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Blind seeing: the limits of vision in the texts of Julian of Norwich
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Blind seeing: the limits of vision in the texts of Julian of Norwich
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Content
Blind Seeing:
The Limits of Vision in the Texts of Julian of Norwich
Janna Gosselin
May 2015
A Dissertation
Submitted for the Degree of PhD
to the Department of English
University of Southern California
Joseph Dane, Chair
David Rollo
David Albertson
Table of Contents
Introduction..................................................................................................................................... 1
Section One: Theoretical Problems of Seeing—
Augustine, Pseudo-Dionysius and Julian’s Visual Limitations ...................... 19
Chapter 1: Julian, Augustine and Visual Limitations ................................................................... 24
Chapter 2: Gaps in Julian’s Visual Narrative—Julian’s Apophaticism........................................ 63
Section Two: Julian and the Beguines .................................................................................... 100
Chapter 3: The Unknowable Self and the Unknowable God
In the Texts of Marguerite Porete and Julian of Norwich .................................. 105
Chapter 4: Pain, Illness and God’s Absence
In the Texts of Mechthild of Magdeburg and Julian of Norwich ....................... 138
Section Three: Blindness and Sin—Julian and the English Christian Mystics .................. 169
Chapter 5: Julian, Blindness, Richard Rolle and the Cloud Author ........................................... 172
Chapter 6: Julian Sin, the Ancrene Wisse, and Walter Hilton .................................................... 200
PRINCIPAL WORKS CITED ................................................................................................ 231
3
Introduction
“For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face…”
1
st
Corinthians 13:13
In a memorable moment from Julian’s visions, she recounts being led to the bottom of the
sea, and assures her readers that even there, if one could see God, one would be safe.
1
Interestingly, this account is sandwiched between two other accounts of her visions in which
Julian has difficulty seeing. In the section immediately prior to the bottom of the sea account,
Julian has difficulty seeing her vision because she lacks light: “This I saw bodely, swemly, and
darkely (physically, sorrowfully and obscurely), and I desired mor bodely light to have seen
more clerly” (10:3-4). Immediately following the bottom of the sea account, Julian relates that
she cannot clearly see the vision of Christ’s discolored face: “This seconde shewing was so lowe
and so little and so simple that my spirites were in great traveyle in the beholding: morning,
deadful and longing” (10:25-27). Julian was so troubled by the faintness of this vision that she
was worried that it was not a vision at all: “For I was sometime in a feer whether it was a
shewing or none” (10:27-28). The placement of the under the sea passage between these two
other accounts does not appear to be coincidental.
2
Just as we have difficulty seeing underwater,
or in the dark, or when things appear to us faintly, we similarly have difficulty seeing God in this
life. This non-seeing, a prominent theme in Julian’s texts, has been neglected by scholars. I will
explore Julian’s non-seeing at length in this dissertation.
1
“One time my understanding was lead downe into the sea grounde, and ther saw I hilles and
dales grene, seeming as it were mosse begrowen, with wrake and gravel. Then I understood thus:
that if a man or woman wher there, under the brode water, and he might have sight of God—so
as God is with a man continually—he shoulde be safe in soule and body, and take no harme”
Nicholas Watson and Jacqueline Jenkins, The Writings of Julian of Norwich (10:16-20) All cites
hereinafter to Julian’s text are to the Watson and Jenkins’ critical edition of Julian’s texts.
2
Scholars have noted how carefully crafted Julian’s texts appear to be (Watson and Jenkins, 1-2)
4
There can be no doubt that vision is a significant theme in Julian’s texts. The recipient of
sixteen visions at the age of 30, Julian spent the rest of her life recording, interpreting and
transforming her visions into theology. Julian privileges vision over other senses as a means of
union (“oning”) with God. For Julian, even the highest form of prayer is “beholding.” Scholars
have focused on Julian’s visuality—regarding Julian as a visionary theologian and examining in
detail how and what Julian sees in her visions. Yet I have found it fruitful to focus on what Julian
cannot see in her visions. Examining moments when Julian cannot see allows scholars to
develop an enriched understanding of Julian’s view of the human condition. Despite Julian’s
receipt and interpretation of the visions, which reveal to her so much about God, she recognizes
that there is much more that she cannot see.
3
Julian then realizes that she shares her own visual
limitations with all of humanity as well. As much as she wants her “evencristens” to see as she
saw, she realizes that most of humanity can’t see God any better than she can. Thus, she makes
two implicit observations. First, God is transcendent—certain aspects of Him simply cannot be
seen by humans. Sometimes, He does not want to be seen. He keeps secrets. He is absent. And,
even though He allows humans to see him from time to time, He decides when, and where, and
how they will see Him.
Second, Julian understands that there are certain things that God actually wants us to see,
but we are too blind to see them. This lack of sight can occur for a number of reasons. Perhaps
we can see part of what God wants to reveal, but not the full story. Or, we see the story, but we
only see it darkly or dimly. We might see it, but we can’t really understand what we saw, so we
can’t put words to it. Or, we cannot see ourselves, which prevents us from seeing God. From
3
In their “Introduction,” Watson and Jenkins, observe that Julian, in interpreting her visions,
“becomes ever more preoccupied with the limits of her own, and of all human, understanding”
(2-3).
5
any of these perspectives, Julian learns just how limited we are as humans. She asserts that our
limitations are all part of our human condition. Certainly God is transcendent—beyond our
human perceptual abilities on our best days. But, the limitations inherent in our enfleshed state
contribute to our inability to perceive God.
What Julian knows about these human limitations that prevent us from seeing God is
threefold. First, they do not arise as a result of punishment for sin, because God does not blame
sinners. Julian asserts that spiritual blindness, for example, is not caused by sin or the
punishment of sin. This assertion completely contradicts the prominent theme within the
medieval tradition which blamed blindness, including spiritual blindness, on sin and God’s
wrath. Second, these limitations are a foundational part of our anthropology. As Julian theorizes,
the human self is made up of a higher self (substance) and a lower self (sensualite). These
limitations are an inherent part of our sensualite, (our earthly self). Because it is so difficult for
humans to access our higher selves, we tend to be trapped in our lower, more limited selves.
Finally, our limitations (including sickness and our falling due to sin), provide us with gifts or
rewards (opportunities for spiritual growth). As Julian says, because of our falling, we can rise
higher than we ever would have, had we not fallen. What does this mean? Julian does not
elaborate—it’s not clear that she knows. But, she is insistent that the limitations inherent to the
human condition inure to our benefit.
Julian’s theology of sin plays into her formulation of these visual limitations in a
significant way. Julian asserts that our limitations are just that—human limitations. Other
writers in Julian’s time period, and going back to Augustine, focus on human limitations being
the product of sin. For example, as discussed in Chapter 5, Richard Rolle speaks for the
medieval tradition in claiming that spiritual blindness is the result of sin. Julian rejects this
6
position. It is not that Julian is rejecting the reality of sin. Julian is no sin denialist. Even though
she cannot see it, she agrees that “sin is something.”
4
However, Julian makes clear that although
we suffer from spiritual blindness, it has nothing to do with sin. Simply by being enfleshed, we
become blind. Because Augustine posited that only those who are pure in heart (free of sin) have
any hope of seeing God in this life, medieval theologians adopted the notion that sinful people
cannot see God. Since most, if not all of us are sinners, then almost none of us can see God.
5
Julian writes against this medieval tradition by arguing that spiritual blindness is not the product
of sin, but is instead a part of the human condition.
Julian’s view of spiritual blindness as a function of the human condition merits further
comment. This view impacts her entire project, and implicates one of her more daring and
innovative theological approaches—the questioning of Original Sin. This bold stance is set forth
most clearly in the Lord and Servant Parable.
6
In that Parable, a master sends his servant out to
do an errand and, in his haste to do his master’s will, the servant falls into a ditch and writhes in
blindness and pain. Because Julian recognizes the servant as Adam, scholars view the “fall” in
the Parable as a reinterpretation of the Fall of Genesis 3.
7
Significantly, in Julian’s fall, there is
no tree, no serpent, no Eve and no bad choice by Adam. Baker asserts that although Julian
acknowledges that Adam and humankind suffer a consequence from the fall, “she insists that his
fall was not the result of rebellion or disobedience” (91). Instead, as Bernie McGinn claims,
4
Turner, 70. Denys Turner, in his book, Julian of Norwich, Theologian, argues that Julian
“knows for herself that sin has real causes, trajectories, and effects which shape and form our
world and its history” (70).
5
Letter to Paulina, chapters 47-48.
6
Scholars note that Julian’s approach to sin is groundbreaking. McGinn says, “Julian’s view of
the Fall is again radical” (McGinn, Varieties, 452). Joan Nuth, in Wisdom’s Daughter, The
Theology of Julian of Norwich, claims that, “Contrary to the spirit of her age, and perhaps to her
own experience of sin, guilt, and fear, God seems to Julian to dismiss sin far too easily” (119).
7
Baker 45.
7
Adam falls due to a lack of knowledge.
8
Simply put, in Julian’s tale, Adam does not rebel.
Thus, even though humanity may be limited in its ability to perceive God, that limitation is not
due to Adam’s rebellion.
Some scholars read the Parable as not only Julian’s reinterpretation of the Fall, but her
questioning of “the central premise of orthodox medieval theodicy”—God as wrathful judge.
9
Denise Baker, in Julian of Norwich’s Showings, From Vision to Book, argues that Julian rejects
Augustine’s juridical paradigm that sinners deserve punishment. In Augustine’s paradigm,
sinners must be punished for their sins even if all they have done is inherit their sin from their
forebear Adam.
10
In contrast to Augustine’s claim, Julian repeatedly asserts that God refuses to
assign blame to believers. Instead, as Julian sees it, we assign blame to ourselves, because we see
sin incorrectly. Turner supports this view. In his book, Turner characterizes the Lord and
Servant Parable as the story God tells of sin, in contrast to the story sin tells of itself. “Sin’s
narrative is, then, both theological and perverse. It tells of a God whose eternal purposes for
Creation are thwarted by sin, of a God angry for being thwarted and so punishing, threatening
my freedom with extinction” (104).
Following Augustine, sin was often used by medieval theologians and devotional writers
to justify why humanity cannot see God.
11
Thus, Julian’s assertion that humanity cannot see
God because of a limitation unrelated to sin is all the more daring. Julian repeatedly points to
moments in her visions where she cannot see God, but does not mention sin as being a cause for
her visual limitations. Neither does she link her limitations to the fallenness of the flesh either.
Instead, she points to the “heavinesse of the flesh” and an inherent blindness as being the causes
8
McGinn notes that in Julian’s fall, Adam’s will was left intact (McGinn, Varieties 452).
9
Baker, 83.
10
Baker, 83-87
11
Rolle, 48.
8
of her visual limitations. As the anchoress demonstrates, her perception of God’s absence in her
vision could not have been caused by sin. In the vision, Julian perceives God’s presence
immediately followed by his absence. Julian experiences rapidly alternating perceptions of
presence and absence, quickly and repeatedly. Through this vision, Julian perceives God’s
instruction that she is loved even when God is absent. Interestingly, however, Julian prominently
adds in her narrative that her perception of God’s absence could not have been caused by sin
because she did not have time to sin. She must have been responding to the medieval tradition
which provided that if one experienced God’s absence, it is because of sin. Accordingly, Julian
seems to assume that in order for God to be absent to her, she would have had to have sinned.
But, Julian explains that from the time of his presence to his absence, she didn’t have time to sin.
Thus, she reasons that sin could not have been the cause of God’s absence.
12
Another contributing factor to our inability to see is our binary anthropology. Julian
articulates her understanding of our twofold anthropology this way—the self is made up an
earthly lower self (the “sensualite”) and a heavenly higher self (the “substance”). The
“sensualite” encompasses our body and our experience on Earth. Unlike Paul’s corruptible
“flesh,” our “sensualite” is a good gift from God. On the other hand, our “substance” is made up
of the same substance as God, although our substance is created, unlike God, who is uncreated.
In this way, Julian sees the divide between God and humanity as being dissolved.
13
This divide
is further dissolved by Christ’s incarnation. From her analysis of the Parable of the Lord and
Servant, Julian gains insight into the self. She claims that “alle that shalle be saved” have within
12
Augustine posits that if we perceive God to be absent, it is because we have sinned (Lootens
67).
13
McGinn compares Julian’s “substance” to the synderesis of scholastic discourse, noting that
“in the saved, there is an unfallen aspect of the soul” (Varieties, 450).
9
them “a marvelous medelur (strange mixture) of both wele and of wo.” Our selves encompass
both “Jhesu Crist upresin” and “the wrechednesse and the mischief of Adams falling” (LT 52.5-
10).
Although Christ’s Incarnation is, for Julian, the restoration of humanity because it “knit
togeder” our “substance” with our “sensualite,” and knits our substance to the Trinity, this
“medelur” nevertheless has its difficulties. Given that our selves are made up of this strange
mixture of the exalted and the mundane, “unnethis (scarcely) we knowe oureselfe” ( LT 52.17-
19). And, when we don’t know ourselves, we don’t know others, or God. As challenging as the
doubleness may be for humanity, this twofold system was intentional on God’s part. Julian sees
that “his forseeing perpos in this endlesse wisdom wolde that we were doubil” (LT 56.50-51).
Why did God create such a system? It’s for our own good. Julian’s binary anthropology allows
God to give us gifts (which are not available to solely spiritual beings who are not double) that
allow us to rise and “profite” (LT 56.49-50). Yet, for those here on Earth, we remain, for the
most part, mired in our sensuality. And, Julian makes clear, in our sensuality, “we faile” (LT
57.6-7). Thus, while we remain locked in our lower selves, our efforts to see God fail as well.
Just as God intended that “we were doubil”—that we exist within a binary anthropology
which renders us limited and failing just so that we can receive gifts that we would never have
been given if we were not double, God intends for us to fall, so that we can rise, and rise higher
than we would have had we not fallen (51.45-50). Scholars have discussed Julian’s concept of
falling and rising as creating an educative aspect of sin. Although Julian discusses this concept
mostly in connection with sin, she also demonstrates that it is applicable to illness, blindness and
not seeing as well. Julian believes that God allows humanity to experience these limitations so
that he can lift us up out of them.
10
This concept of rising and falling appears to Julian to be applicable to all believers
(lovers of God): “If any such liver (lover) be in erth which is continually kepte fro falling, I
know it not, for it was not shewde to me” (LT 82.22-23). What was shown to Julian was that “in
falling and in rising we are ever preciously kepte in one love” (82.23-24). Julian adds, “For in the
beholding of God we falle not, and in the beholding of oureselfe we stonde not” (82.24-25).
Thus, according to Julian, although God allows humanity to fall based on the human condition,
he also centers falling on human self-reliance, a self-centeredness which begins to sound like sin.
However, Julian is clear He does not judge us for that sin. In the end, this falling and rising is all
a part of the spiritual process, with Julian’s texts as a type of self-improvement manual for the
spiritually inclined of her day. Julian’s thoughts on rising and falling are just such a means of
self-improvement and theodicy in one. She is justifying God’s ways (which often seem to be
hard and bitter in our limited view) so that her readers can understand that their trials—their
limitations—are opportunities for spiritual growth.
For Julian, seeing God is tantamount to knowing God. Since there are many things Julian
cannot see about God, it follows suit that there are many things Julian cannot know about God.
For some scholars, this approach, this lack of knowing or “unknowing” regarding God has been
characterized as apophaticism. As Oliver Davies and Denys Turner note in their introduction to
Silence and the Word, apophaticism or negative theology is “the idea that God is best identified
in terms of ‘absence’, ‘otherness’, ‘difference.’” The authors add that apophasis has a strong
intellectual history “dating back to the early Church Fathers.”
14
Apophasis can also mean
14
Davies, Oliver, and Turner, Denys, eds. Silence and the Word : Negative Theology and
Incarnation. Port Chester, NY, USA: Cambridge University Press, 2002; ProQuest ebrary. Web.
11 November 2014. According to Webster’s online dictionary, Apophatic means “of or relating
Footnote continued on next page
11
ineffability, silence and ultimately, unknowability.
15
Perhaps the simplest and most direct
statement of apophaticism comes from Augustine—“Si comprehendis, non est Deus” (“if you
can understand it, it isn’t God”).
16
Although apophatic elements within Julian’s work have been
noted by scholars, many scholars view Julian as cataphatic because she bases her theology on her
visions which are positive images and a self-revelation of God.
17
In a footnote to his chapter on Julian in Varieties of Vernacular Mysticism, Bernard
McGinn notes that the “apophatic aspect” of Julian’s theology is “often overlooked” (644).
McGinn points to Denys Turner, in his recent book, Julian of Norwich, Theologian, who fills in
some of the gaps in scholarship on Julian’s apophasis. Turner connects Julian’s apophaticism to
the Cross.
18
Turner claims that, for Julian, the Cross is “the embodiment of her theological
epistemology as such: for Julian theological knowledge itself is cruciform,” containing the
tensions of love and death (22). Turner notes that, on the one hand, Julian knows by faith that the
conflict presented by love and death is resolved. Yet, on the other hand, they are not resolved as
Footnote continued from previous page
to the belief that God can be known to humans only in terms of what He is not (such as `God is
unknowable').”
15
Denys Turner writes in The Darkness of God that apophaticism is “a kind of acquired ignorance”
about God, “a strategy and practice of unknowing” (Turner 19). Andrew Louth writes: “apophatic
theology is concerned with our understanding of God, when, in the presence of God, speech and
thought fail us and we are reduced to silence.” Louth, The Origins of the Christian Mystical
Tradition, p. 154.
16
Augustine, Sermons 52, n. 16 in Sermons Vol. III, ed. John E. Rotelle, trans. Edmund Hill
(Brooklyn, N.T.: New York Citry Press, 1991), 57.
17
Jantzen claims that Julian has a different emphasis from that of negative theology. “She does
believe that by means of natural reason, Christian teaching and the inner experience of the Holy
Spirit, we can have, though never an exhaustive knowledge of God, at least that kindergarten
ABC variety of real communion with him which is the preliminary to the fullness of knowledge
which she believes awaits us when we see him face to face (94). Cataphatic or kataphatic is
defined as “a way of knowing God by affirmation, namely, through his self-revelation mediated
by the intellect and senses” (Scourgie, Dictionary of Christian Spirituality 271).
18
Linking her apophaticism with her “demotic” qualities and “her theological betweenness”
Turner finds that the only logical answer to this intersection is the Cross (22).
12
to her sight (22). Thus, Julian’s theology is performed in a state of unknowing—“to live the
Trinitarian life within history is to live by means of a mystery” (23). And, according to Turner,
sin is placed at the center of that mystery because “the very love that is the Trinity willed to
reveal itself in a world in which there is sin” (23).
Turner dissuades readers from “lazily” categorizing Julian’s “striking homeliness” and
“human familiarity” as cataphatic. Weighing the more negative metaphors of the author of the
Cloud of Unknowing, Turner claims that “the ‘darkness of God’ is every bit as deep for Julian as
for that nameless Carthusian monk” because Julian’s darkness lies at the heart of the divine
providential will (23). Turner explores the affirmative richness of Julian’s theological
vocabulary and claims that “her cataphatic confidence is in itself an apophatic strategy.” For
Turner, Julian’s use of a proliferation of Trinitarian terms places “God beyond all possible
words” and draws her readers into “unspeakable mystery”(25-26). Turner proceeds to argue that
the fact that Julian’s book is “not yit performed” enacts her apophatic strategy because God’s
plan is not yet performed. For Turner, “for now we may live, and she may write, only as Jesus
died, without a why.” He concludes, “The apophatic theology in her Revelation is also the
apophatic theology of its composition” (27).
19
Turner certainly explores Julian’s apophaticism in
terms of her superabundant vocabulary and her apophatic compositional strategy, yet he does not
analyze or even consider Julian’s visual apophaticism—what Julian cannot see.
19
What Turner does focus on is Julian’s view of time, which takes on an apophatic shading even
though Turner does not identify it as such. Turner says “Our present condition is penultimate.
For we are not in a position to tell the ultimate story – – its plot is hidden from us. We are given
only a story fragment, and our condition is defined by the partial character of the story as we
possess it, both by what it can disclose to us and by what is implied by the very incompleteness
of what it discloses” (Turner, Julian 109).
13
In “The Apophatic Image: The Poetics of Effacement in Julian of Norwich,” Maggie
Ross and Vincent Gillespie also consider Julian’s apophaticism.
20
First, Ross and Gillespie lay
the fundamentals of apophasis, noting that “the play of absence and presence characterizes the
human experience of engagement with the ineffable” (53). Later in the article, they turn to the
“apophatic image.” The authors clarify: “Apophatic images and surfaces are themselves non-
figural but allow projection from within the viewer or perception derived from ineffable
knowing” (57). Thus, for Ross and Gillespie, images like the burning bush, which provides a
focus for the imagination in the story, but which defies “representation of what it communicates”
are classically apophatic (57). Ross and Gillespie identify Julian’s crown of thorns as such an
image, an apophatic signifier with nothing in its center (59). They also point to Julian’s use of
“insistent present participles” and a paradoxical vocabulary as evidence of her apophaticism (60-
62). Examination of Julian’s writing style, including her “syntactical looseness,” her shifting
perspective, and her use of absence and presence in her language points to her “apophatic
consciousness” (64-72). Again, Ross and Gillespie do not consider what Julian cannot see as
evidence of her apophaticism.
The third and final noteworthy exploration of Julian’s apophaticism is Cynthea Masson’s
“The Point of Coincidence: Rhetoric and the Apophatic in Julian of Norwich’s Showings.” In
that chapter, Masson analyzes Julian’s paradoxical language and argues that the tension between
the opposites creates the chink in the defensive wall of reason which allows access to the
apophatic realm. Masson sees Christ as the coincidence of opposites for Julian—since God is
ineffable and indefinable, and language is defining and limiting, only Christ can solve the
20
“The Apophatic Image: The Poetics of Effacement in Julian of Norwich,” is collected in The
Medieval Mystical Tradition in England, ed. Marion Glascoe, (1992).
14
dilemma as the mediator of opposites. Although Masson acknowledges that Gillespie and Ross
analyze Julian’s God in a point quote, identifying it as apophatic “in that one can imagine what
she means without being able to represent it in terms of imagery” (163). Yet, Masson goes on to
compare Julian’s use of that “poynt” with Julian’s use of the same word elsewhere, arguing that
“Julian’s “point(e)” can be understood as a point of access to the apophatic realm” (163).
Finally, Masson concludes that Christ is the ultimate mid-point and the “coincident of all
opposites,” including that which is hidden and that which is revealed. For Masson, Christ is the
gap between Julian’s chiasmus of “desyre” and “longing” (173). In her article, Masson carefully
explores Julian’s paradoxical language and the “poynts” which take on an apophatic dimension,
however, she does not look at the apophatic potential of what Julian cannot see.
Thus, scholars have not explored the meaning and ramifications of what Julian cannot
see—and how these aspects of her texts may have apophatic dimensions. My dissertation will
step into this scholarly gap and examine these elements. However, my project will go beyond an
exploration of the apophatic. I will reflect upon Julian’s self-understanding and the
unknowingness that is inherent in that. Also beyond the apophatic is Julian’s approach to pain,
illness, God’s absence and spiritual blindness, which I will address. Finally, I will examine other
elements of the Christian narrative which Julian cannot see, specifically sin and God’s judgment,
and the perceptual problems inherent in Julian’s theology of sin.
In order to understand Julian’s texts more deeply, I will set her writing within the context
of three theological traditions. In the first section, I will explore Julian’s seeing/not seeing theme
in connection with the classical/medieval tradition as set forth in Augustine (Chapter One) and
Pseudo-Dionysius (Chapter Two). In the second section, I analyze Julian’s texts in light of the
Beguine tradition of women mystical writers which took place in the lowland countries just
15
before Julian’s life. I will cosider on Marguerite Porete relative to Julian’s work on seeing
herself (Chapter Three) and on the texts of Mechtild of Magdeburg with Julian’s ideas about
pain, illness and God’s absence (Chapter Four). In the third and final section, I place Julian
within her own English Mystical Tradition. I pair Julian with Richard Rolle and the Cloud author
in discussing spiritual blindness (Chapter Five). And, I consider Julian in light of the Ancrene
Wisse and Walter Hilton to address the perceptual problems presented by sin (Chapter Six). To
date, none of these areas have been explored by scholars in depth.
Julian often struggles with her visions. At times, it is too dark to see. At other times, the
vision is too dim or it is only partial. And, she frequently expresses her fear that her visions will
end--they are too fleeting. In fact, Julian finds her ability to see God to be quite limited. In order
to explore this phenomenon of the visionary who has difficulty seeing, I pair Julian, in Chapter
One, with Augustine to show how Julian echoes Augustine’s own observations on humanity’s
visual limitations. Like Augustine, when she sees God, Julian sees Him darkly, partially and
fleetingly. Augustine explains this view in terms of “glimpse” versus “gaze.” We are so limited
in our humanity on Earth that we can only “glimpse” God now. Only in the end-times will we be
able to “gaze” at God. This analysis corresponds to Julian’s description of those times when she
doesn’t see God at all, but is promised that she will see Him later in the eschaton. Thus, the
anchoress also aligns with the Bishop of Hippo’s understanding of what I call apophatic
eschatology. Finally, Julian shares Augustine’s theory of capax Dei, his view that humanity’s
ability to see God is limited, but can be increased by God Himself.
At other times, Julian is not allowed to see God at all. For Julian, God keeps secrets
which he does not reveal to humans no matter what their limitations are. Or, sometimes, he
reveals something of Himself, but Julian cannot put that revelation into words. This
16
conversation on the invisible and/or ineffable God implicates Pseudo-Dionysius and the
Dionysian tradition. That tradition, as it came down to Julian through the Cloud author, holds
that God is invisible and inexpressible. Thus, in Chapter Two, I read Julian with the Dionysian
tradition to explore those times in Julian’s writing when she cannot see the things of God. This
discussion primarily focuses on Julian’s presentation of God’s secret deeds. Julian claims God
revealed the existence of certain deeds which he will do (one at a later time, one at the end of
time), but He will not allow her to see what these deeds are. To Julian, these deeds are invisible.
I do not mean to suggest that Julian is a Dionysian theologian, far from it. However, she shows
signs of Dionysian influence in these non-seeing moments. Also, Julian betrays Dionysian
influence in her repeated claims that she saw certain things for which she has no language to
describe.
Devotional literature of the late Middle Ages evinced a strong emphasis on the desire to
know oneself. Walter Hilton and other devotional writers exemplify this tradition, going back to
Augustine. Early in Julian’s Long Text, Julian shares this emphasis, believing that if she could
see and know herself, she could know God. However, like Marguerite Porete, Julian came to
realize that true spiritual growth lies in abandoning that desire. Thus, in Chapter Three, I match
Julian with Marguerite Porete to examine Julian’s inability to see or know herself. It is in this
chapter that I elucidate Julian’s binary anthropology, where she explains that human limitations
derive from our lower self, a key component of the make-up of our self. Because this lower self
is so limited, we cannot see God. However, simply by having and accepting the “marvelous
medelur” (strange mixture) of our lower and higher selves, we receive gifts that bring us spiritual
growth.
17
The medieval interpretation of pain and illness tended to go in two opposing directions.
One prevailing theme was that pain and illness served as evidence of God’s punishment for sins.
One need only consider the sermons of the time that blamed the plague on God’s wrath due to
humanity’s sin to understand this tradition. However, other devotional authorities saw pain and
illness as leading the sufferer closer to God. Not in either camp, Mechtild of Magdeburg, as a
Beguine writer, uniquely, found that she experienced God’s absence in the face of pain and
illness; however, through that perceived absence, paradoxically she experiences God’s presence.
In this regard, in Chapter Four, I examine Julian’s writings in connection with Mechtild to
explore the impact of pain and illness on Julian’s texts. Like Mechthild, in pain and illness,
Julian experiences the absence of God. However, unlike Mechthild, Julian does not find God’s
presence in his absence, as Mechtild does. Instead, like the devotional tradition, Julian sees pain
and illness—and her perception of God’s absence that results—as allowing for spiritual growth.
As discussed above, spiritual blindness is a pivotal theme in Julian’s work. It figures
throughout her text and plays a central role in the Lord and Servant Parable. In sharp contrast to
the medieval tradition, which often sees spiritual blindness as the result of God’ punishment for
sin, Julian refuses to attribute to sin the cause of our spiritual blindness. In Chapter Five, I pair
Julian with Richard Rolle, who articulates the medieval tradition by holding that his own
spiritual blindness was caused by his sin. Julian rejects this argument, but does find that spiritual
blindness can nevertheless present an opportunity for spiritual growth.
Julian’s radical claim that God does not blame us for sin flies in the face of the medieval
tradition which sees God as wrathful judge condemning humanity for its sins. Yet, Julian’s
theology of sin goes beyond this mere claim. In order to place Julian within the context of the
medieval tradition, I read her with the Ancrene Wisse and Walter Hilton in Chapter Six. Both the
18
Ancrene Wisse and Hilton exemplify the medieval tradition that sin deserves punishment,
especially the seven deadly sins. Like Hilton, sin presents a perceptual problem for Julian, in that
she cannot see sin. Hilton, an heir to the Augustinian tradition, together with Julian, espouses the
concept that sin is a privatio boni—and, hence, pursuant to Augustine’s logic, a “no-thing”
which cannot be seen. However, Julian parts company with Hilton and the Wisse when she
proclaims that sin itself is a perceptual problem. Julian alleges that our problem with sin
depends on how we see ourselves because of it. It’s not that God judges us, but that we see
ourselves as worthy of harsh judgment for our sins. We demean ourselves over sin, and as a
result of our own condemnation, we fall into more sin. Ultimately, for Julian, sin offers an
opportunity for spiritual growth. Julian’s theory of rising and falling is paramount here. Applying
a universalized notion of Augustine’s felix culpa, Julian argues that all sin is “happy,” not just
Adam’s sin. Although through sin we fall, Julian claims that that falling gives us an opportunity
to rise higher than we could have had we not fallen.
19
Section I:
Theoretical Problems of Seeing:
Augustine, Pseudo-Dionysius and Julian’s Visual Limitations
Vision, of course, plays a central role in Julian’s texts. Julian carefully records the details
of her visions, from the “gret droppes of blode” which “felle downe fro under the garlounde like
pelottes” (LT 10-11) to the colors of Christ’s dying face (deade blew, browne blew and blacke),
Julian is known for her visual details. Her texts are so visual that the revelation of Christ’s life
before his crucifixion, including the “parte of his passion” where he suffers “dispite, spitting,
solewing and buffeting, and many languring paines” are cinematically projected in a type of
stereovision on Christ’s dying face in a way that echoes modern filmmaking. Yet, in Julian’s
texts, visual details are offset by a pronounced lack of vision or a circumscribed limitation on
vision.
