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In the Mother of God, Christian Hope Finds Its Supreme Witness
Pierre-Marie Dumont
Transfiguration
Theophanes the Greek (c. 1370–c. 1405).
Light from Light
Lord, my God… you are clothed with majesty and splendour,
robed in light as with a cloak.
(Ps 104:1-2)
This treasure of the Russian iconographic tradition was executed by Theophanes the Greek in the early 15th century. It pictures the transfigured Christ hovering serenely at Tabor’s summit, swathed in robes of dazzling white, such as no fuller on earth could bleach them (Mk 9:3). Each fold of fabric is delicately outlined as if with gossamer threads of golden light. His figure is superimposed over layered geometric shapes: a diaphanous six-pointed star represents the “bright cloud” of the Spirit overshadowing those present (Mt 17:5); beyond it, a series of concentric circles form a full-body halo, or aureole, shot through with stars. The geometric perfection of these forms underscores the otherworldly, even unnatural quality of the light they bear.
Light unites the composition, bridging the divide between heaven and earth. It falls on Peter, James, and John in wide, shining planes and outlines the terrain with flashes of white. Three rays descend upon the apostles’ eyes, granting them the grace to behold Christ’s divinity insofar as they can bear it. This, the Fathers attest, is the true miracle of the Transfiguration: it was not Christ that changed, but the perception of the apostles. Smitten with wonder they fall prostrate, overpowered by the vision.
Vision of God
While the apostles had never before contemplated Christ’s divinity, the great mystics of the old covenant—Moses and Elijah—had never beheld his humanity. Both gaze fixedly at Christ: Elijah gestures towards the subject of his prophecy while Moses holds the tablets of the Law. Vignettes in the icon’s upper corners depict their miraculous transfer to Mount Tabor, as alleged by apocryphal texts, to witness the longed-for consummation of their partial theophanies on Sinai. On Tabor’s holy heights, the burning bush is supplanted by Christ’s human form, alight with divinity yet unconsumed. And the still, small voice (1 K 19:12) of Elijah’s encounter is replaced by the Father’s thunderous proclamation: This is my beloved Son (Mt 17:5).
Caves in the mountainside reference those that sheltered Moses and Elijah when they experienced the glory of the Lord on Sinai (Ex 33, 1 K 19), further underscoring this theme of fulfilment. The One they perceived in obscurity is revealed in the light. The caves—which resemble hermit cells in a wild and desolate landscape—also allude to the spiritual inheritance of the desert fathers. Following in the footsteps of Moses and Elijah, these ascetics sought to “climb the mountain of the Lord” through lives of self-denial and intense prayer.
Ascetic ascent
The flowering of monastic life at Mount Athos in the 14th century effected a conspicuous development in Transfiguration iconography, the features of which are evident in Theophanes’ icon. Notable innovations included the increasing presence of Tabor as a steep mountain of formidable height, an exaggerated disarray among the apostles, and the addition of the aforementioned caves to the landscape. During this period, the Transfiguration became the quintessential image of spiritual ascent.
Like the apostles at the Transfiguration, the monk follows Christ up the mountain to pray (Lk 9:28). A necessary prerequisite is the taming of chaotic, unbridled passions—represented by the turbulence of the apostles at the base of the mountain. The precipitous incline suggests the arduous struggle to repent and pray deeply. This ascent is a movement from multiplicity towards Unity, from derivatives towards the Source. It begins at the wide base and seeks the narrow summit, ultimately receiving a broader vista on the unbearable boundlessness that is God.
The six-pointed star symbolises the goal of this pilgrimage: deification. What Christ is by nature, the saint becomes by grace. Its two interpenetrating triangles, one descending and one ascending, express the movement of God towards humanity and humanity towards God. “The only-begotten Son of God, wanting to make us sharers in his divinity, assumed our nature, so that he, made man, might make men gods” (Saint Thomas Aquinas).
Divine darkness
Atop the mountain, Christ is ringed with celestial blue. Counterintuitively, this heavenly hue deepens to darkness as it approaches Christ, the source of light. Common to nearly all icons of the Transfiguration, this strange detail represents the stages of spiritual progress. Saint Gregory of Nyssa points to the example of Moses: “Moses’ vision began with light…but when he rose higher and became more perfect, he saw God in the darkness.”
