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Hidden In Plain Sight: 18 'Unheard' Meanings In 'A Quiet Place'. A Quiet Place is all the buzz right now, and rightfully so. First off, the film is potent and horrifying and strangely relatable, due to its focus on family, despite being set in a parallel world to ours. This is such a juicy question. It has many applications. First, we must offer the following: There are countless “truths”. There are millions of “truths” for each human out there. Truth is subjective. So there are many billions of truths.
There hadn’t been any public burnings for a while. The State had decided that “out of sight, out of mind” was the best policy for destruction, now that the people had been conditioned to know what was allowed and what wasn’t. Many things were regulated or banned outright—art and literature and religion especially—and sparks of intellectual creativity had been few and far between for a long time. Certain topics only were allowed for books, certain subjects only for artwork. Everything else had been forbidden or destroyed.
The Guards had made sure of that. John remembered witnessing frequent burnings many years ago, when he was a child. One had been for forbidden art. There had been a large pile of beautiful paintings, mostly portraits, and he had watched with unexpected pain and anger as the Guards threw the artwork into the fire.
The colorful images darkened and then burst into hot flame until they were entirely consumed. Years later, he understood that pain, as he discovered a love for art within himself and eventually trained to be a landscape and florals painter, the only art subjects now allowed by the State. But in the back of his mind was always the memory of the fiery destruction of beauty; deep inside his soul he remained angry at the restrictions and waste. He knew how to keep secrets.
His parents and grandparents had been quiet but committed Christians and had carried their faith undetected to the grave. John had no family now, but he had the legacy of their faith in full measure.
He did not know any other Christians personally, nor did he attend any of the underground, illegal house churches that existed in his city—tiny groups which operated semi-independently, for security’s sake—but he was in touch with them through a carefully constructed network. This network had been painstakingly set up in order that nothing could be traced from them back to him, because some of his artwork was destined for those house churches: John was the secret painter of the Holy Cross icons. They became signposts for the existence of believers. Whenever a threat arose, one of the first things the house church members did was to deface or destroy the painting.
If the danger passed, they knew they could get another painting. If the house church was broken up, however, and the members exiled, there was nothing to connect them with John or with the other house churches. The entire network operated under those strictures.
John’s shop sold small landscapes and still lifes of flowers, available for purchase by anyone, but the Holy Cross icons were never displayed. He kept them hidden until potential clients had been vetted by the leaders of the underground Church. He never knew where the Holy Cross icons ended up—he didn’t want, and wasn’t supposed, to know–but he knew they were helping to maintain a Christian presence in the current repressive and regulated culture. It was his ministry. There was only one person in the city who knew about both the Holy Cross icons and the house churches, but who had never set eyes on John, nor John on him. This person–the “Superintendent”—sent a courier with a code word to John’s shop, ostensibly to pick up a painting as a gift.
John always had one of his Holy Cross icons wrapped and stored under the counter. When the courier (who was always a different person, and who always believed they were picking up a gift on behalf of the Superintendent) came in with the code word, John sold him the wrapped package.
After it had been taken away, John wrapped up another of his special paintings and placed it under the counter to await the next pickup. He never knew when they would be collected; he didn’t communicate directly with this Superintendent. The procedure had been set up originally, some time ago, by a different man who then moved on to another city. The present Superintendent knew John’s address and what he did, but he’d never met him or spoken with him in person. This was one layer of the security, to prevent visual recognition by either man in case of detection and/or arrest.
The existence of the Holy Cross icons was a closely guarded secret. No non-Christian knew about them or their purpose.
The members of the house churches knew what they were, but they had no idea where they came from. Because the government still allowed people to have certain frivolous things, such as his small paintings of landscapes or flowers, John was able to support himself entirely with his art, along with repairing damaged paintings or frames. Even after the mandatory taxes, he made enough to live on–as comfortably as one could live in the State. He had many pictures hanging on the walls in his shop, and people enjoyed coming in to see and frequently buy them.
When his shop was closed, most of his spare time was spent painting. Although John was busy completing the transaction, his senses told him that something was unusual, out of the ordinary. He glanced towards the new customer. The man was circling the shop, closely examining the pictures on the walls, so all John saw was the man’s back and a heavy shoulder bag slung over his arm. Something nagged at him, however. While he wrapped the purchased painting, he searched his memory, but came up with nothing—until the man turned sideways to view a picture on the back wall. John recognized him instantly.
A few weeks ago, one of the neighboring businesses had been raided by the Guards. Like everyone else on the street, John had turned off his lights and watched the proceedings through his quickly closed window blinds. The owner of that business hadn’t been a Christian–probably.
John thought he might have known that, although that wasn’t necessarily a given. Believers went to extraordinary lengths to protect themselves. But although he had no idea why that business had been raided, and it was never a good idea to ask about it, he did remember the officer in charge of the raid. Although he was not in uniform, it was the very same man who was now intently perusing John’s paintings. For the next month, John was kept busy between customers and their purchases in his shop, and his painting. He did his usual number of ordinary pictures (as he thought of them) and extra time on the two Holy Cross icons for Servius.
As he worked on them, he wondered where those two paintings would end up. Whose hands would hold them? Whose eyes would see them and find the hidden crosses? The few times he went out into the city on errands, he glanced at the Guards who, as always, were everywhere to be seen. Are you one of us?
Or you? he asked himself, looking at each one covertly. For the first time ever, he wished he knew who the other Christians were.