1
It is as if Julian can only see so far, but then she is limited or her vision is obscured.
These gaps in Julian’s visual narrative often arise in meaningful ways. There are times when
Julian’s vision is limited, or partial, or fleeting, which seems to suggest an inherent limitation on
human spiritual sight. There are other times when Julian’s vision is obscured completely that
suggest God’s transcendence. In these times, Julian acknowledges that God is entitled to keep his
“prevites” and tries to accept that she is not shown that which God keeps secret.
1
Andrea Janelle Dickens, in her book The Female Mystic, identifies a dichotomy in Julian’s
texts between her focus on visions and her acknowledgement of the limitations to those visions.
She traces this to two distinct trends in medieval English spirituality: the English affective
traditions and the contemplative tradition. Dickens notes that the English affective tradition
influenced Julian’s bodily representation of Christ and the contemplative tradition influenced her
moving of the mind beyond physical images (Dickens 133). Although Dickens observes this
dichotomy, she does not elaborate.
20
In this section, I will show that Julian’s theorizing on her visions appears to have been
influenced by two late classical thinkers, Augustine and Pseudo-Dionysius, who were quite
significant for the Middle Ages.
2
Tracing their influence on the English Mystics, Oliver Davies
contends that both Augustine and Pseudo-Dionysius had a major impact on the English mystical
tradition (160-161). Augustine, of course, was hugely influential in the Middle Ages, so much
so that some scholars claim that all of medieval philosophy and theology is a footnote to
Augustine. Scholars also find that the medieval Dionysian tradition was widespread in the
Middle Ages. Denys Turner contends that the Dionysian tradition was like the air the medieval
mystics breathed—as we feel no need to credit our breath to the oxygen that we breathe, the
mystics felt no need to credit Denys as a thinker because his thought was like the air they
breathed.
3
Although it cannot be established with any certainty that Julian read either of these
authors, their ideas were so widely circulated in the 14
th
Century that it is likely that Julian was
acquainted with both of them. In fact, there is quite a significant debate among Julian scholars
about the extent to which Julian was educated and whether she could even read.
4
Although
Julian claims to be “unlettered,” most scholars now agree that she had access to theological
works either as a reader or as a listener while others read.
5
In fact, many scholars now conclude
2
Scholars emphasize Augustine’s great influence on the Middle Ages. For example, McGinn
notes: “As in so much medieval thought, we can begin with Augustine, because the bishop of
Hippo set forth a theory of visio dei, both here and hereafter, that shaped the medieval
discussion” McGinn, Bernard. Harvard Theological Review 98:3 (2005) p. 229. McGinn reports
a Dionysian revival taking place in the 13th century which acted as a critique of the visionary
explosion taking place on the Continent of mostly women seeing and recording visions.” Id. .
3
Turner, Denys, “Dionysius and Some Late Medieval Mystical Theologians of Northern
Europe,” collected in Rethinking Dionysius the Areopagite, p. 121.
4
Jantzen 16-18; Baker 8-12; Bauerschmidt 204-05; Colledge & Walsh 20-21; McGinn 428-29).
5
Watson and Jenkins, 9-10.
21
that Julian must have been a nun in order to have obtained such a thorough education.
6
Kevin
Magill takes a different angle in the debate by discussing recent works of scholars which have
examined educational records of anchorites and concludes that it is likely that Julian was not
only educated, but that she educated others as well.
7
Even if scholars agree that Julian was well-
educated, they often acknowledge that it is impossible to actually document whether Julian read
or was educated in theology (Baker 15). As McGinn says, “The important thing about Julian is
not how she may have gained her theological expertise, but how she used it” (429).
Although it is unclear whether the resources were available to Julian, there is no doubt
that Norwich contained a wealth of theological resources. During Julian’s lifetime, Norwich was
a major city in England, second only to London in size, population and stature. Davies notes that
“Norwich was an enormous centre of wealth and learning during the Fourteenth Century” (186).
Accordingly, there was no shortage of churches, monasteries and other religious establishments
within the city limits: the churches were prolific. There were fifty-six churches within the city
walls alone and more in the surrounding countryside.
8
Further, medieval Norwich contained
houses for all the major monastic orders of the Middle Ages, including “the Franciscans,
Dominicans, Augustinians, Benedictines, and others.”
9
One of the major houses was a
Franciscan Studium Generale. Further, highly placed scholars and clerics were frequently
transferred between Norwich and the Continental centers.
10
Clark notes that “Norwich acted in
the 14th century as a ‘feeder’ institution with ties to Oxford and London – – Adam Woodham in
the earlier part of the century was lecturing at Norwich Greyfriars before going to Oxford and
6
Colledge & Walsh 20; Watson & Jenkins 10.
7
Magill 55-57.
8
Palphrey 33.
9
Dickens 134.
10
Davies 186.
22
more especially with Cambridge, sending there its more able minds and receiving them back.”
11
Moreover, according to Margery Kempe, medieval Norwich was renowned as a pilgrimage
destination. In fact, Kempe confirms that Julian was not the only anchorite in Norwich.
Norwich housed many anchorites such as Julian.
Julian would not have had to go far to come into contact with theological authorities
expert in the Augustinian or Dionysian tradition. In fact, there was a very large and influential
Augustinian monastery in Norwich “just across the street from St. Julian’s church [where Julian
lived] and which possessed an excellent library” that may have leant her Augustinian texts.
12
Pseudo-Dionysius’ work was also well-known in the late Middle Ages and in Fourteenth
Century England
13
and Julian mentions him by name in her texts.
14
It is possible that Julian had
access to Dionysian texts as well as Augustinian. In the 12
th
Century, the great Franciscan
Robert Grossteste translated the Dionysian corpus.
15
The Dominican Albert the Great also
produced a translation.
16
Significantly, both the Franciscans and Dominicans built monasteries
in Norwich which survived in Julian’s time.
17
11
Clark 13.
12
Jantzen notes that a rule prohibiting the lending of single copies from the monastery library
was promulgated in 1456, which suggests that the monastery was in the habit of lending books
(19). Even if Julian wasn’t borrowing books, many Julian scholars have noted that it would not
be far-fetched to imagine these monks coming by and having long conversations with Julian
about these ideas (Jantzen 19).
13
Bernard McGinn reports a Dionysian revival taking place in the 13
th
century which acted as a
critique of the visionary explosion taking place on the Continent of mostly women seeing and
recording visions.” McGinn, Harvard Theological Review 98:3 (2005) 228-29
14
Julian mentions Saint Denys (Pseudo-Dionysius) in Chapter 18.22.
15
LeClearq 29.
16
LeClearq 29.
17
According to James Campbell, the well-known English historian, the friars came to Norwich
in the 12
th
Century. “The Dominicans and Franciscans both arrived in Norwich in 1226, the
Carmelites in about 1256 and the Austin's about the beginning of the reign of Edward I.”
Footnote continued on next page
23
Accordingly, in the first chapter in this section, I will explore the writings of Augustine
and his legacy in order to place Julian within that context. In the second chapter, I will explore
Pseudo-Dionysius and his legacy in order to locate Julian within that realm of thought. Finally,
in each chapter, I will discuss important ways in which Julian follows these two early writers and
suggest ways that she deviates from their writings as well. Then, I will show how Julian’s visions
and her apophaticisms function as a means to allow her heavenly self to rise.
Footnote continued from previous page
Interestingly, the Dominicans built two separate smaller monasteries in Norwich, whereas the
Franciscans built one large monastery. (Campbell, James. Historic Towns, Norwich, 12).
24
Chapter 1
Julian, Augustine and Visual Limitations
As discussed above, it is possible that Julian may have had access to Augustine’s work.
There can be no doubt of his significance to her time. And, as I will demonstrate, it is likely that
her work was influenced by him.
Augustine in the Late Middle Ages
To say that Augustine’s work was central to medieval thought is no overstatement.
1
In
particular, Augustine’s views on vision and the Visio Dei were especially influential.
2
Given that
Augustine lived on the hinge of history between the classical and the medieval period,
3
and was
so prolific, one can easily understand the influence he exerted on the Middle Ages. However,
Augustine did not merely influence medieval thought—as McGinn notes, he shaped it.
4
Indeed,
Jaroslav Pelikan famously quipped: in so many ways, the philosophy and theology of the Middle
1
Saak claims that “Few individuals have had as great or as long-lasting an impact on the
development of the West as has Augustine…Yet at few times has Augustine’s influence been as
great or as significant as it was in the handful of centuries scholars have referred to as …the late
Middle Ages” (2).
2
McGinn notes: “As in so much medieval thought, we can begin with Augustine, because the
bishop of Hippo set forth a theory of visio dei, both here and hereafter, that shaped the medieval
McGinn, Harvard p. 229. Jantzen states that “Augustinian theology was the common discussion”
legacy of the Middle Ages” (17). Magill states “the works of Augustine were canonical for
medieval theologians (27).
3
Many scholars define the beginning of the medieval period as the fall of the Roman Empire.
Because Augustine lived through the barbarian sack of Rome and was on his deathbed as
barbarians were at the gate in Hippo, he, at least partly, lived through Rome’s fall. For this
reason, Augustine is often classified as the first medieval: “Augustine is considered the first
medieval man and the last classical man and his writings were very influential in the
development of Western Christianity” (http://www.evphil.com/medieval-philosophy).
McGinn, Harvard, p. 229.
4
25
Ages was simply a series of footnotes to Augustine.
5
In his recent book on Augustine and
Augustinianism in the later Middle Ages, Eric Saak argues that the created Augustine of the late
Middle Ages “ushered in the Renaissance and Reformation, the onset of modernity (228).
6
Clearly, Julian lived at a time of great interest and devotion to Augustine. It is no wonder that
her thought should be shaped by him.
Julian and Augustine
Reading Julian in the context of Augustine proves fruitful in many ways. Augustine’s
work seems to have given Julian a framework in which to understand her visions. Augustine
allows us to understand Julian’s own musings on what her visions meant—what does it mean to
see God? How do we see Him? Do we use our bodily eyes or something else? Most
importantly, Augustine gave Julian a way of understanding the limits of her vision. Why could
Julian only see God in part, not as a whole? Why couldn’t she see certain things about God? Can
God hide Himself? Why were Julian’s visions so fleeting? Why were such pronounced limits
imposed not only on her visions, but on her understanding? Turning to Augustine, Julian could
find these concepts elucidated.
Given Augustine’s significance to Julian’s time period, and the close proximity of the
Augustinian monastery to Julian’s anchorage, reading Julian in the context of Augustine is a
5
Pelikan claims that this is his correction to Albert North Whitehead statement that all of
Western philosophy is simply a footnote to Plato. Pelikan’s statement refers to theology and
philosophy of the Middle Ages (Pelikan, Pelikan, Jaroslav, The Christian Tradition A History of
the Development of Doctrine Vol. 3, The Growth of Medieval Theology 600-1300, U. Chic. 1978.
p. 3).
6
Saak emphasizes the importance of the writings of the Augustinian Hermits of the 14th Century
in understanding the Augustinianisms of the late Middle Ages and today.
26
logical step.
7
Julian scholars have typically placed Julian in the Augustinian tradition with
respect to her themes of sin, soteriology, the church and our need for God.
8
They frequently
point out that just as Augustine states the “our hearts find no rest until they rest in You”
(Confessions I, 1), Julian similarly says: “For he is very reste, God will be knowen, and him
liketh that we rest us in him” (LT 5.23); “oure soule shalle never have reste tille it come into
him…” (LT 12:2-3); “knowing that we shalle never have fulle rest tille we se him, clerly and
verily, in heven” (LT 47.25); and “God is our very peas” (49:33).
9
Some Julian scholars have
also explored Julian’s Augustinianism with respect to her theories of vision.
10
In fact, scholars
point out that Julian appropriates Augustine’s three modes of seeing: corporeal, spiritual and
intellectual—for Julian, she describes her vision as coming from “bodily sight, by worde formed
in my understanding, and by gostely sight” (LT 9:24-25; 73.2-5).
11
7
In his chapter, “Late Fourteenth-Century Cambridge Theology,” collected in The Medieval
Mystical Tradition in England, J.P.H Clark states: “Julian's statement that she is a simple
unlettered woman does not dispense us from trying to relate her teaching to the theological
tradition which must have been readily accessible to her – – a tradition which is that of the Latin
Church – and especially of Augustine” (12).
8
For example, Bernard McGinn, in his chapter on Julian in The Varieties of Vernacular
Mysticism, explores Julian’s Augustinian influences (429, 433, 442, 445, 446, 469). Jantzen, in a
discussion of whether Julian was or was not educated and actually read the patristic writers,
notes Julian's Augustinianism: "In some respects, particularly in her treatment of the problems
raised by sin, she is profoundly Augustinian – – but Augustinian theology was the common
legacy of the Middle Ages, and Julian could have absorbed a great deal of teaching by
discussions with learned clerics (17).Brant Palphrey notes that: “The more one is familiar with
Augustine, the more it seems possible to detect Augustinian concepts in the Revelations” (72).
9
Jantzen points to a similar expression of God as our “true rest” in Long Text chapter 5 and
concludes: “there is nothing odd about her use of the idea; Julian is deeply Augustinian” (127-
28).
10
Kevin MaGill explores Augustinian themes of vision with respect to Julian in Julian of
Norwich, Mystic of Visionary? NY: Routledge, (2006). He concludes: “it is highly likely that she
was acquainted with some aspects of Augustine” (MaGill 27).
11
See, e.g., McGinn: “Julian was probably familiar with the traditional three kinds of vision
taught by Augustine and in general use in the Middle Ages: corporeal vision; spiritual vision (
i.e., images in the mind and imagination); and intellectual vision, or direct comprehension of
Footnote continued on next page
27
However, those scholars have neglected three important Augustinian themes in Julian’s
texts which have Augustinian overtones which verge on apophaticism.
12
These three themes are
the limits to Julian’s visions, the eschatological apophaticism inherent in Julian’s visions and
Julian’s adoption of Augustine’s concept of capax Dei. As an overview, like Julian, Augustine
posits the Visio Dei as the ultimate expression of union with God. Augustine’s general view was
that the Visio Dei was not possible in this life—one had to wait for the afterlife, which in itself is
a limitation on vision.
13
However, Augustine had to acknowledge that since certain people
(Moses, Paul) did achieve the Visio Dei in this life, it may be possible for others to achieve this
rare and fleeting glimpse of God.
14
Yet, Augustine explored limits on this endeavor which Julian
scholars have neglected. For example, Augustine emphasized the fleeting nature of the Visio Dei,
and made clear that our bodily weight and all that goes with us (sin, etc.) tears one away from
such a vision. In connection with this argument, Augustine explores the limits placed on Visio
Dei by acknowledging that although one can see God in some respects, one cannot see Him in
every respect.
15
Like Julian, Augustine posits that we cannot see God now, but we will see him
later. As discussed below, this form of eschatological apophaticism has recently been explored in
Footnote continued from previous page
divine truth. She describes some of her visions as bodily, others as spiritual.” (McGinn 433).
McGinn suggests that “It would be a mistake, however, to try to fit Julian’s rich and novel
visionology into traditional categories” (433).
12
Although not traditionally considered an apophatic theologian, Augustine has inspired a
number of recent books and articles on his apophaticism. See, e.g., Van Geest, Paul. The
Incomprehensibility of God; Augustine as a Negative Theologian, Leuven, Begium: Peeters
Publishers (2011).
13
This concept takes on apophatic dimensions—one cannot see God now, but one can see Him
later, as Kevin Hughes observes in “The Crossing of Hope, or Apophatic Eschatology” collected
in The Future of Hope, edited by Miroslav Volf. Julian fully explores this theme.
14
In his Confessions, Augustine reports three instances of Visio Dei in his own life—the first
two occurring while he was reading the Platonists (as discussed in book VII), the third occurring
at Ostia with his mother, Monica (as discussed in book IX).
15
Augustine notes that a person can think of God in certain ways, “although he cannot yet find
out in all ways what He is” (Bk V Ch. 1 De Trinitate).
28
Augustine studies and has resonance with Julian’s work as well. Finally, Augustine explored the
concept of Capax Dei—he suggested that one can only see God “according to one’s capacity.”
16
He emphasizes the restrictions of this situation: if one’s capacity is limited, one cannot see God.
I will show how Julian takes up these ideas regarding the limitations on vision and develops
them fully.
Augustine and the Limits on Vision
To say that Augustine spent a great deal of time and energy on the topic of the vision of
God would be an understatement.
17
In fact, it is a topic that he visited and revisited throughout
his prolific career.
18
Not only did Augustine examine the actual mechanics of how the eye
sees,
19
but he also used “physical vision as a model for this description of the most satisfying
fulfillment of human life, the vision of God” (Miles 125).
20
Augustine is quite consistent in his opinion on vision—the vision of God, which
symbolizes union with God in the next life, is strictly limited in this life. It is fleeting, partial and
obscured at best. In addition, whatever vision we have is granted by God’s grace. As discussed
16
Augustine, Confessions, Bk.VII, Bk IX; Homily on John 1.
17
Although the issue first comes up in the Confessions, Augustine revisits the issue in his letters,
as well as De Trinitate and City of God.
18
Frederick Van Fleteren, in his article “Videndo Deo, De,” [letter 147] compiled in Augustine
Through the Ages, An Encyclopedia, notes that after writing letters 147 and 148, Augustine
turned to write De Trinitate. Van Fleteren concludes: “While writing De Trinitate, Augustine
concerned himself once more with the vision of God, a problem which had occupied him
immediately after his conversion and some years thereafter” (869).
19
In DeTrinitate, Augustine adopts the extra-mission theory of vision (Augustine, De Trinitate
9.3.3). This theory held that “a ray of light, energized and projected by the mind toward an
object, actually touches its object, thereby connecting viewer and object. By the vehicle of the
visual ray, the object is not only touched by the viewer, but also the object is ‘printed’ on the
soul of the viewer” (Miles 127). .
20
Miles indicates that Augustine’s use of physical vision to stand in as spiritual vision has been
often noted by other scholars (125).
29
above, his works on vision and its limitations had an enormous effect on writers, theologians and
monks in the Middle Ages. In fact, in discussing Augustine’s influence on medieval English
monastic writers, Oliver Davies points to Augustine as an ancient tradition that regards
contemplation (the vision of or union with God) as “a distant goal, partially and fleetingly
realized in our present lives” (Davies 161).
21
Thus, Davies finds that: “St. Augustine and indeed
the whole Western church emphasize that the mystical vision granted us in this life is far
excelled by the joy we will have in heaven. For Augustine in the Confessions “it is a foretaste,
something of which he can perceive the odour but not yet feed upon (Conf. vii, 23). . .” (Davies
161).
This eschatological theme of glimpsing, but not yet seeing (or tasting, but not yet eating)
runs so strongly throughout Augustine and Julian that I believe it becomes apophatic. Scholars
have just begun to recognize the apophatic elements in Augustine’s thought.
22
Perhaps the
simplest and most direct statement of apophaticism originates from Augustine—“Si
comprehendis, non est Deus” (“if you can understand it, it isn’t God”).
23
However, not many
scholars have seen the connection between apophaticism and eschatology that I will point out in
Augustine and Julian’s thought. For both Augustine and Julian, there is much we cannot see (or
understand) in this life, yet, this inability to see is not permanent. Instead, what we cannot see
“now” will be revealed “then.” Although Augustine and Julian’s eschatological apophaticism is
21
Davies, in his book, Within God, The Mystical Tradition of Northern Europe, traces mystical
influences, including Augustine’s, on the English Christian Mystics, among others.
22
In The Incomprehensibility of God, Augustine as Negative Theologian, Paul Van Geest
explores this very concept. See, generally, Van Geest, Paul. The Incomprehensibility of God,
Augustine as Negative Theologian. Leuven: Peeters. 2011.
23
Augustine, Sermons 52, n. 16 in Sermons Vol. III, ed. John E. Rotelle, trans. Edmund Hill
(Brooklyn, N.T.: New York Citry Press, 1991), 57.
30
not the classical apophatic stance,
24
it nevertheless becomes apophatic because, in this life, God
is negated—He is unseen and unperceivable, even though He will be seen and present later, in
the next life.
Kevin L. Hughes, in his chapter entitled: “The Crossing of Hope or Apophatic
Eschatology”
25
notes that apophaticism and eschatology are intimately related concepts. In fact,
they share the same origin in pre-Christian Judaism: “Historically, the roots of eschatology and
mystical theology drink from the same streams in the apocalyptic visions of second Temple
Judaism” (Hughes 111). Hughes goes on to trace the apophatic dimension of eschatology from
Paul and Origen through Augustine and Denys to Gregory of Nyssa and others (106-111).
Hughes concludes that apophaticism “pushes speech and concept to the breaking point, the point
beyond which the ineffable God is encountered intimately” (111). It is this encounter which
mystical theology illuminates now, that eschatology anticipates as foretaste.
The testimony of the mystical tradition shows that the experience of God's presence
in contemplation is the foretaste of the fullness of God's presence in the eschaton.
Mystical theology and eschatology are thus united in the ineffable presence to which
they point (Hughes 112).
Not only are they united in the presence to which they point, but they are united in the absence
which they experience. For eschatology, God is perceived to be absent “now,” but will be
24
McGinn states, “If everything we experience as real is in some way present to us, is not a
present God just one more thing? This is why many mystics from Dionysius on have insisted that
it is the consciousness of God as negation, which is a form of the absence of God, that is the core
of the mystics journey” (McGinn, The Foundations of Mysticism xviii).
25
Hughes’ chapter is from the book The Future of Hope, edited by Miroslav Volf and William
Katerberg.
31
present “then.” For apophaticism, God is often perceived to be absent in any of the stages of
ascent prior to union, even though He is actually present.
26
For Augustine, the “foretaste” (or vision of God) in this life is severely restricted. In
general, it is fleeting, partial and limited by the weight of our bodies, but also by our sins. It may
not be perceived with the bodily eyes, but may be sensed in some way through the mind’s eye.
Hughes demonstrates Augustine’s emphasis on the mind’s eye by quoting Augustine’s Narration
of the Psalms:
Let human voices be silent; let human thoughts repose. To things incomprehensible
they stretch out, not as if to comprehend them, but only to share in the them. And
share in them we shall (Enarratio in Ps. 146, II, in Patrologia Latina 37:1906, quoted
by Hughes, 115).
Hughes claims that this passage indicates Augustine’s “apophatic ascent to God,” but notes that
Augustine’s last line (“share in them we shall”) “concludes in an eschatological key, with the
promise of fulfillment” (116). Hughes points out that “the ‘share’ of the presence of God to
which the mind stretches in the present is a foretaste, the proleptic presence, of the ‘share’”
which will be fully realized in the future Eschaton.
The remainder of this section on Augustine will outline Augustine’s theory of limited
vision and show how it plays out in some of Augustine’s seminal works.
26
For an illuminating discussion of Augustine’s meditative ascent, see, p. 68-71 of Robert
McMahom’s Understanding the Medieval Meditative Ascent, Augustine, Anselm, Boethius and
Dante.
32
Augustine’s Confessions
Augustine first articulates his theory of vision and its limitations in The Confessions. In
Book vii, after reading some “books of the Platonists,” but before his Christian conversion,
Augustine describes his attempts to see God and his brief vision of light. First, in Book vii,
Chapter III, Augustine describes his attempt to “understand that free will is the cause of our
doing evil.” In this effort, he “could not see this clearly. So then, trying to draw the eye of my
mind up out of that pit, I was plunged back into it again, and trying as often was just as often
plunged back down” (Confessions Book vii, Chapter III, 107). Clearly, as soon as Augustine
entertains this notion of seeing with “the eye of my mind,” he encounters more limitation than
success in seeing, as he was plunged back down repeatedly. Augustine details further limitations
to vision when he attempted again to see God in Book vii, Chapter VII: “But when I lifted
myself proudly against thee…the lower things were placed above me and pressed down on me…
They thrust on my sight on every side, in crowds and masses (Confessions VII: VII, p. 114)
27
.
Augustine goes on to recount that his bloated cheeks (due to pride) blinded his eyes (114).
Augustine finally has a more complete vision of God later in Book VII, but it is short
lived. Initially, Augustine reports: “I awoke in thee, and beheld thee as the Infinite, but not in the
way I had thought—and this vision was not derived from the flesh” (VII: XIV p. 119). Yet, this
vision did not last because Augustine confessed that he “was not stable enough to enjoy my God
steadily. Instead I was…torn away from thee by my own weight, sinking with grief into these
lower things” (120). Significantly, Augustine finds that the weight of the flesh alone is enough
27
Augustine discusses how these beings impact his thought as well: “when I tried to think, the
images of bodies obtruded themselves into my way back to thee, as if they would say to me,
“Where are you going, unworthy and unclean one?” Confessions, 21).
33
to prevent his vision. The good Bishop goes on to explain that his carnal habits were weighing
him down, yet he was not ready to give them up. Augustine finally arrived at a vision, “with the
flash of a trembling glance,” in which he saw God’s “invisibility.” (121) Yet, Augustine could
not maintain this sight: “I was not able to sustain my gaze. My weakness was dashed back, and I
lapsed again into my accustomed ways” (122). Again, the weakness of the human flesh dashes
young Augustine back from seeing what he desires to see. What is the cure for this dashing
back? Augustine explains that he was unable to sustain his gaze until he sought Jesus: “I sought
therefore, some way to acquire the strength sufficient to enjoy thee; but I did not find it until I
embraced that ‘Mediator between God and man, the man Christ Jesus’” (122). While Augustine
manages to achieve a spiritual vision of God later in Chapter vii, it is no more than a “trembling
glance”: “In the flash of a trembling glance, my mind arrived at That Which Is” (7.17).
Although one might argue that Augustine’s problems with vision in Book vii, prior to his
conversion, would have no impact on Julian because she writes only for her evencristens (those
who have already converted), Augustine makes clear that these visions are not pagan in origin,
even though they occurred “by having thus read the books of the Platonists” (Confessions 124).
Instead, Augustine shows that despite his inability to sustain the vision, he nevertheless knew
that it was a vision of God: “even when I was thrown back, I still sensed what it was that the
dullness of my soul would not allow me to contemplate. I was assured that thou [God] wast, and
was infinite…” (Confessions 124). Julian closely follows Augustine on this point, by recording
her experience that sin, our “earthly will” and the simple fact of the weight of our bodies can
render us unable to see. She even parallels some of Augustine’s wording. Further, one sees here
Augustine’s nascent development of the concept of Capax Dei. In Book VII of the Confessions,
Augustine’s capacity for the vision of God was weak. In other words, his capacity was severely
34
limited. Later, Augustine acknowledges that it is possible to stretch this capacity (either through
your own efforts or through God’s intervention). This notion is developed further in his Homily
on First John, which will be discussed later in this chapter. Julian also elaborates the concept of
Capax Dei.
Augustine expands his ideas about vision and its limits in Book IX of The Confessions.
In Book IX, Augustine famously reports his vision at Ostia, which he received with his mother,
Monica. In the vision, Augustine and Monica began by discussing the nature of the lives of the
saints: “which eye has not seen, nor ear heard, neither has entered into the heart of man” (163)
28
Augustine acknowledges the limitations on vision: “which eye has not seen. . .” Then,
Augustine and Monica ascend “through all the level of bodily objects, and even through the
heaven itself, where the sun and moon and stars shine on the earth” and “at last to our own minds
and …beyond them” (Confessions 163). Together, they strained toward Wisdom [God] and
“just barely touched her with the whole effort of our hearts. Then with a sigh, leaving the first
fruits of the spirit bound to that ecstasy, we returned to the sounds of our own tongue, where the
spoken word had both beginning and end” (Confessions 163). Despite his vision of floating
through the heavens, Augustine can only touch God for a brief instant, then he must return to
Earth and “the sounds of his own tongue.” This experience suggests the limitations inherent in
seeing God within this body. For Augustine, if the Visio Dei is possible in this life, it is fleeting
and imperfect.
In his chapter, “The Language of Inner Experience in Christian Mysticism,” compiled in
the book, Minding the Spirit, McGinn points out the visual limitations inherent in the Ostia
28
Even at the outset, he acknowledges the limitations on vision: “which eye has not seen. . .”
(163).
35
passage: “if you read the text, you will discover that they see nothing of God. Rather the account
is pervaded with the language of effective intentionality, and uses the polarity of hearing and
silence, and the tactical images of touching and being struck to convey its message” (McGinn
140).
29
Thus, McGinn sees great limitations in this passage on Augustine’s ability to see God.
Earlier in McGinn’s chapter, the author notes that Augustine often intersperses the language of
vision with that of the other spiritual senses, especially touch, in a confusing way (McGinn 139-
40). McGinn believes that Augustine does this intentionally to convey the difficulty of speaking
about seeing God. Thus, this may explain why Augustine uses the phrase “we just barely touched
her” to further indicate the difficulty not only in describing such a spiritual event, but even in
having one. In his vision, Augustine still cannot see God; he can only touch “her.”
30
And, this is
“just barely,” which emphasizes the fleeting nature of “seeing” God in any way. In any event,
the “Vision at Ostia” passage delineates as many limitations on vision as it describes things
Augustine could actually see.
These limitations are further delineated by Augustine later in the Confessions. Still
reflecting on his Ostia experience with Monica, and perhaps on other experiences as well,
Augustine reiterates the tantalizing closeness that visions or experiences of God can bring, but
also indicates the limitations we experience in this life.
29
McGinn also analyzes Augustine’s experience with tradition at Ostia in his chapter entitled
“Augustine of Hippo” in Early Christian Mystics, written with Patricia Ferris McGinn. In that
chapter, McGinn points to the communal nature of the experience. No longer is Augustine alone
looking inward, like in Confessions vii. Instead, Augustine is together with his mother, which
points to the importance of social relationships for Augustine 155-56.
30
This gender switching is not unusual for patristic authors, as McGinn points out in his
“Language of Inner Experience” article published in Spiritus, A Journal of Christian Spirituality,
Vol. 1, no 2, Fall 2001, 156-171 (McGinn 156).
36
At times you introduce me from within into a holy unaccustomed state of feeling, a
kind of sweetness which were it made perfect in being, would not be of this world,
not of this life. Now my wretched weights cause me to fall back and I am swallowed
up in the usual run of things. I am held fast heavily weeping, but heavily held
(Confessions 10.40).
As will be discussed below, Julian expresses that sense of human limitation in the face of her
visions.
