In some churches you might spot Christ, mid ascension, carried within a colourful oval. The oval is known as the mandorla. It represents the intersection of the terrestrial and the celestial, of the human and the divine, which are linked by Christ’s resurrection.
The shape is also known as vesica piscis, and in mathematical terms is formed when two circles overlap equally. From the earliest times, it has been loaded with meaning. As its basic shape recalls the vagina, it has been a symbol of fertility and femininity, of growing life.
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When it came to iconography, Early Christians needed a way to visually symbolise the Glory of God. In the absence of divine inspiration, they borrowed ideas from the world around them. The ancient vesica piscis symbol created a visual device into a sacred space.
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While the ancient associations may have faded they do still endure. In Sheela-na-Gigs, like the one at Kilpeck, Herefordshire, a woman presents her genitalia. Note the oval shape. Is she a moral warning against lust or is she a fertility figure? No one knows for sure.
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While in the (fragmented) alabaster reredos at St Peter’s, Drayton, Oxfordshire, the Virgin is presented within a mandorla in the Annunciation panel. In her womb, the Virgin gave incarnation to the Divine.
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Throughout history people and cultures have borrowed and assimilated ideas and symbols. Can this original mathematical device – now an enduring symbol in human culture – be seen as the gate of life, the gateway between worlds?
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Just 10 weeks after Guy Fawkes and other English Catholics were discovered in the act of attempting to assassinate King James I by blowing up the House of Lords, a bill was introduced in England for a public, annual thanksgiving for the failure of the plot.
Although ostensibly a day of celebration, the wording of the ‘Thanksgiving Act’, which pointed a finger at 'malignant and devilish Papists', also sent a clear anti-Catholic message and served as a new focus for anti-Catholic sentiment and continued oppression.
This morning, come with us as we watch one little church make its daily spin around the Earth’s axis.
Arriving at dawn through farmland on the edge of the river Usk, the autumn sun rises over St Mary the Virgin, Llanfair Cilgedin, its pale light catching the bell-cote.
The church and bell-cote, designed by J.P. Seddon, were completed in 1876, but inside, St Mary's ancient foundations make their presence known in the stone of its two fonts - one Norman, one medieval –
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... and in the hodgepodge fragments of stained glass, salvaged from the medieval church, where ancient faces look out at us from the past.
England has about 3,000 'lost' or deserted medieval villages. We have churches in a fair few of them. Like St Mary Magdalene, Caldecote: a weather-beaten majesty with embattled parapets, cinquefoil tracery and a rather regal porch. Hinting at grandeur within…
Entering through the south porch visitors are met by an extraordinary, floor-to-(almost) ceiling stoup. Dated to the 15th century, the shaft is carved with rows of quatrefoils, while acanthus clambers up the canopy. The proportions are so great, it feels very out of place.
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Step beyond this to see the font: an octagonal affair from the same century encrusted with cusped panels, heraldry and foliage. The simple moulded pews also date to the 1400s, as do the glittering fragments of stained glass...
Keeping time, saving time. On time, in time. Lost time, out of time...
The hand of the clock guides us from dawn to dusk and back round again. The ticking heart of our existence, time has preoccupied people... since, well, the beginning of time...
In England, time began to become part of our day-to-day lives when the Saxons brought us scratch dials. These were a method of dividing their days and nights into eight divisions known as ‘tides’.
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Later, during the Middle Ages, this model was adapted for ecclesiastical purposes to herald prayer recitals at specific times of the day, known as the Divine Offices. These etchings became known as mass dials and were cut into south-facing walls in order to catch the sun.
Rafters in floors. Doors cut into pews. Pews worked into screens. Screens becoming vestries.
Churches have a long history of assimilating themselves. At Llanfaglan, 14th-century cusped chancel roof timbers were cut out c.1800, shortened, and worked into a distinctive porch.
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Similarly, at Sutterby, Lincolnshire, the doorway to the porch is framed with some rather fancy mouchettes. While the porch dates to the 19th century, this carving is much earlier – five hundred years earlier, in fact, and we believe was originally a window arch in the church. 2/
Llanbeulan church on Anglesey sits in a sea of bobbing gravestones. They’re everywhere. So many in fact, that they are built into the walls and thresholds of the church… and one has even become a step on the stone stile into the churchyard…
The Gloucester Candlestick is an extraordinary survival. Dating from 1104-13, it’s a masterpiece of English metalwork, a gilt tangle of beasts clambering, clawing through fleshy foliage, struggling “to reach the light or sink into the darkness below”...
Incredibly, an inscription on the stem of candlestick clearly indicates its provenance: ‘The devotion of Abbot Peter and his gentle flock gave me to the Church of St Peter of Gloucester’. Peter was the abbot of the Benedictine Abbey in Gloucester in the early 12th century.
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However, somehow, Abbot Peter’s candlestick ended up in the treasury of Le Mans Cathedral, France. There are several points when it could’ve made its journey: the Abbey was destroyed by fire in 1122, was the candlestick stolen?