Medievalish 3.4
Meeting the Great Mystics of Helfta
Dear friend,
One of the great gifts of this nebulous stage in my life is that I’ve been reading new-to-me medieval writers. My academic background is in English specifically, so my medieval knowledge is deep but pretty specialized. I read a ton of English writers, both obscure and well-known in both the medieval and early modern eras, and I also read the general biggies of the Middle Ages (St. Augustine of Hippo, St. Thomas Aquinas, St. Bernard of Clairvaux, Romance of the Rose, etc.).
It has been fun to read with less direction, following my own whims and the inward stirrings of the Spirit. Last year and earlier this year, I was surfing the wave of monastic theology, reading folks like William of St-Thierry and Hugh of St-Victor. Lately, I have been reading the writings of the extraordinary group of women who lived at the convent at Helfta: Mechthild of Magdeburg, Mechthild of Hackeborn, and St. Gertrude the Great (yes, there are two Mechthilds, yes, I have been confused by this multiple times).
In the thirteenth century, Helfta was a special place, a new nunnery which belonged to the Benedictine Order but emerged from Cistercian reforms. In the words of eminent medievalist Barbara Newman describing these women at Helfta, “Never again would medieval women write so prolifically in Latin or enjoy such a privileged religious life, supported by Dominican priests who helped to diffuse their work, yet did not control or censor what they wrote.”1 Helfta was helmed by a warm, intelligent, and holy woman, Mechthild of Hackeborn’s older sister Gertrude of Hackeborn (now we are up to two Gertrudes and two Mechthilds). Gertrude was deeply beloved by the community of nuns, and she was a fierce advocate of women’s learning, encouraging all the women in her charge to learn the language of Latin often reserved more for male clerics. In Mechthild’s book, we hear an echo of Gertrude herself: “If zeal for learning were to perish, she used to say, once they no longer understood the divine Scripture, religious devotion would perish too.” A word!
The main three women associated with Helfta whose writings survive to the present day were Mechthild of Magdeburg, Mechthild of Hackeborn, and St. Gertrude the Great. Mechthild of Magdeburg, the eldest of the trio of mystics, was not a nun at all until the end of her life. She was a beguine, one of those fascinating unmarried or widowed women who lived outside of conventional vows to religious orders but under their own set of vows. She moved to Helfta as an older woman. As a beguine living independently in Magdeburg, she had written The Flowing Light of the Godhead.2 This is a marvelously beautiful and erotically charged piece of bridal mysticism written in medieval German.
Mechthild of Hackeborn, the younger sister of Gertrude the Abbess, headed the scriptorium and held the office of chantress. Gertrude the Great was younger than both, and entered the nunnery at only age five (Newman suggests she might have been an orphan of noble parents). Mechthild took care of her, and they developed a deep and lifelong friendship. Mechthild of Hackeborn told Gertrude and other sisters of her visions that took place especially during the liturgy, and they gathered these meditations up into her book, The Book of Special Grace. Gertrude composed her own visions into a book called The Herald of God’s Lovingkindness.
I read Mechthild of Magdeburg’s The Flowing Light of the Godhead while writing my last book, but I have not yet read Gertrude, and I am only a little way into Mechthild of Hackeborn. But these latter two became extremely popular and influential in the Middle Ages, translated into many European languages and making their way in the Dominican networks in particular! Both the younger Mechthild and Gertrude, unlike Mechthild of Magdeburg, composed their works in Latin, garnering them a much larger audience than the elder Mechthild (especially Gertrude, whose writings became so famous that she eventually acquired official sainthood in the medieval church, unlike either Mechthild).3
As a thankful member of a writing group of women, I am captivated by this medieval version of a writing group of mystical women, sharing their visions with one another, composing their writings together, giving and receiving, learning together in community and worship. It sometimes surprises readers in modernity to think of three mystics as in this sort-of writing group.
Sometimes, we have a rather silly idea of mysticism as this singular moment outside of time, contaminated or compromised if mystical spirituality partially emerges from earthly things, like other people.4 To exclusively hold to such ideas about encounters with God often betrays a zero-sum mentality of either God working or people working. Really, always, like any other person, a mystical writer has visions out of her own present experiences, and the Lord speaks to her in a language she can begin to understand. I love how God speaks to Mechthild of Magdeburg in Middle German, or how hundreds of years later in history, Mary speaks to Juan Diego in his native Aztec tongue. In his graciousness, God is particular to us. It is, paradoxically, this language, this group of women, this flower or note of song or slant of light, that becomes a door in the wall into the deeper knowledge of divine love.5
For Mechthild of Hackeborn, the woman of Helfta I am currently reading, the this moment that opened her eyes to the deeper presence of Christ was almost always the liturgy itself, celebrated with her sisters. The chantress, so receptive to the beauty of music and scripture, writes again and again of her visions on different feast days while singing. Her book is structured by feast days, with verses from the Latin often beginning her meditations. Some are incredibly strange, some more accessible.