De Trinitate
Even though De Trinitate focuses on the careful study of the Trinity, the discussion also
encompasses Augustine’s theory of the vision of God and its limits. Augustine reiterates his
general rule that God cannot be seen by the bodily eye, yet he seems to open the door to the
possibility for a fleeting glimpse of God: he finds the Trinity’s “own light seemed to be present
around us, still, no trinity appeared to us in nature, for in the midst of that splendor we did not
keep the eye of our mind fixed steadily upon searching for it… because that ineffable light beat
back our gaze, and the weakness of our mind was convinced that it could not yet adjust itself to
it” (15.6.10). Echoes of the experience Augustine recounted in the Confessions are evident—
“my weakness was dashed back.” Even though Augustine did not keep the eye of his mind
focused, he was at least able to glimpse the “ineffable light.” Nevertheless, that glimpse was
limited because the light “beat” him back. Augustine goes on to discuss how it could be possible
to increase a capacity for this vision, which is discussed in a later section of this chapter on
capax Dei.
37
City of God
Although Augustine acknowledges the possibility of seeing the Visio Dei in this life in
his Confessions and even in De Trinitate, limited as it is, he emphasizes the impediments to
seeing God in this life in his section entitled: “Of the beatific vision” (chapter 22, section 29,
City of God). In this section, he discusses the vision of the angels and saints (those who have
died already) and whether they can see God directly. Augustine quotes Paul: “for we must
remember how great a man he was who said, we know in part, and we prophesy in part, until that
which is perfect is come,” and “Now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face” (City
of God 22:29). Augustine elaborates that the saints and angels see face to face, using Scripture to
support his claim. He says: “the Lord Jesus also said, ‘See that you despise not one of these little
ones: for I say unto you, that in heaven their Angels do always see the face of my father which is
in heaven.” Yet, Augustine is adamant that those in the flesh shall not see God in this life.
Augustine sums up his argument this way: “As, then, they see, so shall we also see; but not yet
do we thus see” (City of God 22:29). Augustine further highlights humanity’s lack of visual
ability when he compares it to human abilities in the future eschaton:
Wherefore it may very well be, and it is thoroughly credible, that we shall in the
future world see the material forms of new heavens and the new earth in such a way
that we shall most distinctly recognize God everywhere present and governing all
things, material as well as spiritual, and shall see him, not as now we understand the
invisible things of God, by the things which are made, and see him darkly, as in a
mirror, and in part, and rather by faith than by bodily vision of material appearances,
but by means of the bodies we shall wear and which we shall see wherever we turn
our eyes (City of God, Ch. 22, sec. 29).
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In comparison to these human future abilities, Augustine argues that humans now see God
darkly, partially, and by faith, not by bodily vision. As I shall demonstrate later in this chapter,
Julian also sees God darkly, partially, and by faith. Moreover, when she reports that she does see
God in her visions, just as Augustine reported that he saw God in his vision at Ostia, it is merely
a fleeting glimpse. Ultimately, Julian parallels Augustine in her dependence on faith in this life,
on which we must rely due to our limited vision.
Letter to Paulina (Letter 147)
In 413, in his Letter to Paulina, Augustine expresses perhaps his ultimate opinion on this
subject. Augustine again emphasizes the limitations on vision while responding to Paulina’s
question: Can one see God with the bodily eyes?
31
In the letter, Augustine reiterates his general
rule—“he stresses that God is incorporeal and therefore, God cannot be seen with the eyes of the
body in this life” (Kloos 166). However, the good Bishop is forced to acknowledge the existence
of two types of scriptural testimony that indicate otherwise: “(1) the theophanies, such as to
Abraham at Mamre and to Moses which say that God ‘appeared’ and that Moses spoke to God
‘face to face’; and (2) New Testament verses that speak of a future vision of God, such as
Matthew 5:8, ‘Blessed are the pure in heart for they will see God,’ and 1 John 3:2, ‘When He is
revealed, we will be like Him, for we will see Him as He is’" (Kloos 167). Augustine addresses
this conundrum and reconciles apparent scriptural discrepancies while emphasizing visual
limitations.
31
Although some scholars believe that Augustine wrote the letter in response to a letter from
Paulina, a noblewoman, who poses the question and raising scriptural discrepancies, most
scholars now agree that the letter was written to a man, Paulinus of Nola. This letter is often
referred to as Videndo Deo (On Seeing God) or (On the Subject of Seeing God). According to
Van Fleteren, “Epistula 147 was known in the Middle Ages and was cited by Thomas Aquinas
on the vision of God” (386).
39
First, Augustine acknowledges that God can appear to people in this life in the form of
theophany. He asserts that the vision of God received by Moses, or Abraham is restricted by the
fact that God appeared only in the form that He chose, not in his true nature.
32
Augustine
confronts the apparent contradiction in Scripture between the accounts of people who claim to
have seen God
33
and the scriptural mandate that no one can see God and live (Exodus 33.20). To
build his argument, Augustine carefully restates the general rule: “Therefore God is by nature
invisible, not only the Father, but the very Trinity itself, the one God. And because he is not only
invisible, but also immutable, he thus appears to whom he wills, in whatever form he wills, in
such a way that his invisible and immutable nature remains with him intact” (Letter 147, sec
20).
Yet, the good Bishop takes note of his many followers who fervently desire to see God,
as well as certain incidents in Scripture in which, as Pauline noted, the people of the Bible appear
to have seen God. From this, Augustine is forced to acknowledge that some people appear to
have seen God in this life: “For the holy man Moses, his faithful servant, showed the flame of
this desire for him when he said to God — with whom, as a friend, he was wont to speak face to
face — ‘If I have found grace in thy sight, show me thyself’ (Exod 33:13 LXX)” (Letter 147,
32
Augustine carefully distinguishes between the bodily eyes and the spiritual senses in Letter
147. Matthew Lootens summarizes the argument that God cannot be seen with the bodily eyes:
“since the bodily eyes function by establishing radiance between organ and object, the bodily
eyes by nature can perceive only things that exist in space. God is wholly incorporeal, and
therefore cannot be seen by corporeal eyes. Any claim that these eyes can see God would
jeopardize this attribute of God. Augustine vigorously argues that God will not be seen by the
bodily eyes even of the spiritual body” (Lootens, Matthew, “Augustine,” in The Spiritual
Senses). Kevin MaGill also analyzes Letter 147, yet focuses on its connection between vision
and moral instruction. Neither author considers the apophatic dimensions of Augustine’s
circumscription of vision (27-28).
33
Specifically, Abraham (Genesis 18.1), Isaac (Genesis 26.2), Moses (Exodus 33.11) and Job
(Job 38.1).
40
sec. 20). Augustine explains that if Moses was really seeing God in his true nature, he would not
have had to say “show me thyself.” He explains that Moses, instead of seeing the “clear sight of
his nature and substance”, he saw God “in that form in which he had willed to appear; he did not
appear in that proper nature of his, which Moses yearned to see” (Letter 147, sec. 20). Augustine
maintains his apophatic eschatology by reasserting that seeing God in his true nature “is
promised to the saints in another life” (Letter 147, sec 20). Augustine reconciles this expectation
with the Scriptural mandate “that no one can see God’s face and live (Exod 33:20)” by
explaining that “no one, living in this life, can see him as he is” (Letter 147, sec 20).
34
In the future Eschaton, however, Augustine asserts that “we shall see him, not in the way
that people used to see him, when he willed, in whatever form he willed, not in his nature, in
which, even when he was seen, he remained hidden in himself; but as he is” (Letter 147, sec.
20).
35
Thus, in this life, we can only see God when and how he chooses to reveal himself, but
never shall we see God as He truly is because God is “hidden in himself.”
36
This limitation on
vision reflects Augustine’s apophatic eschatology, discussed earlier, in which we cannot see God
34
According to Lootens, Augustine establishes in Letter 147 that, “sin, like all other aspects of
human life, has surrendered human sensation disorganized and dysfunctional, and that as a result,
humanity remains in a state of sensory exile while waiting for the clarity of face to face vision
(66).
35
Kari Kloos, in “Christ, Creation and the Vision of God: Augustine’s Transformation of Early
Christian Theophany Interpretation,” summarizes Augustine’s argument: “For Augustine, these
different ways of seeing God – – under a visible form in the past or after spiritual transformation
in the future--imply different types of seeing, and he considers how Scripture might mean
different things by same word. Most basically, he defines two types of seeing, by the eyes of the
body and by the mind (147). She goes on to argue that humans cannot see God by either the
vision of the eyes or the vision of the mind (Bible in Ancient Christianity 7, 148).
36
Lootens points out that “the inability to perceive God is in no way the result of God's absence,
but remains fundamentally a problem of either the sensing agent or the sense itself. Just as blind
man cannot blame their blindness on the lack of things to look at, so to those spiritually aligned
simply are unable to sense anything because they choose not to use the inner senses – – a kind of
self-imposed spiritual blindness – – or because the disease of sin has threatened them” (Lootens
67); References to a “hidden God” are typical of the apophatic tradition.
41
now, but we shall see him later. Further, Augustine adds this proviso: “Not that anyone ever
comprehends the fullness of God, whether with the eyes of the body, or even with the mind
itself. For it is one thing to see, and another thing, in seeing, to comprehend the whole…” (Letter
147, sec. 20). In other words, for Augustine, even if we see God, we only see Him partially, not
as a whole. Further, we only see Him as he chooses to appear, not as he truly is. As will be
demonstrated in the latter part of this chapter, these themes of seeing God eschatologically,
partially and obscurely, resonate throughout Julian’s texts.
In sum, Augustine’s approach to the vision of God is that, whether physical or spiritual,
human vision of God is incomplete. Miles points out the apparent contradiction in Augustine’s
stance:
Again and again he quotes 1 Cor. 13:12: “We see now through a darkened mirror;
then, however, face to face.” How can Augustine hold both that human longing can
touch God under the present condition of human life, and that our vision is flawed
and not yet “face to face”? He does this by distinguishing two kinds of vision:
“glimpse” and “gaze.” Now is the glance which touches That Which Is, while then,
the gaze is to be “our reward…the enjoyment of God and each other in God”
(Miles 135-36).
As I will show later in this chapter, Julian adopts Augustine’s distinction between glimpse and
gaze. For Julian, her visions are fleeting glimpses, yet she longs for the time when her gaze will
be fulfilled.
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Humanity’s Limited Capax Dei
Augustine first formulates the notion of capax Dei in his famous work, De Trinitate.
37
Although this idea of our capacity for God may not be readily apparent in connection with vision
and its limitations, Augustine develops this theory of vision, limits on vision and capax Dei in
Homilies on the First Letter of St. John, Hom. 4. However, it is first necessary to give some
background as to how Augustine originated this concept. Declan Marmion and Dr. Rik van
Niewnhove provide an overview of this idea in Introduction to the Trinity:
The mind is perfected in love, and real knowing is proportionate to the love of what is
known. Indeed, the dignity of the mind or soul is manifest in its capax Dei, that is in
its ability to access and worship God, by and in whose image it is (De Trin. Bk
XIV.4.6) (Marmion 92).
37
Interestingly, Denys also introduces a concept of capax Dei into his corpus, by noting that
certain angels have a greater capacity for God than others. Of course, humans require
“considerable cognitive stretching” to achieve much capacity. Paul Gavrilyuk details this
observation in his chapter entitled “Pseudo-Dionysius” in The Spiritual Senses, Perceiving God
in Western Christianity, 97. He quotes Denys from the Divine Names: “the human mind has a
cognitive capacity, through which it sees the intelligibles, and a unity which transcends the
nature of the mind, through which it is joined to things beyond itself” (97) (DN VII. 1, 865C).
Further, in the Divine Names, Denys himself says: “The good is present in proportion to
capacity” (DN iv.20, p. 86). and “but the good, as Scripture says, generously bestows such
capacities on each as needed and, therefore there can be no excuse for any sin in the realm of
one's own good, for any pending aside, any desertion, any lapse”(DN iv.35, p. 96). The Cloud
author also incorporates the concept of capax Dei into his work. In The Cloud of Unknowing, he
states that when humans gaze on God’s “superabundant love,” God must “measure their vision
of himself according to their progress in grace” (78). Otherwise, God only knows what would
happen to them. “Words fail to say what would happen to them” (78). Further, he claims that
God must give one capacity for contemplation (101). Only he who feels he has capacity to
contemplate can contemplate (101). Similarly, in the Book of Privy Counsel, he tells his young
protégé that he could not reveal God in his being to the young monk because he was “in the early
stages of spiritual development and not yet able to be raised suddenly to experience spiritually
the being of God” (183).
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Thus, the mind has greater or lesser capacity for God depending on the extent to which the mind
loves God. If the mind loves little, there is little capacity for God. So, the question becomes,
how can humanity love more?
Augustine explains the source of this connection between mind and one’s capacity for
God in Chapter 8 of De Trinitate. Although Augustine emphasizes that the human mind is not of
the same nature with God, he argues that the mind has a capacity for God only because the
Trinity, which is the image of God, has put it there.
The mind must first be considered as it is in itself, before it becomes partaker of God;
and His image must be found in it. For, as we have said, although worn out and
defaced by losing the participation of God, yet the image of God still
remains. For it is His image in this very point, that it is capable of Him, and can
be partaker of Him; which so great good is only made possible by its being His
image. (Augustine, De Trinitate, XIV:8).
38
Thus, for Augustine, human capacity for God stems from the idea that even after the Fall, the
image of God remains imprinted on the human mind. He demonstrates that this capacity for God
in the mind derives from the trinity because it manifests itself as a trinity in the human mind—
the trinity of memory, sight and love. From this trinity of mind, we do not see God himself, but
we can see “an image of God.” As Augustine states: “Well, then, the mind remembers,
understands, loves itself; if we discern this, we discern a trinity, not yet indeed God, but now at
last an image of God.” Yet, as the good Bishop points out, this capacity for God is limited by the
fact that the image of God within us is “worn out and defaced” as a result of the Fall. Further, as
38
This passage is famously quoted as: “The mind is the image of God, in that it is capable of
Him and can be partaker of Him.” Eo mens est imago Dei, quo capax Dei est et particeps esse
potest De Trinitate, XIV:8.
44
Augustine noted in the Confessions, human capacity for the vision of God is limited by
weakness, the weight of the body and sin.
Augustine links the concept of capax Dei with vision in the latter part of Chapter 8, yet
this vision is not the vision of God in this life. Instead, it is the beatific vision, which, according
to Augustine, can only be achieved in the afterlife. Augustine states, “Nevertheless, because it
began to be in the mind, which was a mind also before these things began to be in it, it seems to
be somewhat adventitious, and will be reckoned among things past, when sight shall have
succeeded, and itself shall have ceased to be” (De Trinitate, XIV:8). Thus, at this point in
Augustine’s formulation, the notion of capax Dei, which is “adventitious” (meaning that it
comes from God, not us) has little to do with sight, except that it will cease to be when we have
achieved the beatific vision.
By elaborating on the beatific vision and the human capacity for vision, Augustine
expands on the concept of capax Dei in Homily 4 of the Homilies on the First Epistle of St.
John.
39
In addition, he looks back to his earlier formulation of capax Dei to show its relation to
love. For Augustine, even though we have limited capacity for God, it can be increased by love
(or longing). By increasing our love (or longing), our capacity for God is enhanced so that we
39
The scriptural basis for Augustine’s discussion is First John 2:27-3.8. Augustine’s comments
on the Biblical passage: “For us then, what are we? Already we are begotten of Him; but because
we are such in hope, he says, ‘Beloved, now are we sons of God.’ Now already? Then what is it
we look for, if already we are sons of God? And not yet, says he, is it manifested what we shall
be. But what else shall we be than sons of God? Hear what follows: We know that, when He
shall appear, we shall be like Him, because we shall see Him as He is. Understand, my beloved.
It is a great matter: We know that, when He shall appear, we shall be like Him; for we shall see
Him as He is” (Homily 4 on the First Epistle of John, sec. 5).
45
can see God as He is.
40
First, he discusses this concept in connection with the beatific vision, that
which we “cannot now see:”
Return we to that unction which inwardly teaches that which we cannot speak: and
because ye cannot at present see, let your part and duty be in desire. The whole life of
a good Christian is a holy desire. Now what you long for, you do not yet see: howbeit
by longing, you are made capable, so that when that has come which you may see,
you shall be filled (Homily 4, sec. 6).
Thus, by longing, the Christian is made capable—or her capacity is made ready, so that when the
end-time comes, she shall be filled. Augustine goes on to explain how humanity can increase its
capacity for God:
For just as, if you would fill a bag, and know how great the thing is that shall be
given, you stretch the opening of the sack or the skin, or whatever else it be; you
know how much you would put in, and see that the bag is narrow; by stretching you
make it capable of holding more: so God, by deferring our hope, stretches our desire;
by the desiring, stretches the mind; by stretching, makes it more capacious. Let us
desire therefore, my brethren, for we shall be filled (Homily 4, sec. 6).
In other words, God works together with human desire, or longing for God, to stretch the mind
and increase our capacity for Him.
40
Margaret Miles picks up on this theme and applies it to vision in her article, “Vision, the Eye
of the Body and the Eye of the Mind in Saint Augustine’s De Trinitate and Confessions”,
published in The Journal of Religion. Miles says, “Just as the bodily eye requires the most
strenuous exercise and strengthening before it can see strongly illuminated objects, so the eye of
the mind requires intensive exercise and training before it can see—even momentarily—eternal
truth” (131).
46
Augustine cites Paul to demonstrate how our limited capacity for God (and our limited
ability to see Him) can be increased by the stretching action of love, desire and longing for God.
He details Paul’s efforts to stretch himself, and sees Paul “widening, as it were, his bosom, that it
may be able to receive that which is to come” (Homily 4, sec. 6). The good Bishop sums up
Paul’s reason for his efforts while emphasizing the impossibility of seeing God in this life: “He
felt himself too little to take in that ‘which eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither hath entered
into the heart of man’” (Homily 4, sec. 6). Furthermore, Augustine finds that this stretching is the
task for all Christians: “This is our life, that by longing we should be exercised” (Id.) Augustine
reiterates the connection between capax Dei and vision in his last two lines of this passage: “let
us stretch ourselves unto Him, that when He shall come, He may fill us. For ‘we shall be like
Him; because we shall see Him as He is’” (Homily 4, sec. 6). Interestingly, as will be discussed
below, Julian goes beyond Augustine by utilizing the concept of capax Dei to explain the human
capacity to see not only the beatific vision in the afterlife, but her own visions that occurred in
this life.
Augustine, Julian and Visual Limitations
As previously discussed, Julian mirrors Augustine’s restrictions on vision because she
sees God darkly, partially and fleetingly in her visions. Julian’s eschatological vision will be the
focus of the following section.
Julian’s Dark and Partial Visions
Before Julian even begins to describe her visions, she telegraphs the idea that her vision
is going to be dark, partial, contested, and challenging. While sick in her bed, thinking she was
47
going to die, her “curate” came in to her room, set a crucifix before her face and told her to look
at it. As soon as she looked at it, she began to experience difficulty seeing.
After this, my sighte began to faile, and it was alle darke about me in the chamber as
if it had ben night, save in the image of the crosse, wherin held a common light, and I
wiste not how. All that was beseid the crosse was oglye and ferful to me, as if it had
ben mekille (much) occupied with fiends (LT 3.24-27).
For Julian, she was literally seeing through a glass darkly as darkness gathered about her. Like
Augustine, who quotes “we see through a glass darkly” over and over, Julian emphasizes the
darkness of her vision. Although the cross was illuminated, she was otherwise surrounded not
only by darkness, but by demons as well. Her vision was partial—she could not see anything in
the room other than the cross and the ugly darkness. Further, the only light in the room was
mysterious—Julian couldn’t understand how it was illuminating the cross—“I wiste not how”
(LT 3.26). This passage alone puts Julian’s readers on alert that these visions are not going to be
like Augustine’s beatific vision. Instead, the visions are dark, partial and filled with demons.
The anchoress goes on, in Chapter 10, to discuss the darkness and partiality of her
visions. In her vision of the crucifixe, which she saw with bodely sight, she first sees Christ’s
suffering that took place long before he was put on the cross. This image occurs seemingly
projected cinematically on his face simultaneous to her vision of the crucifixe. A dark vision
was shown by his face “changing of colour” (LT 10.1-4). Then, her vision becomes partial:
And one time I saw how halfe the face, beginning at the ere, overyede with drye
bloud till it beclosed into the mid face. And after that the other halfe beclosed on the
same wise, and therewhiles it vanished in this party, even as it cam” (LT 10.4-6).
48
In this vision, Christ’s dried blood occludes his face partially, on one side. Then, it covers and
hides his face on the other side, just as it vanishes on the first side. Julian could not be more
specific—her vision of Christ’s face here was partial. Parts were hidden. Further, this dried
blood which worked to hide Christ’s face was moving. Seeing Christ was like trying to see a
constantly changing and moving form (LT 7.50).
Julian continues, immediately following the dried blood passage, to enact even more
literally Augustine’s Biblical quote “we see through a glass darkly.” Here, Julian actually sees
darkly.
This saw I bodely, swemly (sorrowfully) and darkely, and I desired mor bodely light
to have seen more clerly. And I was answerede in my reason: ‘if God will shew thee
more, he shal be thy light. Thee nedeth none but him.’ For I saw him and sought him”
(LT 10.7-9).
Julian is in the dark, literally and figuratively. She asks for more light and is told that God will
be her light. In other words, God will allow her to see as he chooses. Again, this is reminiscent
of Augustine. In his letter to Paulina, Augustine indicates that Moses and Abraham merely saw
theophanies—they saw what God chose to show them of himself. In other words, for Augustine,
God is always in control of the vision. And here, Julian describes not being able to see in the
dark. She desires to see more. And, she is told, basically, that God will show more if he chooses
to do so—“he shall be thy light” (LT 10.7-9). As a result, Julian is left seeing and seeking. “For
49
I saw Him and sought him.” Sometimes, she sees Him, and sometimes, she is left merely
seeking.
41
Difficulties seeing continue for Julian in Chapter Ten as she describes “this secunde
shewing” which was “so lowe and so little and so simple that my spirites were in great traveyle
in the beholding; morning, dredful and longing” (LT 10.26-27). Not only is this vision so low
that it brought up difficult and undesirable emotions, it is so faint that Julian is not even sure if
what she is seeing is a vision or not. “For I was sometime in a feer whether it was a shewing or
none” (LT 10.27-28). She is reassured that it was a showing because God allows her to see more.
“And then diverse times out lord gave me more sight, whereby I understode truly that it was a
shewing” (LT 10.28-29). Again, like Augustine’s vision when he is beaten back repeatedly in
the Confessions and prevented from seeing, Julian’s vision is dim and obscured. And, just as
Augustine assures, God will show himself as he chooses (Letter 147, sec. 20), in this text, God
gave Julian more light so she could see that her vision was, in fact, a vision (LT 10.28-29). In
fact, Julian later acknowledges, “by [God’s will] he shall shew himself of his special grace when
he will” (LT 10.64-65).
Julian’s text enacts yet another aspect of Augustine’s limitations on vision, which is that
the vision of God in this life will only be partial. For example, in Chapters 71 and 72, Julian sees
Christ’s “blisseful” face, which is “the highest blesse” or the most happiness there is in this life.
However, in each chapter, Julian makes clear that the face she sees in this life is “like in perty as
it shalle be in heven” (or “showed in perty”) (LT 71.16-17; LT 72.6). Watson and Jenkins
translate this as only “partly like how his expression will be in heaven” (346). Again and again,
41
Immediately after this passage, Julian turns to her description of seeing underwater as if she is
on the bottom of the sea, as discussed in the Introduction.
50
Julian acknowledges that her visions are partial. In Chapter 56, Julian says, “I had in perty
touching” which was grounded in God (LT 56.33). Later in her text, Julian again accedes that
she had touching sight and feeling of God, but only “in perty” (in part) (LT 83.1). In other
words, what Julian sees of God, or what anyone can see on God in this life, is only partial. It is
only partly as it will be in heaven.
42
Julian’s Fleeting Visions
Julian also emphasizes the fleeting nature of her visions. Julian’s visions are temporal,
temporary, and will vanish after time: “whan the shewing, which is given in a time, is passede
and hidde, than faith kepeth it…” (LT 7.56-57).
43
Watson and Jenkins theorize that this sentence
acknowledges that some time has passed since the vision, and God has not been present to Julian
during that time. Thus, from the standpoint of the time in which she was writing, the vision
seems distant and fleeting. This theme recurs when Julian notes the end of her first vision.
44
Julian’s response to experiencing the end of her first vision was to desire to see more, and to
wish that it could last longer.
45
In other words, she experiences her vision as circumscribed by
time—in a word, fleeting. Thus, Julian is not satisfied with the extent of her visions at this
point—she wants to see more, or, at least, she wants the vision to last for a longer time. Yet, she
42
“For he will that we witte that we shalle in short time se clerely in himselfe all that we desyer”
(LT 47.2-3). Julian acknowledges that now, we see Christ’s face only partially.
43
Watson and Jenkins note “in a time” translates to “at a particular point in time” (148). Further,
they note that “passede and hidde” mean “finished and hidden” (LT 7.56-57). Watson and
Jenkins explain: “that God’s holiness can be hidden is a paradox of Revelation, which is more
temporary than faith” (148).
44
The vision she could see with her bodily eyes ended but the vision in her mind continued (LT
7.55).
45
“And alle this our lorde shewde in the furst sight, and gave me space and time to beholde it.
And that bodely sight stinted, and the gostely sight dwelled in my understonding. And I abode
with reverent dred, joyeng in that I saw, and desiring as I durste to see more, if it were his wille,
or lengar time the same” (LT 8.18-21).
51
recognizes that her desire is constrained by God’s will. If He does not choose to extend the
vision, the vision is fleeting.
Julian continues to express her concerns about the fleeting nature of her visions in
Chapter 47. In that chapter, Julian expresses fear that her visions will end. Of the five ways that
the vision was “werking” in her, one of the most significant was fear: “Drede was for it semed to
me, in alle that time, that that sight shulde faile, and I to be lefte to myselfe” (LT 47.26-27).
46
Julian goes on emphasize the fleeting nature of her visions by acknowledging (as she saw in her
visions) that the vision of God in this life is not continuous: “And yet in all this I beheld in the
shewing of God that this maner sight of him may not be continuant in this life” (LT 47.30-31).
This time, Julian attributes the cause for this fleeting nature of vision not on God, but on sin:
“And therefore we faile oftimes of the sight of him, and anon, we falle into ourselfe” finding
nothing but our contrariness and the root of our first sin (LT 47.33-34). This theme of sin will be
addressed further in Chapter 5, but it is important to note that, for Julian, the fleeting nature of
her visions may be due to sin. Whatever the cause, this fleeting nature is tolerable because it will
allow her to rise in heaven. It is “for encrese of oure endlesse joy” (LT 47.31-32).
Julian revisits the theme of fleeting visions in Chapter 50, but this time it is only to
express fear that God will end the visions without telling Julian which is correct—either the
church is correct in judging and blaming sinners, or her vision is correct in showing that God has
no wrath or judgment. Thus, Julian’s “reson was gretly traveyled by [her] blindhede” (LT
50.14). She could get no rest “for drede that his blessed presens shuld passe fro my sight and I
46
Watson and Jenkins translate “that that sight shulde faile” as “that the revelation should end”
(264). Further, they note that Julian’s fear of being left to herself is real. “The certainty of this
happening is made clear in the seventh revelation, where periods of ‘gostely likinge’ alternate
with times when ‘I was turned and left to myselfe’” (264).
52
be lefte in unknowing how he beholde us in our sinne” (LT 50.15-16). The anchoress knew her
visions were fleeting. She feared that God would end them right there and she would be left
“unknowing.” However, once again, God accommodated Julian, this time by showing her the
parable of the master and servant. She did not receive the straightforward answer that she
desired, and it took her twenty years to decipher, but, as Augustine demonstrates, God shows
himself as he chooses.
Julian sums up the fleeting nature of her visions by acceding that God told her throughout
her visions that they would end. She confirms: “In alle this blessed shewing oure good lorde
gave understanding that the sight shulde passe…” (LT 70.1-2).
47
Like Augustine, Julian realizes
that her visions are circumscribed by time. Their fleeing nature leaves her wanting more, yet
learning to trust her faith, which preserves the visions: “faith kepeth with his owne good wille
and his grace” (LT 70.2-3). Even though God “lefte [her] with neither signe ne token whereby
[she] might know it,” and despite the fact that the visions were fleeting, God’s words
nevertheless inspire her to believe.
Julian’s Apophatic Eschatology
For Julian, as for Augustine, the vision of God in this life is rare. It is granted by God’s
“special grace” and only as He chooses (LT 43.28-29; LT 10.64-65).
48
When we receive it,
47
Watson and Jenkins note that “This might seem obvious, but Julian’s Continental
contemporaries, Bridget of Sweden and Catherine of Siena, had many years of visionary
experience, and the career of her closest English equivalent, Margery Kempe, was equally full of
visionary episodes” (342).
48
In Chapter 10, Julian says “And thus was I lerned to my understanding that seeking is as good
as beholding, for the time that he wille suffer the soule to be in traveyle. It is God’s will that we
seke into the beholding of him, for by that shall he shew us himself of his special grace when he
will” (LT 10.64-65).
53
“then we folowe him, and he draweth us into him by love” (LT 43.28-29). But, what about those
times when we do not receive this special grace? And, what about those who want a sustained
vision of God—a gaze, not a glimpse? Augustine and Julian promise that we shall receive that
gaze in the eschaton, not in the “now,” but in the “then.” In fact, Julian’s eschatological approach
to the vision of God so closely parallels that of Augustine’s that, at times, it is as if she is
paraphrasing him. However, at other times, Julian goes beyond Augustine in allowing for a
vision of God in this present life.
Julian’s apophatic eschatology—the recognition that we cannot always see “now,” but we
shall see “then” appears throughout her texts. At times, Julian simply alludes to this concept. At
other times, she fully develops the idea of seeing God “then.” One such time is in Chapter 31,
where Julian develops the idea of Christ’s “gostly thirst” which shall last until the end-times. (LT
31.11). Watson and Jenkins clarify that the concept of Christ’s spiritual thirst is also found in
Piers Plowman B, where “Christ also anticipates that his thirst for souls can be slaked only at the
Judgment” (218).
49
For Julian, this discussion of Christ’s spiritual thirst leads to a discussion of
eschatology.
For this is the gostly thirst of Crist: the love-longing that lasteth and ever shall till we
se that sight at domesday. For we that shalle be safe, and shalle be Cristes joy and his
blisse, some ben yet here, and some be to come, and so shalle some be into that day.
Therefore this is his thurste: a love-longing to have us all togeder, hole in him to his
endlesse blisse, as to my sight. For we be not now fully as hole in him as we shalle be
than” (LT 31.11-15).
49
See, Piers Plowman B 18.368-70.
54
For Julian, this eschatological vision (“as to my sight”) contrasts “now” with “than” (then) to
show that Christian believers,
50
whether on earth now or not, shall be “all togeder” at
“domesday” (Judgment Day). Further, Julian’s discussion undergirds her visual apophaticism.
