does not hold the same theology of the icon as the East. For example, from the thirteenth century, the kiss of peace among the laity was replaced by the use of the “peace-board” (tabula pacis, e.g., Fig. 3), a small piece of wood or metal with an image of the Virgin, the church’s titular saint, or the crucifixion, which was passed around to be kissed by all present.9
A similar function was served by the osculatory (from the Latin osculari, to kiss), a flap of parchment or leather that was stitched or glued into medieval books for the sole purpose of being venerated through touch and kiss. These proxy images, which could be abstract designs or particular devotional objects, such as the crucifix, were sometimes painted directly into the bottom margin of the page (e.g., Fig. 4).10 Peace-boards and osculatories were images made for their own destruction—by virtue of their very veneration.
This productive-destruction resonates. It carries a touch of the apophatic musings of Pseudo-Dionysius or the via negativa of Dante or John the Baptist’s lament, “he must increase, but I must decrease” (John 3:30). All of these are encompassed in the erotic, obliterating union of the Song of Songs. Unlike the spiritual via negativa, physical erasure is not typically understood as a process for creating new meaning, but simply as the removal or obscuring of old meaning. However, removal of image or text, whether by erasure, painting, or excision—particularly when the editorial method remains visible—is also capable of creating a new thesis. Wayne Roosa’s Ideas of Order series (2009) brings the concepts of productive erasure and quotidian encounters with the holy to contemporary contexts. His individual symbols are each carved out of a large white eraser, thereby also creating an underlying sense of humor, or at least irony as he uses a material intended for erasure to create his images. The medium also invites physical intimacy with the viewer, as the small scale draws one closer to the image for inspection.
In this series, Roosa juxtaposes imagery from Christian art history, including Christ’s figure from his baptism, the so-called Man of Sorrows motif, and the mourning angels from Giotto’s Arena Chapel, with contemporary political objects, such as press microphones, men in suits, the American flag, and several weapons (Fig. 5). The iconic black-and-white images recall newspaper photos and build to create a sense of anxiety and suspense in which violence seems immanent. The erotic or sexual elements here are dangerous and distancing, not unifying; they include smeared images of bikini-clad women and exposed nudes (Fig. 6). At first glance, there is little hope for divine union in the world set out in Ideas of Order. But, as Roosa explains in his artist’s statement, “Every artist wants his or her images to make a difference. Every artist knows that change cannot be brought by art, though perhaps art can assist in creating an awareness or insight that could be part of change.”11 Confronted by Roosa’s images, the viewer is invited to examine their own place in such systems.
By assembling his stamps in various combinations, Roosa plays with both the materiality and etymology of his medium, as in some instances he frantically layers (e.g., Fig. 7) or intentionally smears the stamped image (e.g., Fig. 8) to create a sense of movement. Although these are still and distilled images, their presentation as individual works, as well as the series as a whole, simulates the effect of the flashes of images we experience daily on television and the internet. Roosa relies on our minds being accustomed to taking in combinations and successions of symbols and interpreting them quickly.
While this series is concerned with the present, it is also rooted in the past—not only in regard to the iconic symbols mentioned above, but also by virtue of some of its individual compositions that are stacked vertically in three parts, which can be read as a visual nod to medieval triptych panels. One such example, III in the series (Fig. 9), refers to the baptism of Christ. The eye naturally rests on the central of the three stamps, the nude figure of a man, with hands at the chest in a prayerful pose. A thin horizontal line at his genitals works to render the white space below as water. In place of the customary dove of the Holy Spirit (and sometimes the Hand of God), Roosa has instead inserted an illuminated light bulb, which evokes the radiating light of the halos of the first and third persons of the Trinity; likewise, the presence of the bulb emphasizes the lack of Christ’s own halo. It also, somewhat playfully, makes it look as though the man has just had a Eureka! moment. Yet, following the man’s gaze (and the strong vertical created by the stacking of the three stamps, as well as the cord of the light, and the line created by the man’s hands and genitals), we land with an intellectual thud on the AK-47 below. The viewer is left to wonder: is this the man’s commission, his cross to consider? Or is the weapon presented to us, the viewer? (Take up your AK-47 and follow me.) Where do we encounter the holy—in the lowly, in the politic? And what will our response be? Roosa simultaneously offers us a question, a challenge, and an indictment.