I want to briefly share with you a taste of Mechthild’s vision during Easter week. On the day after Easter, the gospel Mane nobiscum was read (Luke 24:29), Mechthild tells us. This is the evocative gospel of Christ meeting with the two on the road to Emmaus. They do not recognize Jesus, and when they reach their destination, they beg him to stay: “Stay with us! It is nearly night.” But they still do not know him. Then at once, as Jesus takes bread, breaks it, and gives it to them, they recognize him, and he vanishes from sight.
Like the travelers, Mechthild begs the Lord to abide with her. Jesus answers, unfolding himself in full as one who stays, who abides, even though we do not see him:
“I will abide with you like a father with his son, sharing the celestial inheritance that I bought for you with my precious blood, along with all the good I did for you in my thirty-three years on earth. All of these things I will give you as your own. Second, I will be with you as a friend. Just as someone who has a faithful friend flees to him in every need and is always close to him, you can do the same with me, for I am a friend faithful to you beyond all others. You can always find a safe refuge with me, whatever happens. When you are weak, place yourself in my hands, for I will faithfully help you with everything. Third, I will be with you the way a bridegroom is with his bride. No division can ever come between them unless some illness separates them. But if you become ill, I will be your expert physician, healing your every sickness. Therefore no division can ever come between us, for ours is an eternal coupling and an inseparable union. Fourth, I will abide with you as one companion does with another. If one of them has to bear a heavy burden, the other at once takes it up and carries it with him. In the same way, I will bear all your burdens with you so faithfully that you can carry them with ease. (p. 82)
A pile of images from scripture (father, heavy burdens, refuge, doctor, inheritance, bridegroom) shift and transform in Christ’s speech to reveal the promises and character of God. At the core, each image shows one who is close, one who stays, one who abides, even when it is not obvious. It’s a good taste of Mechthild, who so keenly feels the intimacy and grace of Jesus within the movements of the liturgy.
I love thinking about this group of women learning seriously and sharing life together in medieval Germany.
What I’ve been up to this month:
I am currently in Michigan at the Festival of Faith and Writing… fun to meet some people in person that I’ve only met online.
I had the enormous privilege and joy of joining my octogenarian grandmother’s book club in Phoenix after they read Jesus through Medieval Eyes. A treat that I will remember for a very long time. I love talking to book clubs, especially when my dear grandmother is a member!
I finished a chapter on mercy and avarice for my new book. Phew, convicting and hopeful all at once.
A new episode of Old Books with Grace is coming out next week, on the power of metaphor with the delightful
!
What I’ve been reading this month:
Nonfiction: Finally reading Dominion by Tom Holland after much recommendations… fascinating thus far.
Fiction: Reading a new-to-me L.M. Montgomery, Pat of Silver Bush. Love returning to one of my childhood favorite authors.
Medieval/Medieval-adjacent: the ladies of Helfta.
Article: I have not read any articles for fun this month. Sad. Maybe share some of your favorite recent articles in the comments for other Medievalish readers?
A Prayer from the Past
This prayer was composed by Christina Rossetti, the gifted Victorian poet and children’s author (1830-1894), whom I often share here. I found it in Eamon Duffy’s collection of prayers, The Heart in Pilgrimage.
I have no wit, no words, no tears; My heart within me like a stone Is numbed too much for hopes or fears; Look right, look left, I dwell alone; I lift mine eyes, but dimmed with grief No everlasting hills I see; My life is in the falling leaf: O Jesus, quicken me. My life is like a faded leaf, My harvest dwindled to a husk; Truly my life is void and brief And tedious in the barren dusk; My life is like a frozen thing, No bud nor greenness can I see: Yet rise it shall--the sap of Spring; O Jesus, rise in me. My life is like a broken bowl, A broken bowl that cannot hold One drop of water for my soul Or cordial in the searching cold; Cast in the fire the perished thing, Melt and remold it, till it be A royal cup for Him my King: O Jesus, drink of me.
Amen.
Peace for your April,
Grace
P.S. Medievalish is free, and I’d be delighted if you shared it with a friend!
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 a fascinating Book of Hours owned by Charles of Angouleme, a Middle English poem on Ireland, and a nun-artist…
From the introduction by Barbara Newman to Mechthild of Hackeborn, The Book of Special Grace, trans. Newman (Paulist Press, 2017), 1.
Which I discuss a bit in Jesus through Medieval Eyes, if you want to check it out there!
Newman’s introduction contains all this info and more—it is a really wonderful explanation of the circulation of these texts and of the community at Helfta!
This is why I often prefer the term contemplative to mystic, in case you’ve ever been curious.
There is, of course, also the via negativa or apophatic way that authors like the anonymous writer of the Cloud of Unknowing practice, where all images and sights and scents and sounds must be discarded in pursuit of the holy. Even the author of the Cloud, though, encourages beginners to focus on one word in meditation, like love or Jesus.
So beautiful and so fascinating, Grace! I really enjoyed reading about these incredible women.
And! Pat of Silver Bush! I haven't read it in years, but I remember loving it. I think I'll have to track down a vintage paperback copy from the 90s (why are Montgomery's books just better in those little trade paperbacks??)