For Julian, a defining characteristic of Judgment Day is “till we se that sight” (LT 31.12). Thus,
the defining marker for the eschaton, is the beatific vision (“that sight”). This vision takes on
apophatic characteristics because we cannot see it now (because it is not the end-times). But,
when the end-times come, a sign of their arrival is that we shall see it then. As discussed,
Augustine shares the same visual promise for the end-times.
Julian reiterates her eschatological visual program in Chapter 33 by rephrasing Christ’s
words to her. Christ tells her “Thou shalt se thyselfe that alle manner thing shall be wele” (LT
32.14-15).
51
However, she understands that she won’t see that all things shall be well now.
Instead, she says that what he means is: “Take now hede faithfully and trustily, and at the last
end thou shalt se verily in fullhede of joye” (LT 32.15-16). Thus, Julian recognizes that we can’t
see now—all we can do is “take hede faithfully.” However, “at the last end” we will truly see in
the fullness of joy. To try to see now is folly, according to Julian because “evermore us nedeth
leve the beholding what the dede shalle be” (LT 33.24-25). In fact, Julian advises that we need
to be more “like to oure bretherne which be the saintes in heaven” who don’t desire to see now,
but instead adopt God’s will for their own (LT 33.26-27). If we do that, then we can “be well
apaide (satisfied) both with hiding and shewing” (LT 33.28-29). For Julian claims that God
50
Julian often defines Christian believers as “those that shalle be safe.” Just a few lines above
this passage, Julian defines them as “all mankind that shalle be saved” (LT 31.9).
51
This discussion relates to the “gret dede” which Julian describes as secret. This secret deed
will be discussed more fully in Chapter two.
55
shows some things, but hides others. Here, Julian echoes Augustine, who says “God is hidden in
himself.”
Julian contrasts seeing God “now” with seeing God “then” to develop further a
discussion of the beatific vision and eschatological apophaticism. For seeing God in the now,
Julian’s description reads like Augustine’s description of the present “glimpse” we can have of
God: “And thus shalle we, with his swete grace, in our owne meke, continual prayer come into
him now in this life by many prevy touchings of swete, gostly sightes and felinges…” (LT 43.36-
37). As in the Confessions, book ix, when Augustine and Monica just barely “touch” God, Julian
also sees that we see God now with secret touches—mere glimpses of spiritual sights and
feelings. Yet, just as Augustine describes, Julian also sees that then we shall gaze upon him and
see him face to face.
Julian goes on to describe seeing God in the eschaton. For “then,” believers shall see
God truly and completely. Julian promises:
And than (then) shall we alle come into oure lorde, oureselfe clerely knowing and
God fulsomely having; and we be endlessly be alle had in God, him verely seyeng
and fulsomely feling, and him gostely hering, and him delectably smelling, and him
sweetly swelwing. And than shall we se God face to face, homely and fulsomely (LT
43.40-43).
This is a bold eschatological promise, even for Julian. She is clearly influenced by Augustine in
her observation that we will see him “face to face.” But Julian confidently proclaims that we
will “clerely” know ourselves and God as well. Not only shall we have God fully—we shall
truly see Him (“verely seyeng”), fully feel Him and spiritually hear Him. In fact, every sense
56
will be engaged in perceiving Him. As Julian professes: “The creature that is made shall see and
endlessly beholde God which is the maker” (LT 43.43-44). In other words, believers shall see
Him “as he is,” not in a form which He chooses, as Augustine established in his Letter to Paulina
(section 20).
Julian’s eschaton, like Augustine’s, promises an eternal gaze, not a momentary glimpse.
Moreover, Julian nearly copies verbatim Augustine’s discussion of this topic in section 20 of his
Letter to Paulina. The anchoress sets forth Augustine’s general rule taken from Scripture: “For
thus may no man se God and live after, that is to sey, in this dedely life” (LT 43.45-46). Thus,
Julian draws on Augustine to explain not only the eschatological apophaticisms of her visions,
but the difficulties in seeing her visions as well.
Yet, Julian does not limit herself to the proviso that no man can see God in this life and
live. In order to explain her own visions, she relies on Augustine, but expands on his theory
which limits sight in this life. Like Augustine, who claims that God can stretch our capacity to
see, Julian declares, “But whan he of his special grace will shewe him here, he strengtheth the
creature aboveth the selfe, and he mesureth the shewing after his awne wille, as it is profitable
for the tym” (LT 43.46-47). In other words, when God chooses to show Himself here, using
“special grace,” He strengthens the one to whom he chooses to show Himself beyond her own
capacity. Even then, according to Julian, He measures (“mesureth the showing”) the vision by
only showing what the seer can handle—that exact amount of God which will assist that seer in
her spiritual life (“as it is profitable”) at that time. In this way Julian provides an innovative
expansion of Augustine’s approach to vision.
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Julian repeatedly reminds her readers of their difficulties in seeing now, and the
eschatological promise of seeing or understanding in the time to come. In discussing the
difficulties in prayer, she acknowledges that we can’t see or understand God’s joy: “it passeth the
understanding of all creatures in this life, as to my sight” (LT 42.45). However, the anchoress
adds that “prayer is a rightwis understanding of that fulhed of joy that is for to come” (LT 42.45-
46). In other words, although believers cannot see or understand now, through prayer, they can
properly understand the future joy coming in the eschaton. And, despite the fact that God is
“more nere to us than tonge may telle,” Julian reiterates the eschatological promise that “we se
him clere in his blisseful chere (countenance). For in that sight ther may be no wo abide nor wele
faile” (LT 72.23-24). Moreover, in a beautiful passage where Julian speaks of God’s eternal love
for humanity, she acknowledges that there are secrets which are now hid from us. However, in
the end-times, we shall see them: “whan the dome (judgment) is geven, and we be alle brought
uppe above, than shalle we clerely see in God the previtees which now be hid to us” (LT 85.9-
10). Clearly, for Julian, the eschatological promise is that, though we cannot see now, we will
see then.
Julian’s eschatological promise applies not only to vision, but to knowledge of God as
well.
52
For Julian, knowledge of God in this life is dim and limited whereas knowledge of God
52
Julian’s eschatological promise also applies to our understanding of the way humanity views
sin. Julian says that our view of sin is limited, but may either be consistent with the church’s
teaching that sinners are damned, or may be consistent with God’s revelation in her visions that
sinners are viewed with pity. In either respect, believers will know much more in heaven: “But
oure good lorde wille ever that we holde us mekille more in the beholding of the higher [God’s
view] and nought leve the knowing of the lower [church’s view], into the time that we be
brought uppe above, where we shalle have oure lorde Jhesu to oure mede, and be fulfilled of joy
and blisse withoute ende” (LT 82.31-35). Julian’s eschatological promise also applies to our
understanding of prayer and grace. Julian claims, “For it is the same grace that the soule seketh
Footnote continued on next page
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in heaven is full. In Chapter 80, Julian points to three things that sustain believers in this life:
reason, church teaching and the “inwarde gracious werking of the holy gost” (LT 80.1-2).
Although these three things bring us knowledge, Julian claims that, in this life, our knowledge is
limited, “as it were in an A. B. C. That is to sey, that we may have a litille knowing…” (LT 80.8-
9).
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However, we shall have full knowledge in heaven: “we shulde have fulhed in heaven” (LT
80.9-10). Significantly, Julian adds “And that is for to spede us” (or profit us). It is unclear from
Julian’s quote exactly what “that” is—is it the three things? Or is it the fact that we have little
knowing. Although reason, church teaching and inner working may help our spirit to rise, it is
just as likely that this unknowing (or knowing at an ABC level) may help our spirit to rise as
well.
Julian and Capax Dei
For Julian, like Augustine, humanity’s capacity for God is limited. Augustine believes
that the more humanity loves, the greater its capacity for God becomes. And, he believes that
God can use grace to stretch one’s capacity, just as He did for Saint Paul. Interestingly, Julian
agrees with Augustine’s claims, but then goes beyond Augustine. Julian asserts that, given our
limited capacity, God not only stretches the viewer’s capacity for God, but He also limits the
extent to which He shows himself.
54
For example, in Chapter 43, Julian states that when God
chooses to show himself on earth, he strengthens the viewer and limits the vision to that viewer’s
Footnote continued from previous page
and ever shalle, tille we knowe oure God verily, that hath us all in himselfe beclosede” (LT 6.27-
28).
53
Watson and Jenkins note that “Reason, church teaching and the ‘werking’ of the spirit can
only reveal their secrets dimly in this life” (370). Their use of the word “dimly” further
highlights Julian’s debt to Augustine here—through a glass we see darkly or dimly.
54
God’s limiting of His revelation depends on the viewer’s capacity to receive the vision.
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capacity. “But whan he of his special grace will shewe him here, he strengtheth the creature
aboveth the selfe, and he mesureth the shewing after his awne wille, as it is profitable for the
tym” (LT 43.46-47). Julian points out that this strengthening of the viewer, together with the
moderation of the vision, works to spiritually enrich the viewer. As I argue in Chapter three, this
process allows the viewer’s heavenly self to rise.
Julian first speaks of the capacity for God in Chapter 13, where she claims that God
moderated his showing for her—He allowed her to see a particular vision for a suitable time, “as
the simpilnes of the soule might take it” (LT 13.3). She reiterates her view that God assisted her
with her capacity for God by declaring, “And that shewde oure lorde in this time, and gave me
might and grace to see it” (LT 21.1-3). In other words, had God not given her might and grace,
she would not have had the capacity to see the vision. Julian continues in this vein in Chapter
24, where she says,
And with this swete enjoying he shewed to my understanding, in part, the blessed
godhede, as farforth as he wolde that time, strengthing the pour soule for to
understande as it may be saide: that is to mene, the endlesse love that was without
beginning, and is and shal be ever (LT 24.7-10).
First, it is important to note that this vision is partial (“in part”). Thus, like Augustine, Julian
believes that, in this life, she can only see God partially. Further, God showed Julian himself “to
the extent he wished to” (200). God moderates the vision of Himself, choosing how much He
shows of Himself—a very Augustinian concept. Moreover, God had to strengthen the poor soul
60
(Julian) so that she could understand what was being said in the vision.
55
Without God’s
assistance, Julian would not have been able to understand the divine love shown in the vision,
due to her limited capacity for God.
Julian goes on to suggest that many of God’s secrets
56
are kept hidden because humanity
lacks the capacity or worthiness to see them. Julian says, “For I saw in the same shewing that
moch privete is hid which may never be knowen into the time that God of his goodness hath
made us worthy to se it” (LT 46.37-38). Without God’s help, we see nothing because we are
unworthy.
57
But, we are not always unworthy. In Chapter 52, Julian again concurs with
Augustine that God can open the eye of our mind to increase our ability to see. Julian states,
“And this is his owne werking in us, and of his goodnesse openeth the ey of oure
understanding—by which we have sight, sometime more and somtime lesse, after that God
geveth abilte to take” (LT 52.13-15). According to Julian, human capacity can be enlarged—the
eye of the mind can be opened. Augustine echoes throughout this passage—especially as Julian
refers to this opening as an opening of the “eye of our understanding (the mind).” And this
opening enables us to see. How much we see depends on whether God gives us the ability to
withstand the vision.
58
55
Watson and Jenkins add that God was “strengthening the poor soul to understand what can be
put into words. Christ’s divinity is ineffable, and only its effect (‘the endlesse love’), not its
nature, can be stated” (200).
56
God’s secrets will be discussed more thoroughly in Chapter 2.
57
In Chapter 70, Julian adds, “Theyse goods are tresoured and hid in himselfe. For into that time,
creature is not mighty ne worthy to receive them” (LT 75.18-20). Here, Julian seems to be
speaking of the great secret deed, which must remain hidden until the end of time.
58
Related to this concept of capacity is the fact that God moderates the sight of our sin so that we
are not overwhelmed by it: “For he of his curtesy mesureth the sight to us, for it is so foule and
so horrible that we shulde not endure to se it as it is” (LT 78.18-19).
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Julian, Visual Limitations and the Rising of the Soul
Scholars have long recognized the value of Julian’s visions as an instructional tool for her
“evencristens” to help deepen their relationship with God. McGinn says, “Julian does make
clear her purpose in writing: to communicate to all her ‘fellow Christians’ the meaning of the
love that God had revealed to her” (McGinn, Varieties, 429). Kevin Magill sees Julian’s visions
as facilitating “the education of her bodily senses and a programme of moral reform” (MaGill
31). Yet, no scholar has examined the meaning of the gaps in Julian’s visual narrative and their
instructional potential.
Julian has her own ideas about why the visions were given to her. Early on in Chapter 6,
Julian says “This shewing was geven, as to my understanding, to lerne our soule wisely to cleve
to the goodness of God” (LT 6.143). And, in the last chapter, Julian recounts a revelation from
God which instructs her that the meaning of the visions was love. “Wit it wele, love was his
mening” (LT 86.14). In fact, even in Chapter 6, she calls her visions a “lesson of love” (LT
6.54). But, these visions are not for Julian alone. Julian clearly sees her visions as an
instructional tool for her “evencristens” as well “methought that this avision was shewde for
them that shuld live” (LT 8.30). She goes on to offer friendly advice to her fellow Christians for
their “awne profite” that they should focus on God.
59
Clearly, if the visions are for Julian’s
59
Julian tells her readers: And therefore I pray you alle for Gods sake, and counceyle you for
youre awne profite, that ye leve the beholding of a wrech that it was shewde t, and mightily,
wisely, and mekely behold God, that of his curteyse love and endlesse goodnesse wold shew it
generally in comfort of us alle” (LT 8.30-35)
62
profit, they are for her “evencristens” profit as well.
60
In Chapter 3, I explain that Julian uses the
term profit as a means of causing the heavenly self to rise.
Julian readily admits that there are gaps in her visual narrative—she cannot see
everything of God. And, she acknowledges that her fellow Christians see God, sometimes only a
little, or not at all. Yet, it is that unseeing that provides the opportunity for believers to grow. In
her underwater episode, discussed in the Introduction, Julian reminds her readers that “He will
that we believe that we see him continually, thow that us thinke that it be but little, and in this
believe he maketh us evermore to get grace” (LT 10.22-23). In other words, God wants us to
believe that we can see him always, but when we cannot see Him, we must simply believe. It is
in that unseeing belief that “he maketh us evermore to get grace.”
60
“For it is Goddes wille that ye take it with as grete joy and like as Jhesu had shewde it to
you”(LT 8.36-37).
63
Chapter 2
Gaps in Julian’s Visual Narrative--Julian’s Apophaticism
Julian and the Dionysian Tradition
Although few scholars have read Julian with Pseudo-Dionysius (Denys),
1
such a reading
is significant for Julian scholarship because the Dionysian Tradition provides a framework to
understand the gaps in Julian’s visual narrative. There can be no doubt that Julian tells a visual
story; hers is a story replete with vivid details, including torn flesh, dripping blood, and flowing
blood analogies (like rain falling off a roof, or as thick as herring scales). Yet, at the same time,
there are significant gaps in this visual story. There are things that Julian cannot see. In this
chapter, I will explore the aspects of Julian’s visual narrative which Julian is not allowed to see.
Further, I will examine other areas within this visual narrative where Julian sees something of
God, yet cannot use words to explain it. All of these tropes within her writing seem to fit under
the larger umbrella of apophaticism, as discussed in the Introduction. These tropes point to
influence by the Dionysian tradition.
1
McGinn identifies Pseudo-Dionysius, or Pseudo-Denys (or Denys) as an unknown monk who
wrote under the pseudonym Dionysius the Areopagite, Paul’s Athenian convert mentioned in the
Book of Acts (see Acts 17:34) and “for centuries, his writings were treated with quasi-apostolic
authority” (McGinn, Early Christian Mystics 171). Modern scholars have traced him to Syria,
writing around the time of 500 CE. “Dionysius not only created the term mystical theology, he
also gave systematic expression to a dialectic view of the relation of God and the world that was
the Fountainhead of speculative mystical systems for the past thousand years” (McGinn, Early
Christian Mystics 171).
64
It is possible that Julian’s apophaticism in connection with the Dionysian tradition has
not been explored in detail
2
because Julian has generally been considered a cataphatic
theologian
3
and Denys is the central figure in the development of apophatic theology.
4
As a
result, scholars have resisted pairing Julian with the Dionysian Tradition. Some scholars, like
Bernard McGinn, simply believe that Julian had no contact with the Dionysian corpus, despite
her reference to “Saint Dionisy”
5
. Others, like Grace Jantzen, reject outright any reliance by
Julian on the Dionysian corpus because of Julian’s belief that we can know God (Jantzen 94,
110).
6
Although there have been some scholars who have argued for Julian’s Dionysian
2
As noted in the Introduction, McGinn, in his chapter on Julian in The Varieties of Vernacular
Mysticism, states that the “apophatic aspect of Julian’s theology” is “often overlooked” (footnote
33, p. 644)
3
Denys Turner, in his early book The Darkness of God, classifies Julian as a cataphatic
theologian: “it is its cataphatic tendencies which account for the sheer heaviness of theological
language, its character of being linguistically overburdened; it is the cataphatic which accounts
for that fine nimietas of image which we may observe in the past theologies, for example in
Julian of Norwich” (20). Turner revises that statement later in the book, saying that “it is a
mistake” to distinguish between cataphatic and appophatic mystics, even though he
acknowledges that Julian would be in the cataphatic category. Thus, he claims that when Julian
“deliberately confuses” the gender of Christ by calling Christ mother, “her strategy is
consciously apophatic (34). In Julian of Norwich, Theologian, Turner completely reverses his
earlier claims, saying “one should not be misled into the lazy characterization of her theology as
cataphatic” (24). He goes on to find that Julian’s superabundance of images is exactly what
makes her an apophatic theologian: “for all the affirmative richness of her theological
vocabulary, hers is a linguistic strategy every bit as apophatic as that of the Cloud author or
Meister Eckhart… her cataphatic confidence is in itself an apophatic strategy, as if it is by means
of, not despite, the proliferations of trinitarian vocabulary that she achieves the goal of placing
God beyond all words” (24-25).
4
Kevin Hughes notes that “The classical example of how [apophatic theology] is done in
mystical theology is in the writings of the one we know only as pseudo-Denys the Areopagite, a
sixth-century Christian whose real identity has been lost in the historical record.” (108).
5
LT 18.21-25.
6
Jantzen finds that although Julian would agree with Denys that a detached intellect cannot
know God, she would disagree that we can’t know God. Jantzen claims that Julian “does believe
that by means of natural reason, Christian teaching, and the inner experience of the Holy Spirit,
we can have, though never exhaustive knowledge of God, at least that kindergarten ABC variety
of real communion with him”(94).
65
influences, those scholars have not focused on the Dionysian tradition as a way to explain the
visual gaps in her visions—places where she cannot see at all.
7
Denys’ theology exemplifies the via negativa—the negative way—the path to God in
which terms are inadequate and vision is only of what cannot be seen.
8
In this way, Denys
provides Julian with an alternate framework. Unlike Augustine, who posits that the vision of
God is fleeting and partial, though not impossible, Dionysian thought holds that, in general, God
cannot be seen at all. Although this line of thought was much modified by the time it reached
Julian’s England, particularly through the Cloud author’s work (which allowed for some vision
of God), the Dionysian tradition nevertheless assists us in understanding Julian’s texts in those
particular instances when her vision is not only difficult, but is completely denied. Further, the
corpus Areopagiticum helps Julian to understand the ineffability of God—why on certain
occasions she sees God or an aspect of God but cannot put that vision into words. By
considering Dionysian ideas, Julian could make sense of things unseen, hidden and beyond
words. Moreover, I argue that Julian posits that those things which are unseen or unsayable, can
make our souls rise, by virtue of the fact that they cannot be seen or said.
7
Denise Baker notes Julian’s reliance on Augustine and Pseudo-Dionysius’ definition of evil as
a privation of good (65-66) but does not acknowledge Julian’s utilization of any other aspect of
the Dionysian corpus. Specifically, she does not address Julian’s reliance on Denys for her
interpretation of what she cannot see in her visions. Similarly, Brent Palphrey also notes Julian’s
connection to Denys regarding her definition of evil in his essay, “Leaving the Womb of Christ:
Love, Doomsday, and Space/Time in Julian of Noriwhc and Eastern Orthodox Mysticism,”
collected in Julian of Norwich, A Book of Essays.
8
In The Darkness of God, Denys Turner distinguishes between cataphatic and apophatic
theology. He demonstrates that apophatic theology is synonymus with the via negativa or the
negative way (19).
66
Dionysian Thought in 14
th
Century England
There is no question that some parts of the Dionysian corpus, or ideas based on them,
would have been available to Julian in 14
th
Century Norwich. As previously discussed, Norwich
was a city rich in theological learning. Plus, because of the Dionysian revival which took place
in the 13
th
Century, Dionysian theology was an important part of the theological thinking of the
time.
9
As McGinn elucidates, because Denys “wrote under the pseudonym Dionysius the
Areopagite, St. Paul’s Athenian convert (Acts 17:34), for centuries, his writings were treated
with quasi-apostolic authority” (McGinn, Early Christian Mystics 171).
10
Thus, Denys’ works
rose to a special place of prominence in the Middle Ages. As Karlfried Froehlich demonstrates,
because of its “apostolic authority”, “The Dionysian tradition had deeply influenced not only
medieval mystical thought but also scholastic theology both through the practice of commenting
on the treatises and by its doctrinal and spiritual content” (33).
11
Although not widespread in the tenth and eleventh centuries, Dionysian thought began to
be well-known in scholastic circles in the twelfth century. Thomas Aquinas wrote commentaries
on several works, and cites him over 1700 times.
12
Bonaventure called him the “prince of
9
As discussed above, McGinn reports a Dionysian revival taking place in the 13
th
century.
McGinn, Bernard. Harvard Theological Review 98:3 (2005) 228-29.
10
The fact that Dionysius the Areopagite was only a pseudonym was first suspected by Martin
Luther, but not proved until the last century (McGinn, Early Christian Mystics 171).
11
Froehlich, in his introduction entitled “Pseudo-Dionysius and the Reformation of the Sixteenth
Century” in Pseudo-Dionysius, The Complete Works, discusses the fact that Denys’ identity in
the Middle Ages was an amalgamation of three people whom the medievals had conflated:
Dionysius the Areopagite, Denys, the first Bishop of Paris and the author of the texts (34).
12
LeClerq 29; Doherty, K.F. “St. Thomas and the Pseudo-Dionysian Symbol of Light.” In: The
New. Scholasticism, 34(1960), pp. 170-189. Aquinas offers a nuanced view: “Hence, by the fact
that some things about God are proposed to man that surpass his reason, there is strengthened in
man the view that God is something above what he can think”( Summa Contra Gentiles, Book 1;
Chapter 5:3); “There are, consequently, some intelligible truths about God that are open to the
human reason; but there are others that absolutely surpass its power” (Summa Contra Gentiles,
Footnote continued on next page
67
mystics” (LeClerq 29). As LeClerq points out, “The works of Dionysius provided a powerful
contribution in the 14
th
and 15
th
centuries to the spirituality that flowered in the Rhine Valley and
elsewhere…” (LeClerq 30).
13
Denys Turner, in a chapter entitled, “Dionysius and Some Late
Medieval Theologians of Northern Europe,” in Rethinking Dionysius, posits that “Dionysian
thought is woven into the very fabric of the vocabulary, imagery and argument of Marguerite
Porete, Meister Eckhart, Jan Van Ruysboek, Jean Gerson, Denys the Carthusian [and] Nicholas
of Cusa” (1). Even Margery Kempe’s early fifteenth-century text shows Dionysian influence.
14
In sum, the Dionysian corpus “became highly influential in Christian theology in the West as
well as in the East” (Palphrey 57).
Scholars acknowledge that the path by which Denys became known in the West, and
specifically in England, is complex.
15
However, many scholars agree that the Dionysian corpus
Footnote continued from previous page
Book 1; Chapter 3:3); “For, by its immensity, the divine substance surpasses every form that our
intellect reaches. Thus we are unable to apprehend it by knowing what it is. Yet we are able to
have some knowledge of it by knowing what it is not” (Summa Contra Gentiles, Book 1; Chapter
14:2).
13
LeClerq includes Meister Eckhart (d. 1327), Tauler (d. 1361), Ruysbroeck (d. 1381), Gerson
(d. 1429), Nicholas de Cusa (d. 1464), and Denis the Carthusian (1471) among the many writers
who were profoundly influenced by Dionysian themes (30). Many of these writers were Julian’s
contemporaries. Julian lived from 1343 to 1416.
14
Kempe’s book bears traces of Dionysian ineffability. Margery claims that “She is so full of
holy thoughts and meditations and holy contemplations on the Passion of our Lord Jesus Christ
and hoy dalliances that our Lord Jesus Christ dallied to her soul that she could never express
them afterward, so high and holy they were” (53). Similarly, “it would be in a manner
impossible to write all the holy thoughts, holy speeches and the high revelations which our Lord
showed unto her” (106), see also (136). Margery gives a catalog of why she cannot express all
her holy thoughts: some thoughts were so high that she was “abashed to tell them,” some were so
plentiful that “she could never relate but a few,” some were so “high above her bodily wits that
she might never express them with her bodily tongue. . . she understood them better than she
could utter them” and some she just forgot (147).
15
Jean LeClerq traces the arrival of the Dionysian corpus to the West first through Gregory the
Great, but the works really remained unknown until the Byzantine King Michael the Stammerer
sent a copy of the works to King Louis the Pious in 827. After Hilduin attempted a failed
translation in 838, John Scotus (Eriugena) translated the works in 862. The works remained
Footnote continued on next page
68
circulated into England by the High Middle Ages.
16
Robert Boenig offers a convincing
argument that the dispersal of Denys’ ideas had reached England well before the fourteenth-
century in his book, Chaucer and the Mystics. In it, Boenig suggests that these ideas may have
entered England through a manuscript containing both the works of Richard of St. Victor and
Denys, because the Cloud author translated works of both authors. Of course, the Cloud author
thoroughly absorbed Dionysian concepts by not only translating his works, but incorporating
Denys’ ideas into his own works as well (Boenig 23). But, Richard of St. Victor himself, already
steeped in Dionysian thought, may have played a key role in introducing Denys’ works into
England, where the Cloud Author could become aware of them. Boenig argues that:
Richard was one of the theologians called in to try to settle the dispute between
Becket and Henry II; Beckett’s friend and retainer John of Salisbury commissioned
translations of pseudo-Dionysius, and Beckett died with a prayer to St. Denis on his
lips – – all indications that an earlier ingress of pseudo-Dionysius ideas into England
during the late 12
th
century was possible (Boenig 24).
Footnote continued from previous page
relatively obscure until the 12
th
Century. Hugh and Richard of St. Victor provided further
translations. Thus, Dionysius became widely known in Paris beginning in the 1240’s. See, Le
Clerq, “Influence and Noninfluence of Dionysius in the Western Middle Ages” collected in
PseudoDionysius, The Complete Works. pp. 26-27; Palphrey also comments on the complexity
of Denys’ path to the Latin West (57).
16
Palphrey notes that “It is widely accepted that the writings of Pseudo-Dionysius were as
important to the formation of fourteenth-century English mystical theology as they were in
Europe” (57).
69
Boenig also argues that “the Dominicans of the late 13
th
century and early 14
th
– – Albertus,
Aquinas, Eckhart, Suso, and Tauler, were steeped in pseudo-Dionysius’ thought” (24).
17
Since
Norwich was home to a Dominican monastery, it is likely that the preaching that took place there
may have been another possible disseminator of Dionysian thought.
18
Scholars on Julian and the Dionysian Tradition
Boenig agrees that there are more than traces of Dionysian thought in Julian’s work. He
analyzes Julian’s writing and concludes that it “shows how deeply ideas drawn from pseudo-
Dionysius about language fragmentation and silence had pierced Chaucer’s England” (Boenig
28). By discussing a chain of Julian’s thought which takes her from the fragments of skin on
Christ’s head to “Seynt Dyonisi,” Boenig argues for Julian’s Dionysian influence. Boenig first
notes that in Julian’s description of her vision, her focus on the fragments of flesh on Christ’s
bleeding head reflects the fragmentation inherent in Dionysian thought. Then, he notes that this
description leads her to wordlessness and silence, another aspect of Dionysian thought. Julian’s
wordlessness then prompts her to reflect on “seynt Dyonisi of France, whiych was that tyme a
paynym” (Boenig 28-29). In this train of thought, Boenig argues that Julian herself seems to
point to her own Dionysian influence. Boenig, however, does not consider the gaps in Julian’s
visual narrative as having been influenced by Denys.
17
Boenig goes on to argue convincingly that the works of Chaucer are filled with traces of
Dionysian thought.
18
According to James Campbell, the well-known English historian, the friars came to Norwich
in the 12
th
Century. “The Dominicans and Franciscans both arrived in Norwich in 1226, the
Carmelites in about 1256 and the Austins about the beginning of the reign of Edward I.”
Interestingly, the Dominicans built two separate smaller monasteries in Norwich, whereas the
Franciscans built one large monastery. (Campbell, James. Historic Towns, Norwich, Scholar
Press, p. 178).
70
Julian’s reference to Denys as a “paynym” (pagan) reinforces the idea that Julian was
familiar, at least, with “popular medieval piety,” which cast Denys as “a theologian and a symbol
of the pagans who desired to worship the true God, although they were ignorant of Christ”
(Palphrey 263).
19
In fact, Brent Palphrey goes even further in his book, Love Was His Meaning,
The Theology and Mysticism of Julian of Norwich, to demonstrate that Julian was familiar with
Dionysian thought. Palphrey argues that Julian’s familiarity with Denys is not surprising
because Dionysian thought was so common in 14
th
Century England that it was in the air the
medievals breathed (Palphrey 44).
20
He discusses and dismisses the work of Julian scholars who
have concluded that Julian is influenced by the Cloud Author or Walter Hilton, but not by Denys
himself.
21
Instead, Palphrey sides with Sr. Anna Maria Reynolds, who “suggests that Julian is
‘quite likely’ to have been familiar with the Mystical Theology of Pseudo-Dionysius, and that she
may have known the Divine Names” (Palphrey 69). Palphrey goes on to point out the
intersections Sr. Reynolds sees between Julian and Denys:
She draws attention to Julian’s use of the Dionysian concept of touch “signifying
God’s direct action on the soul”; to “her fondness of numbers”; and to Julian’s
19
Denys Turner, in a chapter entitled, “Dionysius and Some Late Medieval Theologians of
Northern Europe,” in Rethinking Dionysius, posits that “Dionysian thought is woven into the
very fabric of the vocabulary, imagery and argument of Marguerite Porete, Meister Eckhart, Jan
Van Ruysboek, Jean Gerson, Denys the Carthusian [and] Nicholas of Cusa” (1).