The Man of Sorrows motif is employed by Roosa, not as an invitation for veneration, as in the peace-boards described above, but as an invitation for introspection. Images VI (Fig. 10) and X (Fig. 5) in the series pair the Man of Sorrows figure with a microphone and the AK-47, respectively. As the Man of Sorrows, Christ is presented outside of the time of the Passion narrative. He has died, as evident in his pierced hands and side, but his body is propped up, often in front of the cross or the tomb. Here, Roosa depicts an abbreviated scene—there are no other figures from the narrative, nor are the instruments of his Passion included. In fact, even the cross is barely visible, as only its truncated arms appear from behind Christ’s head. Image X presents the Man of Sorrows above an automatic weapon (though not the same as in image III), again, seeming to indict the viewer (“all who take the sword will perish by the sword,” Matt. 26:52). But if this is an image of power, the juxtaposition in VI seems to be one of impotence. Here, the Man of Sorrows is placed above a microphone. There is something about the turn of Christ’s head to the left—seemingly away from the position of the microphone to the right—that implies that Jesus refrains from speech. His speechlessness is reinforced by the empty space between the two stamps, and perhaps recalls his refusal to defend himself from interrogation. In that sense, it may be an image of power after all—the power of speech, the power of silence—and a challenge to consider what a “gospel” message might truly be. Or perhaps the microphone, and the cord that wraps around its stand, is meant to evoke the tempting serpent spiraling up the tree in the Garden.
Roosa’s chosen medium is essential to the efficacy of its message, foregrounding the kiss of ink to paper, the incarnation of idea in physical form. Ideas of Order reaches back into Christian art history and draws its symbols into the present in order to call for societal and spiritual change, a union yet hoped for.
The source of Roosa’s grieving angels is Giotto’s lamentation fresco in the early fourteenth-century Arena (also known as the Scrovegni) Chapel.12 Giotto’s telling of the life of Christ contrasts the spiritual and social dimensions of union and alienation. The lamentation panel (Fig. 12), near the center of the nave of the chapel, presents mourners gathered around the dead body of Christ. Mary Magdalene tenderly considers the divine toes that—according to some traditions—she had only recently anointed with oil. The surrounding figures express their grief in dynamic gestures—some with arms thrown up in disbelief, others with hands clasped, while still more crouch around the body in the foreground. Two examine the wounds on his hands. This anguish is also reflected in the flurry of mourning angels above, which don’t feel far from Roosa’s layered stamps. A moment of stillness anchors the fresco in its bottom left corner, in which the Virgin Mary cradles her son across her lap, the weight of his head supported by an anonymous onlooker. Her hands meet lightly around Christ’s neck while her own neck is craned in such a way as to kiss her dead son.
Almost directly across the nave from this panel is the scene of Christ’s arrest (Fig. 13). It contains a similarly frantic energy, as the backdrop to the panel’s central moment is a dense crowd of bare and helmeted heads. In a jumble, long spears, axes, clubs, and torches appear to flail in several directions, visualizing the chaos of the moment (recall the cacophony of clubs in Roosa’s Ideas of Order, Figs. 6 and 7). Their vertical emphasis is balanced by a set of horizontal arm gestures below: at the far left, Peter is seen cutting off the ear of a soldier, a gesture that is reinforced by the outstretched arm of a figure directly in front of him, and is in turn echoed by a bearded figure at the far right. The central action of the fresco is of course Judas (identifiable in his cowardly yellow cloak and “unrefined” features) kissing Christ. Judas wraps his arms around the Savior, pulling him close with lips pursed. Christ does not pull away, but neither does he return the false affection. Instead, his eyes stare intently into those of Judas.
Centuries before the creation of this fresco, Theodore of Mopsuestia invoked the “Judas kiss” in a fourth-century baptismal homily when he urged his audience to remember the Kiss of Peace as an act of reconciliation. “We must not be like Judas and kiss with the mouth only, while remaining set on showing hatred and malice to our brothers in the faith.”13 Giotto cleverly juxtaposes Judas’ kiss with that of Joachim and Anna, pictured a few panels above and to the right (Fig. 14), that is, nestled next to the upper left-hand corner of the judgment fresco. This scene is an illustration of Anna’s conception of the Virgin Mary, as recorded in the Protoevangelium of James. In response to Anna’s despair over her childlessness, an angel of the Lord delivers the good news that she will in fact bear a child, and instructs her to go in order to meet Joachim, who had just received the same news at the Golden Gate of Jerusalem: “And behold, Joachim came with his flocks; and Anna stood by the gate, and saw Joachim coming, and she ran and hung upon his neck, saying: Now I know that the Lord God has blessed me exceedingly” (Protoevangelium of James 4:9). Giotto depicts their bodies leaning into one another, their arms interlocking, as Anna affectionately but urgently pulls Joachim’s grey-bearded face to hers. With his right arm visible to the viewer, he pulls her close. Their mouths meet, and their eyes, still open, line up to create the effect of a single unified face. Indeed, even their haloes merge. The group of smiling women who stand behind Anna, framed in the arch of the gate, seems to engage in lively commentary on the couple’s public display of affection. Giotto, the great innovator of visual storytelling, traces the theme of rupture and reunion, exclusion and inclusion, throughout the chapel, epitomized in these two kisses: face to face, eyes aligned, the tempo and moisture of breath on skin.
