Medievalish 3.11

Judge Me, O Lord

Dear friend,

In a couple of weeks arrives the last big feast of the liturgical year, the Feast of Christ the King. This has been a feast that has come more recently to my attention, because it’s not an ancient feast. Though the idea of Christ the King is ancient, the feast dates from 1925, when Pope Pius XI instituted it “in response to growing secularism and and secular ultra-nationalism,” according to Wikipedia. In the turmoil and pain after the First World War, nationalism was on the rise, and of course, would climb catastrophically a mere decade later in the path to World War II. Fewer people practiced their faith after the body pile of the world’s most gruesome war to that point. Do these attitudes sound eerily familiar in a post-Covid, social media-filtered landscape?

As in the time after WWI, we live in a terrified age. I say that, but I also wonder if humans ever do not live in a terrified age. Everyone has always been afraid. Unless you have been living under a rock (lucky you! are you a toad?), you know that a rather big American election just happened. The results were satisfactory to some, and not at all to others. In the case of the recent election, both political parties thrive on playing upon chords of terror within our hearts. In some cases, this heightening of terror is not without justification; in others, politicians weave phantoms out of threadbare nothings, tattered ghosts to profitably haunt the public body.

Speaking of ghouls, October 31st was the first birthday of my first book, Jesus through Medieval Eyes: Beholding Christ with the Artists, Mystics, and Theologians of the Middle Ages. This silly little birthday had me reflecting. Some parts of my book I held before writing, and still hold and believe. But in other places and chapters, the writing and research process permanently altered my beliefs. One of the ideas that has lastingly re-formed my imagination was the chapter on Jesus as a Judge.

Stefan Lochner, Last Judgement, c. 1435. Wallraf-Richartz Museum, Cologne

I do not write my book chapters in order. I knew I was going to write a chapter on Jesus as a judge from the get-go, but I saved the Judge for the middle-to-end of drafting. This was because I was very scared to write about judgment and about Jesus as Judge. The idea of Jesus as a Judge is eschatological—it touches end times, crumbling of empires, accountability, just deserts. Judgment Day witnesses the stripping away of clever disguises to reveal one’s corrupted little heart. Jesus the Judge will see through the ways in which I have sold my soul for baubles and whims, at the cost of the real lives of other people and of myself. Scary.

As an American, I was already suspicious of top-down authority, of anything that smacks of monarchy. The idea of Ultimate Judge or Absolute King is a hard sell. It also did not help that all the people who I had seen obsessed with judgment or Judgment Day were generally very judgmental, angry, and frightened people. Such people were invested in Judgment Day, it seemed to me, chiefly to lick their lips at the thought of all the women who rejected them, all the men who did not promote them, all the people who voted differently than them, being herded by hordes of devils into Hell’s yawning maw.

But I had to write about it, because judgment themes were everywhere in medieval theology, poetry, prose, sermons, art. Doom paintings, like Lochner’s above, graced the walls of every church or altarpieces or boards. They were often placed where the parishioner could see it on their way back out into the world, a reminder of what is ultimate and what is penultimate.

What was I to do with these? What should I think in response to the naked damned prodded towards hell, or the blank looks of the blessed? I cannot fully think as a medieval person, I must react in some part as myself. For me, the answer came only after much thought—why was I so intently focused on the bodies below, on the mysteries of salvation and damnation, well-meaning medieval speculation on the afterlife, when I could focus on the figure of Christ on the rainbow throne above? Christ was decidedly not speculative in neither his justice nor his mercy.

In that chapter, I write about how a fifteenth-century painting by Petrus Christus finally, metaphorically slapped me in the face. It is a judgment painting, but all the action around Christ has been stripped away. King Jesus holds his wounds out, proof that he is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow, the same one who died for us, the same one who rose from the dead. Angels hold a sword and a lily behind him—perfect justice, perfect mercy.

Christ as Savior and Judge, Petrus Christus, c. 1450, Birmingham Museums, UK

This painting pierces me. I love the wondering, yet stern expressions on the angels’ faces behind him, witnessing Christ even as they could not have imagined. I am haunted, in a good way, by Christ’s own expression. I see the love, the tenderness, I also see the pain, the sorrow. He looks like he is on the verge of saying something. He is showing his wounds yet his hand is also strangely relaxed, telling me, the viewer ready to duck at sign of violence, that he comes in incomprehensible peace.

I continued thinking about Petrus Christus’s Jesus long after I turned in Jesus through Medieval Eyes. Most days I take a walk near my house, and while walking, I would hold up my hands and imagine wounds in my palms, think about what it meant that the Great Judge, the Lord of the Universe, would show me his own relaxed, pierced hands in his judgment. This was the judge who would look right through me at the end of time. And I realized, not without bafflement, that I am invited to long for my own judgment.

Let me explain. I do not long for punishment in a frenzy of holy, creepy masochism, nor do I long to be told all my faults. I hate being in trouble. I am an eldest child, after all. I would like nothing better than to be told I have been right about everything, always.

