Today is the feast of St John the Evangelist, whose name I bear as my second Christian name -- he was my parents' favourite apostle, and I agree with them. (So, apparently, did the Lord Himself.) I like this painting by the distinctly peculiar seventeenth-century Florentine Francesco Furini, because it shows John as a young man, with a kind of vivacious sensitivity that makes one realize why he was loved. His Gospel is full of poetry. He was the only apostle under the Cross, and he was the one who cared for Lady Mary in her old age. He ran to the Tomb on Easter morning, and saw, and believed. Just like that. We, of course, are asked to believe without having seen; but he knew that we would be, and did a lot of writing in his old age to help us with it. Thank you, St John.
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