This splendid painting, The Calling of St. Matthew, was produced in 1599 for the Contarelli chapel of the church of Saint Louis of the French in Rome by Michelangelo Merisi, Caravaggio. Caravaggio’s life has attracted a great deal of attention. He was a mercurial, hot tempered, violent commoner, guilty of at least one murder and frequent brawls in brothels and taverns. Undisciplined lust and anger proved to be his undoing, and he died at 38 years of age in 1610 with a palpable sigh of relief and little attention from the aesthetic elite until the twentieth century. But in our day Caravaggio has become the most studied and admired painter in history, having eclipsed Rembrandt in the volume of scholarship produced about his body of work. The four-hundredth anniversary of his death was celebrated last year to a torrent of critical assessment and mobbed showings of his works at major museums in Europe and the USA.

On display in The Calling of St. Matthew are Caravaggio’s trade mark aesthetic elements, the amazing realism of the human forms drawn often from live models without sketches and, especially, the dramatic use of light and darkness that unites the work. Here light has broken into the darkened counting house of Matthew and his associates, to whom our eyes are initially drawn. The five men are seated around the counting house table, and the two on the left still have not lifted their eyes from the money on the table. All five are well dressed, obviously made wealthy by their tax collections. One is armed with a sword, presumably to protect their ill-gotten gain. This dark place is a temple to Mammon, and the god has rewarded his devoted followers well.

Where exactly this burst of light comes from is not clear. Certainly it does not come from the grimy window above the men. There is no light there. As our eyes move toward the source of the light we are led to Jesus (note the hallo, this is certainly not photo-realism, despite the amazingly realistic depiction of the human forms) and a disciple, still shrouded in the darkness, but clearly the source of this burst of illumination shining into a very dark place. Their clothing is quite ordinary and they are both barefooted, standing in marked contrast to the men around the table.

Matthew and the two younger men look up, wide-eyed in amazement. Matthew gestures to the standing figure beside him as if to say, “Not me. You must mean him.” But no, the Master, full of the light of grace and spiritual power, issues his call, “Follow me.” And we know not only from the Biblical story (see Matthew 9: 9 – 13) but from the very way Caravaggio has presented this scene at this dramatic moment of action that Matthew will get up and follow him.

Two other details of Caravaggio’s depiction of this scene call out for at least brief comment. Notice first the shape of Jesus’ hand as he extends it toward Matthew in extending his gracious call. The light illumines Jesus’ hand more than his face, and our eye is drawn to it at the very center of the painting. Carravaggio here lifts an image from another Michelangelo, from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel where God creates Adam by extending his hand to the new formed man. Jesus exercises the power of the Creator in his call. He liberates Matthew from bondage to Mammon to the glorious liberty of discipleship to himself. This is a picture not just of calling, but of effective calling in the power of the grace of God.

Above Jesus’ outstretched hand in the opaque window is the sign of the cross. Here Caravaggio deepens the visual theme of grace coming to a wealthy sinner who lives in bondage to his achievements. Most especially successful and accomplished sinners need God’s disturbing, shocking ray of light to burst upon them. And that will happen by way of the cross of Jesus and under its sign. Matthew will take up his cross and follow the Master, who is on his way to the cross.

So we find visually the basic elements of the Biblical theology of calling. Jesus calls us as an expression of the glorious grace of our Creator. That call finds us in our ordinary lives, lives that in one way or another are in bondage and darkness. That call illuminates and scatters the darkness and gives us eyes, wide-eyed with amazement, to see. That call is powerful and effective; it liberates us from our bondage so that we can arise and follow him. In these truths is cause for great joy and rich thanksgiving.

By the same token Caravaggio also presents us visually with a profound Lenten challenge. The challenge might be expressed in two questions:

*Do you believe that Jesus still calls unlikely, accomplished men and women in our world, yes, in our spiritually jaded academic world, with the same grace and power? *Does Jesus’ call trump your to do list and even your perception of your work, career, and vocation?

His call is still heard at counting tables, and laboratories, and seminar rooms, and lecture halls, and professional conferences. Thank you, Michelangelo Merisi, for this luminous reminder.

Thomas Trevethan is a veteran InterVarsity staff worker who has served at the University of Michigan for many years, now working with faculty on that campus. He is one of InterVarsity’s most gifted Bible expositors and has also authored the books The Beauty of God’s Holiness (InterVarsity Press) and Our Joyful Confidence: The Lordship of Jesus in Colossians (DILL Press). Tom holds an M.A. from Trinity Evangelical Divinity School. He and his wife Barb live in Ann Arbor.

Photo courtesy: Wikipedia File