Something to Chew on

Not to knock da Vinci, but I’m so tired of his Last Supper. It’s great but overused. So I went on a search for other Last Supper paintings. So much is going on in that evening meal. There are so many moments throughout Holy Week that get overlooked because so much is happening so fast. Fortunately, every year, we take try to focus on a different aspect, piece it together over time, mull on it as spiritually needed. Maybe this year it’s about betrayal and repentance as you watch the difference between Judas and Peter. Maybe next year it’s about humility as you focus on Jesus washing the disciples feet or about God’s promises as you watch a meal around Passover transform into the institution of the Eucharist. We need to revisit these moments over and over again, looking at them from different angles.

The first is Peter Paul Rubens’ Christ Washing the Apostles' Feet (1632). First, I love some Rubens’ lumpy humans. In the painting, Peter is protesting as Jesus tries to wash his feet. It’s awkward. It takes humility on both parts—for the master becoming the servant and for the follower watching his beloved leader stoop before him. But the awkwardness and the humility is the point. Jesus is leading by intimate example. The disciples are still in their “I don’t get it but I’m trying to” phase. They’re taking it in, even if its message doesn’t hit home until Pentecost. I particularly love that the center of the painting is a candle, a single light, right above the basin.

Next is Pascal Dagnan-Bouveret’s The Last Supper (1896). This one was clearly inspired by da Vinci’s famous piece (the symmetry, the angles). But for me, it’s all about the lighting. How does one express divinity incarnate? How does one show that the bread isn’t just bread, the wine isn’t just wine, that something supernatural is happening at this seemingly normal gathering? With light. Warm, bright, without natural source. It draws the eye and says, “Look here. Here is something important, something good, something unexpected.” And for most of the disciples, they’re looking. But one disciple, though sitting right beside Jesus stares straight ahead, ignoring the brilliance and divinity that’s right there. How can you be so close to God and not see, not believe? It’s a picture of divine warmth and love, yet the sinister betrayal sits there too.

Next is Jacopo Tintoretto’s Last Supper (1594). There is a lot going on here. This isn’t so much a private upper room as much as a banquet hall, with marble floors and high ceilings. The disciples are there, receiving the cup from Jesus, but there’s also several servants going about their business. Jesus has a bright glow around him, and the disciples lesser glows, so you can tell who is part of the meal and who is serving. There are women there! Although they are servants it’s nice seeing them. One is serving food, seemingly oblivious to whatever Jesus is up to; another is intensely watching him over the shoulders of a couple disciples. In the forefront, a woman is washing the dishes while other servants pile the side table with food. Above it all, the hosts of heaven are present. This is the institution of the Eucharist, the first Mass, so it makes sense for the heavenly hosts to be present, as they are at every Mass. They ethereally spin around the hanging oil lamp, seemingly unnoticed by the humans below. The disciples are having their usual reactions and discussions, but the focus isn’t on them. It’s not even on Jesus, really. It’s about these secondary witnesses—the human ones who are just going about their work as the world changes and the angels who have come to be present at such an important moment.

Lastly is Salvador Dali’s The Sacrament of the Last Supper (1955). While I am not a surrealist, there is something about Dali’s religious art that has always captivated me. This isn’t particularly my favorite of his, but there is no doubt that it makes me stop and look. First is the room itself. It’s got a futuristic look to it with wide, angled windows and a low, wide table. But the windows and walls fade away—the room and the outside world blur together. They’re not in Jerusalem but in Catalonia. The disciples are not in their clustered discussions of confusion and amazement; they are all faceless, bowed in prayer. Only Jesus’ face is seen. He is pointing at himself and at the upper torso of a man floating above. I assume this torso is also Christ, though it has no wounds. The arms are spread outward, but not quite high enough to suggest the posture of crucifixion. Rather, I think it’s a statement on the Last Supper itself. The Mass is transcendent; Christ is present at the meal, even if it’s in a supernatural way and less recognizable form than at the Last Supper. Again, while something human is going on below, something heavenly is going on above.