This is Leonardo da Vinci’s Adoration of the Magi. Augustinian monks commissioned it as a panel for the high altar in their church. They gave Leonardo thirty months to complete the task, but he never did. I am sure they reluctantly ended up commissioning another artist.
However, as most things that survive the test of time go, this botched commission ended up giving humanity a yet greater gift: a wonderfully preserved peek inside da Vinci’s process. And what a captivating process it is!
If this image doesn’t accurately portray the feeling of the Advent and Christmas seasons more than any other you have seen before, please email me and tell me your secret!
Leonardo gives us images of battle, buildings falling, new life growing from the rubble, animals fighting, nature drawing near and people everywhere. Some of these people are focused on Christ; some are curious about what’s going on; and some are oblivious to his existence.
In the heart of it all, we find a still, quiet moment of praise and worship. Here, we can make eye contact with the creator of the cosmos — an infant on his mother’s lap.
The picture in this article cannot hold a candle to the pulling gravitas of the actual image. This unfinished work is eight feet by eight feet. Picture something that size on your wall. The room where it hangs in the Uffizi is dimly lit. This creates a hushed stillness that settles into your bones. It’s a room that pulls your attention and says, “Go slower here; this is important,” and so you do.
There is an unspoken rule in crowded museums that everyone gets a turn in front of the art. Once it’s your turn to stand front and center, you feel like a moth drawn to light. To really enter into a work of art takes time. It’s much like prayer. Our modern world sells us on the fast and furious — there’s no time to wait; don’t miss out; buy it now and move on to the next important thing. But to pause and stand before this image is to enter into a different state. We gaze in silence on a truth of our existence and buy into a different experience only available when we are fully present.
It is a beautiful thing to imagine Leonardo at work. He was standing right before this piece, just as you are now. You can imagine his hands hovering over the wood. He made decisions and rethought them. You can smell the paint, see the interchanging warm and cool light from his studio windows and see the rough-woven fabric of his clothes. His tools are strewn about, and you can hear the whisper of the Italian spoken in that room — all of it now long gone. You take your place at this moment in your own life to stand here and meditate on the Christ child, feeling all the feelings that Leonardo himself might have wanted you to feel. His hand stretches across time and space to you.
By intentionally surrounding the Virgin and Child in dark shadows, Da Vinci makes their light all the more visible and lovely. There is no throne for them to sit on, but he creates one out of the natural world and human figures. Behind Mary is a palm tree, which is a symbol of victory. Behind the Christ child is a carob tree, whose seeds were used as a unit of measurement for precious jewels. (This is where the word “carat” comes from.)
The Magi take the only acceptable posture in this moment, falling to their knees. These mighty men have come to recognize the true king, knowing they are “not worthy to loosen the strap of his sandal.” The wise man on the right seems to be saying with his body, “You are truly the Son of God.” While the scene at large ignores him, the Christ child receives the magi’s gift and blesses him for it. The blessings we receive from Christ when we spend time in prayer and meditation are the whole point of the Advent and Christmas seasons. We can so easily be wrapped up in everything the world throws at us, but what we get in return is nothing.
I try every year to make Advent and Christmas a time of peace and reflection. I imagine preparing my home as I did for the birth of each of my children. It is a time of nesting and longing for the awaited day. All too often, my mind is thrown about by the secular noise of the season, and I am often distracted by my bank account. The larger problems of the world this past Christmas season would have been enough to knock any of us right out of the manger scene if we let it. Leonardo shows us, however, that peace and quiet can, in fact, coexist with chaos. The troubles of this world will be with us until the end of our days.
We often dupe ourselves by trying to settle this never-ending dichotomy in our lives. As Christ tells us in John’s gospel, “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world, you will have trouble. But take courage! I have overcome the world.” We can be like the struggling masses in the background, oblivious to what is happening in front of us. Or we can approach like the Magi. Christ gives us the grace to focus on what truly matters: praising and adoring God.
This painting seems to say, “There are wars going on. Praise God anyway. There are family feuds. Praise God anyway. A million things are crumbling around you. Praise God anyway. There are so many unfinished projects (including this painting). Praise God anyway. There is internal anguish. Praise God anyway.”
Christ is born into the very center of our chaos and says, “Focus your attention on me. I love you. I was born for you.”
Even though the Christmas season is over, we can continue forward into the new liturgical year with this image imprinted on our hearts. Let it remind us where our true attention and devotion belong: when we bring ourselves to Christ, he will always receive and bless us.
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