20
Brent Palphrey notes in his article: “Visions of Paradise, Julian of Norwich and St. Dionysius
the Areopagite” that “There is no doubt that the Dionysian corpus as it was known in Latin
influenced many western mystics, including Thomas Aquinas, Birgitta of Sweden and
Julian’s contemporary Walter Hilton; as well as the author of the Ancrene Riwle. Elements of
Dionysian ideas can be seen in the common medieval example that contemplative life
consists of three major steps on the way towards union with God, known in English
theology as ‘Purgation, Illumination, Union’” (2013) Academia.edu.
21
Palphrey lists Grace Warrack and Coleman, among others, who, in his mind, make the mistake
of concluding that Julian is not influenced by Dionysian thought (Palphrey 67-69).
71
reference to seeing God “in a poynte… by which syght I saw that he is in all thing”
(Palphrey 69).
Palphrey acknowledges that Julian would not have known Denys’ works in the Greek; however,
he claims that she may have known them in Latin, or she may have been familiar with the Cloud
Author’s Middle English translation of Mystical Theology entitled Dionisi Hid Divinite. He
points to Julia Bolton Holloway’s theory that Julian may have had access to a Latin translation of
the complete works of Dionysius the Areopagite owned by Cardinal Adam Easton while he lived
in Norwich.
22
In any event, Palphrey finds that Julian draws from Dionysian works and/or that
her work was influenced by the Byzantine Fathers and “Orthodoxy.”
23
Even though some scholars have placed Julian within the ambit of Dionysian thought,
they have paid no attention to how Denys’ thought impacted Julian’s perception of her visions. I
will argue that the gaps in Julian’s visual narrative (what Julian cannot see) resonate with
Dionysian themes, especially as they are set forth in Mystical Theology and Divine Names and
later modified by the Cloud author. Although Dionysius is known for both his apophatic and
cataphatic approaches, I will explain how the interplay of the two, and particularly, his apophatic
unknowability/ineffability with respect to God, played a significant role in both Julian’s
questioning of her visions as well as her emphasis on her lack of vision. In fact, as I will
demonstrate, vision, or the lack thereof, is an important theme in the Dionysian corpus. Because
Julian’s inability to see (on many levels) is a recurrent theme in her work, I will argue that
Julian’s work is closely connected to Dionysian themes of sightlessness. However, because
22
Palphrey 68. Julia Bolton Holloway articulates this theory in Anchoress and Cardinal, Julian
of Norwich and Adam Easton, OSB.
23
Palphrey 69.
72
Julian, in certain situations, can see God, whereas Dionysius would contend that one “does not
meet God himself,”
24
the issue of vision or lack thereof becomes contested, with Julian deviating
from Dionysian themes as much as she follows them. By exploring Julian’s connections to
Dionysian themes, I will show that the tension between that which can be seen and that which
cannot, suggests that Julian’s work is as much a discussion of how to see as it is a recounting and
theologizing of her visions.
Pseudo-Dionysius: The Trope of Seeing and Not Seeing the Ineffable God
As discussed above, vision and, specifically, the lack of vision, is a significant topic for
Denys. In the Dionysian corpus, God is unseen, hidden and secret. Those things which are
perceptible only distract from what cannot be seen, which is God. Thus, in order to ascend to
union with God, one must abandon one’s ability to see. As Paul Gavrilyuk demonstrates in his
chapter on Dionysius in The Spiritual Senses, “the dynamic of divine ascent is as follows: one
first relinquishes the physical senses, then the intellect and, ultimately all cognitive powers…
including even nonphysical perception” (Gavrilyuk 88).
25
While Denys uses visual metaphors to
describe this non-perceiving ascent (89), he claims that one must be unseeing in order to “see”
the invisible God. This “unseeing” in order to “see” clearly demonstrates Denys’ challenge—
how to speak of perceiving the imperceptible. As Gavrilyuk states, it becomes nearly impossible
to speak of perception without using the terms of the senses: “When Dionysius attempts to
24
Pseudo-Dionysius, The Mystical Theology p. 137. Dionysius claims that one does not see
God, “but contemplates, not him who is invisible, but rather where he dwells” 137.
25
Gavrilyuk’s chapter “Pseudo-Dionysius” is collected in The Spiritual Senses, Perceiving God
in Western Christianity.
73
describe the indescribable mystical union, which is beyond knowledge, the use of perceptual
analogies, especially those related to vision, becomes nearly inescapable” (88).
26
Gavrilyuk’s theory regarding Denys’ use of visual language is evident even as Denys
insists that God is that which cannot be seen. Denys indicates as much in the caption for Chapter
Four of Mystical Theology: “that the supreme cause of every perceptible thing is not itself
perceptible” (140). Denys cannot speak of God without speaking of perception. Further, Denys
uses similar language when discussing the mysteries of God’s Word, which, Denys claims, are
imperceptible as well. At the outset of The Mystical Theology, Denys sets forth a prayer that the
mysteries of God’s word, which are “unseen” may “fill our sightless minds with treasures
beyond all beauty” (Pseudo-Dionysius 137). Denys chooses to speak of these mysteries in terms
of vision, specifically “unseen” and “sightless.” Denys’ terminology melds with his theory here,
where he not only uses visual terms to describe the mystical phenomenon, but he theorizes a lack
of vision as well, which is necessary to perceive God. Thus, for Denys, in order to perceive the
imperceptible mysteries, we must be sightless, or blind, in our spiritual or mental approach to
God.
27
Denys’ prayer is filled with images of sightlessness, hiddenness and paradoxically
contradicting visual images. For example, according to Denys, the mysteries of God’s word lie
“in the brilliant darkness of a hidden silence” and pour, in “overwhelming light” from “deepest
26
Gavrilyuk provides background here by discussing the Platonic tradition. Specifically, he
notes that “since the time of Plato it has become common place in philosophy to use sensation
language to describe mental activity” (94). Gavrilyuk explains that Plato privileges the
intelligible things over sensible ones (those things perceived by the bodily senses); however, the
sensible things remain significant because they can trigger recollection of the intelligibles,
among other things (94).
27
As demonstrated in Chapter 5, the state of blindness was of significant interest to medievals.
74
shadow.”
28
These contrasting images of light and dark, as well as ideas of sightlessness, inform
Julian’s text as well, as will be discussed below.
In Denys’s second prayer, at the beginning of Chapter Two of Mystical Theology, Denys
uses the contrasting images of light and dark, but he also uses tropes of vision to convey his
sense of God. Denys inextricably pairs sight and knowledge, much as Julian does in her texts.
However, unlike Julian, for whom to see God is to know God, for Denys, not seeing and not
knowing God opens the door to seeing and knowing “that which lies beyond all vision and
knowledge” (138). However, Denys’ caveat is that even when one thinks that she is seeing and
knowing, one must do so with an unseeing and unknowing mindset. The prayer is as follows:
I pray we could come to this darkness so far above light! If we only lacked sight and
knowledge so as to see, so as to know, unseeing and unknowing, that which lies
beyond all vision and knowledge. For this would be really to see and to know; to raise
the Transcendent One in a transcending way, namely through denial of all beings.
Thus, for Denys, denying all beings facilitates real seeing and knowing. Denys goes on to
emphasize the negation required in seeing God—it is not a seeing, but a removal of things that
prevent seeing. Denys uses the analogy of the sculptor to make his point:
28
Denys Turner comments on this passage in his book The Darkness of God. Turner claims that
“Denys designs this prayer on the structural simple of what [Turner] shall call the self-subverting
utterance, the utterance which first says something and then, in the same image, unsays it. The
divine light is a ‘brilliant darkness’; the mysteries of God's word are uttered in a ‘hidden
silence’” (Turner 21).
75
We would be like sculptors who set out to carve a statue. They remove every obstacle
to the pure view of the hidden image, and simply by this act of clearing aside, they
show up the beauty which is hidden (138).
Just as the sculpture was hidden in the stone, for Denys, God is hidden. It is necessary only to
remove that which obscures spiritual vision and the hidden will be seen. Of course, as a good
Platonist, Denys distinguishes between the bodily senses and the mental or spiritual senses.
Gavrilyuk goes into much greater detail on this topic in his excellent chapter. For my purposes,
it is sufficient to point to Denys’ use of this language as I believe Julian adopts it even where her
fundamental beliefs differ from those of Denys.
Significantly, Denys does not eschew the vision of God entirely. Like Julian, and
Augustine before him, Denys acknowledges that “in time to come, when we are incorruptible
and immortal, when we have come at last to the blessed inheritance of being like Christ… we
shall ever be filled with the sight of God shining gloriously around us as once it shown for the
disciples at the divine transfiguration” (DN 1.4 p. 52).
29
Thus, like Augustine, in many ways,
Denys’ approach is an eschatological apophaticism. Further, Denys does not deny the validity of
visions. He points out that some Divine names “have their origin in spiritual visions which
enlightened initiates or prophets in the holy places or elsewhere” (DN 1.8 p. 57). Thus, given
Denys’ acceptance of vision in the after-life, and his acknowledgement of the validity of spiritual
visions, the possibility that Julian may have been influenced by the Dionysian tradition is not so
far-fetched.
29
Denys follows Scripture here, as he acknowledges “then as Scripture says, we shall always be
with the Lord.” He adds that we shall see God in contemplation (p. 52).
76
Pseudo-Dionysius: The Ineffable God
Another major component of Dionysian thought which makes its way into Julian’s texts
is the ineffability of God.
30
For Denys, God is beyond words; His presence is inexpressibly
beyond our reckoning. Denys notes the shortcoming of language to talk about God in the Divine
Names, where he acknowledges, “this is why we must not dare to resort to words or conceptions
concerning that hidden divinity which transcends being…Since the unknowing of what is beyond
being is something above and beyond speech, mind, or being itself, one should ascribe to it an
understanding beyond being” (DN 1.i, p.49). Denys continues to worry over the issue of the
inadequacy of language:
How then can we speak of the divine names? How can we do this if the transcendent
surpasses all discourse and all knowledge if it abides beyond the reach of mind and of
the mind and of being, if it encompasses and circumscribes, embraces and anticipates
all things while itself is eluding their grasp and escaping from any perception,
imagination, opinion, name, discourse, apprehension, or understanding? How can we
enter upon this undertaking if the Godhead is superior to be and is unspeakable and
unnameable? (DN1.5 p. 53).
Although Denys acknowledges that theologians, nevertheless, give God many names, and he
also goes on to give God many names in this tract, he nevertheless maintains a skeptical distance
about his ability to name divine names: “These, then, are the divine names. They are conceptual
30
Augustine also expressed the inadequacy of language in describing God. In De Doctrina
Christiana, for example, Augustine states: “Have we spoken or announced anything worthy of
God? Rather I feel that I have done nothing but wish to speak: if I have spoken, I have not said
what I wished to say. Whence do I know this, except because God is ineffable?” (11).
77
names, and I have explained them as well as I can. But of course I have fallen well short of what
they actually mean” (DN 13.4 p. 130).
Denys further develops his argument about language’s shortcomings in the face of
naming God in Mystical Theology. Thus, Denys argues, no matter how many different names we
call God, (and Julian uses many of them), we reach a point where such names become
meaningless. Denys squarely confronts this problem:
In the Divine Names I have shown the sense in which God is described as good,
existent, life, wisdom, power, and whatever other things pertain to the conceptual
names for God. In my Symbolic Theology I have discussed analogies of God drawn
from what we perceive… The fact is that the more we take flight upward, the more
our words are confined to the ideas we are capable of forming; so that now as we
plunge into that darkness which is beyond intellect, we shall find ourselves not simply
running short of words but actually speechless and unknowing (MTiii, 139).
Long before Saussure and even Derrida, Denys establishes that our words are limited by our
ideas, so that when we arrive at a subject that is beyond our intellect (God), we can no longer
speak. Denys concludes, “but my argument now rises from what is below up to the transcendent,
the more it climbs, the more language falters, and when it has passed up and beyond the ascent, it
will turn silent completely, since it will finally be at one with him who is indescribable” (MTiii,
139). Thus, as God is so far beyond our intellect that He is indescribable, we have no words to
describe him.
78
Denys clearly establishes the connection between unknowability and wordlessness. In
his book, The Darkness of God, Denys Turner
31
emphasizes this connection :
It follows from the unknowability of God that there is very little that can be said
about God…And this, strictly speaking, is what apophaticism asserts, as one can tell
from its Greek etymology, apophasis is a Greek neologism for the breakdown of
speech, which, in face of the unknowability of God, falls infinitely short of the mark.
(Turner 20).
Later in this chapter, Turner argues that Denys’ struggle with language “is but the transposition
of the Platonic dialectics of the Cave Allegory” into theological discourse. Turner elucidates: “If
the light of the sun is a mind-stunning darkness, so is the reality of the divine a language
defeating silence” (22). Turner argues that, for Denys, it is necessary to reach a point of extreme
verbal excess before we lapse into silence about God. “For it is true that whatever we say about
God, and that however vividly, and with however much variety of image we name God, all our
language fails of God, infinitely and in principle” (Turner 25). As will be discussed, Turner sees
Julian reaching that state of verbal excess. I will argue that she lapses into silence about God as
well.
31
This discussion is from the chapter entitled “Cataphatic and Apophatic in Denys the
Areopagite.”
79
Modifications to the Dionysian Tradition—The Cloud Author on the Vision of God
Most scholars agree that the Cloud Author and his works effectively transmitted the ideas
contained in the Dionysian corpus into England.
32
Working in the late fourteenth century, the
Cloud author’s works set forth Dionysian concepts that were already at play in England, and, at
the same time, spread these ideas further. The Cloud author’s original works include The Cloud
of Unknowing—the longest and most complete work—and, four short tracts or letters: The
Epistle of Prayer, The Epistle of Discretion in the Stirrings of the Soul, The Epistle of Privy
Counsel, and The Treatise of Discerning of Spirits
33
. The Cloud author also translated Denys’
work, Mystical Theology, in a text entitled Dionise His Divinite.
34
In her Introduction to the
Cloud of Unknowing, Evelyn Underhill notes “In Dionise Hid Divinite, a version of the Mystica
Theologia, this spiritual treasure-house was first made accessible to those outside the
professionally religious class” and “quickly attained to a considerable circulation” in England
(Underhill 1). The availability and widespread circulation both suggest that Julian may have
known the Dionysian tradition through the Cloud author.
32
Evelyn Underhill, in her Introduction to the Cloud Works, states: The little family of mystical
treatises which is known to students as “the Cloud of Unknowing group,” deserves more
attention than it has hitherto received from English lovers of mysticism: for it represents the first
expression in our own tongue of that great mystic tradition of the Christian Neoplatonists which
gathered up, remade, and “salted with Christ’s salt” all that was best in the spiritual wisdom of
the ancient world. That wisdom made its definite entrance into the Catholic fold about A.D. 500,
in the writings of the profound and nameless mystic who chose to call himself “Dionysius the
Areopagite.”
33
Underhill notes Richard of St. Victor’s influence as secondary to Denys’ influence on the
Cloud. However, she also claims that the Cloud author’s work is original as well: “Certainly the
influence of Richard is only second to that of Dionysius in this unknown mystic’s own work—
work, however, which owes as much to the deep personal experience, and extraordinary
psychological gifts of its writer, as to the tradition that he inherited from the past” (1).
34
In Deonise Hid Diuinite, the Cloud author introduces Denys’ work: “This writing that next
foloweth is the Inglische of a book that Seynte Denys wrote unto Thimothe, the whiches is clepid
in Latyn tonge Mistica Theologia” (2).
80
In general, the Cloud author’s position on vision, unlike that of Julian’s, is that vision or
“spiritual sight” does not mean union with God. Instead, vision is for amateurs—it is a first step
on the road to spiritual perfection. Even if it is accompanied by a “blind” desire for God,
“seeing” the passion of Christ or one’s own wretchedness does not mean that one is ready for the
contemplation of the Cloud (192-93). But, if you can “see God blindly. . . completely stripped of
yourself ,” then you are ready for the Cloud author’s practice of contemplation (196), the
“unseeing seeing” (Epistle 174) or “blind seeing” (209). Sometimes, however, having a vision
of God does mean union with God. For example, the Cloud Author makes clear that if you can
worship God by offering yourself simply, then your vision of God will not fade or lessen your
union with God. (167). Moreover, in Chapter 71, the Cloud author writes a small essay on vision
and capacity which closely follows Augustine by discussing Moses, who had to work for his
vision, and Aaron, for whom vision came quite easily. It is clear in this essay that vision is
equated with union with God (146-148).
The Cloud author’s essay on vision constitutes his most significant revision to the
Dionysian corpus. For Denys, it is clear that, in this life, humans cannot see God. However, the
Cloud author takes a different view. For example, in Denys’ work, Moses, in his divine ascent
up Mount Sinai, moves away from those things of God which can be seen, like his dwelling
place, “breaks free of them, away from what sees and is seen, and he plunges into the truly
mysterious darkness of unknowing.”
35
Curiously, this is the passage for which the Cloud author
is most recognized, given that he rephrases “darkness of unknowing” as “cloud of unknowing.”
However, the Cloud author has a very different take on Moses. The Cloud author states,
35
MT 1.3 p. 137
81
Moyses, er he might come to see this arke, and for two wite how it schuld be maad,
with grete longe travayle he clombe up to the top of the mounteyne and wonid there
and wrought in a cloude six daies: abidyng unto the seventh day, that oure Lord
wolde vouchesaaf for to schewe unto hym the maner of this arke- makyng. By Moises
longe travaile and his late schewyng ben understonden thoo that mowe not come to
the perfeccion of this goostly werk withouten longe travayle comyng before, and yet
bot full seeldom, and when God will vouchsafe to schewe it. Bot that that Moises
might not come to se but seeldom and that not withoutyn grete longe travayle (Cloud
71 p. 97).
Moses, who has great difficulty “seeing” is compared with Aaron, who, because of the power of
his office, was able to see God whenever he liked by going behind the veil. The Cloud author
thus transforms the story of Moses on Mount Sinai into an allegory for the difficulties of
contemplation and “seeing” God. As a result, Julian most likely received a Dionysian tradition
that fully contemplated the possibility of seeing God in this lifetime, contrary to the view
expressed in Denys’ works.
In contrast, the Cloud author follows Dionysian thought very closely on the subject of the
ineffability of God. In the Cloud of Unknowing, the Cloud author makes the following
comments regarding ineffability: “For I dare not take upon myself with my blundering earthly
tongue to speak of what belongs solely to God” (95). And, “My rough tongue is quite unable to
describe its immense worthwhileness” (180). Another example includes the Cloud author’s
commentary on the contemplative Mary (as opposed to the active Martha). He notes that she has
82
“has pinned her love” on “this cloud of unknowing and has learned to love what in this life
certainly she will never clearly understand with her mind” (82).
Gaps in Julian’s Visual Narrative and the Influence of the Dionysian Tradition
I do not mean to suggest that Julian follows Dionysian thought to the letter—there are
many examples in her text in which she alleges that she does “see God,” even if it is only in a
point. However, given that Denys himself acknowledges the possibility of visions, and
acknowledges that although we might “see” God not in this life, but in the next, it is possible that
Julian may have found the Dionysian tradition to be consistent with her visions. Further,
considering that Julian’s exposure to the Dionysian tradition had been modified by the Cloud
author to allow for “seeing” God, it is very possible that Julian would have accepted it as being
consistent with her thought. Thus, there are discrete instances in Julian’s visual narrative in
which she does not and cannot see, which suggests that she was, at a minimum, aware of Denys’
work. These gaps in Julian’s narrative, where she can no longer see, or is not allowed to see,
merit further attention and have not been explored previously by scholars. These moments are
not moments of partial vision, or darkened or obscured vision, or fleeting vision, but instead, are
complete gaps where no vision at all is allowed. I believe that it is in these discrete instances that
Julian’s narrative is influenced by Dionysian thought.
One such point occurs during Julian’s visions when Julian asks to see how a particular
friend was doing. Her vision was denied.
36
36
Grace Jantzen describes this event as “the negative aspect of the mystery, the ‘closed portion’
that is not for our present understanding” (176).
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I desired to wit of a serteyn creature that I loved if it shulde continue in good leving,
which I hoped by the grace of God was begonne. And in this singular desyer it
seemed that I letted myself, for I was not taught in this time (LT 35.1-5).
37
The editor’s note that Julian “stood in [her] own way” by desiring this specific information, and
was denied vision completely (Watson 228). Although Julian’s vision was denied, she heard a
voice, “as it were by a frendfulle mene”
38
telling her to take her visions “generally” for it is
“more worshipe to God to behold him in alle than in any specialle thing” (LT 35.7). It becomes
clear, however, that she recognizes that we do not see God in all, because she says, “And when it
is time we shalle see it” (LT 35.13). In other words, there is much we cannot see now but, just as
Denys claimed, we shall see it later.
39
The seeing and not seeing in this passage prompts Julian to launch immediately into a
discussion of what God does and what he allows (“suffereth”). The placement of this discussion
suggests that she equates what God does with what he shows her and what he allows
(“suffereth”) with what he withholds from view. She points out that what God allows causes
pain, just as her lack of vision seemed to cause her pain and disappointment when she could not
37
Nicholas Watson and Jacqueline Jenkins (the editors) comment that this desire on Julian’s
part, to know if one of her friends was living well, was natural in this time. “Prophetic
information about the living or the dead was often part of visionary experience, as Julian’s
expectations here suggest.” They note that “Marjorie Kempe is shown ‘hy revelations… of many
souls, sum for to ben saved and sum for to ben dampned,’ even though she attempts to refuse
them (Book 159)” (Watson 228).
38
The editors state that this is a “friendly intermediary. Perhaps an angelic or saintly voice”
(228).
39
Julian adds one more comment here about her visions in general, and how she perceived God
specifically when she relates: “and the ground of this was showed in the first, and more openly in
the third where it saith: ‘I saw God in a point’” (LT 35.15-16). Interestingly, scholars have
argued that the vision of seeing God in a point has apophatic dimensions.
84
see her friend. She recognizes that what God does is equated with good and what God allows
(“suffereth”) is equated with evil, but it is all a “werking of mercy and grace” (LT 35 20-21).
Significantly, though, she notes that what God allows (suffereth) brings humans down, yet
without that human suffering, humans would not enjoy the joys of God, now and in the future.
Julian states, “By his suffering we fall, and in his blessed love, with his might and his wisdom,
we are kept. And by mercy and grace we be raised to manifolde more joys” (LT 35.37-39). The
editors note that by “manifold more joys” Julian means “many times more joys. That is, than we
would have had if we had not fallen” (230). Thus, by suffering, (and by inference, by not
seeing), humans experience more joy now and in heaven than they would had they not suffered
(or had they seen).
Although Julian’s “can’t see the friend” passage alone may not point to Dionysian
influence, its placement within the text is suggestive. The passage, in Chapter 35, stands in the
midst of Julian’s discussion of God’s secrets—significant aspects of the revelations shown to
Julian which she cannot see. (If she could see what the secrets were, they would no longer be
secret). I believe this placement was intentional because it allows Julian to speak of “not seeing”
in a more theoretical way. In fact, Julian includes another denial of her sight in this section in
Chapter 33, where she “desyered as I durste that I might have had full sight of hel and of
purgatory” (LT 33. 1-2). She states: “And for ought that I culde desyer, I ne culde se of this right
nought…” (LT 33. 6-7). By the double negative, ne and nought, Julian is emphatic that her
vision was denied. Later, Julian adds that she “saw not so properly specified the Jewes that did
him to deth” (LT 33. 16-17).
Julian’s placement of the discussion of not being allowed to see her friend, and not being
able to see hell, within her discussion of secrets (other things she cannot see) enables her to
85
introduce her theory of “not seeing.” In this theory, as discussed above, Julian equates “not
seeing” with human suffering which, counterintuitively, produces more joy (or which allows the
soul to rise). Thus, Julian does not simply report her visions—she theorizes them. And, the
theoretical impact of “not seeing” can be equated with experiencing many times more joy than
one would have experienced had they seen, which can be equated with the soul rising. In other
words, it is good for us not to see; by not seeing, we wait (and suffer) but are the better for it.
40
In any event, gaps in Julian’s visual narrative persist as evidenced by her discussion of
secrets. For example, Julian acknowledges such a gap in her vision of the master and servant
parable. In that discussion, Julian claims that, despite her best efforts to understand the parable,
the secrets persist: “the privites of the revelation be yet mekille (much) hid” (LT 51.50-60). She
continues to acknowledge further secrets: “And nothwithstanding this, I sawe and understode
that every shewing is full of privites” (LT 51.60-61).
41
Thus, all of Julian’s visions contain these
gaps in meaning where God keeps secrets and does not show any or all of himself. In fact, God
tells Julian:
For those thinges that he wille have prevy, mightily and wisely himselfe hideth them
for love. For I saw in the same shewing that moch privete is his which may never be
knowen into the time that God of his goodness hath made us worthy to se it (LT
46.37-40).
40
Julian introduces this general theme in Chapter 28, when she says that the tribulations that
people suffer in this world are used by God to break people of their “vainglory” and “heynen
them”—raise them up higher in heaven (LT 28.6-15). Elsewhere she indicates that these
tribulations can include spiritual blindness, as I discuss in Chapter 5.
41
Julian reiterates this admission later in Chapter 51, when she says, “For the privites of the
revelation be hid therein, notwithstanding that alle the shewing be full of prevites” (LT 51.230-
31).
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In other words, God hides certain parts of Himself when he desires to keep them secret.
Thus, despite all that Julian sees in her visions, she must admit that God’s “working is prevy”
(LT 10.80) and that “he touches us fulle prevely” (LT 40.2-3) with “many prevy touchinges” (LT
43.37). Further, when the final judgment is given and “we be alle brought up above, than shalle
we clerely see in God the previtees which now be hid to us” (LT 85.9-10). God keeps secrets.
He works in secret. He touches us in secret and he shows Himself secretly, as Julian’s narrative
suggests. Although Julian’s hiding God who keeps secrets may not necessarily rise to the level
of Denys’ hidden God who is beyond all affirmation (and negation), they certainly point to a
transcendent being who is hidden and secret, beyond seeing and understanding.
Julian’s secrets include secrets in her own visions (true visual gaps) and secret deeds—
where Julian sees the existence of the deed but cannot see the content. Introduced in Chapter
27, Julian’s section on secrets continues well past the previously discussed Chapter 35.
42
In
Chapter 27, Julian states, “I saw an high, mervelous previte (secret) hid in God, which privite he
shall openly make knowen to us in heven” (LT 27.33-34).
43
This sentence alone merits
discussion. In it, Julian claims to see a secret, however she cannot see what the secret is—it will
only be made known in heaven. Thus, Julian sees the fact that a secret exists, but does not see
what the actual secret is. Further, as she notes, this secret cannot be seen because it is “hidden” in
God. One can hear echoes of the Dionysian tradition here simply in the words “secret” and
42
McGinn takes on the subject of secrets in his chapter on Julian. “What is the hidden,
eschatological secret introduced in LT 27 and mentioned in a number of subsequent texts? God
and Julian believe that a secret is a secret, so the subsequent references to the secrets do nothing
to reveal what it is, though they help clarify its status” (457).
43
This secret actually pertains to “why he suffered sinne to come,” which I will discuss more
fully in Chapter 6 ( LT 27.34-35).
87
“hidden.” Of course, “secret” (“prevy”) is used repeatedly by the Cloud author as well.
44
Further, “hidden” is used by both Denys and the Cloud author. These words suggest a Dionysian
influence. That the secret will be made known in heaven does not change the analysis. As
indicated above, the Dionysian tradition encompassed this type of apophatic eschatology.
The “secrets” which Julian cannot see include her well-known “secret deeds.” In these
two visions, God reveals that he will do two acts (or deeds), one at the end of time, and one at an
unspecified time (LT 36). Despite this revelation, Julian is not allowed to see what these deeds
will be. She only sees that God will do them.
45
She first puts these secrets into context in
Chapter 30, when she explains that anything that is beyond “our salvation” is “hid and sparred
fro us” (LT 30.10-11). She goes on to explain: “For that is our lordes prevy counselle, and it
longeth to the ryalle lordshippe of God to have his privy counceyles in pees, and it longeth to his
servants for obedience and reverence not wille to witte his conceyles” ” (LT 30.12-13). The
secret deeds fall into this category; since they are God’s secret counsel, Christians are to adopt an
unknowing attitude toward them. In fact, even the “saintes in heven” know nothing of them, and
do not want to know (LT 30.16-17). Julian puts this idea in visual terms when, in Chapter 33, she
says, “But evermore us nedeth leve the beholding what the dede shalle be” (LT 33.25-26) (stop
trying to see what the deed will be). She then switches back to ideas of unknowing where she
claims that “the more we besy us to know his prevites in that or in any other thing, the
furthermore shalle we be from the knowing” (LT 33.28-29).
44
The Cloud author named an entire book The Privy Councelles of God.
45
McGinn parses Julian's distinctions between the secrets. LT 44 notes the difference between
two kinds of secrets, the great secret of the end and the secrets he chooses to reveal in history…”
(457). He goes on to point out LT 36’s “three-fold distinction of secrets” (457).
88
Julian summarizes her position on God’s secrets in Chapter 46, where she states:
For those things that he will have prevy, mightily and wisely himselfe hideth them for
love. For I saw in the same shewing that moch privete is hid which may never be
knowen into the time that God of his goodness hath made us worthy to se it (LT
46.37-40).
In other words, God wisely hides his secrets out of love. Julian sees that her visions contain
many hidden secrets, which shall never be known until God makes humanity worthy. Finally,
Julian resolves to be content with not seeing or knowing the secrets: “And therwith I am well
apaide (satisfied), abiding oure lords wille in this hye marveyle” (LT 46.40-41). Accordingly,
Julian declares that she will yield to “my moder holy church”
46
just as a simple child should (LT
46.41).
Julian introduces the first secret deed (the “gret deed”) in Chapter 32, in which she sees
the fact of the secret (“as to my sight”), but cannot see the outcome. The deed is “unknowen of
alle creatures which are beneth Crist, and shall be tille whan it shalle be done” (LT 32.18-19).
Even Julian’s use of the word “unknowen” here betrays her Dionysian influence—“unknowen”
mirrors Denys and the Cloud author’s use of the word “unknown.” Julian explains: “The
goodnesse and the love of our lorde God wille that we witte that it shall be done. And the might
and the wisdom of him, by the same love, will heyle (conceal) it and hide it fro us, what it shall
be and how it shall be done” (LT 32.23-25). The anchoress adds that the secret deed, “hid in his
46
Julian grapples with the question of authority in her texts—how much authority should her
visions have vis-à-vis the church? Here, Julian purports to put that grappling to rest.
89
blessed brest” will make good on Christ’s promise to Julian, that all shall be well.