Sobered and mystified, John did as was suggested and turned over the “closed” sign; then the two men walked to the counter. Servius reached into his shoulder bag and pulled out a folder. He opened it and carefully removed a half sheet of paper. He laid it down gently; John could see that it was some type of printed image.
The paper was torn along one side and the other edges were uneven, as if they had been flaking away. John bent over to look at the picture and then stopped in amazement, and also with a touch of fear. It was the image of a man’s face. Forbidden! were the words that sprang instantly to his mind.
In the weeks to come, John continued to paint for his shop and create the occasional Holy Cross icons for the house churches but found himself spending more and more time on the portrait. It was the most difficult work he had ever done in his life, but also in a strange way the easiest. It was as if another hand was guiding his with every brush stroke. Bit by bit the face of Jesus emerged; when he stood in front of the canvas he often felt a strong sense of peace at a deep level. The eyes were the hardest part, but even they appeared without much struggle as he painted. He found himself praying as he painted: prayers for his family long gone; for the house churches he had never seen but had blessed with his paintings; for Servius and the secret Christians in the Guards. He prayed for those who didn’t know Jesus, but who might come to know Him.
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He prayed that he would be allowed to continue his ministry of art for as long as it could be of help to others. “Keep it, you might want to paint another. And besides—I have this now” Servius took up the wrapped package gently, as if it would break in his hands, and carefully stowed it in his shoulder bag. He held out his hand to John, but then changed his mind and embraced him.
Both men were silent; they knew there were no other words. Servius turned abruptly and walked to the door. As he left he looked back a last time and held up his hand in farewell, and then exited the shop. The bell on the door rang briefly, and then the sound faded away. All of a sudden there was a commotion in the street. Before anyone could react, the door of John’s shop was banged open, with the shop-bell clanging wildly.
A member of the Guard stood there, glaring in. The customers in the shop turned to look at him, startled, as he shouted harshly: “Attention! Burning tomorrow, at dusk! Everyone is to be in the public square, no excuses. Mandatory attendance!” The he stepped back abruptly and marched to the next business. All up and down the street there were sounds of doors being opened violently and voices shouting the same message over and over again. Closing time came.
John put on his jacket and locked the door of the shop. Along with others from his street he made his way quietly to the public square. They were not the first to arrive—hundreds more were already gathered, and many others were streaming in from all the adjacent roads.
John made his way to about the middle of the crowd, so that he could see well but also not be seen, in case he could not completely control his reactions. He quieted himself internally, by praying, and made sure he wasn’t standing by any of his neighbors.
“PEOPLE!” The stentorian voice rang out and echoed through the square. “You see before you a traitor to the State! A traitor who has betrayed his high office of honor in the Guards! He has broken cardinal rules by hiding forbidden materials in his quarters!
These outlawed and forbidden materials were so blasphemous that they had to be instantly destroyed, before corrupting others! He also turned his back on the guidance and authority of the State and pledged his loyalty to something else! That is UNFORGIVABLE!” The people in the square were frozen into immobility.
“This traitor betrayed the trust placed in him by the State. For that offence, the only appropriate punishmentis DEATH.” As the voice stopped, several Guards pushed Servius toward the pile of wood in the center of the square. John felt a shudder ripple through the crowd as he, and thousands of others, realized what was going to happen—something they had never before seen or even imagined. The sound of the crackling fire was very loud in the silence.
John looked at some of the people in the square. As he expected, there were satisfied smiles on the officials’ faces and grim looks on the faces of the Guards, but the people around him showed horror, disbelief, incomprehension. Some were fighting back tears, some were even turned away. A few people had their eyes tightly closed. He looked at all the faces he could see. Powerful images; his hands itched to paint the shock and disbelief he saw–and then he was overcome by his own emotions.
He looked back at the bonfire; the flames had now encircled the stake and were burning right up to Servius’ legs. He saw sweat and agony on the man’s face, but then something unexpected happened. Servius slowly lifted his head and looked straight at John. He did not have to search for him—it was as if he knew exactly where John was standing. As they looked at each other a message passed between them, in moments that felt like hours. Almost like hearing a voice speaking directly to him, John recalled one of Jesus’ commands: Feed my sheep.
He accepted this final commission and looked steadily back at Servius. He nodded, slowly and slightly, to the suffering man. Servius then closed his eyes and began to recite, in a loud but labored voice: “I believe in God the Father almighty, maker of heaven and earth, and in Jesus Christ his only Son, our Lord” As the words continued, a howl of rage rose from the officials—but not all of them. John stared at them, trying to memorize some faces, while the flames crackled and the fire roared. Servius continued speaking until his fading voice was drowned by the sound of the fire. The officials fell grimly silent. All at once, like an ephemeral echo, John heard a barely audible whispering of the rest of the creed from all around him.
He spoke the words also, under his breath, until he reached the end, but refused to look at anyone in order to protect those who were reciting. The fire burned higher and higher until the stake could be seen no longer.
The acrid smell of smoke–and other things–swirled around the square. There was no more sound from the crowd as they watched the burning. The officials, satisfied with their evening’s work, marched off with the Guards.
After a while everyone else began to leave. John turned abruptly and almost immediately stumbled into someone standing close behind him. He recognized one of the Guards who had tied Servius to the stake, and a wave of deadly fear came over him. The man put his hands on John’s shoulders, to steady him, and then reached down to the ground.
When he stood up, he had an envelope in his hand, “I think you dropped this,” he said loudly, as a few people walked past them. He held out the envelope.
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