Matthew 19:28; 20:20–28; Mark 10:35–45; Luke 22:24–27
The Way to Glory
Master Mateo
St James, from the Portico of Glory (Portico di Gloria), c.1168–88, Granite, Santa Apostólica y Metropolitana Iglesia Catedral de Santiago de Compostela, Santiago de Compostela; PRISMA ARCHIVO / Alamy Stock Photo
To Sit, One at Your Right Hand
Commentary by Martin Warner
This statue of St James is part of the eleventh-century Portico of Glory in the cathedral dedicated to him, Catedral Basílica de Santiago de Compostela. It is the work of Master Mateo and is remarkable for the astonishing delicacy of its carving in granite. James is situated at the centre of the pillar (trumeau column) underneath Christ seated in Majesty, greeting those who enter. Pilgrims are invited to see themselves as sharing a history with the biblical prophets, evangelists, and the heavenly host who are depicted in stone all around him.
There are two apostles called James. One of them, later known as James the Great, is a son of Zebedee, and the brother of John—traditionally thought to be the author of the Gospel, the Johannine Letters, and Revelation (the book whose vision of heaven the Portico of Glory evokes). The other is James, son of Alpheus, later known as James the Less.
We know more about James the son of Zebedee. He was a fisherman. He and his brother had a nickname: Boanerges (‘sons of thunder’). James offended King Herod (likely Herod Agrippa I) and was the first disciple to be martyred (Acts 12:2). This was his experience of baptism into the eternal life of Jesus Christ (Mark 10:35–45).
Today, he is best known for being the patron saint of pilgrimage. The camino, or pilgrimage road, to Santiago de Compostela is taken by people of all faiths and none. The scallop shell has become his symbol, reminding sea-going pilgrims that he was also a fisherman.
The pilgrims’ destination is the Romanesque cathedral that houses what are traditionally believed to be the Apostle’s relics. But the Portico of Glory allows St James to tell a greater story. In other examples of Romanesque doorways (e.g. Chartres, Autun, Rouen, Reims) the figure on the central pillar is standing. In Compostella, St James is seated, as though a bishop, for whom the chair (cathedra, in Latin) is the emblem of their teaching office in succession to the Apostles.
James is also holding a pilgrim’s staff, symbolic of leading a pilgrim Church, and a scroll which says, Misit me Dominus, ‘the Lord sent me’: to tell us about heaven.
References
Murray, Peter and Linda Murray (eds). 1996. The Oxford Companion to Christian Art and Architecture (Oxford: Oxford University Press), pp. 248–49
Quinten Massys
Triptych with the Family of St Anne, 1509, Oil on oak, 224,5 x 219 cm (central panel), 220 x 92 cm (side panels), Royal Museums of Fine Arts of Belgium, Brussels; Acquired from the Church of Saint-Pierre in Leuven, 1880, Artefact / Alamy Stock Photo
James and John, the Sons of Zebedee
Commentary by Martin Warner
This painting is about family life.
The artist is Quinten Massys. He developed his style in Antwerp, where the school of Rogier van der Weyden introduced an air of ‘southern sophistication’, drawn from the latter’s time working in Rome and evident in the painting’s architectural composition.
There is no interest here in historical reconstruction. Well-established custom permitted the artist to dress the first-century Palestinian family of Jesus Christ in the contemporary fashion of prosperous Antwerp.
The Lutheran New Testament scholar and ecumenist Oscar Cullmann once noted that ‘whenever biographical literature shows gaps, legend generally springs up’ (Elliott 2005: 46).
This ‘holy kinship’ painting is a good example.
It takes its lead from the second-century Gospel of James, also known as the Protoevangelium. This document fills in more details of the story of Mary, the mother of Jesus; her parents (Joachim and Anna); her schooling (in the Temple in Jerusalem); and how Joseph came to be betrothed to her. This material is further amplified by chapter 131 of the thirteenth-century Golden Legend, the inspiration of so much holy kinship iconography.
Seated centrally on a raised bench are Anne, Mary, and the Christ child. The husbands look on, segregated from the holy nursery. Joachim and Joseph stand behind their wives. Next to Joseph is Alphaeus who is married to Mary’s sister, Mary Clopas, and Zebedee, standing next to Joachim, is married to Mary’s other sister, Mary Salome.