47
Certainly,
this passage contains much that is cataphatic—the fact of the revelation of the deed, “that is
shalle be done” and the fulfillment of a promise—all of those things are affirmative statements
about God. Yet, the fact that the deed is “unknowen”, concealed, and hidden suggest an
apophatic influence like that of Denys and the Cloud. Thus, Julian’s very words reflect her
Dionysian influence.
48
Julian’s second deed is also secret—“But what the dede shuld be, it was kepte privy to
me” (LT 36.18). However, this deed is not as secret as the first—it will be revealed in heaven,
not at the end of time. Julian clarifies: “But this dede shalle be knowen soner, and that shalle be
as we come to heven. And to whom oure lorde geveth it, it may be knowen here in party. (LT
36.45-47). Thus, this deed will be known sooner; it can even be partially known in the here and
now to those “whom oure lorde geveth.” Yet, the second deed contrasts with the first in that “the
gret dede aforesaid shalle neither be knowen in heven nor in the erth tille that it be done” (LT
36.45-47). Julian still discusses this deed in terms of vision: “This dede shalle be begon
here…And ever as we come to heven we shalle se it in marvelous joy” (LT 36.9-10). In other
words, this deed, although begun here, cannot be fully seen here; but, “we shall se it” in heaven.
Similar to Denys’ visual language where God cannot be seen now, but can be seeing then (in
heaven), Julian’s visual tropes continue along the same lines. Even though the deed will be seen
in heaven, Julian makes clear that it is nevertheless secret now: “But what the dede shulde be, it
47
Julian sums up this way: “But what the dede shall be and how it shall be done, there is not
creature beneth Crist that wot it, ne shalle wit it, till it is done, as the understanding that I toke of
oure lordes mening in this time” (LT 32.48-50).
48
Although Denys does not specifically use the word “secrets,” he certainly uses synonyms like
“hidden” (DN 1.2, 50), “mysterious” (DN 2.9, p. 65; DN 3.3, p. 70), “inscrutable” (DN 7.3, p.
109), and “unknown.”
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was kept privy to me” (LT 36.17-18). Julian adds, “For what oure good lorde wille do by his
poure creatures, it is now unknowen to me” (LT 36.43-44). Again, Julian uses the language of
Denys to describe what she cannot see—“privy” and “unknowen.”
Julian theorizes further on the topic of secrets and things unknown in Chapter 36 by
comparing the second deed to a miracle, which God assures Julian he has done and will continue
to do. Further, Julian reminds her readers that “It is knowen that before miracles come sorrows
and anguish and trobil” (LT 36.43-44). Because this section on miracles immediately follows
her discussion of the second secret deed, it seems as if she is juxtaposing this time of non-seeing
with the time before miracles—and its sorrow and trouble. Although Julian does not explicitly
equate her inability to see the secrets with sorrows, her line of thinking follows—if the second
secret deed is a miracle, and the time before miracles is a time of sorrow, it seems that the time
of not seeing the second deed is a time of sorrow. And, as Julian has shown elsewhere, and as
demonstrated in Chapter 4, times of sorrow help the soul to rise. Thus, this time of not-seeing
and not-knowing the content of the secret deeds can further help our soul to rise.
Julian and the Ineffable God—Seeing but not Saying
Julian demonstrates influence by the Dionysian tradition in this aspect of her writing. As
previously discussed, Dionysian thought encompasses the idea that experiences of God and God
Himself are beyond words. Language is inadequate to express the things of God. I believe that
this point of view gained widespread acceptance in the England of the 14
th
Century as this
concept is demonstrated in the works of Margery Kempe,
49
Richard Rolle and others.
50
In fact,
49
For all of Margery’s accounts of her visions, there is much that Margery cannot recount: “She
is so full of holy thoughts and meditations and holy contemplations on the Passion of our Lord
Jesus Christ and hoy dalliances that our Lord Jesus Christ dallied to her soul that she could never
Footnote continued on next page
91
this line of thought bled into secular discourse as well, as evidenced by the works of Geoffrey
Chaucer.
51
Linked to this notion is the idea of the inexpressibility topos. This topos, as used by
Chaucer in his dream visions does not relate specifically to language about God, but it seems
quite related to the Dionysian tradition.
52
Julian mirrors this line of thought in many ways, yet in
other ways, she adds her own unique approach—that of a visual apophaticism which points to
the fact that Julian often sees that which is inexpressible about God.
Footnote continued from previous page
express them afterward, so high and holy they were” (53). Similarly, “it would be in a manner
impossible to write all the holy thoughts, holy speeches and the high revelations which our Lord
showed unto her” (106), see also (136). Margery gives a catalog of why she cannot express all
her holy thoughts: some thoughts were so high that she was “abashed to tell them,” some were so
plentiful that “she could never relate but a few,” some were so “high above her bodily wits that
she might never express them with her bodily tongue. . . she understood them better than she
could utter them” and some she just forgot (147), see also (4). Moreover, God’s love for her is
ineffable (150).
50
Although Rolle was not as influenced by Dionysius as others in this study, he nevertheless
absorbed those concepts regarding the limitations of human ability and language. For example,
of God’s mercy and love, he says, “no heart can conceive of your great mercy, nor [your]
limitless love. . .” (103). Then, when confronted with the violence of Christ’s passion, words fail
Rolle: “I am talking Lord of your suffering and talking out of deep reverence, yet I cannot devise
any harmonious syllables for it, but gabble like a parrot with no idea what I am talking about”
(119).
51
For example, in the Book of the Duchess, Chaucer’s Man in Black struggles with language
when he tries to describe his wife’s beautiful face, which he can see but cannot articulate. He
says:
That I ne can descryven it! / Me lakketh bothe Englissh and wit
For to undo it at the fulle / And eek my spirits be so dulle
So greet a thinge for to devyse / I have no witte that can suffyse
(897-903).
He struggles similarly when he recounts his first words to her (1200-1232), and her
words back to him--he says: “I can nat now wel countrefete” (1241). When recalling the years
he and his wife lived together, he says, “So wel, I can nat telle how” (1297). This uncertainty
with language appears to be contagious—Chaucer himself, when he decides to write down his
dream, notes that he will try to do so “as I can best” (as I am able) (1332-33).
52
See, Page Richards’ work: Distancing English: A chapter in the History of the Inexpressible,
Columbus: Ohio University Press, 2009. Richards states, “The topos of the inexpressible,
therefore, is a rhetoric that is deeply concerned with uncertainty and loss in the face of high
expectations. The Middle Ages were a heyday of the inexpressible, with Christianity offering
high expectations of salvation in the face of earthly uncertainties: illness, plagues, and war” (1).
92
For Julian, language is often inadequate to describe God, even though this inadequacy
appears in a visual context. Over and over, throughout her texts, Julian expresses this
inadequacy. In fact, for Julian, language is inadequate even when she introduces her three levels
of seeing. Although Julian follows Augustine’s three levels of seeing, she deviates from that
system in significant ways. Most importantly, Julian expounds that she does not have words to
describe her third level of vision: “gostely sighte” (LT 9.24-25). Julian explains:
But the gostely sight I can not ne may not shew it as openly ne as fully as I would.
But I trust in our lord God almighty that he shall, of his goodness and for your love,
make you take it more ghostely and more sweetly then I can or may tell it (LT 9.25-
28).
Julian’s double negatives in the first line (“can not ne may not”), serve to emphasize how
impossible it is for her to describe her ghostly visions. Julian repeats this admission of a lack of
language in Chapter 73. She says,
And for the gostely sighte, I have saide somedele (somewhat), but I may never fulle
telle it. And therefore of this gostely sight I am stered to sey more, as God wille geve
me grace (LT 73.4-6).
Julian attempts to overcome this lack of language, but when speaking of the things of God, she
cannot, without God’s grace. Human language is always found lacking, even when Julian saw
what she attempts to describe.
Another example of the inadequacy of language is found in Chapter 26, when God
repeatedly tells Julian “I it am.” Julian’s response is:
93
the number of words passeth my wittes and my understanding and alle my mightes,
for they were in the highest, as to my sight. For therin is comprehended I can not
telle what. But the joy that I sawe in the shewing of them passeth alle that hart can
think or soule may desire” (LT 26.9-13).
53
Julian’s wordlessness owes a debt to Denys and/or the Cloud. Julian cannot put into words what
she understood: “I can not telle.” Further, Christ’s words surpass her understanding. Finally, the
joy that she sees stemming from those words surpasses her understanding as well. Yet,
ironically, this wordlessness occurs in a context of vision. Julian’s addition of “as to my sight”
regarding Christ’s words may be a simple exclamation of understanding or point of view, as in
our current expression; “that’s the way I see it.” However, Julian emphasizes that the surpassing
joy was something she “sawe” in her vision (LT 26.9-13). Her declaration clearly goes against
the grain for both the Cloud author and Denys—God or the things of God could not be seen in
this manner.
54
Denys Turner, in his book entitled Julian of Norwich, Theologian, incorrectly asserts that
“Julian makes no claims to any kind of union with God through Jamesian ‘ineffable experiences”
(28). He explains, “in neither case are her experiences ‘ineffable’” (28). Turner cites Kevin
Magill in his book Julian of Norwich, Mystic or Visionary on this point. Magill argues that
Julian is not a mystic, but is instead a visionary, in part, because her experiences are not
ineffable. Magill states: “it is important to Julian that God is known and wants to be known” (5).
53
There are other moments in Julian’s text where her experience of God is beyond her reason:
“and I behelde with grete diligence for to wet how often he would die if he might. And sothly,
the nomber passed my understanding and my wittes so ferre that my reson might not, nor cold
not, comprehende it ne take it” (LT 22.24-26).
54
But see Denys’ teacher’s visions.
94
Instead, Magill focuses on Julian’s visual project and its potential for moral education within the
visual senses—a moral eduation of the eye, so to speak (15-17). Magill claims that “The vision
Julian receives guarantees nothing unless it is put to work for the love of God” (15). I agree with
Magill’s primary argument—that the heart of Julian’s project is visual. However, Julian’s desire
for God to be known, and her visual project for moral education, do not negate the possibility of
ineffable experiences, as passages in this section clearly demonstrate. In fact, Julian’s ineffable
experiences allow her to point to a deeper and more transcendent God—a God who not only
desires to be known and loved, but a God who is above our comprehension. Scholars who miss
this point misread Julian.
Julian continues in this ineffable vein. When describing Christ’s pains, she states:
“Swilk paines I sawe that alle es to litelle that I can telle or saye, for it maye nought be tolde”
(ST 10.21-23)
55
and “No tounge maye telle, ne herte fully thinke, the paines that oure savioure
suffered for us” (ST 11.10-12). These pains which cannot be put into words were pains that
Julian “sawe” (ST 11.10-12). However, Julian’s finding of ineffability applies to comfort and
love as well as pain. For example, in Chapter 10, Julian’s vision chapter, she remarks that those
taken under the sea “shoulde have mor solace and comforte then all this worlde may or can tell”
(LT 10.20-21). Similarly, Julian says that even the least of the disciples and His true lovers loved
Him “that it passeth all that I can say” (LT 18.10). Julian even describes her own desire for
answers from God as “more than I can or may telle” (LT 45.19-20). Although Julian’s revelation
came to her by virtue of her “awne feling,” the other insights occurred in the context of her
visions—e.g., “I sawe…” (LT 17.39-40; ST 10.21-23).
55
See also, LT 17.39-40.
95
Other moments which exceed her ability to articulate include Julian’s visions regarding
sins, Christ’s clothing and Christ’s words. For example, of our sins of contrariness, Julian says
Jesus takes them into heaven where “they ar made more swete and delectable than hart may
thinke or tonge can tell” (LT 49.44-45). Of Christ’s clothing in the Master and Servant Parable,
which Julian saw, she says, “Cristes clothing is now of fair, seemly medolour which is so
marvelous that I can it not discive, for it is all of very wurshippe” (LT 51.263-64). And, Christ’s
words, which Julian heard, were said “with more love and sekernesse of of gostly keeping than I
can or may telle” (LT 37.9-10).
56
Like those of Denys’ and the Cloud author’s, Julian’s text includes episodes where her
experience of God, is not only beyond words, but is beyond reason. However, it is clear that each
of these things that surpass understanding is something she perceived. For example, when Christ
speaks to Julian about dying for her, and offered to die for her again, an infinite number of times,
Julian responds, “and I behelde with grete diligence for to wet how often he would die if he
might. And sothly, the nomber passed my understanding and my wittes so ferre that my reson
might not, nor cold not, comprehende it ne take it” (LT 22.24-26). Similarly, Christ’s love
surpasses Julian’s understanding. She says, “for oure soul is so preciously loved of him that is
highest, that it overpasseth the knowing of alle creatures: that is to sey, ther is no creature that is
made that may wit how mekille and how swetely and how tenderly oure maker loveth us” (LT
16.42-45). And, his “continual werking in alle manner thinges is done so godly, so wisely, and
so mightily that it overpasseth alle oure imagining and alle that we can wene or thinke” (LT
43.31-34). Further, God will thank us for our prayers in a way that is beyond our reason: “the
56
See, “the lest of them loved him so farre aboven themselfe that it passeth alle that I can sey”
(LT 18.10); “And sothly, the number passed my understanding and my wittes so ferred that my
reson might not, nor cold not comprehende it ne take it” (LT 22.25-26); see also, LT 42; LT 43;
LT 45.
96
thanke and the wurshippe that we shalle have therefore, it passeth the understanding of all
creatures in this life, as to my sight” (LT 42.43-44). Again, this thanking which passes
understanding, was seen, “as to my sight” (LT 42.43-44).
All this visual wordlessness leads Julian to realize the value of wordless prayer, which
she calls “beholding.” If God is beyond words and reason, perhaps prayer should be as well.
Julian alludes to her position on contemplative (wordless) prayer in Chapter 41, where she
instructs her readers to “pray interly.” She says:
For he seyth thus: “Pray interly; though the thinke it savor the not, yet it is profitable
enough, though thou thou fele nought. Pray interly: though thou fele nought, though
thou se nought, yea, though thou think thou might not. For in dryehede and
barrenhede, in sicknesse and in febilhede, than is by where full pleasant to me, though
thou think it savor the not but litille (LT 41.33-38).
Although Watson and Jenkins translate “interly” as “entirely” or “wholeheartedly”, Colledge and
Walsh translate it as “interiorly” or “inwardly.”
57
If it is interiorly or inwardly, then this passage
gives Julian’s readers a first glimpse of her instructions on contemplative prayer which occur two
chapters later. Significantly, Julian promises her readers that if they pray this way, they will
receive “mede” (rewards) and “endlesse thanke.” In other words, their spirits will rise.
Julian’s instructions on prayer take on a more contemplative note, demonstrating her
Dionysian/Cloud influence.
58
Julian describes this kind of prayer this way:
57
See Watson and Jenkins, p.250; Colledge and Walsh 16. The Middle English Dictionary does
not include this word.
58
Julian’s move toward contemplative prayer is unique among writers of the time. Very different
from contemplative wordless prayer, Sarah McNamer, in Affective Meditation and the Invention
of Medieval Compassion explains that, one of the most popular literary genres of the high and
Footnote continued on next page
97
But whan oure curtese lorde of his special grace sheweth himselfe to oure soule, we
have that we desyer. And then we se not for the time what we shulde pray, but alle
oure entent with alle oure mightes is set hole into the beholding of him. And this is an
high, unperceivable prayer, as to my sight (LT 53.15-18).
Significantly, this prayer is initiated by God, yet Julian instructs her readers to respond by
“beholding” him, a visual act. Yet, within this visual act, there are no words because “we se not
for the time what we shulde pray.” Julian acknowledges that this prayer is “unperceivable”
59
(like Denys’ God) and adds “as to my sight,” which emphasizes the visual nature of her
understanding. Watson and Jenkins note The Cloud’s influence here: “A wordless prayer such as
that described in detail in The Cloud”(256). Julian continues her emphasis on vision and
wordlessness here, as she notes:
for all the cause wherefore we pray is oned into the sight and the beholding of him to
whom we pray, marvelously enjoying with reverent drede and so great sweetness and
delight in him that we can pray right nought but as he stereth us for the time (LT
53.18-21).
Footnote continued from previous page
later Middle Ages was affective meditation on the Passion. She quotes Emile Male as saying:
“How did it happen that in the fourteenth century, Christians wished to see their God suffer and
die?”(58). McNamer traces the origins of affective meditation and explains its widespread
growth (59-69).
59
Watson and Jenkins translate “a high, unperceivable prayer” as “a sublime, imperceptible
prayer (256).
98
Clearly, the prayer is wordless because “we can pray right nought.” Unlike Denys
and the Cloud author’s work, Julian’s apophaticism is done within the context of seeing and
“beholding” him.
60
Julian’s use of the Dionysian tradition, and particularly the Cloud author’s translation of
that tradition, within her own visual context, points to her flexibility within genres. The
anchoress evinces deep resonances with the vision genre taking place on the Continent, in that
she records, comments on, and interprets her visions.
61
However, she also adopts aspects of the
medieval apophatic tradition, with its roots in Dionysian thought, some of which, ironically, was
intended as a critique on the vision genre.
62
Yet, Julian uses Denys’ thought within her visual
context, an unlikely pairing that offers her an enriched visual theology. Within this genre
crossing, Julian manages to emphasize her ultimate point—all this is designed to be “profitable”
to us. Julian elucidates that all shall see God in heaven, but some may see him here on earth as
well, through contemplative prayer:
The creature that is made shall see and endlessly beholde God which is the maker.
For thus may no man se God and live after, that is to sey, in this dedly life. But when
he of his special grace will shewe himselfe here, he strengthen the creature aboven
the selfe, and he mesureth the shewing after his awne wille, as it is profitable for the
tym (LT 53.43-48).
60
Julian takes on a Cloud-like tenor when describing the rest that may come from this type of
prayer. She says, “and this is the cause why that no soule is rested till it is noughted of all thinges
that is made. When he is willfully noughted for love to have him that is all, then is he able to
receive ghostly reste” (LT 5.26-27).
61
McGinn discusses “visionary mysticism” in his article “Visions and Visualizations in the Here
and Hereafter,” p. 235-239
62
Id at 240-45.
99
Certainly, for Julian, the act of contemplative prayer is a visual exercise. This passage
demonstrates Julian’s own reconciliation between the scripture that says no man shall see God
and live, and her own experience of the visions. Julian sees contemplative prayer as being the
best mechanism for bridging the gap between not seeing and seeing. Those people who are able
to enjoy contemplative wordless prayer, may be able see God, if God chooses to allow it.
Moreover, for those who have this experience, “it is profitable for the tym” (LT 53.47-48). In
other words, as illustrated in Chapter 3, their heavenly selves rise.
100
Section Two:
Julian and the Beguines
In this second section, I will discuss Julian and the limits on her vision within the context
of the Beguines, a lay religious movement which arose in the Low Countries and was thriving in
the Late Middle Ages.
1
Specifically, I will focus my discussion on Marguerite Porete and
Mechthild of Magdeburg, members of this lay movement for at least part of their lives, and
authors of texts associated with the movement. For Julian, two significant limitations on her
ability to see God arise due to her lack of self-knowledge and her in connection with her illness
and pain. Marguerite Porete, in her book, The Mirror of Simple Souls, explores the theme of
self-knowledge, and how, paradoxically, it can be an impediment to seeing God. Mechthild of
Magdeburg, in her book, The Flowing Light of the Godhead, expresses her anguish over God’s
absence, which is connected to her experience of pain, suffering and illness.
It is unlikely, although not impossible, that Julian actually read their work. As Grace
Jantzen points out, there was a thriving cloth trade between East Anglia and the Continent,
particularly in the lowland countries, and with it, “a flourishing trade of ideas, not least of them
religious.” Jantzen adds that “Norwich had a house of Beguines—the only English city to do
so.”
2
Of course, the problem inherent in suggesting any sort of Beguine influence on Julian is
that, without historical evidence, it is only speculation as to what relationship Julian may have
had any contact with the Beguines. Jantzen notes one commonality, however: “certainly she
shared their compassion for human wretchedness (but so, of course, did many others).” Thus,
1
Jantzen, Julian of Norwich, 7. See, generally, Simons, Walter. Cities of Ladies, Beguine
Communities in the Medieval Low Countries, 1200-1565.
2
Jantzen, 7.
101
Jantzen concludes, “it is not impossible that she might have been more closely affiliated to
them.”
3
Even if Julian did not read their work, their ideas, particularly on self-knowledge and the
suffering caused by God’s absence, could have easily passed through Norwich and seeped into
the religious tradition which Julian seems to have absorbed.
It is now generally accepted that the Beguines were a lay religious movement that arose
in what is now Belgium, the Netherlands, Northern France and Germany in the 12th century and
lasted in some form through the 16th century.
4
Walter Simons sees the Beguine movement as
having been shaped and promoted by urban conditions and characterized by the gender of its
participants. The towns in this region were prosperous and independent, and had great traffic
between them. And, they were disproportionately populated by women, since women left the
country to find work in the urban areas.
5
Simons asserts that women were active participants in
the local economies, “running their businesses, managing stalls and vending their wares.”
6
Further, there was a high level of literacy in this region, which included women.
7
Another factor
in shaping the advent of Beguine communities was the development of new religious initiatives
which spread among the laity. These initiatives centered upon a desire for apostolic poverty.
8
Thus, these factors combined to lay the foundations for communities that were literate, and self-
supporting. The participants were prepared to devote themselves to a life of poverty, charity and
prayer.
9
3
Jantzen 7.
4
Simons xi-xv.
5
Simons 9.
6
Simons 10.
7
Simons 6.
8
Simons 14.
9
Jantzen 7.
102
Bynum asserts that Beguines were “probably the first ‘women’s movement’ in western
history.”
10
Rather than a large, centralized movement, the Beguine movement arose as dedicated
women (“holy maidens”) gathered together to form independent communities, first in Liege, then
in other urban areas in the Low Countries. They came mostly from the growing middle class in
the emerging cities of the Later Middle Ages.
11
Some lived as recluses, others worked in the first
hospitals and leprosaria. For a few women, a life of penance outside nunneries was transitory, a
station on the way to the more traditional monastic vocation; others left it to get married or for
other reasons; still others, increasingly more numerous, practiced the lifestyle for a longer time,
often until their death.”
12
The first Beguines took no irrevocable vows and had no complex
organization or rules. It is difficult to estimate the number of beguines in Europe; however,
statistics suggest that women devoted to this lifestyle comprised up to 15% of the adult female
population in some European cities.
13
By 1230, beguine groups began to acquire property and
adopt more formal sets of regulations to govern their lives together as communities. Some of
these communities grew into larger and more formal structures known as beguinages.
14
Many beguines participated in both the contemplative and active lifestyle. Engaged
during the day by working in the town (many were engaged in the cloth trade),
15
by night they
would retreat to their homes or communities to live life apart from societal expectations,
especially the lure of material possessions and the obligations of marriage.
16
Adopting standards
10
Bynum, Jesus as Mother, 14.
11
Simons 35.
12
Id.
13
Bynum 17.
14
Simons 36.
15
Simons 86.
16
Simons 61-62.
103
of simplicity and chastity, beguines dedicated themselves to lives of poverty and virginity.
17
Beguines also dedicated their lives to charitable work. Founders of some of the first hospitals,
beguines cared for those rejected by the social order, particularly lepers.
18
In addition, from the
very beginning of the movement, beguines provided instruction and guidance for children, which
included teaching young girls to read and write.
19
Both Marguerite Porete and Mechthild of Magdeburg had beguine roots. It is believed
that Marguerite began her adult life as a beguine, but ultimately left the community to become an
itinerant preacher, traveling in the region to preach and distribute copies of her book. “In one
manuscript, she includes “beguines” among those who attack her (chap. 122), but it is likely that
she is referring to the enclosed beguines, who felt uncomfortable with the wandering and
mendicant beguine lifestyle that she appears to have practiced.”
20
Mechthild, on the other hand,
was enclosed in the beguine community in Magdeburg, for many years of her life. She only left
that community when, aged and in ill health, she joined the community of Cistercian nuns at
Helfta, known for its female spiritual writing.
21
It is likely that in Magdeburg, Mechthild came
under the influence of Dominicans. Henry of Halle, Mechthild’s Dominican confessor, was
instrumental in encouraging Mechthild to write the first parts of her mystical book.
22
The texts of both beguines serve as a context for Julian’s work by recording important
spiritual themes which Julian later deals with in her own writing. Marguerite’s book offers a
unique glimpse into the medieval concern with self-knowledge, a concern reflected in Julian’s
17
Simons 71-76.
18
Simons 77-78.
19
Simons 80-81.
20
McGinn, Flowering 244.
21
McGinn 222-23.
22
Id.
104
longer text as well. On the other hand, Mechthild’s book provides background and insight into
the medieval consideration for pain and illness, and how the perception of the absence of God
often accompanies those physical constraints.
105
Chapter 3
The Unknowable Self and the Unknowable God
in the Texts of Marguerite Porete and Julian of Norwich
Julian suggests that self-knowledge is a crucial step in our spiritual progress and in our
quest to see God. Yet, for Julian, self-knowledge presents a paradox as well. She says that we
may not know the self until we know God—but, we may not know God until we know ourselves.
This paradox pushes Julian to explore the following questions: how we can know ourselves?
what is it that we are? And what role does Christ play in our make-up? What Julian discovers is
that the human self is made up of two discrete parts: the lower self and the higher self. Julian
calls the lower self “the sensualite.” Unlike Paul’s view of the flesh as a contaminant to our
spirit, Julian’s sensualite is a challenging but worthwhile part of our self because it enables us to
have the earthly experiences which are so crucial to our spiritual progress. Julian’s higher self,
the “substance,” is our heavenly self which preexists our earthly incarnation and is closely linked
to God. This mixture (“medlur”) of the lower and higher selves into one “selfe” or “soule” is
confusing to humans because the parts are so disparate. Thus, it is difficult for humans to
understand or know themselves. However, Julian also discovers that God intended us to be this
way because dealing with our confusion gives us an opportunity for spiritual growth.
This notion of lack of self-understanding or unknowing is echoed by Marguerite Porete in
The Mirror of Simple Souls. In her work, Porete asserts that as one progresses in a spiritual
ascent toward God, one gains self-understanding, but then, paradoxically, must lose it in order to
be fully united with God. Although it is not clear that Julian was ever exposed to Porete’s work,
The Mirror nevertheless provides a useful context in which to discuss Julian’s theories on this
point.
106
Self-knowledge in the Middle Ages
The late Middle Ages saw a burgeoning interest in the development of self-knowledge.
Devotional literature of the late Middle Ages, arguably the most popular kind of literature in late
medieval England, centered on the process of acquiring self-knowledge as a means of self-
improvement and spiritual advancement. In a recent study, Jennifer Bryan states that “the
vernacular works of spiritual guidance evince an abiding concern with the processes of self-
envisioning, self-knowledge, and affective and rational self-transformation. In teaching literate
men and women the basic disciplines of contemplation, they encourage them to watch, search,
and improve their ‘inner’ selves.”
1
Bryan notes that “these works arose at a crucial juncture
between rising vernacular literacy and the trend toward private, affective forms of piety”—a time
period in which we locate Julian, a trailblazing woman in vernacular English literature who
evinces strong connections to the devotional piety movement. In fact, Bryan includes a chapter
on Julian’s texts even though Julian is more typically grouped with the mystics, not the
devotional writers—Bryan acknowledges that Julian’s work is “strikingly like” yet “profoundly
unlike” the other texts she examines.
2
Although Bryan’s observations about Julian do discuss
the self, she focuses on the visions, not Julian’s self-understanding or her anthropology.
1
Bryan, Jennifer. Middle Ages Series : Looking Inward : Devotional Reading and the Private
Self in Late Medieval England. Philadelphia, PA, USA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2007.
ProQuest ebrary. Web. 17 November 2014, 2.
2
Bryan, 4. “Julian’s work is usually placed in the genre of mystical and visionary, rather than
devotional, literature. She presents her vision of the Passion as inspired, not laboriously
achieved; it is from experience, not from books. English devotional texts such as The Prickynge
of Love and The Contemplations of the Dread and Love of God are said to be part of Julian’s
spiritual climate, her background, but they are not of a kind with her. Her claim of direct access
to divine revelation places her instead in the category of female mystics such as Catherine of
Siena, Mechtild of Hackeborn, and Bridget of Sweden— or, depending on organizational
principles, with English mystics such as Richard Rolle and the Cloud –author (147).
107
Although Bryan does not include Walter Hilton in her study, Hilton also emphasizes self-
knowledge as an important spiritual goal. In chapter 30 of Book II of the Scale of Perfection,
Hilton claims that “Hit nedeth to a soule that wolde have knowynge of goostli thynges, for to
have first knowynge of itself” (II.30.1936-37). Hilton, much like Julian, claims that spiritual
knowledge, or seeing God, starts with seeing your own soul. Hilton asserts:
It is ful hard for a soule that is rude and mykil in the flesch for to have sight and
knowynge of itself thus, for whanne it wolde thenke on itself or of angil, or of God, it
falleth as tite into ymaginacion of a bodili schap, and it weneth by that for to have the
sight of itself, and so of God and othere goostli thinges. And that mai not ben; for alle
goostli thinges are seen and knowen bi understondyng of the soule and not bi
ymaginacion (II.30.1958-63).
For Hilton, it is necessary to have an understanding of, and “see” the soul first, because it is from
the soul that one “sees” other “goostli thinges.”
It is no surprise that Hilton, an Augustinian Canon, evinces this emphasis on seeing the
self, since it is a trend which goes back to Augustine himself. In the Soliloquies, a dialog that is
one of Augustine’s earliest writings, Augustine claims: “I want to know God and the soul.”
Reason responds, “Nothing more?” And, Augustine answers, “Nothing whatsoever.”
3
Later,
Augustine remarks, “God, who is always the same, may I know myself, may I know you.”
4
Despite Augustine’s emphasis on knowing himself, the “self” remained a mystery to him. In the
Confessions, Augustine noted “Oh Lord, you alone know what I am. Even though Paul said ‘No
3
Sol. I, 2, 7.
4
Sol. II, 1, 1.
108
man knows what he is in himself except his own spirit’ (1 Cor. 2:1), there is much about me that
even my spirit does not know.”
5
Given Augustine’s interest in self-knowledge, and, given
Augustine’s importance to the Late Middle Ages, it is no surprise that an interest in self-
knowledge would become so pronounced in this time period.
In fact, this time period includes the “discovery of the individual” as historians have
labeled the period of the twelfth century. Amy Hollywood notes that Porete’s text reflects the
general tendencies of her age, including the “trend toward self-reflection begun with the mystical
theologies of the twelfth century” (94). Caroline Walker Bynum more thoroughly investigates
the scholarship of this time period, particularly with reference to religious life and writing, in her
landmark article, “Did the Twelfth Century Discover the Individual?”
