In nature, too, there are strange couplings, some parasitic and others almost poetic, in what is called mutualism in nature. Think of clown fish, who feed and in return receive protection from an otherwise poisonous anemone, or oxpeckers and large mammals such as zebras and rhinos. Nature documentaries show the small birds feeding off the larger creatures but it’s thought the small birds also function as early warning systems detecting approaching predators, especially for near-sighted rhinos.
I thought of this in relation to a minor obsession of mine, which is studying the correspondence between saints and their associated symbols: St Francis of Assisi is an obvious example, depicted, always, surrounded by animals, a testament to his respect and care for the natural world. For Pope Francis, his namesake is the true defender of an integral ecology, one who was said to preach even to the creatures of the earth.
Less well known, but just as powerful, is St. Genevieve, depicted with a coin around her neck but more importantly a lit candle, which the devil is said to try to extinguish. St. Genevieve is protected in her quest to preserve the flame by an assortment of angels. She is also associated with Paris and will often appear in connection with that city. Joan of Arc is perhaps even better known, also inextricably linked to France, and always depicted in her armor or with her sword, a youthful defender of the faith.
As a youngster I was always fascinated by a couple of more disturbing pairings: One was an image of St. Lucy, often shown carrying her eyeballs on a platter. One especially peculiar depiction I came across had her holding a chalice filled with eyeballs. I was not surprised to discover that she was considered the patron saint of the blind, and that she had had her eyes gouged out, or tore them out herself, in the course of her martyrdom. Stranger still was St. Agatha, holding her breasts on a platter. Both women were maimed while resisting unholy alliances and were said to be surrounded or healed by angels for their purity. Still, as a young kid I remember feeling a wee bit queasy when I tumbled across the images in a book on saints. When I asked my father about it the best he could do was to say, ‘it’s a metaphor’, followed helpfully by ‘why don’t you play outside!’ Such was life in the days before Google.
During a recent renovation to the façade of one of the St. Mark’s College buildings in Vancouver, we decided to restore the beautiful St. Mark’s sculpture that adorns one of the exterior entry ways. Shaped out of cast iron, it features the familiar figure of St. Mark’s and the iconic winged lion that almost always accompanies depictions of the saint. Recently a colleague suggested researching why the lion is associated with St. Mark’s, and it occurred to me that I had never given it a second thought.
A quick review suggests that one explanation comes from a dream Mark had while taking refuge from a severe storm. In his dream, Mark is said to have been visited by an angel in the form of a winged lion. Tellingly, the dream occurs in Venice, itself famous for its lions. According to legend the winged lion proclaims, in Latin, ‘Pax tibi Marce Evangelista meus, hic requiescet corpus tuum.’ To the few among us who don’t speak Latin, that translates as ‘Peace to you, Mark, my Evangelist.’
The truth is, whether in the natural or the spiritual world, it is not uncommon to find pairings and images that resonate and define, contextualize or celebrate, the essence of who we are, our need for interconnections and interdependencies, or simply our ties and values to those we love. This matters, because as Matthew tells us, ‘you will know them by their fruits’ — that is, by their deeds, actions and values. That’s a logo I’m happy to stand behind.