Mary Clopas’s children are James the Less, Simon, Thaddeus, and Joseph Barsabbas who was not elected when the Apostles’ vote went to Matthias (Acts 1:23–26). Mary Salome’s two sons are, of course, James and John (Matthew 27:56). It is assumed that it is she who approaches Jesus in Matthew’s version of this encounter (Matthew 20:20–28).
This legend, in which many of the Apostles are Jesus’s cousins, is a strong statement about an authentically human dimension of the incarnation and life in the Church. We belong to a family, with all the rivalry and politics that might entail—like the question, ‘Who is the greatest?’.
References
Elliott, J. K. (ed.). 2005. The Apocryphal New Testament: A Collection of Apocryphal Christian Literature in an English Translation Based on M. R. James (Oxford: Clarendon Press), pp. 48–67
Murray, Peter, and Linda Murry (eds). 1996. The Oxford Companion to Christian Art and Architecture (Oxford: Oxford University Press), pp. 265–66
Salvador Dalí
Christ of St John of the Cross, 1951, Oil on canvas, 238.5 x 148.8 cm, Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum, Glasgow; Purchased, 1952, 2964, ©️ CSG CIC Glasgow Museums Collection / Bridgeman Images
At Your Left, in Your Glory
Commentary by Martin Warner
Salvador Dalí’s Christ of St John of the Cross is one of the most recognizable paintings in the world.
Dalí was an exponent of Surrealism, which might seem more likely to deconstruct, rather than confirm, Christian faith. For example, The Virgin Spanking the Christ Child before Three Witnesses, the work of another surrealist artist, Max Ernst, was thought to be blasphemous.
But a more positive reading of this style surely lends itself to the exploration of faith.
St James the Great, brother of his fellow apostle John the Beloved, found his later vocation in nurturing the faith of pilgrims to a remote corner of the Iberian Peninsula. St John of the Cross (1542–91) was born not so very far away, at Fontiveros.
In 1568, John took the title ‘of the cross’ when he joined a branch of the Carmelite Order founded by St Teresa at Avila. At some point during the 1570s he drew a sketch entitled ‘Christ from above’, which inspired Dalí to produce the work we see here.
Dalí’s composition is Johannine in many ways. It captures the mood of the prologue of John’s Gospel, which begins, ‘In the beginning’. It explores the contrast between light and darkness as a metaphor for creation, time, and eternity. It uses the canvas to exploit the evangelist’s spatial language of ‘above’ and ‘below’.
It also draws attention to the Sea of Galilee where so much of the drama of the gospel is played out. Galilee is where the Gospels of Matthew and Mark locate the discussion between Jesus, James, and John, and James and John’s mother, about the way to glory (Matthew 20:20–28; Mark 10:32–45).
Above all, Dalí presents Jesus in the hour of his glory, when he is lifted up from the earth. And for most of Christian history, St John the beloved disciple has been depicted beside that cross (the cross so vividly imagined by his sixteenth-century namesake), at Jesus’s left-hand side. For in the wake of his mother’s request that he be granted a place at Jesus’s side ‘in his Kingdom’, the Apostle found himself taking up his station at the crucifixion, along with the Blessed Virgin Mary, as Jesus entrusted her to his care.
References
Descharnes, Robert, and Gilles Néret. 2022. Dalí: The Paintings (Cologne: Taschen), pp. 434–76
Master Mateo :
St James, from the Portico of Glory (Portico di Gloria), c.1168–88 , Granite
Quinten Massys :
Triptych with the Family of St Anne, 1509 , Oil on oak
Salvador Dalí :
Christ of St John of the Cross, 1951 , Oil on canvas
They Replied, ‘We Are Able’
Comparative commentary by Martin Warner
Each of these images should disturb us.
They touch on issues of reputation, ambition, and vocation.
The Synoptic Gospels, Matthew, Mark, and Luke, present the request from James and John in different terms.
Mark, generally thought to be the earliest of the Gospels, has the brothers approach Jesus themselves (Mark 10:32–45). This tells us something of the psychology of their nickname, ‘sons of thunder’. It suggests a pair of brothers in the fishing trade who were familiar with survival in a tough, competitive market.