Ultimately, we seek in the eucharist a proxy-less reunion, a restoration from the rupture so deftly captured in Wayne Roosa’s Ideas of Order and Giotto’s Arena Chapel. “Lord, enlighten my darkness” is a common eucharistic prayer for Orthodox Christians, an invitation for revelation that is to be recited while approaching the altar. Stepping forward, one is met with a host of painted eyes, as Jesus, Mary, and the saints gaze out from the iconostasis and the apse. Thus, we step into community—alongside our contemporary co-worshipers and the communion of all saints who have gone before us. We approach the Bridegroom with the hope of a loving embrace, pulling his face to ours. Enlighten our darkness, open our eyes, as we open our mouths to receive the body and blood, and purse our lips as we swallow and digest the mystery. “Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth.”
NOTES
A summer evening at an old church in downtown St Paul. A vaulted ceiling that could just as well have been the innards of an ancient ship. Creaky wooden floorboards that felt warm and soft, heated by the late-afternoon sun falling through stained glass windows. As I prepared to dip my piece of bread into the chalice of wine, the pastor instructed in a hushed tone, “This is the cup of the new covenant, shed for you.”
I had been attending that church for years—had participated in communion hundreds of times—but it was that day, that moment, in which the sacred caught me off guard. The pastor’s casual insertion of my name was a liturgical act of intimacy that surprised me. It being a relatively large and social church and me being a relatively young and introverted person, I thought rather naïvely, how does he know my name? The specificity of the eucharist bowled me over. “This is the body of Christ, Jennifer, broken for you.”
Over the years, there have been other personal encounters—other iterations of the ordinary made extraordinary akin to the clack-clack of branches described by Frederick Buechner in his book, The Alphabet of Grace: “The occasional, obscure glimmering through of grace. The muffled presence of the holy. The images, always broken, partial, ambiguous, of Christ.”1 One such instance occurred in the same church, around the same time. I was waiting in line in the women’s restroom when a young mother bustled in with a baby of maybe nine months. She looked at me and smiled apologetically in advance of her question, “Hold-him-will-you?” In fact, it was really more of a statement, as the child was already in my arms and the mother in the bathroom stall before I had a chance to answer. Still several years from having my first child, I was sheepish and awkward, but buoyed the baby in my arms as best I could. Body: meet body.
What follows here is a meditation, both academic and personal in nature, on the role of the body and materiality in experiencing the divine. This essay acknowledges the ability of physical touch, particularly that of the kiss, to express and reveal spiritual truths.2 The act of kissing another can be vulnerable, sensual, and ecstatic. The holy kiss can also be an act of erasure—of pasts, of self—even as it unifies. Yet the flesh of the body becomes a ground for divine revelation. The power of this holy touch, in both literal and metaphorical senses, is recorded and prescribed in biblical texts, expounded upon by patristic and medieval authors, enacted in liturgies, and envisioned in images. Several questions inspire and guide this examination: In what ways are liturgical acts of intimacy grounded in biblical and ecclesial traditions? How do the strands of eucharist, incarnation, embodiment, and revelation entwine and diverge? And what meaning can be gleaned from ordinary gestures made extraordinary?
The most bodily book of the Bible, the Song of Songs, is filled with fleshy, sexual, sculptural imagery. The Song is often interpreted by Christians as an allegory for the marriage of Christ the bridegroom and the bride, his Church. From its first lines, “Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth! For your love is better than wine, your anointing oils are fragrant, your name is perfume poured out” (Song of Songs 1:2-3), the book drips with sensuality and anticipation. This passionate intimacy offers an image of encounters with the divine—seeing God face to face or “as a friend.” Intimacy requires some form of proximity, which in the human experience means physicality and imperfection. Thus, we might wonder, what does it mean for us, the bride, to beckon Christ the bridegroom to kiss us “with the kisses of his mouth”? Could communion be such a “kiss”? Medieval biblical commentators were compelled and confused by the imagery of Song of Songs. Many of them understood the kiss to be an image of the incarnation—a kiss between divinity and humanity. Others, such as Thomas of Perseigne, described the kiss as a loving action among the Trinity: “the Father who kisses, the Son who is kissed, and the kiss itself, the Holy Spirit.”3
Perhaps the obvious—or at least, in a patriarchal society, natural—interpretive response to the Song of Songs is to imagine that, as bridegroom, Christ inseminates the Church in some sense. However, Christian theologians have historically preferred to describe the relationship in maternal terms: Christ gives birth to the Church. Visually, this is most explicitly expressed in the moralized Bibles from the twelfth to fourteenth centuries (e.g., Fig. 1), which pair the image of Eve being taken out of the side of Adam with Ecclesia similarly being born out of the side (wound) of Christ on the cross.
