Medievalish 2.12

A Medieval Preacher on Incarnation

Dear friend,

Medieval plays, theology, and poetry may be what we read the most from the Middle Ages, but they are not the only survivors of time, fires, reformations, and changing customs. One of the most popular categories of medieval manuscripts existing today is the pastoral text: books meant to help medieval priests shepherd their parishioners, or books looking to spiritually form the average medieval Christian. These included penitential materials to guide either layperson or cleric through the sacrament of confession, sermon collections for the less gifted in preaching to use verbatim if necessary (think the medieval equivalent of Mr. Collins and Fordyce’s Sermons), and preachers’ handbooks stuffed full of ideas and anecdotes to use in teaching and preaching.

I have been slowly making my way through one of the more popular preachers’ handbooks, the Fasciculus Morum. FM (I’m abbreviating for the sake of my constantly mistyping fingers) was created in the early fourteenth century by a Franciscan priest in England. Versions of FM survive in twenty-eight manuscripts today, indication of its popularity in the Middle Ages (a new study estimates that 90% of medieval manuscripts were lost to time). FM is organized by the Seven Capital Vices and their remedies, including hundreds of anecdotes and even short poems illustrating the vices and virtues. It was written in Latin. One of my saddest failings as a medievalist is how bad I am at Latin (self-taught, terribly undisciplined), so I rely on Siegfried Wenzel’s excellent edition with a facing English translation.

One of my favorite qualities of FM and many books like it is how it mixes more sensational miracle tales with sober theological reflection. For paid subscribers, I will soon share a delightful and expressive tale of a dying man’s encounter with demons that has surprisingly stuck with me. But for this newsletter, I want to share one of the most beautiful passages from the entire book—a musing on the marvel of the Incarnation that appears in the very lengthy section on love.

The compiler begins with some charming miracle tales of the Holy Family’s flight to Egypt harvested from apocryphal retellings of the gospels. Baby Jesus provides water in a desert, and he makes a palm tree bend over so that Mary and Joseph can collect some dates. A lion serves the family obediently. Idols topple over as they pass. Two dragons come out of a cave and terrify Mary and Joseph, then Jesus gently makes them go away (they bow to him, and sedately make for the desert nearby).

An idol crashes to the ground as the Holy Family passes, Bedford Hours, British Library, c. 1410

But the most wild feature of the Nativity, FM tells us, is what has happened in the Incarnation itself. Dragons moving in elegant procession to the desert, idols toppling, trees inclining low offer up their fruits are trifles, mere signage next to the main event, the hinge of history, the central paradox of Christianity. In the nativity of Christ,

what was first became last; what was infinite, limited; eternity, bound in time; virginity, made pregnant; further, length, made short; width, made narrow; height, made low; depth, made shallow; and further a virgin, giving birth; God, an infant; the water, thirsty; and the bread, hungry. O admirable and miraculous novelty of Christ’s incarnation, when in the womb of the virgin dust and divinity came together, the potter and his vessel, majesty and smallness, the high and the humble, slime and the sublime, the strong and the frail, power and weakness, the gainless and the useful. For then appeared a large mountain in a small millet, the ocean in a little dish; a circle was inscribed in a tiny point, and the sun hidden under a bushel. At that moment, God the Father therefore could rightly say the words of Revelation: “Behold I make all things new.” (Rev 21.5)

FM, trans. Wenzel, p. 241.

Behold, I make all things new. Ocean in a dish, mountain in a millet-grain. Everything we take for granted, that is obvious to us in the natural way of things—big things are big, little things are little, strong things are strong, weak things are weak—has stopped making sense. While remaining God, omnipotent and omniscient God un-gods himself, divests himself of infinite power and knowledge. The very dust contains heaven. The water has let itself become thirsty; the bread of life weeps for hunger at his mother’s breast. The piled-on litany of contradictions underscores strangeness.

The paradox of Jesus Christ cannot be contained. From it, more paradox floods into human hearts, minds, and institutions. Incarnation promises that nothing is too big, too powerful, too complicated—or too small, too insignificant, too wrecked—to be shook up, turned upside down, broken and given in Christ’s gracious presence. The human logic of rewards and rules and moral arithmetic cannot reckon up this wild grace. Hearts hoary in the ways of death are reborn. Systems so magnificent and powerful that we could never imagine them falling have and will fall. The little and the broken and the ignored are the beloved of the Lord God.

