"The Christ"

I first saw the painting called The Christ on the cover of a book in December 1984. The book had been suggested to me by a friend. It was called Forgiveness and Jesus and had been written by Course in Miracles scholar Kenneth Wapnick. I happened to see it while browsing in a neighborhood bookstore near Southern Methodist University in Dallas. I bought it out of idle curiosity and began reading it at once, keeping it on my bedside table. 

In the introduction Wapnick described the history of the painting. A color slide had been given to him by a professor, Dr. Martin Marchetta, and he had been so inspired that he chose it for the cover of his book. The original work could not be found.

I studied the picture. It was arresting. Suddenly - for the first time in my life - I felt as though I was looking at the man called Jesus. He was a real person! Energy and warmth flowed from the painting, as if it were alive. Jesus seemed to be present- breathing, immediate and intimate. The face I saw was tender, yet possessed great strength. Strangely, to me there was an unfinished "feel" about the image, yet it also seemed solid and complete, with nothing left out, a whole. I dimly recognized the artist's name, Howard Chandler Christy, but couldn't remember why or where I'd heard of him.

Weeks passed. I enjoyed Wapnick's book and read from it most evenings. I was also studying the Course in Miracles. The Course has been described as a psycho-spiritual plan, a path to inner peace. It is a simple technique: a lesson-a-day is provided for one year.

Three friends had told me about the Course. One had studied it consistently, one was in her first year of study, and one wished to embark on it. I decided to explore my friends' suggestion that I study it too. It seemed that I was meeting a mention of it at every turn.

Rather sheepishly I bought the three-volume set some days later. I had little experience with "New Age" thinking, being rather strictly raised in a traditional Protestant denomination. I felt distrustful of it. And here was the set of books I wanted to buy smack in the middle of the New Age section. I walked down the aisle almost furtively and paid for the books as quickly as I could, hoping no one I knew would see me.

I was half-skeptical and half-afraid to open the books at all. But I decided to peek at the thinnest volume of the three, which was titled, The Teacher's Manual, thinking, "Oh, well, why not!" I let the book fall open at its own will, shut my eyes, and placed a fingertip somewhere on the page.

"If there is some message here for me, then let me find it - or not," I whispered. 

I began to read, "Look up and see His Word among the stars, where he has set your name along with His. Look up and find your certain destiny the world would hide but God would have you see..."

Suddenly a picture flashed across the page - a scene from childhood I hadn't thought about in a long time. My eyes blurred, tears came quickly. I had wondered for years at the meaning of the most vivid spiritual experience I had ever had. Here were the words printed out before me describing what I had seen then, in the night sky, spelled out by stars: J-E-S-U-S.

I was six years old at the time, just beginning to read, but that name I knew from Bible story books and Sunday School lessons. Gradually, the entire scene played out before me. I saw myself, wearing a robe and ready for bed, sitting by myself on the  curb in front of our house. I don't know why I went outside. I remember how quiet it seemed, looking up at the dark night sky filled with stars. I saw the Milky Way. 

Then I watched in fascination as the largest stars shifted and moved around to print out in huge letters the name Jesus. The word took up almost the entire sky. I wasn't afraid. I simply sat and stared. 

I have no idea how long I was there. Abruptly, as though waking up from a dream, I sensed my mother bending over me, shaking me by both shoulders. She looked frightened. "What's wrong? What is it? Wake up," she kept saying. I tried to explain that I hadn't heard her calling to me at all. Yet I remember thinking even then, as strange as it was, that I would never forget it. Somehow, even though I didn't understand what had happened, I knew it had been a gift. I never spoke of it again.

I thought about it frequently, however, then and as I grew older. But slowly, the memory faded, re-emerging only rarely throughout my adult life. Until now.

At this same time, I began to dream of  The Christ painting while I slept and to think about it during the day. I was intrigued and longed to see the original.

I looked for information on Christy, the artist. I had almost no luck. The more avenues I tried, the less I discovered. It seemed that little had been written about him, other than a few sparse biographical notes. Occasionally I found a brief reference to his work or, even more rarely, a reproduction of a painting. I was frustrated, and yet I couldn't stop searching.

Several months passed. The face of Christ and the need to find out more about the artist stayed with me. In fact, it was growing into a mild obsession. I visited libraries, book stores, art galleries, and magazine stands. After one particularly disappointing day, I was ready to give up. I didn't understand why I felt so compelled to learn something about Christy, and I was angry, disappointed and confused because I had failed.

Tiredly, I wrote the name "Christy" on a piece of paper, put it in my billfold, and asked for help. "If I'm supposed to find this painting, then please do this for me," I prayed. Immediately, I felt relieved. The belief, the certainty that I would be successful surprised me with its immediacy. I relaxed at once and the nagging sense of urgency disappeared.  

At the same time, I was reading the Course in Miracles textbook as the best I could, though it was often difficult to understand. I began to experience profound discomfort as old ideas, rooted in years of tradition and habit, began to crumble and fall away. 

It was an "up and down" time. Yet, despite the emotional upheaval, I continued to read and pursue this Course. A place deep within me, or a part of myself, had begun to open. I knew there was no turning back. 

The machinery of this process moved at its own pace. My life continued as before, ebbing and flowing in its own rhythm. My mind and heart were centered on a continuing struggle to keep afloat one personal crisis after another.

