The Ninth Reflection on the Titular Painting of the Collegiate Church of St Lawrence, Birgu

We have reached the final meditation on this famed titular painting—so renowned, in fact, that according to Bernardo de Dominici, the biographer of the Calabrese artist, this was Preti’s most cherished work. Even King Louis XIV of France wished to acquire it to adorn his new palace at Versailles. But the people of Vittoriosa were not willing to part with this Baroque masterpiece.

In this final reflection, we once again enter the choir of this historic church—so deeply linked to the events of the Great Siege, which we are currently commemorating. Here, we closely observe the lowest part of the painting, where we catch sight of the firelighter and three other attendants carrying charcoal in baskets. In the background, among the figures forming the central scene, we also see a few onlookers—two women and two men.

The firelighters are stoking and fuelling the flames: one is opening and closing a small bellows to fan the fire, while another is adding more wood. It appears the first figure bears a resemblance to the Bishop of Malta, Davide Cocco Palmieri—the same bishop who inaugurated this church in 1697 and who had some disagreements with Mattia Preti. The other resembles the artist’s own servant, with whom his relationship was also reportedly strained. These two public figures, together with the cherub bathed in divine light, form a triangle around St Lawrence—who, though preparing to lie upon the gridiron, seems more as though he is calmly laying down to rest, fully at peace in the embrace of God, to whom he gave his life.

This is the same relationship of total self-giving: Christ to St Lawrence, and St Lawrence to Christ—one that is personal, not just collective, for each and every one of us. So much so that we can almost imagine him ending his life with the firm conviction of the Psalmist in Psalm 4: “In peace I will lie down and sleep, for you alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety.” (Psalm 4:8)

But that is not all. The man with the bellows is looking outward—towards us, the viewers, the faithful gathered in this church. And he has been doing so ever since the painting was installed in 1689, following a commission by Monsignor Anton Testaferrata, a Canon of the Metropolitan Chapter of Mdina. We can even see his coat of arms in the lower left corner of the painting.

As the lines of perspective radiate outward from the focal point along the walls of this sanctuary, and as we feel the gaze of that firelighter resting upon us, we cannot remain indifferent. Instead, let us allow this firelighter to become our inquisitor—not to accuse us (for it is the devil who accuses us—his very name, Satan, means “accuser”)—but rather to, like the bellows in his hand, rekindle the spark of our conscience—scintilla conscientiae, as the Seraphic Doctor St Bonaventure called it. So that the Advocate—the Holy Spirit—who searches all things, even the depths of God (1 Cor 2:10), may bring our darkness into the light—not to condemn us, but to heal us with his marvellous radiance.