The fourteenth-century Rothschild Canticles presents a more complicated relationship between Christ and the Church in its depiction of their mutual pursuit as bridegroom and beloved of the Song of Songs. A prayer book thought to have been commissioned by a woman in what is now western Germany, the Rothschild Canticles is an assemblage of biblical, liturgical, and theological texts—including excerpts from Augustine and Bonaventure—accompanied by 46 extant images.4 A small, unassuming book that is easily cradled in the hand, its scale invites close inspection and intimacy. In fact, I once had occasion to view the manuscript at its home in the Beinecke Rare Books Library. In the twentieth century, its pages had been cropped and rebound into two volumes, the material effect of which is a small but dense book. As I excitedly (but carefully!) paged through its miniatures, dazzled by the minutiae, a librarian startled the solitude of my reading room to inform me that I was leaning too close to the manuscript (he had been watching me on security cameras). He curtly handed me a magnifying glass and returned to his monitors.
In these images, not only does Christ instigate relationship with the bride as he is seen leading her into his wine cellar, or reaching through a window for her hand, but the bride also takes initiative. One of the most arresting examples depicts the beloved about to pierce Christ’s side (Fig. 2). It is part of a two-page opening unaccompanied by text. The top register of the left-hand page shows the beloved and Christ meeting and embracing in a garden (“A garden locked is my sister, my bride…” [Song of Songs 4:12]). In the lower register, the beloved is poised with a lance in hand. She pulls back her headdress in order to take aim at her holy target. If the viewer traces the angle of her lance, its diagonal leads us directly to Christ’s side—as if we participate in piercing the Savior in the imaginative act of completing the motion.5
On the facing page, the reader encounters Christ at the moment after he has been pierced—he is the Man of Sorrows, temporally ambiguous, and, in this unusual case, fully nude. As the Rothschild Canticles itself is materially dense, so this particular image presents a thematically condensed composition. Quite practically, the dynamic spiral of Christ’s body allows him to maintain his divine modesty. But the pose also transverses time, as he is tied to the pillar of his torture and simultaneously nailed to the instrument of his crucifixion. Finally, the composition engages the viewer, as Christ’s own hand invites the reader’s gaze to his wound in his side.
Of course, Christ is a unique victim and the very space created by the lance is also important. In the Christian tradition, the Savior’s sidewound is symbolic of womb, birth canal, and nourishing breast. In fact, the NRSV translation of Song of Songs 1:1 that I quoted above is misleading (as most English translations of this verse are); instead of “love,” the original Hebrew (and the Latin Vulgate) declare of the bridegroom, “for thy breasts are better than wine.” Christ’s sidewound is also understood as an aperture, and in this instance in the Rothschild Canticles, we can imagine if we were to peer into it, our view would be that of the mystical union—depicted in the top register of the facing page—taking place within the sacred heart of Christ. In his fifteenth-century commentary on the Song of Songs, Denys the Carthusian interpreted the bridegroom’s breasts, “as the secrets hidden in the heart or bowels of Christ, that is . . . by which he nourishes the hearts of his faithful.”6
I was quite pregnant during the Lenten season in which I was received into the Orthodox Church. “Great with child,” as one friend liked to joke, I lumbered my way through the liturgy, and delighted at feeling my baby kick in response. On the final Sunday of Lent, to initiate Holy Week, the Church celebrates what is referred to as “forgiveness vespers.” At the end of the service, the congregation forms a line approaching the priest. Facing each other, the priest and the first person cross themselves and bow, or make prostrations as they are able, and take turns saying, “Forgive me, sister, a sinner,” or “Forgive me, brother, a sinner,” and in response, “God forgives.” They exchange hugs, kisses on the cheek, and sometimes both. The person then stands to the left of the priest. Next, the following person enacts the same exchange, first with the priest, then with the previous person, and so on and so on, until the entire congregation has asked for and given forgiveness.
The line, too long for a smallish building (as most Orthodox churches in America are), is inadvertently converted into a large circle by virtue of the confines of the space. Although this is not dictated by the liturgy itself, the effect of the transformation of a linear, individual experience to a circular, communal one is fitting. As is characteristic of the Orthodox Church, it is a physical and engaged liturgy, with many opportunities for the missteps and bumbles that make the liturgy exactly that--leitourgia, a work of the people. It inevitably begins with sheepish smiles and even some giggling. Friends greet one another, grannies smear their lipstick on young faces. You can feel whiskers on your cheeks, and smell cologne, perfume, and sweat. My own movements were slow and labored, as I inevitably bumped my large belly into my fellow congregants, straining to bend over in order to hear the embarrassed voices of the youngsters in line. As the awkwardness and even the joy of the liturgy recedes, an ache can slowly form in the stomach or a certain tightness rise in the throat, triggered by the repetition of intimately facing friends and strangers alike, and then being humbled—often to the point of tears—by their breathy “God forgives” between kisses, embraces, crossing, and bowing.
