A saint’s statue newly installed in a mosque
Last week I went to Mass in a mosque. It was the Mezquita in Córdoba. This was turned from a Christian church into a mosque in 784, and expanded by the addition of rows of pillared aisles.
That is what gives the building its astonishing appearance internally: row upon row (17, I counted) of monolithic pillars supporting round or horseshoe arches picked out in bands of red and white. The light is dim, coming mostly from the sides, giving the place the feeling of a forest, different in different lights.
In 1236 Córdoba was reconquered and the mosque reverted to Christian use. In most Spanish cities, remains of mosques were demolished. Here they were preserved. The 16th-century insertion of a small Renaissance cathedral, sitting proud of the forest in the centre, was universally criticised (even by the Emperor Charles V, it is said). At least the architecture of this insertion is not despicable. I’d prefer having a handsome cuckoo in the nest to the alternative of the whole complex having been destroyed.
What surprised me last week was a large freestanding tableau of polychromatic statuary in front of alcoves on the southern wall that indicated the qibla, the orientation towards Mecca. The sculpture, in a flamboyant Baroque style, is of a saint in a cope, alb and stole, holding a quill in one uplifted hand, his tear-filled eyes raised to heaven.
I thought it must be some 17th-century sculpture brought from a church that had modernised its interior. My surprise was the greater when I found it had been installed in 2013, the work of a living sculptor, Antonio Bernal, who works in this idiom. It must indicate that the Church authorities are not giving in to agitation from Muslim activists who want the Mezquita turned over to their use.
The occasion for the installation of the sculpture was the declaration in 2012 by Pope Benedict XVI of St John of Avila, the saint depicted, as a doctor of the Church. St Hildegard of Bingen was declared a doctor at the same time.
St John of Avila (14991569) was not born in Avila, which was a family name. He spent most of his life in Andalusia after being dissuaded from going as a missionary to the Indies. The only book of his published in his lifetime was a work of catechesis. He influenced an impressive roll of contemporaries, including St Teresa of Avila, St Peter of Alcantara and St John of God, who was converted to a life of care for the poor after hearing him preach.
St John of Avila was canonised only in 1970. His best known work is Audi, Filia, a title taken from Psalm 45: “Hearken, O daughter, and consider, and incline thine ear; forget also thine own people, and thy father’s house; So shall the king greatly desire thy beauty.” The subject is the spiritual life and God’s love for the soul. It is striking that the book was translated into English in 1620 by that remarkable figure Tobie Mathew. Mathew was knighted by King James I, despite being known as a Catholic priest. He spent years in exile ( just as St John of Avila was imprisoned
– for preaching against riches) and his translation was printed at St Omer, in Artois. A copy of the beautifully printed fat little book has been preserved at the Bar Convent in York, with a digitised version online.
I’ve often wondered if Tobie Mathew ever became a Jesuit. He left his property to the Society of Jesus. St John of Avila sent many of his own followers to join the Jesuits too, a pragmatic and humble way of responding to the imperative of evangelisation.