And yet—and yet—Petrus Christus’s picture of Jesus the Judge makes me think, O God, I want you to purge all the dross and nonsense and pettiness from my heart. Make me soft; make me love. Please judge me, with your lily and your sword and most of all, your very human wounds. Lay open my heart to you and to others, cut out the nonsense, grow the love. I actually do not really know what I am asking for, other than that I’m sure that the purgation process will be rather painful in unexpected ways. But I see that you, as judge, are the only person I could ask this terrible question, and trust that it will be good. Only Christ is to be trusted with judgment when time is over; only he can redeem time at all.

One of the interesting features about the feast day of Christ the King, as well as the medieval art of Jesus the Judge, is that the traditional imagery between Christ’s roles and king and judge overlap significantly. Both are images of power, they are eschatological, breathtaking righteousness. Both, in traditional art, usually involve Jesus sitting, in the posture of a reigning king. To feast in honor of Christ the King is to look forward to his return at the close of history. It is fitting that this feast occurs at the close of the liturgical year. To acknowledge Jesus is King is implicitly to invite Jesus as Judge. And thankfully, Jesus is not playing the chords of terror, just offering a gift of holy fear and adoration as we look at his wounds of love. Holy fear in the face of surpassingly perfect justice and mercy can, if we let it, cleanse hearts and caution us against hurting one another, against demonization or violence or hatred, against easily consigning each other to the lakes of burning fire.

What a convenient transition to turn back to *current events*! I don’t usually write explicitly about politics in this space, and I’m not about to start.¹ But in the wake of all these fearful and uncertain times, I hope this good and holy fear will lead me to listen well, to keep cultivating self-knowledge and illuminating my blind spots, to fight and advocate for my fellow children of God, even those with whom I profoundly disagree, to neither smugly condescend to nor rejoice in others’ pain and affliction, but to faithfully remember my neighbors’ humanity and my own. I hope that for all of us. Empire, whether red, blue, or purple, cannot give you any of that.

Jesus brings a blade and he brings flowers, and both are meant for me, and I am learning, maybe, to want them both. They are for you too—but each of us must most keenly feel and desire both lilies and sword for our individual selves. When we start habitually thinking longingly of the sword in relation only to other people, we get in trouble. I speak from experience: there are a few people that I grow perhaps too fond of thinking about in relation to swords. So we pray with the psalmist: Judge me, O Lord (Ps. 23, Ps. 46).

What I’ve been up to this month:

• If you’re in Baltimore/DC/Annapolis, come and check out this free event on medieval art, poetry, and theology on Christ as Lover and Bridegroom at St. Paul’s Anglican Church on November 23rd. Dive into medieval interpretations of the Song of Songs with me, and reflect on what such strange images might tell us of Jesus’s love, hospitality, and character. RSVP here.

• In honor of my book’s first birthday, would you do me a favor? If you have read the book, would you leave your honest review on Amazon? It helps me out a lot, and helps other folks to find it! Or if you haven’t read it yet, pick up a copy at Barnes & Noble, Amazon, Thriftbooks, Bookshop.org, or best of all, your local bookstore.

• The Old Books with Grace podcast continues onward. Lately, I’ve welcomed the wonderful

  Amy Mantravadi
  on writing historical fiction of the Reformation, and up next, an old graduate school friend, Dr. Erin Zoutendam, comes to talk with me about how medieval and early modern Christians read the Bible. Listen on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or the podcasting platform of your choice.

What I’ve been reading this month:

• Nonfiction: Wolfgang Riehle’s delightful study of the language of the Middle English mystics, The Middle English Mystics, first published in 1981.

• Fiction: L.M. Montgomery’s The Story Girl. Perfect fall-into-winter cozy reading.

• Medieval/Medieval-adjacent: Amy Gebauer’s analysis of the German medieval poem, which often comes accompanied by comic-book-style illustrations of the content, Christus und die Minnende Seele.

• Article: Two cool things! Neither an article, both for listening. Take a look at the online C.S. Lewis exhibit from Magdalen College, including him reading aloud the General Prologue to The Canterbury Tales! Was pleased to discover my own pronunciation of Middle English sounds very similar to his… you never know with a language that died out quite a long time ago. Secondly, I’ve been enjoying this Spotify playlist that Victoria Jones of Art & Theology made for Christ the King Sunday.

A Prayer from the Past

This month’s prayer is from a very early, even first- or second-century community of Christians in Syria, perhaps partially written Clement of Rome, an early pope. I found it in Prayers of the Early Church, compiled by J. Manning Potts, from the helpful folks at Project Gutenberg.

O God,

Who art the unsearchable abyss of peace, the ineffable sea of love, the fountain of blessings, and the bestower of affection, Who sendest peace to those that receive it; open to us this day the sea of Thy love, and water us with the plenteous streams from the riches of Thy grace. Make us children of quietness, and heirs of peace. Enkindle in us the fire of Thy love; sow in us Thy fear; strengthen our weakness by Thy power; bind us closely to Thee and to each other in one firm bond of unity; for the sake of Jesus Christ.

Amen.

Peace—yes, real peace in holy fear—for your November,

Grace

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

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My 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.

1. For me, talking politics online is almost always a waste of valuable emotional energy. If you must know: the candidate I voted for lost, and I have a very low opinion of the winner’s character and policies. But in general this was a bummer election for me, the mix of conservative and progressive local and state propositions I did vote for almost all lost. Turns out you don’t really want Grace Hamman on your team, hahaha 😵‍💫