I could not hide from the fact that the structure of my life was breaking apart. I had been married for almost thirty years. I was fifty years old. A  divorce and its consequences seemed unthinkable, yet its inevitability became clearer each day. 

I tried to ride the waves of change the best I could. My three children were caught up in challenges of their own. I found it hard not to carry their burdens as well. I was losing my old identity. At the same time, the emptiness created by the loss of old ideas and familiar comforts gave space to new ways of experiencing. I began to turn to a part of myself I had not been in touch  with. Although it was a frightening time, it was also, occasionally and surprisingly, an exhilarating one. I prayed deeply for a guide, a mentor or teacher - someone I might  turn to with questions I had never  before asked. 

My "faith" had been patterned in traditional religion. I was born to strong Methodist parents, a mother and father whose lives were anchored in "the church." I not only accepted, but grew to depend on this structure. It was a way of life that worked in my world. When there were questions or fears, I stoutly forced them out of my mind. Now these long pushed-under doubles surfaced, pleading for not only attention, but my own survival. As one cherished concept after another fell away, the "I" I had known was also dying. Into this void came the gift of what I began to call "The Christy Quest."

It brought with it a refreshing sense of adventure, giving my torn mind something to cling to. I eagerly grasped this "life preserver" in waters of grief. When I focused on the magic of the search, I could sense, even in a physical way, a warmth of healing, as if to say, "There is more." Hope, I suppose, as Emily Dickinson's timid bird, alit on my shoulder. 

In the midst of this turmoil, we went on a ski trip to Deer Valley, Utah - my husband, children and I. It was a particularly difficult time. The challenge of continuing a painful marriage was often overwhelming. I was tired, frightened, and struggling for guidance, for a solution, an "answer." Sleep was difficult and fitful. There were dreams, snatches of pictures and images throughout the nights. 

I awoke one such morning, knowing that something had printed out in my mind, a piece of information. I lay still, trying to remember whatever dream had presented itself. One word appeared. Simultaneously I both saw it and heard it. The word (or name, as I later realized ) was "Gamaliel." It rang a tiny note in my mind, but there the identity ceased. I knew it must be important, as it had been so clear. Surprisingly, I felt calmer and more refreshed than I had in weeks. I decided to be as open-minded as possible, allowing myself to expect a definition or an explanation and then to believe in it.

"Gamaliel." Could it be a Biblical name: I found a Gideon Bible in the bedside table, thumbed through it, and finally hit upon an excerpt from Acts regarding Paul's teacher, the respected Pharisee, Gamaliel. I couldn't imagine how any part of this passage related to my circumstances, and yet I knew heartwise that a key for me lay in the words. And by now I knew that in time I would discover whatever message the name implied. I waited and I trusted.

Early in my search for Christy, I had explored the standard reference books on the shelves at home. The first and most obvious was the Columbia Encyclopedia. I turned to C-H-R-I-S-T-Y and found, not Howard Chandler, but Sir James Barrie, the name ending not in "y" but in "ie."

This energetic Englishman had founded what is now the famous auction house, known worldwide as Christie's. I was disappointed to find nothing about my new artist-friend, but became interested in the history of Sir James' venerable business. I had been to London several times and had passed the impressive, stately doors of Christie's, wanting to walk inside. I envisioned the display of magnificent antiques laid out  in British splendor, room after room of them. I knew there were branches of Christie's in many cities, one of which was New York. Perhaps one day I might visit it. An enticing idea.

This was pure serendipity - I had looked for one name and had found another. I knew there must be some connection, or more correctly, I sensed it. I anticipated that another clue was coming.

I had not long to wait. My husband came home from work that evening, smiling, with an invitation which had arrived earlier in the day. The manager of the New York branch of Christie's would be in Dallas the next day and we, among others, were asked to attend a welcoming dinner for him. Did I want to go? I felt a surge of joy and gratitude.

Throughout the next day I was nervous and anxious, but happy. The hours dragged until eight o'clock. 

At last, all were gathered and the guest of honor arrived. Christopher Burge was tall and slim, erudite and very English, charming and warm. He moved from group to group easily, chatting and chuckling. He was a young man, yet possessed mature confidence and a seasoned wit. Soon we moved to our tables, guided by the arrangement of placecards.

I was thrilled to see my name next to his. During the meal, he spoke of his life in England, and the challenges and adjustments of his move to New York. There were queries from all, and he graciously answered each one. At the first opportunity, I asked him if he'd heard of an American artist named Howard Chand - 

Before I could finish the name he grinned and said, "Christy, of course. We have auctioned many of his paintings."

I explained my growing fascination with the artist. Christopher seemed genuinely interested and offered to help. He told me that catalogs, books, and prints were available and he would send more information when he returned to New York. He also invited me to tour the Christie galleries.

The evening ended too quickly, at least for me. As I thanked Christopher for his help, he said, "You must go to a wonderful restaurant when you're in town. It's my favorite in New York. The walls are covered with Christy paintings, beautiful nude figures. It is called the Cafe des Artistes." 

And so, for the first time, I heard the name of a place that would impact my life dramatically. Without realizing it, I had taken another step on my journey: #1 W. 67th St., New York City. The Hotel des Artistes.

Web Site Design and Hosting by Web Delight, Inc.