The Orthodox liturgy also likens communion to a kiss, as in one of the prayers of St. John Chrysostom, the fourth-century archbishop of Constantinople, in which he employs images of purification:
And as you did not abhor the kiss of [the prostitute’s] sin-stained and unclean mouth, do not abhor my mouth, worse stained and more unclean than hers, nor my stained and shamed and unclean lips, nor my still more impure tongue. . . . But let the fiery coal of Your most pure Body and Your most precious Blood bring me sanctification, enlightenment and strengthening of my lowly soul and body . . .7
Chrysostom adapted this imagery from Isaiah’s vision of God and resulting despair at his own unclean state. In response, a seraph took a burning coal from the altar and touched it to Isaiah’s mouth, saying, “Now that this has touched your lips, your guilt has departed and your sin is blotted out” (Isaiah 6:7). God then sent out the cleansed Isaiah to declare his message. In a similarly apocalyptic vision of God, Ezekiel saw the tetramorph, or four living creatures, accompanying the chariot of the Lord with “something that looked like burning coals of fire” in the middle. Like any reasonable person, Ezekiel fell flat on his face when confronted with the glory of the Lord; God propped Ezekiel back up, commissioned him to speak on God’s behalf and commanded him to eat a scroll of “lamentation and mourning and woe” (Ezekiel 2:10). And for Ezekiel, “it was as sweet as honey” (3:3).
Like the burning coal and the bitter-made-sweet scroll, Christ’s body and blood purifies our lips, mouths, and bodies. In the preparation of the eucharist, a little warm water is mixed with the wine and bread—a reference to the water and blood that exited Christ’s sidewound at the crucifixion. It is also an image of the vivifying power of the Holy Spirit, as the priest prays, “Blessed is the warmth of your holy things always, now and ever and unto ages of ages. Amen,” to which the deacon responds, as he pours the water in a cruciform gesture, “The warmth of faith, full of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” The eucharistic elements are not cold and soggy when received via liturgical spoon, but warm and wet—enlivened, rather like an intimate kiss with a lover. Shortly before partaking of communion, the congregation has prayed, “Of Your Mystical Supper, O Son of God, accept me today as a communicant; for I will not speak of Your Mystery to Your enemies, neither like Judas will I give thee a kiss; but like the thief will I confess You: Remember me, Lord, in Your Kingdom.”8 As the faithful approach the altar, they sing again and again, “Receive the Body of Christ; taste the fountain of immortality. Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!” After all have participated, the priest raises the chalice before the congregation and declares, “Lo, this has touched your lips, and shall take away your iniquities, and cleanse your sins.” To which the congregation soon responds, “Let our mouths be filled with Thy praise, O Lord, that we may sing of Thy glory; for Thou hast made us worthy to partake of Thy holy, divine, immortal, and life-creating Mysteries.” This liturgical moment creates the sense that the morsel of wine-soaked bread has physically produced a song of praise.
But the liturgical kiss is not limited to the biblical tapestry of the liturgy’s text and the sacrament of communion. Icons are of great importance in both public and private devotion in the Orthodox Church. Since at least the time of the iconoclastic controversy in the eighth century, Orthodox Christians have held that depictions of Christ are not just licit but are indeed necessary testaments to the reality of the incarnation and God’s affirmation of the goodness of creation. For the Orthodox, to deny an image of Jesus is to deny the incarnation. For this reason, icons of Christ (and the saints) are shown venerated, that is, respected, through the forms of bowing, crossing oneself, lighting a candle, and (of course) kissing. In fact, priests sometimes remind female congregants to refrain from wearing too much lipstick, as it leaves residue on the icons and can even permanently stain liturgical cloths (though I confess that I quite like the effect of Jesus’ likeness being smudged with the bright red lipstick of some benevolent babushka, as it is not difficult to justify a ninety-year-old woman having a sense of entitled familiarity with a one-hundred-year-old icon, which is essentially her contemporary!).
Kissing proxies have also long been used in the West, though the Roman Church does not hold the same theology of the icon as the East. For example, from the thirteenth century, the kiss of peace among the laity was replaced by the use of the “peace-board” (tabula pacis, e.g., Fig. 3), a small piece of wood or metal with an image of the Virgin, the church’s titular saint, or the crucifixion, which was passed around to be kissed by all present.9
A similar function was served by the osculatory (from the Latin osculari, to kiss), a flap of parchment or leather that was stitched or glued into medieval books for the sole purpose of being venerated through touch and kiss. These proxy images, which could be abstract designs or particular devotional objects, such as the crucifix, were sometimes painted directly into the bottom margin of the page (e.g., Fig. 4).10 Peace-boards and osculatories were images made for their own destruction—by virtue of their very veneration.