“There is in God, some say, a deep but dazzling darkness,” wrote poet Henry Vaughan, reflecting on Christianity’s rich apophatic tradition. This way of negation attempts to describe God by stating what he is not, stressing his utter transcendence and unknowability. The mystic initially experiences God as light, but ultimately knows God in the darkness of his excessive radiance—a light that overwhelms and blinds the eye. This paradox is echoed by the presence of the bright cloud (Mt 17:5) at the Transfiguration; it both illuminates and obscures.
The battle below
Predictions of the Passion frame the episode of the Transfiguration; vignettes of ascent and descent indicate this broader scriptural context. Tabor rises out of the Valley of Megiddo—an ancient battlefield. The Book of Revelation locates the final contest against the Antichrist here, at a site called Armageddon (in Hebrew, Har-megiddo). For Christ, descent into the valley is descent into battle; his every action is a movement towards the cross.
The bewildered apostles are unaware, but the Transfiguration has steeled them for this battle. James will be the first to spill blood—hence his crimson robe—while John’s placement prefigures his station at the foot of the cross. Peter, at Christ’s right hand, will lead the fledgling Church through fierce persecution. “God from God, Light from Light,” Christ unveils his divinity in an act of provident love. Smitten by divine Beauty, the apostles will boldly proclaim him to the world as the radiance of the Father (cf. He 1:3). They will face the valley without fear.
Amy Giuliano
Holds degrees in art history from Yale and theology from the Angelicum, Rome.
Transfiguration, Theophanes the Greek (c. 1370–c. 1405), Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow. © akg-images.
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Guido Reni (1575–1642), nicknamed “the divine Guide,” was most sought-after artist in Europe during the first half of the 17th century, and the one whose works reached the highest prices on the art market until at least the end of the 18th century. He was a credit to his baptismal name, which furnished his nickname, by becoming the guide of many artists who flocked to be trained in his prestigious studio. This painting, a picture of sheer elevation, sweetness, and harmony, is a work from his mature period. In it the artist expresses the fullness of his meditation on the theme of the Assumption, which he continued throughout his life.
At the limits of the bluish-gray sky of the earth, three putti [infants representing angels] situate our point of view as spectators, for this painting was designed to be viewed from below, so as to give the impression of a sophisticated low-angle shot. And so one of the putti is facing us, while the two others, looking upward, point out the theme of our contemplation: Mary of Nazareth who enters into divine glory, a glory that the painter shows in the clouds by a luminous gold, bordered with cherubs. On the Mother of Jesus blows the wind of the Spirit that had come upon her at the Annunciation; it swells her royal blue mantle and shapes its admirable drapery. It also animates the veil of the Ever-Virgin Mary, with a dynamism that causes it to melt away into the divine light. The delicacy and gracefulness of the lines with which Our Lady is drawn, combined with the discreetly twisted movement of her body, bestow on her majestically standing silhouette a supremely elegant ascending movement.
Here then is the Theotokos [Mother of God] in the sublime delicacy of her humility, depicted in a way that befits the Immaculata, as the sole subject of her glorious Assumption. One angel bears her left foot on his shoulder, while the other angel, with the same gesture, bears her right knee. Her extended arms hold out her open hands toward heaven, expressing in an exquisite way her complete availability to the promptings of grace. Her face and her eyes are directed in excelsis (toward the highest heavens)—with an expression that Reni alone excelled in painting, having found the first inspiration for this art by producing a copy of the Ecstasy of Saint Cecilia by Raphael.
The Holy Year of the Jubilee, which the Church now offers us the grace of experiencing, has as its fruit “the Hope that does not disappoint.” Now, “Hope finds its supreme witness in the Mother of God.” In her, we see that Christian hope “is not naive optimism but a gift of grace amid the realities of life.”1 On this feast of the Assumption, the Church teaches us that, after doing great things in Mary’s life, God lifted her, body and soul, into heavenly glory. So it is that we can entrust our prayer to her, so that she might bring it to the heart of God:
Holy Mary, Mother of God and our Mother,
teach us to be like you,
humbly available to the promptings of God’s grace,
so that Jesus, your child, can become
present to the world in our lives,
and do great things in us.
And so, when the hour of our death arrives,
We will take refuge in your motherly arms,
Confident that you will be able to lift us with you
To the Kingdom of Heaven where you are the Queen.
Amen.
1 Bull of Indiction of the Ordinary Jubilee of the Year 2025, Spes non confundit, 24.
Pierre-Marie Dumont
The Assumption of the Virgin (c. 1638-39), Guido Reni (1575–1642), Alte Pinakothek, Munich. © Artothek / La Collection.
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