6
First, Bynum clarifies
that the discovery really relates to the “self,” not the individual. Among examples that Bynum
uses to bolster her argument regarding the “self” is Bernard of Clairvaux, who stresses
“discovery of self … as the first step in a long process of returning to love of and likeness to
God.” Moreover, Bynum recounts twelfth century monk counselors’ “keener awareness” of
novices’ inner lives as opposed to monks of earlier centuries, and their sensitivity to “the
boundary that separates that varied and fascinating inner being from other equally fascinating
and complex selves” (86). Thus, Bynum contends that what twelfth century writers “thought
they were discovering when they turned within” was the “soul,” the “self” or the “inner man”
(87). Bynum summarizes that “the twelfth century ‘discovered the self’ in the sense that
knowing the inner core of human nature within one’s own self is an explicit theme and
5
Confessions 10.5.7.
6
Bynum, Caroline Walker, “Did the Twelfth Century Discover the Individual?” collected in
Jesus as Mother, Studies in the Spirituality of the High Middle Ages.
109
preoccupation in literature of the period” (87-88). This pre-occupation with self is reflected in
Julian and Marguerite’s writing as well and will be explored in this chapter.
Bynum goes on to argue that historians’ focus on the self in the twelfth century is
incomplete.
7
Instead of a solipsistic focus on the self, the twelfth century understanding of self is
complete only in light of an understanding of the “orders,” “lives,” “callings,” “models” and
“groups” inherent in the time period. “A sense of models or types, a sense of proliferating
groups and structures and of the necessity to choose among them, and a sense of relationship are
characteristics of the twelfth century at least as salient as a new sense of self” (88). Accordingly,
Bynum is careful to distinguish this sense of self from our modern sense of self: “The twelfth-
century discovery of self or assertion of the individual is therefore not our twentieth century
awareness of personality or our stress on uniqueness” (90). Instead, in the twelfth century, the
central question of selfhood becomes: where do I fit in among the groups, orders, or clearly
delineated religious callings that are available to me? In this regard, “the twelfth century person
affiliated with a group and converted to a Christian life, by adopting a model that simultaneously
shaped both ‘outer man’ (behavior) and ‘inner man’” (soul) (90). Moreover, there is a twelfth-
century recognition of a multiplicity of avenues or pathways for the development of the self.
Bynum cites to Elisabeth of Schonau’s “vision of a hill, up which lead different paths for the
married, the celibate, prelates, widows, hermits, and children” (91) to demonstrate a new sense
of the choices of life models available for defining oneself. Plus, the newly developed
competition among religious orders for members changed the questions of self-definition from
shall I become a monk to ‘“which [order] life shall I choose?’ ‘Have I chosen well?’” (93). Thus,
7
Walker Bynum states that the “discovery of the self” tells only half the story (88).
110
for those in the twelfth century, “a new sense of self, of inner change and inner choice, is
precipitated by the necessity to choose among roles, among groups” (107).
8
In many respects, this focus on the discovery of self informs the writings of Marguerite
Porete and Julian of Norwich. As I will demonstrate below, both Porete and Julian examine the
concept of a self. Further, Porete and Julian intermingle the concept of the self with the idea of
the soul, as Bynum notes that writers did in the twelfth century. In fact, both women authors
give much attention to the idea of knowing or understanding the self. Beyond that, I will argue
that due to the apophatic nature of their texts, both writers also explore the impossibility of
knowing the self (an unknowing of self). Moreover, Porete and Julian’s focus on the lack of
self-understanding does not detract from Bynum’s argument regarding the focus on the self.
Instead, Julian and Porete’s focus on the unknowing of self reifies Bynum’s argument in the
sense that such a discussion confirms that there is a self to be known.
In contrast, Porete and Julian seem to refute Bynum’s argument concerning the
importance of groups. Neither Marguerite nor Julian seems to define the “self” in terms of
groups or choices among groups. There is never a question of which group should the “self”
choose? Or can the “self” be defined by choosing a group? In fact, at one point in her text,
Porete even maligns the Beguines, a group to which she supposedly belonged. Further, as an
anchorite, Julian lives a solitary existence apart from a group. Although recent scholarship
suggests that anchorites did have contact with each other, and even formed their own loosely
formalized groups, there is no evidence of this in Julian’s texts. Further, as Nicholas Watson has
8
Walker Bynum clarifies: “If the century did not ‘discover the individual’ in the modern
meaning of expression of unique personality and isolation of the person from firm group
membership, it did in some sense discover—or rediscover—the self, the inner mystery, the inner
man, the inner landscape. But it also discovered the group…” (106).
111
argued, Julian’s “even-Christians,” or “Christ’s lovers” of her text appear to be some form of
group, but there is no clear definition set forth in the text regarding this group, nor are there any
distinguishing qualities of the group. Although it may be overreaching to suggest that as one
moves from the twelfth century to the thirteenth and fourteenth century the focus on “self”
endures, while the focus on “groups” diminishes, at least with respect to these two writers, this
seems to be true. In both texts, the focus on self is a significant part of the text, whereas there is
little or no discussion of groups.
Instead, the central question(s) in both Julian’s texts and The Mirror becomes, how does
one understand oneself and how does one understand God? More specifically, how does one
understand oneself in the face of a God who is either partly or completely unknowable? In this
apophatic context, the question morphs further into: is it possible to understand oneself at all?
Although this question seems to move much closer to the modern dilemma of alienation and loss
of self-understanding, it also stands apart from that question in a significant way. For unlike our
modern, secular quest for self-understanding, which has little or nothing to do with God, the
question of “who is the self” for these two women writers is inseparable from the question of
their age, and of their texts: “who is God?”
Marguerite Porete and Julian
Although there is no evidence that Julian actually read Marguerite Porete, it is entirely
possible that she was at least familiar with her personal story, if not her text on spiritual ascent.
Challenging and so provocative that its author was ultimately burned at the stake, Porete’s
Mirror of Simple Souls was written around 1290. Sometime between 1296 and 1306, the book
was condemned to be burned in front of its author. Because she continued to disseminate the
112
text, Porete was arrested in 1308, and was subsequently executed in 1310.
9
Since Julian was
born in 1343, it is very likely that the religious community was still talking about such a
significant event, and Julian may have heard of it. Further, Porete’s book was widely read and
translated. Michael Sells reports that “No other early vernacular mystical writing seems to have
crossed linguistic boundaries and proliferated in translation to such an extent” (118). In fact,
Porete’s work was translated from its Old French into Latin, Italian and Middle English (118).
Significantly, the text was translated into Middle English on or about 1350,
10
at least twenty
years before Julian wrote her first text, which suggests that Julian could have been familiar with
it.
Whether or not Julian was familiar with Porete’s work, it is clear that both works address
the difficulty, or impossibility, of understanding/knowing the self. This difficulty emerges in
both books as an unknowing—the self cannot, or nearly cannot, know itself in this life.
Although the books posit very different theories of the self, they are similar in that they both
suggest approaches to union with God. According to both authors, humanity’s earthly or sensual
self must be contained, or at least balanced, in order to achieve union with God. Porete’s book
takes an apophatic approach to the extent that it advocates a program in which the self is negated
entirely. Even though Julian’s work is not apophatic in this regard, analyzing Porete’s apophatic
work in conjunction with Julian’s texts serves to highlight and explain the “unknowing” of the
9
Babinsky, Ellen. “Introduction” The Mirror of Simple Souls 2. Although scholars don’t know
when Marguerite was born, it is believed that she was from an upper class family in Hainaut,
northern France. She was affiliated with the Beguines, but she was not enclosed because she
traveled widely, disseminating teachings from her book (2-3).
10
Barratt, “Continental Women Mystics and Women Readers” in The Cambridge Companion to
Medieval Women’s Writing. 47. Porete’s work was translated into Middle English on or about
1350, at least twenty years before Julian wrote her first text, which suggests that Julian could
have been familiar with it.
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self that is fundamental to Julian’s understanding, and the limits that imposes of the ability to see
God.
Porete’s Apophaticism
Porete’s apophatic viewpoint has been depicted by numerous scholars. As Bernard
McGinn writes, Porete’s mystical thought is based on two apophatic “pillars”: “(1) God is totally
incomprehensible and therefore ‘nothing’ from the perspective of human categories; (2) the Soul
must become nothing by willing nothing in order to attain the God who is nothing and therefore
all.”
11
Michael Sells adds that The Mirror “brings together the apophatic paradoxes of mystical
union, the language of courtly love—as it had been transformed by the beguine mystics of the
thirteenth century into a mystical language of rapture—and a daring reappropriation of medieval
religious themes. The result is an apophasis of desire.”
12
For Porete, the desire revolves around
God, and nothing. Simply put, Porete’s thoroughgoing discussion of nothing itself is
apophatic—God is nothing, nothing can be said about Him and to unite with him, the soul must
become nothing. Thus, silence and nothingness permeate her text. As Porete says, “It is
necessary to be silent about this being says this Soul, for one cannot say anything about it” (156).
Moreover, “God is so great that she can comprehend nothing of Him” (159). As for the souls
who become annihilated, Porete explains that they become immersed in nothingness: “On
account of such nothingness she has fallen into certainty of knowing nothing and into certainty
of willing nothing” (156).
11
McGinn, The Flowering of Mysticism, 257.
12
Sells, Michael. Mystical Language of Unsaying, 118.
114
Porete lays out her apophatic agenda of ascent toward union with God in seven stages.
The stages are explained in a Boethian-like philosophical dialogue
13
among the allegorical
figures of Reason, Love, the Soul, and God as “FarNear,” regarding the proper relationship
between human and divine and the spiritual ascent of the soul.
14
Porete makes clear that to
ascend the seven stages required to unite with God, one’s soul must be annihilated and become
as nothing, so that nothing stands between one and God. The Mirror’s dialogue, like the
Romance of the Rose, “brings the genre of a personification allegory together with the tradition
of psychological personification found in the romances.”
15
The Soul, who serves as a character
representing the soul/self, as well as the “arena within which the drama takes place”
16
becomes
“nothing” in the sixth stage. Yet, even before the Soul becomes nothing, and hence is
unknowable in stage six, for Porete, the self is unknowable in the earlier stages as well, although
for different reasons.
Marguerite Porete: The Unknowable Annihilated Self
A discussion of the difficulty of knowing the self is apt for Marguerite since her book
revolves around, first, a lack of understanding of the self, and then a spiritual loss of the self
entirely in the process of annihilation. Moreover, for Marguerite personally, her loss of self was
not only spiritual (in the text, she suggests her own annihilation), but physical as well, as she was
burned at the stake as a relapsed heretic in 1310. According to Bernard McGinn, Porete is the
13
Bernard McGinn notes that Porete “drew on at least three predecessors in her use of
dialogue—the biblical dialogue of the Songs of Songes, the philosophical dialogue available in
the West through Cicero and Boethius, and the interiorized personification dialogue found in Old
French courtly romances” (Flowering 248).
14
Sells points out that FarNear, the major male character in the dialog “whose name echoes the
coming-and-going nature of divine love” represents the trinity (119).
15
Hollywood, (95).
16
Id.
115
first documented case of an execution for mystical heresy in Western Christianity.
17
Her trial,
condemnation and execution were thoroughly documented. In her trial documents, Porete is
called a pseudo-mulier (“phony-woman”) by her inquisitors (245). Although McGinn notes that
this designation most likely resulted from the fact that her “religious claims undermined
traditional categories so radically,” even here the question of self is raised as Porete’s inquisitors,
by dubbing her “pseudo,” questioned her authenticity as a self. Unfortunately, despite Porete’s
“many noble and devout signs of penance at her death” as reported by the Chronical of Nanges,
“by which the feelings of many were moved to heartfelt compassion for her and even to tears, as
eyewitnesses who saw it testified”
18
her struggle with self-understanding was ended at the stake.
As McGinn and Hollywood point out, the ambiguity of Porete’s work is clear even from
its title: The Mirror of Simple and Annihilated Souls and Those Who Remain Only in Will and
Desire of Love. Hollywood notes, the title prompts the question: is the mirror a reflection of the
two types of souls (annihilated souls and un-annihilated/willful souls) or is it a reflection of
something else, given to these souls?
19
Moreover, McGinn adds the following query: “if souls are
truly annihilated, how can they be represented?” He asks further: “are the Annihilated Souls
themselves the mirror or does it only represent them?”
20
However, for our purposes, the question
of self also arises. To the extent that the word soul can be used interchangeably with the word
self, the title begs the question: what does it mean to be an annihilated self? And what of the
selves who remain only in will? Isn’t having a will a requisite element of being a self? In other
words, can one be a self without a will? Without desire? As we shall see, these questions are
17
McGinn, Flowering 244.
18
McGinn, Flowering, 245.
19
Hollywood, The Soul as Virgin Wife, 87.
20
McGinn, 247.
116
central to an understanding of The Mirror and have implications for understanding Julian’s text
as well.
For Porete, it is clear that the understanding of the self, or lack of understanding thereof,
differs depending on the state of the self (or soul) in her seven-stage program of ascent toward
union with God. For those who are below the sixth stage (the annihilation stage)
21
both God and
the self are mysteries. As the (sad/un-annihilated) Soul
22
explains in Chapter 130,
“And so I pondered and said: ‘Lord God, I do not know whence you are, for only your
supreme divine eternal power comprehends this. Lord, I do not know what you are, for
only your supreme divine eternal wisdom knows this. Lord, I do not know who you are,
for only your supreme divine and eternal goodness comprehends this.’ Similarly, I said
thus of myself: I do not know whence I am: your power comprehends this. I do not
know what I am; your wisdom knows this. I do not know who I am; your goodness
comprehends this.’. . . And as little as I understand, Lord, of your goodness, it gives me
what understanding I have of my wretchedness. And, as little, Lord, as I understand of
my wretchedness, it gives me what understanding I have of your goodness’” (130:210-
211) (emphasis added).
Thus, in Porete’s stages of ascent, for those who are not annihilated, true self-understanding is
impossible. The most they can hope for is an understanding of their own wretchedness, which
then allows a slight understanding of God’s goodness. This point seems to be so important that it
21
Chapter 130 is part of an addendum to the original text which begins at Chapter 123, with the
title for all that follows which reads: “Here Follow Some Considerations for those who are in the
Stage of the Sad Ones and who ask the way to the Land of Freeness” (123:202).
22
The Soul is one character in this Boethian’s character-driven play.
117
is reiterated several times. After repeating her trinity of apophaticisms regarding her
understanding of God, she continues:
“Lord, I know not whence I am, for I know nothing of my excessive weakness. Lord, I
know not what I am, for I know nothing of my excessive ignorance. Lord, I know not
who I am, for I know nothing of my excessive wretchedness.”
However, at this stage, the deity nevertheless comprehends the self when the self cannot
understand herself (“your power comprehends this”). Thus, the Soul’s possibility for self-
understanding is intrinsically linked to her understanding of God. Porete confirms this notion at
the end of the chapter when she states that her self-understanding and understanding of God is
“so little” that it is really “nothing compared to what remains.” All that the Soul is left with is an
understanding that “you [God] are all” (211).
The author holds out some hope for self-understanding for those in the process of ascent.
In Chapter 47, the Beguine explains that the Soul comes into an understanding of her
nothingness by understanding that she will never understand the full extent of the “nothingness
of her horrible sins and faults”
23
(47:126). This apophatic self-understanding then facilitates the
release of the will which enables annihilation and the resulting freedom; Love explains that such
a soul retains no will, but instead wills nothing and knows nothing. “And this knowing-nothing
and willing-nothing have released her and freed her” (47:126). Amy Hollywood explains: “The
death of the will, however, occurs near the close of the text, for without it further change and
development are impossible” (95).
23
In this quote, Marguerite is clearly drawing from the Augustinian concept of sin being nothing.
The argument goes: all that has being is good. Since sin is not good, it cannot have being. Thus,
sin is nothing. See my discussion in Chapter 6.
118
Porete elaborates on this process in Chapter 118. In the fifth stage, the Soul recognizes
the significance of God as the transcendent creator, and her own insignificance: “the Soul
considers that God is Who is, from whom all things are, and she is not if she is not of Him…”
(191). The Soul then sees that God “placed free will in her who is not, except in total
wretchedness” (191). Once the Soul realizes the enormity of God’s gift of existence and free
will, God pours Divine Light into the Soul, which shows the Soul’s will that it is the appropriate
time to dissolve (191). At that point, the will dissolves, the Soul sees that she is nothing, and she
begins to see the depth of her own wretchedness, “which is so deep and so great that she finds
there neither beginning nor middle nor end, only a bottomless abyss” (192).
24
Significantly,
Porete goes on to explain: “There she finds herself, without finding and without bottom. One
does not find oneself who cannot attain this” (192). Thus, Porete makes clear that without an
understanding of the depth of one’s wretchedness, one cannot fully understand oneself. It is in
this abyss that “the Soul sees herself, without seeing.” Why does she gain this clarity yet lack of
clarity? The depth of humility necessarily entails the absence of pride, which would otherwise
obscure her view. Thus, the loss of pride allows her to see herself and not see herself. “And this
not-seeing makes her see herself perfectly” (192). Thus, according to Porete, it is only in this
loss of self that one can achieve self-understanding.
Interestingly, late in stage five, the Soul actually achieves a brief moment of true self-
understanding. This awareness occurs after the Soul has realized its nothingness, when the Soul
then is briefly “carried up to the sixth” stage. It is in this brief moment that the Soul “sees
herself and understands the Divine Goodness, and [it is that] understanding of Divine Goodness
24
Interestingly, the servant in Julian’s vision, the parable of the Lord and Servant, falls into a
ditch-like abyss. “And anon he falleth in a slade, and taketh ful gret sore” (53:273:12). Watson
and Jenkins define slade as a “valley, hollow, ditch, or any declivity in the ground” (272).
119
that makes her see herself again. And these two glimpses take away her will and desire and
works of goodness.” (118:193). Marguerite describes the moment of the two glimpses as
follows: “For it is an aperture, like a spark, which quickly closes, in which one cannot long
remain, nor would that soul ever have authority who knew how to speak of this” (58:135).
25
This
aperture is the “work of the Ravishing Farnearness”
26
which results in “the peace upon peace of
peace which the Soul receives, if he were not this himself” (58:135). Of course, this work has
apophatic “unsaying” dimensions: “nothing can be said about the aperture of one
movement…nor does the Soul know how to speak about this precious closing by which she is
forgotten through the annihilation of the understanding which this annihilation gives to her”
(59:136).
Curiously, as the Soul ascends to the sixth stage on a more permanent basis, this self-
understanding does not remain. Even though the Soul gains this understanding, the “light of the
understanding,” itself, removes it from her:
the Soul, to whom the Farnearness gives Himself, has so great an understanding of God
and of herself and of all things that she even sees within God through divine
understanding. And the light of this understanding takes from her all understanding of
herself and of God and of all things.
To this, the soul replies:
25
The brevity of the moment suggests Augustine’s influence.
26
Marguerite invents the name FarNear for God the Father without explanation, as if it is self-
evident that God is both far and near. He is “le Loingpres” in Old French, the “FarNigh” in
Middle English and, as here, the Ravishing Farnearness.
120
He takes from me and keeps what I understand, for otherwise, says this Soul, I would
not possess any understanding. And, if God wills that I understand myself, this
understanding He also takes from me, for otherwise, I would not be able to possess
anything of it (61:138-39).
Thus, in stage six, the soul once again cannot see or understand herself, but this lack of
sight/understanding is unlike her inability to see herself in the earlier stages, where she was in an
abyss. Like the earlier stages, she cannot see God either, but it is not because her vision is
obscured because she is so far beneath him, as she was in the earlier stages. Instead, she has
ascended to such a height that “God sees himself in her . . . so that she sees only that there is
nothing except God Himself Who is, from whom all things are. . . And thus she does not see
according to herself, for whoever sees the One who is does not see [anything] except God
himself” (118:193). The Beguine summarizes accordingly, “But this soul, thus pure and
clarified, sees neither God nor herself, but God sees Himself of Himself in her, for her without
her. God shows to her that there is nothing except Him.” Thus, the self is lost in God (118:193).
Michael Sells makes clear that, at this point, the Soul loses its “self,” but gains the divine self
instead. “At the moment of divine clarification, as the soul returns to its pre-created state, the
deity dissolves into its three actions of self-seeing, self-loving and self-knowing” (131). Yet, this
trinity of actions does not involve the soul’s self—instead the actions involve the trinity seeing,
loving and knowing itself through the soul. “The soul no longer sees, loves or knows the divine:
the actions are now reflexive” (131).
In fact, the annihilated souls are so unknown that they are even unknown to the virtues
and the church, in addition to themselves. Early on in Porete’s text, the three Virtues (Faith,
Hope and Charity) ask Love “who these [annihilated] Souls are, where they are and what they
121
do?” Love replies “who they are—for the purpose of speaking of their worth and their dignity—
this is known neither to you [the Virtues] nor to them [the souls], which is why the Holy Church
cannot know it” (19:101-02). Thus, as Porete indicates, the annihilated souls themselves do not
know who they are. Love goes on to explain [to Reason] that God alone knows who the souls
are. According to Porete, Holy Church cannot understand the souls because Holy Church is not
in their soul. Porete emphasizes: “But no created thing enters within their souls except God
alone who created the Souls, so that none would understand such Souls except God who is within
them” (102) (my emphasis). For the annihilated souls, Porete’s apophatic program is complete;
the program entails a complete lack of self-understanding.
Porete’s deep apophaticism is evident in her discussion of the annihilated souls. In a
discussion of the concept of the annihilated soul being without herself in a dialog between Love
and Reason, Love explains that the Soul “is always without herself,” to which Reason asks
(sarcastically) “When, for God’s sake… is she without herself?” Love replies, “When she
belongs to herself.” Reason: “And when does she belong to herself?” Love: “When she is no part
of herself” (59:136). Love’s succinct answers frustrate Reason, but continue to be a theme
throughout The Mirror. Porete explains this concept further in a later chapter: “the Annihilated
Soul is ‘without’ herself when she has no feeling of nature, no work, nor any interior work. . . but
instead she is without will at all moments. Thus she is annihilated, ‘without’ herself, whatever
thing God might suffer from her. Thus she does all things without herself, and so she leaves all
things without herself. This is no marvel: she is no longer ‘for’ her own sake, for she lives by
divine substance” (114:185). The Annihilated Soul has surrendered her will; because she is
inhabited by God, she no longer has a self. This loss of will takes place in a two-step event. The
first step is “an erotic union with the divine” (Sells 132). The second step is a courtly exchange
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in which the divine gives the Soul his goodness in exchange for her will.
27
This exchange results
in “ecstatic freedom” for the Soul (132).
Although being “without self” seems threatening to Reason in the dialogue discussed
above, in fact, living without oneself is incredibly freeing to the annihilated soul. As Michael
Sells points out, “this freedom is ecstatic; the soul lives and is without itself, outside itself, or
beyond itself” (132). The freedom is the result of living in divine pleasure. As the Soul says,
God’s works have “stripped me of myself completely and have placed me in divine pleasure
without myself” (71:145-46).
This loss of self is manifested by, and perhaps facilitated by, the Soul’s desire to return to
an uncreated state. Porete expresses the Soul’s petitions to God: “the first thing which she asks
is that she see herself always (if she is to see anything) where she was when God made all things
from nothing, so that she might be certain that she is not other than this” (107:179). In other
words, she asks to see herself at the point of creation, so that she knows she, like everything else,
was nothing (107:179). Thus, the “annihilation of the soul (with its reason, will and works)
entails a reversion to a procreative state of being, to what the soul was ‘when she was not’”
(Sells 131). Interestingly, Julian also expresses a belief in a pre-created state, yet she is less
insistent that the self is nothing.
Julian of Norwich: The Mervelous Medlur of the Unknowable Self
Although Julian is not apophatic as Marguerite Porete in her approach to the self—she
does not regard the self as nothing and does not aim to negate the self—Julian nevertheless,
27
“The ecstatic freedom occurs simultaneously with two events:” 1-erotic mystical union and 2-a
courtly exchange of the deity’s goodness for the soul’s will. (Sells 132).
123
holds that the self is largely unknowable in this lifetime. Of course, in her “both/and” approach
that we have seen, Julian argues that there is much that we can know about the self.
28
In fact,
Julian has elaborated a detailed “anthropology” of the self which will be discussed below. But,
this anthropology ultimately breaks down into unknowingness. Julian argues that even though
God may raise up some of us to a greater knowing of self and God, for the most part, the self is
unknowable in this lifetime. Thus, even for the anchoress, with plenty of time to explore the
meaning of self/soul and God, self-understanding escapes Julian. Julian makes clear, however,
that this deficiency is not a shortcoming on her part alone—it is a shortcoming that is
fundamental to mankind, due to mankind’s inherent dual nature.
Before exploring Julian’s anthropology, it is important to examine a paradox Julian sets
up in her writing which telegraphs her ultimate position on the unattainable nature of self-
knowledge. Julian begins Chapter 56, which is toward the end of her discussion of the self, by
arguing that it is easier to know God than to know one’s own self/soul: “And thus I saw full
sekerly (surely) that it is redier to us and more esy to come to the knowing of God then to know
oure owne soule” (56:301). Julian goes on to explain that, because the soul is so deeply
grounded in God, “we may not come to the knowing thereof tille we have furst knowing of God,
which is the maker to whome it is oned [united].” The anchoress argues that the desire to know
one’s self is one of humanity’s nobler instincts; it is “good and trew” (56:301). And this desire
28
Much of what can be known about the self is addressed by Ritamary Bradley in her article,
“Perception of the Self in Julian of Norwich’s Showings” published in The Downside Review
104:356 (July 1986) 227-39; however, Bradley does not focus on the difficulty of knowing the
self.
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leads us to seek God.
29
In this process of seeking to know one’s self, the Holy Ghost may lead us
to “know them both in one,” God and soul (56:301). Thus, by focusing our search on God, we
may “be led so depe into God that we verily and trewly know oure owne soule” (56:301.
And yet, paradoxically, Julian states just a few lines later: “And notwithstanding all this,
we may never come to the full knowledge of God tille we knowe furst our own soule” (56:303).
Nicholas Watson calls this shift a “characteristic reversal of viewpoint, resembling [an] apparent
volte-face” (about-face)(303).
30
I agree that reversals are characteristic to Julian, yet would argue
that this reversal is significant in light of other instances in which Julian expresses the difficulty
of self-knowledge. I believe this “volte-face” is an example of what Michael Sells calls an
“unsaying” or paradox that is indicative of “apophasis.” As discussed in the introduction, for the
most part, Julian is not apophatic. However, as previously noted, she has apophatic moments
which deepen her discussion of God and (here) the self. Sells believes that paradoxes, such as
Julian’s are not illogical (3). “For the apophatic writer, the logical rule of non-contradiction”
does not apply when the “subject of discourse is a non-object and no-thing” (4). In Julian’s case,
the subject of discourse is the self, but it is so inextricably linked to God that logic does not
appear to apply to it either. Thus, in the context of this apophatic background, I think Julian’s
contradiction (that you cannot know God until you know yourself, but you cannot know yourself
until you know God) means that the self, like God, is ultimately unknowable. Although one can
29
As suggested above in my discussion of Walker Bynum’s work, the quest for self-knowledge
(for medievals like Porete and Julian) is embedded in the quest to know God. One cannot be
extricated from the other.
30
Interestingly, McGinn does not see this passage as being contradictory. He acknowledges that
it reflects “the need for self-knowledge, an important theme in medieval anthropology” (448).
Yet, he sees the two means of self-knowledge (knowing God before we can know the soul and
knowing the soul before we can know God) as being mutual modes of self-knowledge, which “is
not new, but Julian’s way of framing it is another example of her theological originality” (448-
49).
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know a great deal, as Julian’s comprehensive theory of self illustrates, one cannot fully know
oneself, at least not in this lifetime.
Julian’s discussion of the self is prompted by her concern over the discrepancy between
her revelation of God’s judgment (his great endless love in which he assigns to us no kind of
blame) and the judgment of Holy Church, in which Julian must know herself as a sinner.
Although Julian knew that, according to church doctrine, sinners sometimes deserve blame and
wrath, she could not see these two qualities in God. Julian acknowledges that this discrepancy is
somewhat resolved by her revelation of the lord and servant, yet she nevertheless wants to know
how these two different judgments apply to her personally. Julian believes that an understanding
of all heavenly and earthly things hangs on an understanding of these two opposing judgments
(45:261). Yet, she also sees that the more that the Holy Spirit leads us to understand these
judgments, the more we begin to understand our feelings (ourselves). And, the more we
understand our feelings, the more we want to be filled with endless joy, for this is what we are
made for (45:261).
31
Interestingly, the discrepancy between the two judgments, the higher judgment of God,
based on God’s love, and the lower judgment of Holy Church, based on the judgment of man and
his fallibility, seems to prefigure and mirror Julian’s discussion of the self. According to Julian’s
anthropology, the self is made up of a higher self, (the “substance”) which resides with God, and
31
This understanding of what we are made for harkens back to Chapter 44 and its more general
discussion of the soul. In Chapter 44, Julian states “And mans soule is a creature in God, which
hath the same propertes made, and evermore it doeth that it was made for: it seeth God, and it
beholdeth God, and it loveth God” (44:259). Julian alludes to the problems of the soul/self even
here, however, as she notes that in the face of this beautiful moment when the self sees and loves
God, and God sees and loves the self, the self nevertheless cannot believe that it has any worth
(“that unnethes the creature semeth ought to the selfe”). Nicholas Watson translates this line as
“that the creature scarcely seems of any value to itself” (258). This brief indication of lack of
self-worth develops more fully into lack of self-knowledge in Chapter 46.
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the lower self, (the “sensuality”) which encapsulates our life on Earth. Like the much-needed
reconciliation between the higher and lower judgment, which may not take place until the
eschaton (45:261:9-10), the reconciliation between the self’s sensuality and substance likewise
may not take place until “the last point” when those that are “safe” are in heaven (46:263:7-8).
McGinn notes that Julian is unique “in the way in which she linked the soul’s eternal and
unfallen substance with its temporal sensuality as the other dimension of human existence.”
32
Arguing for Julian’s high view of human anthropology, McGinn asserts that, in Julian’s
understanding, sensuality, “the condition of the whole human being in space and time” is a
“good gift of God,” and should be distinguished from the fallen nature of the Pauline “flesh.”
33
The term substance, on the other hand, as used by Julian, goes beyond the scholastic term
meaning “a primary mode of being” to the idea of “a place in us where the distinction between
God and our souls is dissolved.”
34
Thus, as McGinn notes, this “binary anthropology of
substance and sensuality” informs not only Julian’s understanding of self-knowledge, but also,
her Christology and even her understanding of Mary and the Trinity.
