And so on in the same vein. Imagine trying to reconstruct a model of the Temple based on this description with the aid of a measuring tape and a conversion table. In addition to which, medieval interpreters did not even have a conversion table for the measurements, to say nothing of the corruption of the data that would have occurred thanks to the manifold translations, and manuscript transcriptions of translations, that they had at their disposal. But, come to that, even a twenty-first-century architect would find it a challenge to translate these verbal instructions into a project drawing.
It is interesting to observe the pains the medieval allegorists go to in their determination to see the Temple as Ezekiel describes it (and in their efforts to picture it they attempt to provide instructions for its ideal reconstruction; see De Lubac 1959–1964, II, 7, 2). The Hebrew tradition itself admitted the impossibility of a coherent architectural reading: in the twelfth century Rabbi Solomon Ben Isaac agreed that no one could ever figure out the arrangement of the northern chambers, where they began to the east and how far they extended to the west, and where they began on the one side and how far they extended on the other (see Rosenau 1979). Furthermore, Ezekiel himself does not claim to have seen a real construction but a “quasi aedificium” (“as [it were] the frame of a city,” Ezek. 40:2, my emphasis), while the Fathers of the Church, just as they granted that the vision of the four living creatures defied literal explanation, also declared that the measurements of the building were inconceivable in physical terms, given, for example, that the gates would have to have been wider than the walls.
Thus, interpreters like Hugh of Fouilloy, in his De claustro animae (XII century), though he based himself on 1 Kings 6 (less confused and confusing than Ezekiel’s vision), confined himself to analyzing the mystical significance of the Temple. The Temple in fact stands for the body of Christ and that of every Christian (“nostrum spirituale templum” [“our spiritual temple”]), the cedars of Lebanon stand for the most glorious men of all times, and Hiram’s builders who hewed the stones are the good monks who know how to smooth the irregularities and imperfections of the rough stone (in other words, the souls of their brethren), making them even and harmoniously disposed. And the splendor of the precious metals and stones was the splendor of charity. Cutting the stones signified cutting away human vices. Solomon employed 30,000 workmen, and this number is a multiple of 3 and 10 and, setting aside the mystical meanings of the number 10, 3 is the number of the Trinity, of the three eminent good works (prayer, fasting, and alms deeds), the three virtues of reading, meditation, and preaching, and so on.
Confronted with the measurements of the Temple, rather than trying to interpret them literally, Hugh comments upon the spiritual significance of its dimensions (the length of the building means patience, its breadth means charity, its height means hope, etc.) (chapter XVII, PL 176, 1118).
Other commentators struggled instead to reconstruct the Temple because, if we buy into the idea (Augustinian in origin) that, when faced in Scripture with expressions that seem to convey an excess of basically superfluous information, such as numbers and measurements, we should be on the lookout for an allegorical meaning, bearing in mind that biblical allegory was in factis not in verbis. Therefore, that a reed was six cubits long was not a mere verbal affirmation or flatus vocis, but a fact that had actually occurred, and that God had so predisposed so that we could interpret it allegorically. Hence, a realistic reconstruction of the Temple had to be possible, otherwise it would mean Scripture had lied.
And so, in his In visionem Ezechielis, we find Richard of Saint Victor—in a polemical stance vis-à-vis the Fathers of the Church, who had advised interpreters to stick to a spiritual reading—laboring over his calculations and producing plans, elevations and cross sections, deciding, when two measurements are impossible to reconcile, that one of them must refer to the whole edifice and the other to one of its parts—in a desperate attempt (doomed, alas, to failure) to reduce the quasi aedificium to something a medieval master builder could really have constructed (see De Lubac 1959–1964: II, 5, 3).
6.4. The Jerusalem of Beatus
As for the Heavenly Jerusalem, Christian thought had transformed the biblical Jerusalem into a theological image, idealizing and, so to speak, disincarnating the real historical city. The first transformation of Jerusalem occurs at the end of the Apocalypse, where it is said of the city that
her light was like unto that of a stone most precious, even like a jasper stone, clear as crystal; and [she] had a great wall and high, and had twelve gates, and at the gates twelve angels … on the east three gates; on the north three gates; on the south three gates; and on the west three gates. And the wall of the city had twelve foundations, and in them the names of the twelve apostles of the Lamb … And the city lieth foursquare, and the length is as large as the breadth: and he measured the city with the reed, twelve thousand furlongs.… And he measured the wall thereof, a hundred and forty and four cubits.… And the building of the wall of it was of jasper; and the city was pure gold, like unto clear glass. And the foundations of the wall of the city were garnished with all manner of precious stones. The first foundation was jasper; the second, sapphire; the third, a chalcedony; the fourth, an emerald; the fifth, sardonyx; the sixth, sardius; the seventh, chrysolite; the eighth, beryl; the ninth, a topaz; the tenth, a chrysoprasus; the eleventh, a jacinth; the twelfth, an amethyst. And the twelve gates were twelve pearls; every several gate was of one pearl: and the street of the city was pure gold, as it were transparent glass.… And the city had no need of the sun, neither of the moon, to shine in it, for the glory of God did lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof. (Apoc. 21:11–23)
Thus, Jerusalem ceases to be a geographical place in order to become the image of the Heavenly Jerusalem. Rather than urbanistic, John’s description is architectural, with special insistence on the aesthetic aspects. Moreover, his description is clearly inspired by that of Ezekiel, in which the construction is not rectangular, as it is in other biblical texts, by based upon squares.
The vision of the Heavenly Jerusalem could not fail to fascinate Beatus of Liébana and, centuries later, his illustrators. But more than anything else, he appears to be fascinated by three aspects: Jerusalem’s foursquare perfection, its measurements, and the splendor of its precious stones and its golden decorations. Beatus in fact is a forerunner of the aesthetics of the threefold criterion of beauty: integrity, proportion, and light, but he lacked the philosophical categories that would have allowed him to focus in on the reasons for his admiration. He therefore proceeds by confused interjections and inexact calculations.
The chief aspect of Jerusalem that strikes him seems to be the fact that the city shines like a gem without the need for an external light source. Jerusalem has no need of stellar illumination to shine; she radiates light from within herself like a soul internally illuminated by grace. The twelve gates are figures of the twelve apostles, the twelve prophets, and the twelve tribes of Israel. Twelve gates, twelve angels at the gates (a number John plucks out of nowhere, without any previous scriptural support), and twelve foundations, produce the number thirty-six, the number of hours Christ spent in the Sepulcher. The city is square as a reminder of the