This degree of worldly ambition was perhaps an embarrassment in the post-resurrection leadership of the Church. So, Matthew seems to soften the story to protect their reputation. He claims that it is their mother who demands from Jesus special treatment for her boys (Matthew 20:20–28).
Quinten Massys might have that in mind as he depicts Mary Salome, the wife of Zebedee, looking proudly away from the rest of the family.
The highly conjectural set of family relations that Massys depicts does more than provide a domestic setting for the early formation of James and John. This intergenerational group of relatives prompts attention to the positive qualities of childlikeness and the requirements of care for the vulnerable. While calling his disciples to be ‘like little children’ (Matthew 18:3), Jesus also calls them to take on a solemn duty of care for such ‘little ones’, making clear that it is one of the most serious of their forms of service to others (v.6).
Massys presents a clearly demarcated zone of safety for the children, which the women control. Churches, along with many other public institutions, are today facing challenges about their protection of the young, and confronting failures in how well they have ensured it. Perhaps Mary Salome’s boldness in approaching Jesus with a request others might have been embarrassed by has something valuable to offer the contemporary Church. Courageously, she asks questions that others suppress.
Vocational demands are placed before us even more starkly in Luke’s Gospel, which in its account of the Last Supper includes Jesus’s teaching about greatness and service. ‘I am among you as one who serves’, he says, in the context of serving at the table of his final Passover meal (Luke 22:24–27).
In this way, Luke imaginatively plays on a phrase in Mark and Matthew, when Jesus interrogates the Zebedee brothers, asking if they can drink from the same cup that he will drink from. Luke defines that cup as the fruit of the vine that will be the blood of the new covenant (Luke 22:20).
The watchful, silent James the Great who sits at the pillar welcoming pilgrims to Catedral Basílica de Santiago de Compostela, and to a foretaste of the feast of the kingdom of God, is himself a witness to the power of the blood of the new covenant.
In Jerusalem, the Armenian Church continues to celebrate the sacraments of the new covenant on the site (now incorporated in their Cathedral of the ‘St Jameses’) where, by tradition, James was beheaded by King Herod (likely Herod Agrippa I). As a Church and as a people, the Armenians have, like James, known terrible persecution. Those training for ordination in their seminary in the holy city know that the cost of martyrdom is a living reality in their vocation.
The serenity of the statue of James at Compostela draws from the silent music of the Portico of Glory. This granite depiction of heaven, at the centre of which his Lord shows the signs of his passion, is replete with musicians and their instruments. The songs of praise and victory, which John the Seer—traditionally believed to be the very same John who was James’s brother—so vividly records for us (Revelation 4:8,11; 5:9–13), are an affirmation that the great work of service into which Jesus summons his followers is nothing less than the vindication of God’s love in the face of all that is destructive, transient, and evil.
Salvador Dalí’s Surrealism invites wider reflection on the role of the absurd in twentieth-century art and literature. Claims about faith’s absurdity are not necessarily negative. Embracing the absurd may open vertiginous and valuable perspectives unlike those delivered by our ordinary methods of rational enquiry.
In his 1995 novel Therapy, British writer David Lodge describes the experience of a depressed middle-aged sitcom writer, Laurence Passmore, while a pilgrim to James’s shrine, exploring in the process the themes of seeing and believing that are so central to the Gospel of John.
Passmore declares that a pilgrimage is ‘a leap into the absurd, in Kierkegaard’s sense’ (Lodge 1995: 304–05). Yet it turns out to be the therapy that he needs.
Zebedee’s two sons had likewise to undergo the radical transformation of their expectations and outlook. In Lodge’s words, they ‘chose to believe without rational compulsion’. Therein lay their way to glory.
References
The Catedral de Santiago Foundation. n.d. The Portico of Glory: Master Mateo’s Masterpiece, available at https://artsandculture.google.com/story/the-portico-of-glory-master-mateo-s-masterpiece-cathedral-of-santiago-de-compostela/hQUhSvsh2im5Lg?hl=en [accessed 16 June 2025]
Lodge, David. 1995. Therapy (London: Secker & Warburg), pp. 304–05
Commentaries by Martin Warner