The Advent Door

There Is Silence © Jan Richardson

Speaking of Apocalypse…

In recent Advent days, I’ve found myself thinking of an image from one of the illuminated Apocalypse manuscripts from medieval Spain. The Spanish Apocalypses, produced between 900 and 1100, are significantly different creatures from the Apocalypses produced in England and elsewhere a bit later in the medieval period. Created in a style known as Mozarabic, which drew from a variety of influences including the visual culture of the Islamic community that ruled Spain, the Spanish Apocalypses are wild and wonderful. Using a vivid palette and expressive style, the Spanish artist-monks drenched their pages with the intense drama and emotion of the events described in the Book of Revelation.

In a Spanish Apocalypse owned by the Morgan Library in New York, one can follow the unfolding events of the Apocalypse in the riot of images that follow one after another, including Christ and angels and other heavenly beings, strange creatures, worshipful elders, the opening of the seven seals and the attendant cataclysms. Then, at the beginning of the eighth chapter, a small, spare image leads into the text that tells us that after the opening of the seventh seal, “there was silence in heaven for about half an hour.” I love how John notes this homely detail, how he takes care to recount that in the midst of the cosmic events of the Apocalypse, when there’s all manner of drama and chaos unfolding, there is a space of silence, a breath, a pause. In the midst of the strange time-shifting that takes place in Revelation, with its overlapping of past, present, and future, John has taken care to be pretty specific and chronological about the duration of the silence, as if he has thought to check his Timex in the midst of all this.

To illustrate this space of silence, the artist of the Morgan manuscript detoured from his usual drama and created an image that charms and disarms with its simplicity. On a small rectangular field of orange, the artist painted twelve circles, yellow-gold outlined in blue or black and decorated to look like fleurettes. (Or, to my eye, kind of like pies; a little Apocalyptic dessert.) Lined up in three rows of four, each fleurette has a letter atop it; together, the letters spell SILENCIUS EST.

There is silence.

My idea for today’s post had been to create a collage that evoked this simple image, and to ask where, in the midst of what many folks are experiencing as a chaotic season, you are cultivating a space of silence and rest, or how you might be longing to do this. I figure that if it could happen during the Apocalypse, it ought to be able to happen in Advent. You know, for at least half an hour, like John says.

I went to work on the collage last night, thinking it would be a quick and easy one. An hour and a half later, I was still at the drafting table, moving pieces around and cutting out new ones in an ineffectual attempt to create an image that, without directly mimicking it, would evoke the kind of graceful silence that the apocalyptic artist did with such charm.

It was late, I was tired. Finally I set aside the entire stack of pieces I’d been working with, pulled just a few pieces back out, slapped them down on the blue background, and called it done. It’s a similar color palette as the Apocalypse artist used, more or less, but a pretty different execution. It reminds me a bit of an Amish quilt, which perhaps reflects the deep desire I had at that point to crawl into bed. Which I did, forthwith.

I still want to ask if you’re finding any space of silence and respite in the midst of these days, or how you might get some if you haven’t already. But I also want to ask you this: Is there any place in your life where you’re pushing really hard right now, in a direction that isn’t working? How do you discern when to keep pushing forward, in hopes that circumstances will shift, and when to pull back, so that your inner self might shift instead? Do you experience occasions when you need to give up a cherished vision so that a different vision can take hold, or so that you can simply rest until the next one comes around?

The Advent stories are full of folks who chose to do some sacred shifting. Mary, Joseph, Elizabeth, and Zechariah, among others: each of them gave up their notions of what their lives would be like, so that a different life could take hold. They beckon me to wonder—in the silent spaces and in the occasional chaos of this season—how flexible my soul is these days, and whether I’m leaving space for God to stir up any new visions.

In these Advent days, may the God of both drama and stillness grace you with whatever your soul most needs.

Silencius est.

This entry was posted on December 13, 2007 at 12:47 pm and is filed under Advent, art, Christmas, religion. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.