This productive-destruction resonates. It carries a touch of the apophatic musings of Pseudo-Dionysius or the via negativa of Dante or John the Baptist’s lament, “he must increase, but I must decrease” (John 3:30). All of these are encompassed in the erotic, obliterating union of the Song of Songs. Unlike the spiritual via negativa, physical erasure is not typically understood as a process for creating new meaning, but simply as the removal or obscuring of old meaning. However, removal of image or text, whether by erasure, painting, or excision—particularly when the editorial method remains visible—is also capable of creating a new thesis. Wayne Roosa’s Ideas of Order series (2009) brings the concepts of productive erasure and quotidian encounters with the holy to contemporary contexts. His individual symbols are each carved out of a large white eraser, thereby also creating an underlying sense of humor, or at least irony as he uses a material intended for erasure to create his images. The medium also invites physical intimacy with the viewer, as the small scale draws one closer to the image for inspection.
In this series, Roosa juxtaposes imagery from Christian art history, including Christ’s figure from his baptism, the so-called Man of Sorrows motif, and the mourning angels from Giotto’s Arena Chapel, with contemporary political objects, such as press microphones, men in suits, the American flag, and several weapons (Fig. 5). The iconic black-and-white images recall newspaper photos and build to create a sense of anxiety and suspense in which violence seems immanent. The erotic or sexual elements here are dangerous and distancing, not unifying; they include smeared images of bikini-clad women and exposed nudes (Fig. 6). At first glance, there is little hope for divine union in the world set out in Ideas of Order. But, as Roosa explains in his artist’s statement, “Every artist wants his or her images to make a difference. Every artist knows that change cannot be brought by art, though perhaps art can assist in creating an awareness or insight that could be part of change.”11 Confronted by Roosa’s images, the viewer is invited to examine their own place in such systems.
By assembling his stamps in various combinations, Roosa plays with both the materiality and etymology of his medium, as in some instances he frantically layers (e.g., Fig. 7) or intentionally smears the stamped image (e.g., Fig. 8) to create a sense of movement. Although these are still and distilled images, their presentation as individual works, as well as the series as a whole, simulates the effect of the flashes of images we experience daily on television and the internet. Roosa relies on our minds being accustomed to taking in combinations and successions of symbols and interpreting them quickly.
While this series is concerned with the present, it is also rooted in the past—not only in regard to the iconic symbols mentioned above, but also by virtue of some of its individual compositions that are stacked vertically in three parts, which can be read as a visual nod to medieval triptych panels. One such example, III in the series (Fig. 9), refers to the baptism of Christ. The eye naturally rests on the central of the three stamps, the nude figure of a man, with hands at the chest in a prayerful pose. A thin horizontal line at his genitals works to render the white space below as water. In place of the customary dove of the Holy Spirit (and sometimes the Hand of God), Roosa has instead inserted an illuminated light bulb, which evokes the radiating light of the halos of the first and third persons of the Trinity; likewise, the presence of the bulb emphasizes the lack of Christ’s own halo. It also, somewhat playfully, makes it look as though the man has just had a Eureka! moment. Yet, following the man’s gaze (and the strong vertical created by the stacking of the three stamps, as well as the cord of the light, and the line created by the man’s hands and genitals), we land with an intellectual thud on the AK-47 below. The viewer is left to wonder: is this the man’s commission, his cross to consider? Or is the weapon presented to us, the viewer? (Take up your AK-47 and follow me.) Where do we encounter the holy—in the lowly, in the politic? And what will our response be? Roosa simultaneously offers us a question, a challenge, and an indictment.
The Man of Sorrows motif is employed by Roosa, not as an invitation for veneration, as in the peace-boards described above, but as an invitation for introspection. Images VI (Fig. 10) and X (Fig. 5) in the series pair the Man of Sorrows figure with a microphone and the AK-47, respectively. As the Man of Sorrows, Christ is presented outside of the time of the Passion narrative. He has died, as evident in his pierced hands and side, but his body is propped up, often in front of the cross or the tomb. Here, Roosa depicts an abbreviated scene—there are no other figures from the narrative, nor are the instruments of his Passion included. In fact, even the cross is barely visible, as only its truncated arms appear from behind Christ’s head. Image X presents the Man of Sorrows above an automatic weapon (though not the same as in image III), again, seeming to indict the viewer (“all who take the sword will perish by the sword,” Matt. 26:52). But if this is an image of power, the juxtaposition in VI seems to be one of impotence. Here, the Man of Sorrows is placed above a microphone. There is something about the turn of Christ’s head to the left—seemingly away from the position of the microphone to the right—that implies that Jesus refrains from speech. His speechlessness is reinforced by the empty space between the two stamps, and perhaps recalls his refusal to defend himself from interrogation. In that sense, it may be an image of power after all—the power of speech, the power of silence—and a challenge to consider what a “gospel” message might truly be. Or perhaps the microphone, and the cord that wraps around its stand, is meant to evoke the tempting serpent spiraling up the tree in the Garden.
