A classic theme in the narration of the apparitions: the Three Marys.
This detail of a painting in the Maestà by Duccio, mentioned in an earlier entry, seems to have captured the gesture of serene surprise at the angel’s announcement in the fictional tale that the Gospel of Matthew sold us. In the hands of these pious women we see the knobs of the balm with which they were preparing to anoint the body of the crucified Jew.
In previous entries of Christian art we have seen how literary fiction was growing within the New Testament itself; how, from St. Paul who did not mention the empty tomb in his epistles (the oldest texts of the New Testament), the evangelist Mark did mention it but only with a ‘young man’. Matthew, who wrote after Mark, used the latter’s story and, in his own literary fiction, transfigured the young man into an ‘angel’. Luke and John, who knew Matthew’s text, added another angel to their gospels.
This is how the four gospels were created, each late gospel making the miracle bigger. But the story of how fiction grew does not end in the New Testament. Just as the so-called apocryphal gospels devised additional stories that do not appear in the so-called canonical gospels (e.g., passages from the childhood of Jesus), the popular imagery would invent stories that do not even appear in the apocrypha.
For example, the gospels do not tell that the risen Jesus appeared to his mother. But artists and Christian piety could not help imagining the encounter. This can be seen in Appearance of the Risen Christ to the Virgin (1515, above), a work by Hernando Yáñez de la Adelina, a Spanish Renaissance painter and introducer of the Italian quattrocentist formulas in Valencia and Castile.
The multiple appearances of Jesus to his people after the resurrection appear treated by the hand of Duccio di Buoninsegna in his Maestà of the Cathedral of Siena.
When Duccio, who was born in the 13th century, painted The Incredulity of Thomas credulity reigned all over medieval Europe. It was inconceivable to the European mentality that all of the gospel passages that can be seen in the Maestà paintings originated in literary fiction out of the pen of Semitic writers of the late first century. The grip that the Roman Catholic Church had over the European mind was absolute.
Next to the already empty tomb, this Italian work by Andrea Orcagna (1370, preserved in the National Gallery of London) shows a dialogue between a couple of angels and the three Marys.
In the earliest gospel, Mark (16:5) describes that the women enter the tomb and meet ‘one young man’.
A later evangelist, Matthew (28:2), who used Mark’s gospel, embellished Mark’s literary fiction a little further. He changed the ‘one young man’ to an ‘angel’ that arrives during an earthquake and rolls the stone away.
Luke and John, who wrote their gospels even after Matthew, add another angel to the story that greet the women. So there are two angels now, like the blond ones represented by the delicate paintbrush of Orcagna. (I really love how medieval painters used the pink colour…)
For Christians, the empty tomb is the great proof that the Jew they worship had risen. In this detail from The Polyptych of the Misericordia that a disciple of Piero della Francesca painted in the 15th century, the women ‘prove the truth’ of the central miracle in Christendom.
Today’s Christians do not seem bothered by the fact that the oldest texts of the New Testament, seven Pauline epistles, do not mention the empty tomb at all. Obviously, the story was invented after Paul by the gospel authors.
With the characteristic symmetry of the Renaissance, Mantegna composed this Resurrection in which the resurrected Jew is the luminous axis of the scene (see the complete painting: here), surrounded by the heads of red angels on his right and white angels on his left.
Always keep in mind that the doctrine of the Resurrection was plagiarised by the Jews who originated the Christian sect. They simply used the story of the founding hero-God of the Romans: Romulus. The idea of those who wrote the New Testament was simply to use the mythological biography of the white God to convince the Romans to better worship the god of the Jews.
The parallels between the old Romulus and the new Jesus invented by the rabbis are so obvious that a few are worth mentioning: Both are sons of God; their deaths are accompanied by prodigies and the land is covered in darkness; both corpses go missing; both receive a new immortal body superior to the one they had; their resurrected bodies had on occasion a bright and shining appearance; after their resurrection they meet with a follower on a road from the city; a speech is given from a high place prior to the ‘translation to heaven’; there is a ‘great commission’ or instruction to future followers; they physically ascend to heaven and, finally, they are taken up into a cloud.
Every single Westerner has heard the story that these rabbis concocted about Jesus. But who knows the original legend, that of the Aryan hero-God Romulus?
Judea’s victory over Rome is complete even among those racially conscious Christians who mistakenly fancy themselves as anti-Semites.
