I have found my familiarity with Scripture to be a double edged sword. Not in the sense, as the saying goes, that familiarity breeds contempt, but in the sense that the poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge means when he speaks of the  “film of familiarity.” A film, or thin veil, can cover my eyes  and my ears so that I “have eyes, yet see not, ears that hear  not, and [a heart] that neither feel[s] or understand[s].”

This film of familiarity makes it easy to read without really  noticing—or, to read in a way that reinforces what I  already believe or imagine or desire, rather than allowing  the Scriptures to transform me. I look in the mirror of  God’s word, but a quick glance, one that assumes I already  know what I will find, causes me to miss what it was  reflecting back to me. I have no expectations that what I  will encounter in the text may be different than I expect.

One such text, I suspect for many, are the stories of  Advent-tide. Part of our cultural as well as our religious  traditions, these stories are easily obscured by our  familiarity with them. When we are captive to this kind of  familiarity, we need something to wipe away the film, to  clear our eyes and ears so that we can encounter the text  in new ways. The surprise encounter can do this work,  jolting us out of inattention to awareness.

In the moment of surprise, we are confronted with a  reality that is different from what we had believed or  thought to be true. In response, we must choose whether  to alter or revise our ways of thinking.

Art, particularly artistic representations of the stories of  Scripture, can be a valuable means of aesthetic surprise.

Art can confront its audience with a way of imagining the  text that challenges their assumptions or ideas. One example, for me, is the painting of Noah’s ark by  sixteenth century artist Simon de Myle. My encounter with  it gave me a jolt of surprise. And although not obviously a  painting that represents the stories of Advent, it prompted  reflection and shifted the way I imagine anticipation for  the coming of Christ.

At first glance, the busy scene is familiar. The moment  portrayed is one after the flood waters recede and the ark  comes to rest on Mount Ararat. Birds swarm in the sky  over the ark, animals make their way down the ramp, and  more animals cover the dry land around the ark, no doubt  stretching their legs and enjoying relief from their long  confinement. Several human figures do the same.  And then—as I take a closer look—I see several animals  splayed out on the ground. They are not sleeping, but  dead. And then, to my horror, I realise that one, a horse, is  prey: the painting shows the moment that a lion bites into  its stomach.  

The surprise comes from the shocking difference between  de Myle’s portrayal of this moment and the many other  portrayals I have seen. Here, there is no idyllic harmony,  no optimism for an earth cleansed after the flood.  Immediately—some creatures are still embarking—one  animal preys on another.

On further reflection I think that these dead animals are,  likely, casualties of the flood. De Myle has confronted his  observer’s imaginations not only with the company of  animals spared on the ark, but also those left to  destruction. It is a sobering surprise—a moment in which  I realise how often these animals are absent from the  retelling of this story, and how often we neglect the  relationship between animal and human worlds, in which  human sin, demonstrated clearly in Noah’s celebratory  drunkenness, has consequences for the entire creation.

Through the skill and creativity of de Myle, I have been  struck, surprised—and as a result, my imagination is  challenged, and I see a familiar text in a new way. Particularly during this Advent season, as I imagine the  world which “Long lay...in sin and error pining,” do I  imagine the animals, too, longing for Christ’s coming? Do  I imagine them to be also crying out, “Come, Lord Jesus,” as they wait for the final end to the curse that has bound  them to humanity’s corruption?

Too easily we limit the scope of Christ’s redemptive work  to ourselves, to humanity. However, as Paul insists, “the  whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of  childbirth” (Rom. 8:22). This includes the animals, as de  Myle’s imagined scene communicates. They, too, suffer  under the curse, and they, too, find redemption through  Christ the ark (Rom. 8:21).

I think of the many nativity scenes that include field and  stable animals. Cows, horses, goats, sheep, sometimes  others, are present, although none of the Gospel  narratives mention them. In those scenes, peace reigns, as  “ox and ass before him bow.” It is easy to forget, though, that although Christ’s coming heralded this peace, it is not  yet accomplished. We still wait, all creation still waits, for  its consummation.

In one sense, the waiting of the Advent season precludes  surprise: we remember Christ’s first coming, and we  expect his second. But for the characters of the Advent  and Christmas stories, surprise plays an important role.

Mary is amazed at the announcement that Gabriel brings  her; the shepherds are astonished at the chorus of angels  that illuminates their sleepy night watch. Herod, too, is  caught off guard at the news of the Magi that a king has  been born right under his nose. Jesus’s birth, particularly  the means and circumstances, confronted these characters  with incredible news that they had not expected.

Yet, surprise does not compel. The news of Jesus’s birth  comes to each one with the weight of the unexpected, and  their responses vary. For Herod, the surprise further  entrenches him in his pride and spiritual blindness. Others, however, express an openness to what they had not  anticipated.

Aesthetic surprise works in the same way. De Myle’s  painting does not force the observer into one,  predetermined or correct response. Nor can we  manufacture surprise. It is a gift of grace that comes  unbidden and undeserved. Yet we can, especially at  Advent, prepare ourselves to receive such a gift.

Consider seeking out art for the Advent season as a way to  reimagine the stories that may have become obscured by a  “film of familiarity.” Jane Williams’ book The Art of  Advent provides a painting and a reflection for each day  from Advent to Epiphany. Biola University offers an  Advent devotional resource that combines art, Scripture,  and a written devotion.

Here, attentiveness is more important than novelty. It is  the Spirit, after all, who enables us to encounter texts in  new and fresh ways. In all of our reading, both of visual  and of written texts, we should cultivate hearts that are  humbly expectant, ready to yield to God and believe that who he is and what he is doing cannot be plumbed.

Laura Cerbus is a teacher, writer, and PhD candidate in Theology at Trinity College Theological School.  During her time in Melbourne she has been involved in the Evangelical Women in Academia group. Her  desire is to help students delight in texts of literature, Scripture, and theology, in order to  develop wonder and awe at the beauty, goodness, and truth of God’s world and of God himself.