Roosa’s chosen medium is essential to the efficacy of its message, foregrounding the kiss of ink to paper, the incarnation of idea in physical form. Ideas of Order reaches back into Christian art history and draws its symbols into the present in order to call for societal and spiritual change, a union yet hoped for.
The source of Roosa’s grieving angels is Giotto’s lamentation fresco in the early fourteenth-century Arena (also known as the Scrovegni) Chapel.12 Giotto’s telling of the life of Christ contrasts the spiritual and social dimensions of union and alienation. The lamentation panel (Fig. 12), near the center of the nave of the chapel, presents mourners gathered around the dead body of Christ. Mary Magdalene tenderly considers the divine toes that—according to some traditions—she had only recently anointed with oil. The surrounding figures express their grief in dynamic gestures—some with arms thrown up in disbelief, others with hands clasped, while still more crouch around the body in the foreground. Two examine the wounds on his hands. This anguish is also reflected in the flurry of mourning angels above, which don’t feel far from Roosa’s layered stamps. A moment of stillness anchors the fresco in its bottom left corner, in which the Virgin Mary cradles her son across her lap, the weight of his head supported by an anonymous onlooker. Her hands meet lightly around Christ’s neck while her own neck is craned in such a way as to kiss her dead son.
Almost directly across the nave from this panel is the scene of Christ’s arrest (Fig. 13). It contains a similarly frantic energy, as the backdrop to the panel’s central moment is a dense crowd of bare and helmeted heads. In a jumble, long spears, axes, clubs, and torches appear to flail in several directions, visualizing the chaos of the moment (recall the cacophony of clubs in Roosa’s Ideas of Order, Figs. 6 and 7). Their vertical emphasis is balanced by a set of horizontal arm gestures below: at the far left, Peter is seen cutting off the ear of a soldier, a gesture that is reinforced by the outstretched arm of a figure directly in front of him, and is in turn echoed by a bearded figure at the far right. The central action of the fresco is of course Judas (identifiable in his cowardly yellow cloak and “unrefined” features) kissing Christ. Judas wraps his arms around the Savior, pulling him close with lips pursed. Christ does not pull away, but neither does he return the false affection. Instead, his eyes stare intently into those of Judas.
Centuries before the creation of this fresco, Theodore of Mopsuestia invoked the “Judas kiss” in a fourth-century baptismal homily when he urged his audience to remember the Kiss of Peace as an act of reconciliation. “We must not be like Judas and kiss with the mouth only, while remaining set on showing hatred and malice to our brothers in the faith.”13 Giotto cleverly juxtaposes Judas’ kiss with that of Joachim and Anna, pictured a few panels above and to the right (Fig. 14), that is, nestled next to the upper left-hand corner of the judgment fresco. This scene is an illustration of Anna’s conception of the Virgin Mary, as recorded in the Protoevangelium of James. In response to Anna’s despair over her childlessness, an angel of the Lord delivers the good news that she will in fact bear a child, and instructs her to go in order to meet Joachim, who had just received the same news at the Golden Gate of Jerusalem: “And behold, Joachim came with his flocks; and Anna stood by the gate, and saw Joachim coming, and she ran and hung upon his neck, saying: Now I know that the Lord God has blessed me exceedingly” (Protoevangelium of James 4:9). Giotto depicts their bodies leaning into one another, their arms interlocking, as Anna affectionately but urgently pulls Joachim’s grey-bearded face to hers. With his right arm visible to the viewer, he pulls her close. Their mouths meet, and their eyes, still open, line up to create the effect of a single unified face. Indeed, even their haloes merge. The group of smiling women who stand behind Anna, framed in the arch of the gate, seems to engage in lively commentary on the couple’s public display of affection. Giotto, the great innovator of visual storytelling, traces the theme of rupture and reunion, exclusion and inclusion, throughout the chapel, epitomized in these two kisses: face to face, eyes aligned, the tempo and moisture of breath on skin.
