In the history of Christian art, few works have enjoyed more fame or evoked more emotion than Michelangelo’s Madonna della Pieta (“Our Lady of Pity”). Known familiarly as the Pieta, the sculpture has been hailed as a classic example of Renaissance art and perhaps the Florentine’s greatest work.
The artistry is unmistakable. But as we enter into the Easter Triduum—the “three days” of Holy Thursday, Good Friday, and Holy Saturday—we do well to remember that for all of its importance in the revival of Western art’s classical period, the Pieta is essentially a Catholic work. As such, it can and should be both seen and used as an aid to our prayer and reflection.
Completed in 1499, the sculpture was one of many “Pietas” that were created over the years. (Michelangelo, for example, would create at least two other sculptures of Our Lady holding the dead Christ. Artists like Caravaggio and Van Gogh would enshrine the moment in their own Pieta paintings.) This particular work was commissioned as part of the funeral chapel of Cardinal de Lagraulas (and this is key) as an altarpiece. Originally meant to be part of Old St. Peter’s Basilica, when controversial renovations were made to the church in the 16th Century, the sculpture was saved and re-purposed as a stand-alone piece and devotional aid.
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With the celebration of Holy Thursday, we are reminded of the centrality of the Holy Eucharist—the “source and summit of the Christian life”—in Catholic spirituality.
I had a chance last summer to attend the National Eucharistic Congress in Indianapolis where, among many other amazing experiences, I was able to sit in on a lecture by Dr. Elizabeth Lev—one of the foremost art historians working today. The interpretations below come from my notes on her remarkable talk.
Lev's thesis is that the Pieta was created first and foremost to “enhance and illustrate” the Mass. It was, after all, an altarpiece, originally meant to be above and in front of the pre-Vatican II altar where the “front” of the altar was opposite the priest and congregation.
As in all Pietas, this one has Mary holding the body of her dead Son, echoing the “Madonna and Child” trope in which the Blessed Mother holds Jesus as an infant. In both types of images, our gaze starts with Mary, but in the end, her body position leads it to Jesus literally making concrete the maxim of Marian spirituality “Through Mary to Jesus.”
But while the Pieta can be “read” as a Marian work, it is foremost Eucharistic. If it could be viewed in its original position, situated above an altar, it would show us that the Jesus Who gave up His Body and shed His Blood on Calvary is the same Jesus Who offers His Body and Blood to us on the altar (itself a place of sacrifice). That Body is sculpted in white marble, the same color as the Host one receives in Communion.
With wounds only hinted at and a body luminous and in peaceful repose, the statue recalls those of the Greek gods Renaissance artists used for inspiration. Well it should: Jesus, as Michelangelo knew, is God. However a closer look, especially at Mary’s right hand pressing against Jesus’ skin, reveals that she holds the body of a lifeless man. Thus we see the body of the God-made-Man.
We recall in all this the truth of the Eucharist—that it is the Real Presence of Jesus, His Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity.
Mary’s face here is not the one of a 45-year old woman from the country—it is much closer to the face of the 12/13 year old who said “yes” to God’s will at Jesus’ conception and who continues to say “yes” even at this—the most horrific moment of her life. At that birth, she would lay her Boy in a manger, a place from which animals would “take and eat.” A look at the statue from the side or top (see below) reveals that Mary’s hold on her Son is tentative—she is lifting her left hand away from Jesus, and He is sliding off her lap…onto the altar from where we “take and eat” the Body of Christ.
Having given her Son to “be about [His] Father’s work” (Lk 2:49) when He was a boy, here she gives Him to us—as she implicitly does every time we gather around the Eucharistic table.
If Mary is shown giving us her Son in this image, she also gives us something else: an example. The Pieta depicts every parent’s worst nightmare, the death of a child. Mary’s face is that of the Sorrowful Mother—grieving but strong. The way her veil is sculpted shows shadows creeping in from all directions. Darkness closes in on her. No matter what direction one views the image, this is the case. But no matter what direction one views the image, the darkness never takes over; it never covers her face.
The reason is profound—and instructive.
Mary gazes down on Jesus, her Son, the God-made-Man Who offered Himself for us. The light that comes from His body (Michelangelo buffed the marble of the body to a lustrous shine) symbolizes His love and grace. So long as Mary keeps her focus on Him, His “light” keeps the darkness of despair at bay.
During the Triduum, we commemorate the suffering and death of Jesus. We remember that as a human race, we have been guilty of deicide—of “killing God.” We recall how evil we as a human race can be. Not a hard thing to see, to be sure: all we have to do is access our news feeds.
It would be easy, especially these days, to give into despair—to let the darkness take over.
But Michelangelo’s great work exhorts us to, like Mary, hang on. While it depicts the pain of Good Friday, we know that that pain will eventually give way: that hatred, ignorance, and death do not have the last say. Love does: the love of Jesus Who is the Light that keeps the darkness in check.
Because we know Easter morning is coming.
A.M.D.G. / B.V.M.H.