Every moment of the gospels on the Passion has been represented ad infinitum and ad nauseam throughout centuries in Christian iconography, which has obviously induced guilt among the white man. (The hypothetical six million Jews killed by evil Germans are nothing more than the secularised version of the Jew killed by evil Romans.) One of these iconographic moments is the issue of descent from the cross and the contemplation of the dead Jew, as in this representation by the German Renaissance artist Albrecht Dürer, Glimm Lamentation, an oil-on-panel painting of the year 1500:
Don’t miss the couple of pious little blond children below the figure of dead Jew.
Speaking of inducing guilt, in the Confiteor what bothered me most when I used to go to the masses was the passage mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa (‘through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault’). In the Catholic masses the faithful have to practice three blows to their chests while saying such words, every Sunday and throughout their lives. The Confiteor is so obviously a trick to induce guilt that it is worth quoting:
I confess to god almighty [i.e., the god of the Jews], before the whole company of heaven, and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned in thought, word, and deed; in what I have done and in what I have failed to do, by my fault, by my fault, by my most grievous fault; wherefore I pray god almighty [the god of the Jews] to have mercy on me, forgive me all my sins, and bring me to everlasting life. Amen.
You can see how the Judeo-Christian trick is detected when changing capital letters to small letters (‘god almighty’) and adding the proper brackets. If we now compare this religion originated by rabbis for us gentiles with the healthy Aryan religion of the Greco-Romans (see e.g., my other post today) the whole point of this site will be taken.
Flemish painters cultivated the theme of the Pietà with singular devotion. Mary’s group cries the dead Jew, as does the apostle John in this painting of Hans Memling in the Royal Chapel of Granada. (In my book with large illustrations where details can be appreciated, the tears are visible.) Memling also painted white people in hell, as in Last Judgement (oil on wood, 1466-1473) and Triptych of Earthly Vanity (oil on oak panel, 1485).
History has enormous inertia. What the vast majority of racially conscious whites have not seen is that, a doctrine that induces infinite guilt among whites like the Christian, leaves a huge mark once all of this crying before the corpse of a dead Jew is overcome by secularism.
It is no coincidence that the nation most dedicated to protecting Jews and defaming the memory of racially awakened Germany has been the nation that, full of guilt and full of good Christians, had waged an anti-white war in the 1860s as so many times Robert Morgan has discussed on Unz Review.
Carlo Crivelli was profoundly influenced by early Renaissance art in Padua. His Polyptych of the Cathedral St. Emidius, of 2.90×2.80 metres and divided into three rows, is exactly at the same place where it was first put in 1473.
According to Catholic teaching, there was no pain similar to Mary’s before her dead Jew, as shown in this interpretation of the Pietà by Crivelli.
In the same Polyptych we can see St. Catherine of Alexandria (top left in the Polyptych; close-up below). According to tradition, she was a Christian saint and virgin, martyred in the early 4th century at the hands of the evil pagan emperor Maxentius.
There is only one problem with such pious legend: Catherine of Alexandria probably didn’t exist. Just as they did with World War II, where the Allies blamed the Germans for the crimes the Allied forces had committed—the genocide of millions of defenceless Germans—, instead of telling the story of Hypatia of Alexandria, a true martyr, the Christians invented the apocryphal story of St. Catherine of Alexandria…
The Christians, with their astronomic lies and fantastic inversions, are virtuosos in inducing guilt among the white peoples. Like the Jews, the goal of the Christians is to overwhelm the blond beast with massive guilt.
But it is difficult to blame Crivelli for his Polyptych. In the 15th century, books like the recently published The Myth of Persecution: How Early Christians Invented a Story of Martyrdom by Candida Moss had not been published. And anyway, Crivelli’s Catherine at least reflects Aryan female beauty.
This Pieta by Early Netherlandish painter Gerard David is the central part of a triptych that is preserved in the Cagliari Cathedral Museum. The Jewess Mary, mother of Jesus, with her demurred piety contemplates the wounds that adorn the hands of the Jew martyred by evil Romans.
We can already imagine the guilt trip that, for the Aryan psyche, represented the centuries through which all whites were forced to abandon their proud Gods and ‘golden haired’ heroes, as Homer described them, to worship a rather ugly and unattractive deity of the Semites.
Who could have invented Christianity, a perfect prolefeed for us gentiles? ‘All of the evidence we have’, says Richard Carrier, ‘strongly supports the conclusion that there were actually literal rabbis that originated the sect [Christianity]’.
