Sinking into Rothko

On Monday, the last day of our first mini-heatwave of the year, I went to London's South Bank to stroll among the tourists and drop into Tate Modern. I was delighted to find that the Rothko room has made a welcome return. This low-lit space houses seven enormous canvases of sombre maroons and blacks by the great abstract expressionist.

This is one of my favourite spaces in London. I spent a good hour looking deeply into and through these window shapes. Now, in one sense, these paintings are just slabs of colour. Up close you can see that Rothko took great care in how he applied the paint, going over parts of the canvas with different shades of the dominant colour which, as you step back from it, gives the painting enormous depth.

The 'windows frames' seem solid and so as you look, you are invited to fall through them into whatever lies beyond. In the swirling pale maroon of the canvas illustrated, there is the suggestion of light, as if the sun is shining behind gossamer clouds. It's also possible to feel that the light is edging towards the centre of the painting where the viewer stands as it were by the open window.

In many ways, the Rothko room is a sacred space; it's a place where people, if they've the patience to sit and look intently through one of the windows, are asked questions about where they sit in the world, the universe beyond, about whether the light approaching them will illuminate their lives. Great art gently evokes big questions and has the good grace not to provide clunking great answers.

If I were running Tate Modern, there's only one thing I'd do to make the Rothko room perfect: I'd only let people in on the understanding that they would not leave for an hour. This would prevent one's meditation being interrupted by parties of people catching the greatest collection of modern art on their cell phone cameras between elevenses and lunch!

Praying on the tourist trail

One of my meetings was cancelled today so I had a bit of time once I got into London. I strolled up Whitehall, picking my way over the trailing cables and manoeuvring in and out of gaggles of tourists and journalists waiting for something to happen and into the National Gallery.

It was as ever a place of tranquility and calm. There were groups of primary age children crowded round a painting having it explained to them and a few others wondering between paintings, whispering to one another.

I spent a good deal of time looking at the two wonderful Piero Della Francesca paintings the gallery has in their own viewing space.

The better known of the two is the Baptism of Jesus, a painting of such stillness it is impossible not to stop and contemplate it. The figure of Jesus is serene and prayerful but captured leaning slightly towards the viewer, as if  inviting us to share his moment of commitment to John's movement. Above him a perfectly stationary dove waits to complete her descent on to God's Son. It's as if Piero has frozen the action and invited the viewers to come and linger over the scene: Jesus at the start of his public ministry - what does it hold for him, what does it mean for us?

To the right of it is his less well known nativity. The painting looks unfinished, yet the backdrop appears very similar to the one in the baptism painting, suggesting it's drawn from Piero's own home town where he did a lot of his work. The simplicity of the execution looks intentional on Piero's part. This is not the cluttered nativity so commonly found in the work of his contemporaries. It is a sparse scene: a simply dressed Mary kneels before her infant who reaches up to his mother. A choir of angels with lutes sing to him. Joseph and the shepherds chat in the background.

Again Piero captures a moment of stillness, contemplation and devotion. Mary prays while Jesus reaches up to her, a suggestion that the Son of God responds when we call. And yet Jesus is also 'calling,' wanting feeding, affection, the tender human touch of a mother.

These are works of genius, beautifully composed and executed. But they also appear to be works of deep faith inviting the viewer into the life of prayer that is at the heart of them. It's wonderful to be able to able to step out of the bustle of Trafalgar Square into this holy space.

Good day in London

Well, I had a really excellent time with my supervisor and am all set to start writing my review of the state of the debate about the location of the early Christians, with a deadline of the end of January to get a draft outline of the whole thing done (45,000 words). There'll be three substantial chapters dealing with social location, economic location and physical location with an intro and a conclusion. All I need now is a catchy title!

And I succumbed to a book in Church House Bookshop. It's Peter Oakes Reading Romans in Pompeii: Paul's letter at Ground Level. I've been waiting for this since I heard Peter was writing it but thought it wasn't coming out until next year. I resisted everything else, though.

On my way from Victoria to Church house I went past people queuing to see pieces of a dead nun in Westminster Cathedral. And for those not willing to join the queue, the 'spectacle' inside was being beamed live to a giant screen in the square outside the Cathedral. There people were able to watch while consuming hot dogs and other fast food being sold from a range of stalls set up all around the square.

I have to say that it was all a bit surreal. I'm sure the nun in question would have been extremely embarrassed to be the centre of such a mawkish spectacle!

I also spent some time in the National Gallery. In particular I stood for quite a while in front of Pieter Bruegel's adoration of the Kings- a spectacular work up close; and Piero della Francesca's The Baptism of Christ - also quite magical. I also sauntered round a few other rooms and drank deeply of the atmosphere. Lovely. I must do it more often.

Did Paul visit the flock?

I've also been listening to Sam's Town by the Killers and discovering a real depth to it.

I'm reading a book by James Thompson called Pastoral Ministry according to Paul: A Biblical Vision (Baker 2006). It came highly recommended, though I've never heard of Thompson. So far, it's pretty good. He's an NT man so it's a scholarly trawl of pastoral themes in the undisputed Paulines (don't you just love that phrase?! It really is high time someone disputed it - it's one of those givens of NT scholarship that is ripe for demolition.)

It's informed by the New Perspective on Paul (which is good) and majors on Paul's pastoral goal being transformation (a solid idea). I find myself reading it and saying 'yes, I agree with all this, but what I want to know is how did Paul do it - except by writing letters? What did his day look like? Did he visit people, lead Bible studies, preach sermons and chair church meetings?' I'm not sure Thompson is going to answer any of these questions. It's probably not fair to expect him to because that's not the purpose of the book.

But I'd love to know whether anyone has tackled these questions or whether (as I suspect) they are completely unanswerable. Post a comment if you can help or have more questions to add to my list.

AAAhhh ... 'The Kingdom of Doom' on The Good, the Bad and the Queen has just started. What a great track; fabulous strummed acoustic at the start, then the swirl of organ and 'Friday night in the Kingdom of Doom.' It contains the line 'drink all day/coz the country's at war/you'll be falling off the palace wall/I can't be anymore than I say/Oh in the flood we all get washed away.' Sublime.

Hoping to see the Anselm Kiefer exhibition at the White Cube next week or the week after.