The Calling of St. Matthew by Caravaggio
If he hadn’t been such a
gifted artist, Caravaggio would have been best known as a street brawler, a
prison escapee, and even a murderer. His
early paintings bore witness to his infatuation with most of the vices and
perversions of the flesh: con artists, a
fortune teller, and a portrait of himself as Bacchus.
But something happened to Caravaggio in the year 1599 or 1600, and it had a dramatic affect on his art. To be sure, Caravaggio’s soul remained a battleground in the war between temptation and redemption. But when he had a paintbrush in his hand his testimony was consistent. After 1599, he never painted another Bacchus or con artist – virtually every painting was a religious subject. And from that point on, each of his works was in a new style the world had never seen before. All of these religious subjects are set in a world of darkness pierced by pure, brilliant light.
And for a guy with such an intimate knowledge of that spiritual struggle between darkness and light, I have to think the darkness and light in Caravaggio’s paintings must have a deeply personal meaning.
This painting, from the center of Caravaggio’s turning point, depicts Jesus’ calling of Matthew. The setting is the tax office where the conspirators are huddled in darkness, counting their ill-gotten gains. They’ve covered the window we see with paper, to keep out prying eyes and, perhaps subconsciously, to keep out too much light. Jesus and Peter burst in from the right like a police squad – and a miraculous shaft of pure light pierces the wall to shine directly upon Matthew.
Matthew’s the one in the beard. It might look like he’s pointing to the guy next to him, but he’s pointing to himself. And the reason his hand is pointing is that it’s meant to be an echo of Jesus’ pointing hand – a way to illustrate in a still picture that Matthew has already begun to follow Christ.
But something happened to Caravaggio in the year 1599 or 1600, and it had a dramatic affect on his art. To be sure, Caravaggio’s soul remained a battleground in the war between temptation and redemption. But when he had a paintbrush in his hand his testimony was consistent. After 1599, he never painted another Bacchus or con artist – virtually every painting was a religious subject. And from that point on, each of his works was in a new style the world had never seen before. All of these religious subjects are set in a world of darkness pierced by pure, brilliant light.
And for a guy with such an intimate knowledge of that spiritual struggle between darkness and light, I have to think the darkness and light in Caravaggio’s paintings must have a deeply personal meaning.
This painting, from the center of Caravaggio’s turning point, depicts Jesus’ calling of Matthew. The setting is the tax office where the conspirators are huddled in darkness, counting their ill-gotten gains. They’ve covered the window we see with paper, to keep out prying eyes and, perhaps subconsciously, to keep out too much light. Jesus and Peter burst in from the right like a police squad – and a miraculous shaft of pure light pierces the wall to shine directly upon Matthew.
Matthew’s the one in the beard. It might look like he’s pointing to the guy next to him, but he’s pointing to himself. And the reason his hand is pointing is that it’s meant to be an echo of Jesus’ pointing hand – a way to illustrate in a still picture that Matthew has already begun to follow Christ.
But it’s Jesus’ hand that catches our attention. We’ve seen that hand before -- in Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam on the ceiling of the Sistine chapel.
But why would Caravaggio put Adam’s hand on Jesus? Shouldn’t Adam’s hand be associated with Matthew and God’s hand be associated with Jesus? I think I may have an answer.
I think it speaks of the theology that sees Christ as the second Adam. Adam was the firstborn man, and Christ is the first man reborn after death into eternal life. In Christ God is re-creating mankind – and making his new creation in a way that undoes the corruption introduced by Adam.
Key to this is that in the Sistine Chapel, it is Adam’s left hand, pointing toward the right. Caravaggio copies the hand’s posture, but on Christ it is the right hand, pointing to the left. Just as God reaches all the way across the great divide to create Adam, Jesus reaches in the same direction to offer re-creation to Matthew. In the mirror image, Caravaggio suggests the pair of hands as sort of “bookends” to history. Adam’s hand ruptured the connection with God; Christ’s hand restores it.
And there’s even more here.
In the Bible, the story of Matthew’s calling immediately follows the story of the paralytic man. Jesus tells him, “Get up and go home,” and the man hops right up and walks home. Then Jesus bursts in on the tax collector gang, points to Matthew, and says, “Follow me.” And BANG! Even before even a single verse of scripture is finished, Matthew is up and out the door, and never looks back.
Two very dramatic transformations, and Matthew puts them back-to-back. It’s as if Matthew is saying, “Man, I know about the power that paralytic man encountered, because it happened to me, too. And I’m here to tell you it’s about a whole lot more than just the muscles in a wobbly pair of legs!”
Now let me remind you that this painting is the one that marks the turning point in Caravaggio’s style and subject matter. Do you begin to suspect he might have felt his own, personal connection to this story? The style in which the dazzling light pierces the world of darkness – and the thing about the hands – it all speaks about a powerful transformation that results from a personal encounter with God.
Adam experienced that transformation. The paralytic man experienced it. Matthew experienced it. And I think this painting is Caravaggio’s testimony on canvas telling us that he experienced it too.
If Adam and the paralytic man and Matthew and Caravaggio can all be so dramatically transformed by a personal encounter with God, maybe we should be ready for that kind of personal, transforming encounter, too. Maybe even today. Maybe even through the inspirational power of art. Maybe God is trying to get your attention right now, and saying, “Follow me.”
But why would Caravaggio put Adam’s hand on Jesus? Shouldn’t Adam’s hand be associated with Matthew and God’s hand be associated with Jesus? I think I may have an answer.
I think it speaks of the theology that sees Christ as the second Adam. Adam was the firstborn man, and Christ is the first man reborn after death into eternal life. In Christ God is re-creating mankind – and making his new creation in a way that undoes the corruption introduced by Adam.
Key to this is that in the Sistine Chapel, it is Adam’s left hand, pointing toward the right. Caravaggio copies the hand’s posture, but on Christ it is the right hand, pointing to the left. Just as God reaches all the way across the great divide to create Adam, Jesus reaches in the same direction to offer re-creation to Matthew. In the mirror image, Caravaggio suggests the pair of hands as sort of “bookends” to history. Adam’s hand ruptured the connection with God; Christ’s hand restores it.
And there’s even more here.
In the Bible, the story of Matthew’s calling immediately follows the story of the paralytic man. Jesus tells him, “Get up and go home,” and the man hops right up and walks home. Then Jesus bursts in on the tax collector gang, points to Matthew, and says, “Follow me.” And BANG! Even before even a single verse of scripture is finished, Matthew is up and out the door, and never looks back.
Two very dramatic transformations, and Matthew puts them back-to-back. It’s as if Matthew is saying, “Man, I know about the power that paralytic man encountered, because it happened to me, too. And I’m here to tell you it’s about a whole lot more than just the muscles in a wobbly pair of legs!”
Now let me remind you that this painting is the one that marks the turning point in Caravaggio’s style and subject matter. Do you begin to suspect he might have felt his own, personal connection to this story? The style in which the dazzling light pierces the world of darkness – and the thing about the hands – it all speaks about a powerful transformation that results from a personal encounter with God.
Adam experienced that transformation. The paralytic man experienced it. Matthew experienced it. And I think this painting is Caravaggio’s testimony on canvas telling us that he experienced it too.
If Adam and the paralytic man and Matthew and Caravaggio can all be so dramatically transformed by a personal encounter with God, maybe we should be ready for that kind of personal, transforming encounter, too. Maybe even today. Maybe even through the inspirational power of art. Maybe God is trying to get your attention right now, and saying, “Follow me.”
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