Fasciculus Morum issues an invitation. Let the mind be refreshed and humbled in paradox. Welcome mystery; let wonder be renewed in this season. Wonder makes me small again, gives me questions and joy and humility. Mystery is the manger in which I nestle the infant Christ in my heart. And do not forget, FM reminds us even today, seven hundred years later, that all this wonder does not just belong to the medieval or gospel past, but to the present, and to the future:

With respect to Christ’s coming or incarnation, we should know that he comes in three ways: into the Virgin’s womb, into man’s heart, and in the final judgment. First into the Virgin’s womb, like a breath; Luke 2: “The Holy Spirit will come.” Second, into man’s heart, like a river; Isaiah 53: “When he will come as a stream.” And third, at the final judgment, like lightning; Matthew 24: “As a lightning has come out of the east, so will the coming of the Son of Man be.”

FM, trans. Wenzel, p. 241-243.

This Advent and Christmastide, may the breath of God refresh you and breathe life into your weary body; may the Christ-River slowly carve new contours of joy and desire in your heart; may you look for the Lightning on the horizon as the storm rolls over the dry desert.

What I’ve been up to this month:

• I am doing my annual Old Books with Grace Advent series. This year’s series is on the Holy Family and the three theological virtues through great writers. Last week I meditated upon Mary and hope alongside a medieval lyric poem. Tomorrow, I think about Joseph and faith alongside W.H. Auden, Madeleine L’Engle, and George MacDonald. Listen on Apple, Spotify, or any of your preferred podcasting platforms.

  • Quick & only mildly annoying plug: If you’ve enjoyed OBWG and are doing end-of-year giving, I appreciate aid to keep this little one-woman podcast going strong, pay for hosting fees, upkeep, and enable me to keep it ad-free (a shroom company reached out to me recently to sponsor… I said no 😂): https://www.buymeacoffee.com/gracehamman

• I had the great pleasure of being interviewed about Jesus through Medieval Eyes on the Born of Wonder podcast (with

  Katie Marquette
  who writes and shares great stuff) and the Scandal of Reading podcast (ditto for Jessica Hooten Wilson,
  The Scandal of Reading: Uncovering Holy Wisdom
  ).

• I have some exciting news coming… stay tuned…!

What I’ve been reading this month:

• Fiction: My yearly Advent reread of Pride and Prejudice.

• Nonfiction: Evelyn Underhill’s The Spiritual Life.

• Medieval/medieval-adjacent: St. Bridget of Sweden’s Life and Selected Revelations.

• Article:

  Leah Libresco Sargeant
  wrote this gentle, meditative piece on the practice of mending for Plough.

A Prayer from the Past

I know I posted a prayer from the marvelous Victorian poet Christina Rossetti (1830-1894) last month, but this one is speaking to me right now as a practical heart-prayer in this beautiful but also overwhelming season. I need patience and forbearance. So I’m posting her again. Consider this a nudge to go read more of her writing, or look at some Pre-Raphaelite art, or something of that nature.

O Lord,

Move us by Thine example to show kindness and do good. Grant us such patience and forbearance with all sufferers, gracious or ungracious, grateful or ungrateful, that in our stumbling walk and scant measure they may yet discern a vestige of Thee, and give Thee the glory—

Amen.

Merry Christmas, and peace for your December,

Grace

P.S. Medievalish is free, and I’d be delighted if you shared it with a friend!

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If you have enjoyed this newsletter, you may also like upgrading to a paid subscription to receive other essays scattered throughout the month on medieval and early modern books and thinkers. Plus, you directly support my writing and podcast projects! In the last month for paid subscribers, I’ve written about the history of nativity iconography, medieval monk William Chartham’s “zeal of reading,” and a beautiful fourteenth-century Marian lyric…

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My new book, Jesus through Medieval Eyes, is now available. Find it wherever you like to buy your books, including Amazon, B&N, Thriftbooks, and your local bookstore.