Ultimately, we seek in the eucharist a proxy-less reunion, a restoration from the rupture so deftly captured in Wayne Roosa’s Ideas of Order and Giotto’s Arena Chapel. “Lord, enlighten my darkness” is a common eucharistic prayer for Orthodox Christians, an invitation for revelation that is to be recited while approaching the altar. Stepping forward, one is met with a host of painted eyes, as Jesus, Mary, and the saints gaze out from the iconostasis and the apse. Thus, we step into community—alongside our contemporary co-worshipers and the communion of all saints who have gone before us. We approach the Bridegroom with the hope of a loving embrace, pulling his face to ours. Enlighten our darkness, open our eyes, as we open our mouths to receive the body and blood, and purse our lips as we swallow and digest the mystery. “Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth.”
NOTES
- Frederick Buechner, The Alphabet of Grace (Harper Collins, 1970), 8.
- In recent decades, important work has been done to reclaim the goodness of the body, sexuality, and creation. See, for example, Sarah Coakley, God, Sexuality, and the Self: An Essay on the Trinity (Cambridge University Press, 2013); Karen Trimble Alliaume, “Disturbingly Catholic: Thinking the inordinate body,” in Bodily citations: Religion and Judith Butler, Ellen T. Armour and Susan M. St. Ville, eds., (Columbia University Press, 2006), 93-119.
- Translated in Denys Turner, Eros and Allegory: Medieval Exegesis of the Song of Songs (Cistercian Publications, 1995), 313.
- Jeffrey Hamburger’s monograph remains the authoritative work on this manuscript. Jeffrey Hamburger, The Rothschild Canticles: Art and mysticism in Flanders and the Rhineland circa 1300 (Yale University Press, 1990). On the inversion of gender roles in this manuscript, see Jennifer Awes-Freeman, “Theologizing Gender in the Rothschild Canticles,” Medieval Feminist Forum 48.2 (2013): 68-93, and Sarah Bromberg, “Gendered and Ungendered Readings of the Rothschild Canticles,” Different Visions: A Journal of New Perspectives on Medieval Art, vol. 1 (2008).
- On the “wounding gaze” of this image, see Suzannah Biernoff, Sight and Embodiment (Palgrave Macmillan, 2002), 159.
- Translated in Denys Turner, Eros and Allegory, 426.
- A Manual of Communion Prayers of the Orthodox Church, vol. 1 (Holy Myrrhbearers Monastery, 1994; 2008), 13-14.
- Ibid., 29 (emphasis added).
- See, for example, Guy-Marie Oury, Les Gestes de la Prière (St. Paul, 1998), 133-42; J. Braun, Das Christliche Altargerät in seinem Sein und seiner Entwicklung (Munich, 1932), 560-72.
- For examples and further discussion, see Jeffrey F. Hamburger, The Visual and the Visionary: Art and Female Spirituality in Late Medieval Germany (Zone Books, 1998), 325-30; Kathryn M. Rudy, “Kissing Images, Unfurling Rolls, Measuring Wounds, Sewing Badges and Carrying Talismans: Considering Some Harley Manuscripts through the Physical Rituals They Reveal,” Proceedings from the Harley Conference, British Library, 29-30 June 2009, Electronic British Library Journal (2010), article 5.
- http://wayneroosa.com/?page_id=33 (accessed 7/14/17).
- For more on the Arena Chapel, see, for example, Andrew Ladis, Giotto’s O: Narrative, figuration, and pictorial ingenuity in the Arena Chapel (Pennsylvania State University Press, 2007); Anne Derbes and Mark Sandona, The Usurer’s Heart: Giotto, Enrico Scrovegni, and the Arena Chapel in Padua (Pennsylvania State University Press, 2010).
- Translated in Edward Yarnold, The Awe-Inspiring Rites of Initiation: the Origins of the R.C.I.A (2nd ed., The Liturgical Press, 1994), 223.
Fig. 1
Detail, Moralized Bible
ANL/Vienna, Cod. 2554, fol. 2v
Fig. 2
Rothschild Canticles
Medieval and Renaissance Manuscript Collection
The Reinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library
Yale University, MS 404 ff. 18v-19
Fig 3. Ivory pax board with crucifixion, Flanders or Germany, 1500-1510. During the mass, Christians shared the kiss of peace by kissing and then passing the board. By Niels from Amsterdam, NL (Catharijneconvent - Paxtafel met kruisiging), courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Fig. 4. Example of painted osculatory in bottom margin. Missal of the Haarlem Linen Weavers Guild, North Holland (Haarlem?), ca. 1400-1410, Haarlem, Stadsbibliotheek, Ms. 184 C 2, fol. 149v.
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Figs. 5-11
Wayne Roosa
Ideas of Order, numbered as marked
2009
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Fig. 12, Giotto, Lamentation, 1305, Arena Chapel, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
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Fig. 13, Giotto, Kiss of Judas, 1305, Arena Chapel, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
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Fig. 14, Giotto, Meeting at the Golden Gate, 1305, Arena Chapel, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
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