John’s distinctive portrayal of Christ’s death and its aftermath is rich and multilayered, appropriate for a book known, since the second century, as ‘the spiritual Gospel’. The Cross is a symbol, not of shame, but of honour, marking the hour when the Son of Man is glorified. It is a profound moment of revelation, which extends to the post-mortem action of a Roman soldier, the practice of breaking the victim’s legs being superfluous in Jesus’s case. The soldier’s piercing of the dead Christ fulfils ancient scriptures, regarding both the Passover lamb (Exodus 12:10, 46; see also, Psalm 34:20–21) and Zechariah’s pierced one (Zechariah 12:10). Thus, both the Law and the prophets speak eloquently of Christ’s fate. Indeed, this action is so significant that an eye-witness—whether the soldier who wielded the lance (John 19:34) or the Beloved Disciple standing at the foot of the cross (see John 21:24)—testifies to its veracity.

No single image can capture the theological depth of this moment in John. Like many of his peers, the Master of the Straus Madonna offers a tranquil scene for Christian contemplation, evoking the silence after death has occurred. The viewer’s gaze falls on the central figure of Christ, serene and beautiful in death, framed by miniature scenes from the Passion story and instruments of that Passion. Christ’s mother Mary and Mary Magdalene set the tone, seated in contemplative mode on either side, kissing his wounded hands. They invite the faithful to wait awhile, meditating on each of the steps that brought their Saviour to this point.

Giovanni Mauro della Rovere draws out attention to the benefits of Christ’s Passion and death, symbolized by the blood and water flowing from his wounded body. Catholic Christians in early-seventeenth-century Italy would need no explanation of what Giovanni Mauro depicts: the fresco presents visually the blood of the Eucharist and the water of baptism, both making eternal life accessible to the believer in the here-and-now. Indeed, the fountain on which Christ stands even resembles a baptismal font. And if the near-naked body recalls humanity’s first parent, Adam, that too is appropriate. For the word John uses for Christ’s pierced side (Greek pleura) can also mean a ‘rib’, recalling Genesis 2:21–23. The death of Christ is the beginning of a new creation. Giovanni Mauro thus brings John’s Gospel into dialogue with St Paul: ‘For as in Adam all die, so also in Christ shall all be made alive’ (1 Corinthians 15:22).

Finally, the Santa Prassede mosaic takes us beyond the hill of Calvary to its cosmic consequences. The Lamb is now enthroned in heaven, having been exalted to the Father’s right hand. The image combines John’s Passion account with Revelation’s scene of the heavenly throne room. Beneath the Lamb is the scroll with seven seals, containing God’s plan for salvation, which Christ the victorious Lamb is now worthy to open and put into effect (Revelation 5:9). Yet, lest we forget the cost of this victory, the mosaicist has depicted the heavenly throne backless, resembling less a seat than an altar. The cross on which the Lamb dies is a place of sacrifice. The viewer can almost hear the words of the Baptist, spoken towards the beginning of John’s Gospel: ‘Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world’ (John 1:29; 36).

In both the Gospel and the Apocalypse, the death of Jesus is a moment of profound revelation which shakes the very core of the cosmos. It reveals many things simultaneously. The new Adam ushers in a new creation. Christ our mother gives her life that her children might live. The Man of Sorrows, lifted up on the cross, manifests divine glory. A Lamb is revealed as slain ‘from the foundation of the world’ (Revelation 13:8).

References:

Moloney, Francis J. 1998. The Gospel of John, Sacra Pagina 4 (Collegeville: Michael Glazier)

Thunø, Erik. 2015. The Apse Mosaic in Early Medieval Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press)