The Cloister Walk - Kathleen Norris [87]
The word “apocalypse” comes from the Greek for “uncovering” or “revealing,” which makes it a word about possibilities. And possibilities are poetic territory. Both poetry and apocalyptic writing explore the limits of speech and thus must rely on intensely metaphoric language, as well as visual imagery. Revelation was Emily Dickinson’s favorite book of the Bible for a good reason. “Uncovering” and “revealing” appeals to poets; it’s the reason we write.
I’ll stake a claim to Revelation simply by saying that I like any story with dragons in it. But this is a somewhat guilty pleasure; in some circles you can be labeled a fundamentalist just by admitting that you like the Book of Revelation. I suspect that this attitude is evidence of the extreme literalism, the fear of metaphor that in some ways defines American culture. But it also reflects a curious symbiosis of fundamentalists and liberals within American Christianity, in which the liberals have tended to cede to fundamentalists the literature of apocalyptic vision.
The Book of Revelation confronts our literalism by assaulting our fear of metaphor head-on, defying our denial of whatever is unpleasant or uncontrollable. As a writer, I know how unpleasant, even scary, metaphor can be. It doesn’t surprise me that people try to control it in whatever way they can, the fundamentalists with literal interpretations of prophetic and apocalyptic texts that deny the import of its metaphorical language, the liberals by attempting to eliminate metaphoric images of plague, punishment, the heavenly courts, martyrdom, and even the cross—that might be deemed offensive, depressing, or judgmental.
Ironically, it was hearing Revelation read aloud that allowed me to re-examine the way I’d always stereotyped the book as “hell-fire and damnation.” Engaging the book as a listener forced me to consider the awesome power of metaphor, and how thoroughly it defeats our attempts to contain it. We do not value it for what it is, a unique form of truth-telling, and that is precisely what John’s Apocalypse seemed to be: uniquely true, true in its own terms, and indefinable—or just plain weird—outside them. Its images radically subvert our desire to literalize them, and also expose the flimsiness of our attempts to do so. Mainstream and liberal Christians may denounce apocalyptic imagery as negative thinking, and fundamentalists may try to defuse them by interpreting them as simple prediction. But the Book of Revelation comes with a built-in irony. Whether one believes that John wrote the book, or regards God as the true author of all scripture, to interpret its images so literally is to show a strange disregard for the method its author employs.
There is no denying that metaphoric language, the language of revelation, can be dangerous, especially when one attempts to force it back into the literal. Literal interpretations of apocalyptic metaphors have often led Christians to construct a boogey-man God who acts suspiciously like an idol, confirming our own prejudices. All too often, it has tempted Christians to pass judgment on other people. But hearing John’s Apocalypse read aloud, I was astonished to find how little support there is for such a position. Judgment comes, and it’s a terrifying spectacle. Judgment is up to God, and that’s the good news. All evil is vanquished, and justice is done. The story reflects what we know from experience: that the point of our crises and calamities is not to frighten us or beat us into submission but to encourage us to change, to allow us to heal and grow.
We often use the word “apocalypse” to mean catastrophic destruction, and cosmic upheaval is evoked in Daniel, in the Book of Revelation, and several gospel passages, in images of earthquake,