Signs of faith: hidden meaning in the creche.

Whatever their size, medium, or style, the figures in the creche are a visual summary of the whole Christmas drama. The sight of the Holy Family and the "friendly beasts," companioned by the shepherds, magi, and angels is all the Christian needs to recall the Gospel narrative in its entirety.

Apocryphal gospels

But over the long history of Nativity iconography, certain images have arisen from sources which may be a mystery to Christians who are familiar only with the Gospels of Matthew and Luke. These sources are called the "apocryphal gospels"--texts dating from as far back as 150 A.D., but which the Church long ago concluded could not be the inspired Word of God. The work "apocryphal" means "hidden," and indeed the Church did its best to banish the non-canonical narratives from public consciousness. But they proved to be too deeply embedded in the popular imagination.

The apocryphal gospels grew out of the ordinary Christian's desire to fill in the gaps in the Gospel stories. Some texts supplied background on the Blessed Virgin--legendary material which is still so much a part of our tradition that we may not realize that it has no scriptural foundation, such as the names of Mary's parents or her presentation in the temple. Other "gospels" concocted fantastical stories of Jesus' childhood, some of them recounting miracles which cross the line into magic tricks. Much of this material seems downright peculiar to us now, but its influence on the cultural heritage of Christendom cannot be overstated.

The earliest Christian art was idealized and abstractly theological, as, for example, Byzantine icons or Carolingian sculpture. But by the high Middle Ages religious art of all kinds became much more detailed and realistic, and had incorportated as much of the apocryphal narrative that it was no longer distinguishable from the spare story lines of scripture. The publication of the Golden Legend (ca. 1260) was instrumental in the popularization of apocryphal tales. Written in Latin by a Genoese Dominican named Jacobus de Voraigne, the Golden Legend is a compilation of all wellknown "histories" of the most important saints and feast days, including Christmas. It began as a devotional and homiletic aid for priests, but within the next two centuries it was translated into every Western European language and printed in hundreds of editions, coming second only to the Bible as popular reading material.

St. Joseph

Some of the most interesting legend-based artistic images involve St. Joseph. The canonical Gospels tell us little about Jesus' foster-father, yet we have come to accept certain images of him as normative. When did we begin to conceive of him as the white-haired old man in the creche scenes? From scripture it seems clear that Joseph died before Jesus began His public life, which hints at his being older than Mary. The apocryphal texts take this hint and fly with it: they explain cryptic references to the "brothers of Jesus" by supplying Joseph with one or more deceased wives by whom he had other sons.

Thus he is an old widower when he is chosen to be Mary's husband through a miraculous sign. Feeling foolish, he submits grudgingly to this May-December pairing. He then goes on a journey of many months, and is enraged to discover his hugely pregnant virgin bride upon his return. This baffled and humiliated figure is the subject of numerous medieval plays and Christmas carols.

When these tales work their way into iconography, we find Joseph on the periphery of the nativity scene, so marginalised that he is often facing away from it. Not only is he elderly, but he can appear sour-faced and completely detached from the Incarnational miracle. Sometimes he is shown to be asleep, or he hides his face altogether. This is the apocryphal Joseph, embarassed and overwhelmed by events. But why do the artists choose to show this version of him at the Nativity, by which time he understood his role in the coming of the Messiah?

Teaching about Christ

The answer is that, even while they are depicting a naturalistic scene, the artists are teaching Christology. This Joseph proclaims the doctrines of virgin birth and divine paternity. His advanced age helps the viewer to believe that Mary's husband could live with her as provider and protector without violtating her virginity. His physical and emotional distance from the joyous scene signals his acknowledgement that he has played no part in the paternity of this child. This is not his moment--the creche must never be mistaken for a conventional family portrait.

Another example of a legend used to illustrate an important doctrine can be found in Nativity scenes which include extra female figures identified as midwives. Accoring to the apocryphal Proto-Evangelium of James, Joseph sends for two midwives, who have somehow heard about Mary's virginity. They witness the miraculous birth, but one of them (called Salome) is sceptical about Mary's virginity being intact, and decides to examine her. This sacrilegious act is punished when her hand suddenly withers away. Salome immediately repents, and her hand is restored to health when she touches the infant Jesus.

Artistic representation of this episode is rare, and can be so subtle that it goes unnoticed. In an early 15th-century Flemish Nativity by Robert Campin, the exquisitely dressed woman on the right is Salome, showing her cured right hand as she looks outward with an injured expression. The swirling banners tell the story: "A virgin has borne a son"--"I will believe when it has been proven"--"Touch the child and be healed." The midwife story is a bizarre fabrication, but its purpose is entirely orthodox: to reinforce the absolute truth of Mary's perpetual virginity.

The image of Joseph in the Campin painting is more what we would expect of him, the fond protector watching the child with care. But he still declares his Christological distance from the scene. He holds a lighted candle but shields the flame with his hand so as to diminish the light that falls on the Christ Child. This is a motif repeated in many medieval Nativity paintings, especially of the Flemish school. It is a sign of humility, in that Joseph's light can add nothing to the brilliance of the infant who is the Light of the World.

It is worth remembering, in the face of controversies over books and films which "fictionalize" the Gospels, that the desire to speculate on the events and personalities of Jesus' earthly life is a very natural one, with a long and persistent history in the Church. But the difference between the apocrypha which inspired centuries of Christian art, music, and drama, and the outrageous distortions found in such modern works as the The Last Temptation of Christ, is that of motive. Our Christian ancestors, the makers and cherishers of creative legend and imagery, thirsted to know the true Christ who was their God and their fellow man. The modern iconoclasts want a false Messiah, recreated in their own image.

Deciphering the layers of symbolism in the treasury of Christian iconography is much more than an academic exercise. It unites us with the countless generations of believers who found meaning in everything that passed within their field of vision. This millennium is closing in three aberrant decades in which Catholics have been starved for both the concrete imagery of our sacred language and the iconographical architecture of our sacred spaces. May we embrace the Christmas season as an opportunity to contemplate its traditional imagery with keener eyes, and with a sense of gratitude for the creative faith that expressed itself in such a rich artistic legacy.

Claudia Sommers writes on faith, art and culture from Toronto, ON.