35
Julian begins Chapter 46 on a realistic, but nevertheless hopeful, note regarding her
binary anthropology and her hopes for self-knowledge. “But oure passing living that we have
here in oure sensualite knoweth not what oureselfe is but in our faith. And whan we know and
see, verely and clerely, what oureselfe is, than shalle we verily and clerly see and know oure
lorde God in fulhed of joye” 46:262-63 (36-38, 1). In other words, even though we do not know
ourselves while we are here in this tangible life on Earth, faith may enable that understanding.
32
McGinn, Varieties: 448.
33
Id.
34
Turner notes that Julian is indebted to St. Thomas Aquinas for the idea of substance as a
primary mode of being (136).
35
McGinn, 448-49.
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Moreover, when we do see what we (ourselves) are, then we shall know God. Julian remains
optimistic about self-knowledge as she notes: “We may have knowing of oureselfe in this life by
continuant helps and vertu of oure high kind [our substance], in which knowing we may encrese
and wax by furthering and speding of mercy and grace [of the Holy Spirit]” (46:263:5-8). In
other words, our substance, aided by the Holy Spirit, assists us in attaining self-knowledge.
Yet, despite Julian’s hopefulness, she is forced to acknowledge that we may fall short of
this goal: “But we may never fulle know oureselfe into the last point, in which pointe this
passing life and alle manner of wo and paine shalle have ane ende” (46:263:9-10).
36
Julian’s
unseeing lies in this unknowing—that the self cannot fully be known until death—yet, as
elsewhere, Julian is not satisfied with this unknowing. Julian asserts that humanity must never
give up, but continue to long for self-knowledge, which will lead us to knowledge of God: “And
therefore it longeth [belongs] properly to us, both by kind and grace, to long and desyer with alle
oure mightes to know oureselfe, in which full knowing we shall verily and clerely know oure
God in fulhede [fullness] of endlesse joy” 46:263 (5-12). Significantly, this longing is inherent
in our very make-up (“it longeth [belongs] properly to us”) both in human nature, and by God’s
grace. Yet, despite this longing, it is evident that Julian thinks that “we may never fulle know
ourselfe.” She returns to this idea and explains it further in Chapter 52.
Immediately prior to Chapter 52, Julian conducts an extensive analysis of the parable of
the Lord and servant, a parable that she received in a vision and did not understand for twenty
years. Following a subsequent revelation, Julian received additional insight and understanding
of the parable, which leads her back to an analysis of her anthropology of the self in Chapter 52.
36
Andrea Masson discusses this thoroughly in her chapter on the point of coincidence. In this
case, the last point is clearly our death.
128
Because the servant in the parable represents both Adam (everyman) and Christ, Julian gains
insight into the self from her analysis of the parable:
Alle that shall be saved, for the time of this life we have in us a marvelous medelur
[mixture] both of wele [wellness] and of wo [woe]. We have in us oure lorde Jhesu
Christ up resin, and we have in us the wrechednesse and the mischief of Adams
falling. (52:289:5-10).
This marvelous mixture (or, in this case, muddle) of the wellness/happiness and the
suffering/sadness results from humanity’s mixture of both Christ consciousness and Adam
consciousness. Yet, this marvelous mixture has a downside for humanity in its quest for self-
knowledge:
And thus is that medle [mixture of our Christ and Adam consciousnesses] so
marvelous in us that unnethis (scarcely) we knowe of oureselfe or of oure
evenchristen in what wey they stoned (stand), for the merveloushede [strangeness] of
this sondrye feling. (52:289:17-19).
As Watson and Jenkins translate: “and so this mixture in us is so strange that we hardly know
ourselves or of our fellow Christians what state we are in, such is the strangeness of this
inconsistent sensation” (288). Thus, it is because of this binary anthropology (which loosely
links the “substance” to consciousness of Christ and the “sensuality” to consciousness of Adam)
that one scarcely knows oneself or one’s fellow Christians. And, even though we can be relieved
of the pain inherent in our earthly Adamic existence for moments at a time, by praying, assenting
to God and allowing God to raise us up and provide us with sight, most of the time we exist in
this mixture whereby “now we are raised to that one, and now we are suffered to fall into that
other” (52:289:15-16). And, even though “we know in oure faith that by the vertu of Christ,
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which is oure keper” (52:289:24-25) that we never assent to “the wo and tribulation”
concomitant with sin, Julian concludes: “thus we stonde in this medelur [mixture] all the dayes
of oure life” (52:289:27).
Julian’s Anthropology as a Limitation on the Ability to See God
For Julian, like Marguerite Porete, this lack of self-knowledge—the unknowing of one’s
own self, is resolved, at least partially, by God. Yet, for Julian, unlike Porete, it is not resolved
by the negation of the self. Instead, for Julian, there is hope for integration—for “oning” of the
substance and the sensuality—through the work of God. Grace Jantzen explores this theme of
integration by comparing Julian with another apophatic writer, the Cloud Author. She contrasts
the Cloud Author’s resistance to the created world, to Julian’s embrace of earthly existence.
However, Jantzen also points out Julian’s similarity to The Cloud in their shared recognition of
humanity’s propensity to be alienated from God. Accordingly, Jantzen observes that Julian
“therefore saw the need to take whatever measures necessary to heal the fracture within us,
bringing our external self, our sensuality, into line with our true self or substance in union with
God” (156). As Jantzen notes, Julian believed that Christ became incarnate and took on our
sensuality not to rid us of our sensual self, but “to reintegrate our sensuality with our
substance…to bring it to its full potential in wholeness of being” (156). Similarly, in comparing
Julian to Marguerite Porete, the authors align in their interest in finding a means to overcome
humanity’s fractured soul and its inability to know itself and/or God. However, Porete, like the
Cloud author seeks negation (annihilation) of the soul. Julian, instead, seeks integration.
Like Porete, who identifies the sad souls (those who are not yet annihilated) as being
distant from God and themselves, Julian also identifies humans who lack sight of God as being
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distant from God. Julian agrees that those who lack sight of God lack self-understanding as well:
“Man is changeabil in this life, and by frailte and uncunning (ignorance) he falleth into sinne.
He is unmighty and unwise of himself… He is in tempest and in sorow and woe. And the cause
is blindhede [blindness], for he seeth not God” (47:265:13-16).
Seeing God seems to be a key to self-understanding, because when we do not see Him:
“we faile oftimes of the sight of him, and anon we falle into ourselfe” and all of our
“contrariousnes” (47:267; 33-34). Julian adds: “Thus I saw that God is our very peas, and he is
oure seker keeper when we be oureselfe at unpeas” 50:271 (33-34). How does God achieve this
reparation? First, He is enclosed in humanity, and humanity is enclosed in Him: “For I saw full
sekerly that oure substance is in God. And also I saw that in oure sensualite God is” (55:299:19-
21). Second, Julian is explicit—Christ is central to Julian’s binary anthropology and her view of
humanity’s restoration. Without Christ’s Incarnation, the restoration of humankind, as well as
the integration between the self’s higher part (substance) and lower part (sensuality) would be
impossible (55:299:36-37). When Christ took on “the lower party (part) of mankind,” the
highest part (our substance) was joined (“oned”) to the lower part (our sensuality) for the first
time. Thus, Christ’s incarnation enabled an integration of substance and sensuality for humanity.
As Watson and Jenkins explain: “Restoration of body and soul could not take place before the
Incarnation” (298).
For Julian, knowledge of the self is only possible through a unification or integration of
the two halves of the soul/self. Julian uses the term “knitting” to describe God’s action of
unification, integration, or “oning” of the sensuality (the lower self) to the substance (the higher
self).
131
For oure kinde, which is the hyer party [substance], is knitte to God in the making;
and God is knit to oure kinde, which is the lower party [sensuality], in oure flesh
taking. And thus in Crist oure two kindes be oned. (57:305:14-17).
For Julian, the soul envelops both the substance and the sensuality. Thus, Julian has a
Venn Diagram-like understanding of the make-up of the soul/self. The soul/self covers both our
spiritual/heavenly existence (our substance) and our physical existence (our sensuality). Yet, the
only thing binding the two halves of the Venn Diagram-self/soul is Christ. Furthermore, Christ
allows the substance of the soul to be knitted to God.
37
In other words, “oure hyer party is
grounded and roted” in Christ, in whom “the trinite is comprehended” (57:305:17-18). Julian
goes on to claim that, not only is God the trinity comprehended in Christ, but that Christ makes
humanity comprehensible as well:
For in that same time that God knit him to oure body in the maidens wombe, he toke
oure sensual soule. In which taking—he us all having beclosed in him—he oned it to
oure substance, in which oning he was perfit man. (57:305:36-38).
In other words, Christ’s Incarnation allowed Him to unite humankind’s sensual soul (sensuality)
to its heavenly/spiritual soul (substance) for all humanity. Watson and Jenkins comment on this
passage:
A remarkable claim developed from the earlier discussion of the soul of Christ…and
with roots in the exemplum of the lord and servant. The redemption of human-kind is
understood as the uniting of the sensuality and the substance in Christ as perfect and
37
In the next paragraph, I will discuss Julian’s understanding of the pre-existence of the soul,
prior to its becoming flesh. Accordingly here, when discussing “in the making,” Julian discusses
the time that souls were made, which is at the time of creation, long before they became flesh.
132
collective human being. Human selfhood thus emerges as incoherent except in
Christ. (304) (emphasis added).
So, if Christ united the sensuality and substance for all humankind, why does human
selfhood remain so incoherent? Julian explains that this incongruity exists in part because of the
“mervelous medlur,” as discussed above. Even though these two disparate parts of the self are
joined by Christ, they are not necessarily integrated. And, without Christ, human selfhood is
completely incoherent. Yet, part of the problem lies with the substance, which is not accessible
absent an understanding of God.
One aspect of the substance which seems to make it inexplicable to humankind is that it
includes our pre-existent or pre-created self. Julian explores this idea in Chapter 55. McGinn
says that “Julian fits into the late medieval tradition concerning the preexistence of the idea,
substance or essence of human nature within the Trinity, specifically within the Second Person
[Christ]” (448). Julian first makes note of this pre-created self when she discusses the origin of
our faith. “Oure faith cometh of the kinde love of our soul, and of the clere light of oure reson,
and of the stedfaste minde (memory) which we have of God in oure furst making”
(55:299:11-13). As stated, we could not have a memory of God when we first were made if we
did not preexist our coming into this body. Julian elaborates on this point and asserts that this
pre-created self is linked to, if not the same as the substance: “In which werking the holy gost
formeth in oure faith hope that we shall come againe up aboven to our substance, into the vertu
of Crist, encresed and fulfilled throw the holy gost” (55:299:15-18). Julian’s “come againe” here
demonstrates that we return to our substance—it pre-exists our creation.
38
38
Interestingly, the hope is that we return even better than we left—“encresed and fulfilled throw
the holy gost” (55:299:18-19).
133
In any event, there is no doubt that Julian’s concept of the substance (higher self) extends
into eternity, but also extends into pre-existence as well. After explaining that God “knowen and
loved” all of humanity “fro [from] without beginning,” (53:295:21-24), similarly, Julian explains
that the individual souls/selves “ware treasured in God and hid, knowen and loved from without
beginning” (53:295:46-48).
39
As discussed above, this concept of pre-existence resonates
deeply within the work of Marguerite Porete as well. For Porete, the existence of a pre-created
soul was assumed. Moreover, returning to the pre-created state of unity was a goal in this life,
yet the soul could not return to this pre-created state of unity with God until or unless the soul (or
self) was annihilated. McGinn points out that this teaching was found in the thirteenth century
beguines, and further points out that after the death of Porete, other mystics, including Julian,
“sought to qualify the meaning of the soul’s virtual existence in God, while at the same time
insisting that the core of human dignity is to be found in this pre-created oneness.”
40
Thus, for
Julian, the substance resided within God in a pre-created state. Yet, learning from the negative
reaction to Porete’s mistakes, Julian is careful to point out that however close the substance may
be to God, the substance is not God, but is instead is a “creature in God” (54:297:15).
Specifically, Julian states: “And I sawe no difference beteween God and oure substance, but as it
were all God. And yet my understanding toke [accepted] that oure substance is in God; that is to
sey, that God is God and oure substance is a creature in God” (54:297:13-15). Porete was not so
39
Julian repeats this idea as late as Chapter 58: “as anemptes (regards) oure kindely
(humankind’s) substance, which is to us by oure making fro without beginning” (58:307:18-19).
40
McGinn, Varieties 448. McGinn goes on to note: “It is not necessary to think that the English
anchoress had any direct contact with these Continental mystics to appreciate that her solution to
a neuralgic issue in late medieval mysticism compares with theirs. In the way in which she
linked the soul’s eternal and unfallen substance with its temporal sensuality as the other
dimension of human existence, however, she is unique” (448).
134
careful—and her text was taken out of context, allowing for the interpretation that the pre-
existent soul was God.
Simply stated, the notion of the substance as the pre-existent self makes the substance
difficult to understand: how is one to understand one’s existence before one became human with
a brain that allows understanding? In this regard, Julian explains that understanding humanity’s
substance requires a very “high understanding.” “A hye understanding it is inwardly to se and to
know that God, which is oure maker, wonneth in oure soule [in our sensuality]; and a higher
understanding it is and more, inwardly to se and to know oure soule, that is made, wonneth in
God in [is our] substance…” (54:297:9-11). In other words, only if we are capable of this
“higher understanding” can we understand the existence of the substance, which dwells with
God. Julian’s understanding of humanity’s creation lends credence to this theory. Julian claims
that “mannes soul is made of nought [nothing]. That is to sey, it is made, but of nought [nothing]
that is made” (53:295:34-35). Julian goes on to explain that man’s body is made of the “slime of
the erth… but to the making of mannes soule he wolde take right nought, but made it.” And,
thus, Julian claims that we are “oned” to the Maker in this manner, in which our substance is
made of the same “nothing” of which God is. The prime distinction here, of course, is that God
is “unmade” and the human soul is “made” 53:295:35-40). Moreover, the substance is, in a way,
beyond us because it is knitted to God. As Julian explains: “For oure soule is so depe grounded
in God, and so endlessly tresored, that we may not come to the knowing thereof tille we have
furst knowing of God, which is the maker to whome it is one” (56:301:2-3). Further, the
anchoress asserts: “For sothly (truly), I saw that oure substance is in God” (57:307:49-50).
Accordingly, how can humanity expect to understand itself when half of its self “is in God?”
135
Finally, not everyone understands what the substance is. Julian explains that she
understands “the substance,” its origin and its relation to “the sensuality,” because she was given
access to this “higher” understanding in one of her visions. First, she saw it in Christ: “And these
two perties were in Crist, the heyer and the lower, which is but one soule” (55:299:40-41). She
goes on to explain that “the hyer perty [substance] was ever in pees with God, in full joy and
blisse. The lower perty, which is sensualite, suffered for the salvation of mankind” (55:299-301:
42-45). But, beyond that showing of Christ’s two “parts,” Julian was given “a suttel feling and a
prevy (secret) inward sighte of the hye party [her substance]” (lines 45-46). Through this, Julian
was shown a “mighty beholding of [her own and by extension, humanity’s] inwarde life.” Julian
clarifies that, after twenty years of thinking on it, she now understands that the inward life that
she saw in her vision is the substance: “Which inward life is that hye substance, that precious
soule, which is endlessly enjoyeing in the godhede” (55:299-301:46-50). Thus, even for Julian,
the substance is not understandable, absent a vision from God.
The essential paradox of Julian’s work persists. Despite all that Julian was shown—the
disparate halves of the self/soul, the potential of integration or “oning” of those two halves,
Christ’s Incarnation which made integration possible, the pre-existence of the human self in the
substance to which we can return, and Julian’s vision of the inward self which was the
substance—the mystery of the self remains. Julian never resolves the paradox that she
establishes: that it is easier to understand oneself when one understands God, yet it is easier to
understand God when one understands oneself. Moreover, Julian makes clear that this double-
system is faulty: as the anchoress notes, “in our substance we be full [complete] and in our
sensuality we faile” (57:303:6-7). Julian’s readers are left with the paradox of the imperfect,
failing double-system of “the substance” and “the sensuality.”
136
Julian does not resolve the paradox, and therein lies her apophaticism. Yet, Julian does
offer up a reason for this paradox: even though the double-ness of the self makes it difficult for
humanity to understand itself, it is nevertheless God’s will. “But his forseeing perpos in his
endlesse wisdom wolde that we were doubil” (56:303:50-51). If it is our double-ness and our
lowly sensuality that prevents the soul from understanding itself or God, why does Julian accept
this division so readily?
41
Moreover, why does God create such an imperfect system? In fact,
Julian comes to understand that even though the soul cannot understand itself or know God
under the double-self-system, the spirit/soul nevertheless receives gifts from God in this earthly,
sensual life that it could not receive in the spirit life alone: “For in our furst making, God gave us
as moch good and as grete good as we might receive onely in oure spirite [in our spirit on its
own]” (56:303:49-50). In other words, humanity receives gifts from God by virtue of being
human, which are not available to mere spiritual beings, which are not “double.”
Julian describes various gifts (“goods”), which include God’s mercy and grace, the
substance’s presence, which enables the self to receive His “werking of mercy and grace”
(57:303:7-10), as well as the various gifts which He bestows on the substance, which allow the
self to do His will and which do not perish.
42
Thus, Julian accepts this seemingly imperfect
system, in which the soul/self does not know itself, in order to receive these gifts which the
41
Watson and Jenkins note that by the end of chapter 56, “the soul’s self-division and consequent
lack of ability to know itself in this life is understood and accepted” (302).
42
Julian states: I saw that oure kinde is in God hole, in which he maketh diversites, flowing oute
of him, to werke his wille, whom kinde kepeth, and mercy and grace restoreth and fulfilleth.
And of theyse, note shalle be perished” (57:305:10-13).
137
soul/self could not receive if it were spirit alone, and which arguably allow for a greater spiritual
ascent.
43
Accordingly, for both Julian and Marguerite, “unknowing,” in this case, the self’s
inability to know itself, is a “good,” and is ultimately part of God’s plan. For Porete, with her
system of spiritual ascent, the sad soul’s inability to know itself propels it to desire to give up its
will. And, once the will is handed over to God, God inhabits the self/soul, but the self still
cannot know itself because only God knows it. For Julian, the inability of the soul/self to know
itself, since it is divided between the physical self and the spiritual self, is a “good” because God
provides the soul/self with gifts to help it to overcome its unknowing and become “oned” with
God. These gifts, which include gifts to the substance which enable it to do God’s will, as well
as mercy and grace, are gifts which it could not obtain otherwise as a spiritual being alone. Thus,
for both writers, the unknowing self ultimately allows for greater union with God.
43
Although Julian is generally regarded as a writer who eschews programs of spiritual ascent, I
believe that Julian’s belief here in the gifts which are not available to beings other than humans
indicates otherwise. This notion merits discussion beyond this confines of this chapter.
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Chapter Four
Pain, Illness and God’s Absence
In the Texts of Mechthild of Magdeburg and Julian of Norwich
Julian’s illness takes center stage in her account of her visions. It has been suggested that
Julian’s visions are the product of a near-death experience. If that is the case, one could argue
that without Julian’s illness, there would be no visions. During her illness, Julian experienced a
“bodily sicknes in the which I ley three days and three nights, and on the fourth night I toke all
my rightes (rites) of holy church, and wened (expected) not to have liven till day” (LT 3.1-3).
Julian is so ill, in fact, that her family has sent for the local parish priest to read Julian her last
rites. She lingers for two additional days and nights. On the third night, the people surrounding
Julian’s deathbed, and even Julian herself, believe on more than one occasion that she had died
(LT 3.4-5). However, she endured to the next day, at which time the family sent for the curate
“to be at [her] ending”—at this point she cannot move her eyes nor speak (LT 3.17-19). Upon
arriving at Julian’s deathbed, the “curate” places the crucifix on Julian’s bed and instructs her to
look at it. It is at that time that Julian’s visions “soddenly” begin.
There can be no doubt that there is a nexus between Julian’s illness and her visions. Yet,
ironically, Julian links her experiences of illness and pain even more closely with God’s absence
and not seeing God. Thus, illness becomes yet another limitation on Julian’s ability to see God.
Significantly, however, Julian makes clear that neither her illness nor God’s absence are caused
by sin. Instead, both illness and God’s absence provide Julian’s “evencristens” with opportunities
for spiritual growth. In order to provide historical context for Julian, I pair Julian in this chapter
139
with Mechtild of Magdeburg because illness, pain and God’s absence are all prominent themes
in Mechtild’s texts.
Illness and Pain in the Middle Ages
Although it is difficult to pin down any one particular meaning for illness and pain in the
Middle Ages, Irina Metzler suggests two particular beliefs which stand out.
1
They are 1) that
illness could be considered punishment from God for sin, and 2) that illness could be caused by
God to spiritually enrich the ill person.
2
Disease could be seen as a punishment for an individual
transgression; however, this perception was not applied as a general concept to all of humanity.
Instead, the belief in illness as punishment for a particular sin was expressed on a case by case
basis. This belief was widespread enough, however, that the possibility of a causal link between
sin and illness was expressed by canon number 22 of the Fourth Lateran Council which directs
that “since the bodily infirmity is sometimes caused by sin” the physician ought to ensure that
the patient participates in confession first “before the physician then applies medical treatment so
that the soul is cured prior to the body.”
3
Certainly, sin was recognized as a possible cause for
illness.
Metzler asserts that illness could be explained on a more widespread basis by the concept
of Original Sin. Medieval theologians often asserted that illness could be explained due to the
Fall because prelapsarian Adam and Eve did not suffer from ill health whereas postlapsarian
humanity suffered pain and illness.
4
In fact, postlapsarian humanity suffers from such a deficient
1
Metzler, Irina. Disability in Medieval Europe: Thinking about Physical Impairment in the High
Middle Ages, 46.
2
Metzler 46-47.
3
Metzler 46.
4
Metzler 47.
140
nature that pain, illness and deformity are practically normal phenomena associated with the
human condition. Just as Augustine considered evil to be a privatio boni (an absence of good),
illness, too, was considered to be an absence of health, a modus deficiens.
5
In this sense, all
illness was attributed to Original Sin. As discussed below, Julian resists the notion of Original
Sin, and further resists the idea that illness, pain or God’s absence are caused by sin.
With respect to the second point, Metzler demonstrates that illness and any resulting
impairment could provide a pathway for spiritual uplifting, assuming “the affliction was sent by
God, and not something a person brought upon themselves through their own foolishness” (47).
Thus, illness was seen as the perfect mechanism to cleanse the soul and bring spiritual healing.
Caroline Walker Bynum notes that “patient suffering of disease or injury was a major way for
gaining sanctity.”
6
Such views are exemplified in the Ancrene Wisse, where the author suggests
that worldly suffering allows one to be a “martyr's equal.”
7
Citing Aelred of Rivaulx’s severe
arthritis as an example, Metzler claims sickness or impairment sometimes connotes holiness. She
also cites the case of Alpais of Cudot, who became paralyzed and bedridden, immobile, for about
a year. During her sleep and her enforced bedrest she had religious visions, and became known
as a holy woman. Metzler attributes her elevated status to the medieval privileging of the vita
contemplativa over the vita activa.
8
5
Ibid.
6
In Holy Feast and Holy Fast, Caroline Walker Bynum notes that this sanctity was for “females
but not males.” In fact, “women’s illness was to be endured, not cured” (199).
7
Metzler, 47.
8
Metzler, 48.
141
This belief was so widespread that, as Bynum argues, “many holy women desired to be
ill.”
9
Bynum includes Villana de Botti, Gertrude of Helfta, Beatrice of Nazareth, and Margaret
of Ypres as women who prayed for infirmities, or resisted cures. In fact, she notes that Dauphine
of Puimichel (d. 1360) “even suggested that if people knew how useful diseases were for self-
discipline, they would purchase them in the marketplace.”
10
As Bynum notes, Julian falls into
this camp, having requested an illness unto death long before her actual illness set in. However,
Julian did not request such an illness in order to bring on her visions, or make herself holy per se.
Instead, she requested the illness to be “purged by the mercy of God” (LT 2.25).
Mechtild of Magdeburg
In order to set Julian into historical context, I will examine her work in the context of the
visionary vernacular writings of Mechthild of Magdeburg, a beguine visionary who wrote in
Middle Low German, but whose text was translated into Latin in 1290 by Dominican friars.
Although there is no evidence that this work reached Norwich, or that Julian would have been
able to read it if it did, it is possible that its ideas reached her through the many Dominican friars
and other monks living in Norwich with whom it is likely that she conversed.
11
In any event,
9
In fact, Bynum shows that vast majority of those who suffered for their sanctity were women:
“women account for only 17.5% of those canonized in the later Middle Ages, but they account
for 53.2% of those Saints in whose lives patient pairing of infirmity was the central factor in
reputation for sanctity” (199-200).
10
Bynum 200. Bynum shows that “Villana de’ Botti refused prayers for relief of sickness;
Gertrude of Helfta embraced headaches as a source of grace; Beatrice of Nazareth, who desired
the torments of illness, was healed almost against her wishes; Margaret of Ypres so desired to
join with Christ's suffering that she prayed for her infirmities to last beyond the grave" (200).
11
It is generally accepted that copies of texts traveled within the monastic networks. In other
words, Dominicans loaned books to other Dominicans. In addition, there is substantial evidence
that the Dominican friary in Norwich was large and highly influential. Its ruins are about a ten-
minute walk from Julian’s cell. Many scholars agree that it is likely that Julian had extensive
contact with these friars (Janzen 19). Further, McGinn asserts that “there is evidence that there
were many, even among the male masters “wise in scripture,” who accepted the claims of these
women” [that their revelations constituted a form of scripture] (Flowering 226). The prologue to
Footnote continued on next page
142
Mechtild’s texts provide a background for scholars to understand the issues of illness, pain and
God’s absence in Julian’s texts.
Known only by her writings, Mechthild wrote The Flowing Light of the Godhead (Das
fliessende Lichte der Gottheit) between 1250 and 1280. According to Bernie McGinn, “modern
views of Mechtild’s life waver between the Scylla of uncritical acceptance of the literal truth of
the supposed autobiographical passages found in The Flowing Light and the Charybdis of
positions that see these descriptions as an imaginative presentation of an ideal female religious”
(222). Although one should beware of recounting aspects of Mechthild’s life that are colored by
traditional topoi, McGinn concludes that “there is no good reason to doubt the basic historicity of
the picture we are given in The Flowing Light” (222). Based on Mechthild’s writing, we know
that she was born about 1208, and began to receive visions around the age of twelve. Around
1230, she became a beguine, living in the beguine community in Magdeburg. In Magdeburg,
Mechthild became associated with the Dominicans—Heinrich Halle, her Dominican confessor
encouraged and helped Mechthild to write her book (222).
The Flowing Light is comprised of seven books that encompass genres as diverse as love
poetry, autobiography, dialogue, vision recital, and theological and philosophical treatise. In
fact, Frank Tobin claims that Mechthild “wrote a book whose paradoxical nature is that its unity
consists, in part, in its diversity of forms.”
12
Through this diversity of genres, Mechthild explores
issues of God’s love and humanity’s response in ways quite similar to Julian’s own exploration.
Ironically, in an apophatic move not uncharacteristic of the best mystical writers, Mechthild
Footnote continued from previous page
the Latin translation of Mechtild’s book includes an analysis typical of those used by
contemporary magistri in their biblical expositions (226).
12
Frank Tobin, “Introduction” The Flowing Light p. 11.
143
finds God to be most present within the depths of His absence.
13
McGinn reports that the
Dominican friars of the Halle community translated the first six (of the seven) books of
Mechthild’s work into Latin, “thus giving Mechthild’s work the privilege of being one of the
first major vernacular texts to be rendered into the universal language of theology and
spirituality.”
14
Most scholars now agree that Mechthild’s writings, along with other beguine
writings, influenced the great Dominican mystical theologian Meister Eckhart. McGinn develops
this theory in his book, Meister Eckhart and the Beguine Mystics. Amy Hollywood also develops
this line of thinking in The Soul as Virgin Wife.
Julian and Mechthild
Although scholars previously have not connected Julian to the continental visionary
literature tradition, and have done little work comparing Julian with the Beguines, Julian and
Mechthild nevertheless share many commonalities. For example, within the medieval
hierarchical religious structure, Mechthild and Julian both occupy a liminal space, outside the
formal church hierarchy, yet firmly within a recognized religious movement. While Mechthild
was a beguine, living alone yet within the recognized confines of a beguine establishment in
Magdeburg, Julian was an anchoress, living alone in a cell attached to St. Julian’s church, yet
within the recognized role such anchoresses played. Influenced by those who sought to live the
Vita Apostolica and by male reluctance to establish sister orders for their monasteries (resulting
13
Amy Hollywood observes this theme in Mechtild and comments with regard to the loss of the
soul’s will: “Mechtild emphasizes the experience of love and of suffering and the absence of the
divinity that brings about this loss of self will. The disinterested love of the soul God can be
brought about only through a radical experience of his absence” (Virgin Wife 9).
14
McGinn, Flowering 223.
144
in reduced access to convents),
15
beguines “set themselves apart from the world by living
austere, or, chaste lives in which manual labor and charitable service were joined to worship.”
16
Yet, even though set apart, it is clear that beguines lived lives enmeshed in their communities,
caring for the sick and poor.
17
Although Julian lived in a very different circumstance, her living situation and identity
were similarly liminal. Anchoresses, although sanctioned by their local bishop, had no formal
religious order and no formal structure linking them to each other.
18
Whereas it is believed that
most followed the Ancrene Wisse as a guideline, they nevertheless did not live under a formal
rule.
19
Further, even though their vows, unlike begine vows, were supposedly irrevocable, there
were instances of anchoresses who left their calling. Like the beguines who were set apart, yet
lived active lives in an urban environment, Julian’s anchorhold, although “a space apart, is a
space located centrally in a commercially vibrant city.”
20
Unlike a monastery, which has
resources for intellectual development (a library and community of thinkers), together with a
built in audience of readers of spiritual material, Julian’s anchorhold lacks both resources and
readers “and so demands openness to other spaces than its own.” Accordingly, as Turner
concludes, “an anchorhold is liminal space, space outside boundaries and between them.”
21
15
Bynum provides a detailed description of the religious movements that rose up around the Vita
Apostolic as well as the monastic reluctance to take on females within their orders in Holy Feast,
Holy Fast, pages 15-17.
16
Bynum 17.
17
Simon 76.
18
Jantzen 9, 28.
19
Jantzen 42.
20
Denys Turner, in his book, Julian of Norwich, Theologian, asserts Julian’s liminality both as
an anchoress and as a woman writer writing in the vernacular (Turner 14-15).
21
Turner 14.
145
Within their respective liminal spaces, Mechthild and Julian are both first ladies of letters
who made the radical choice of writing in the vernacular. Mechthild’s text is the first work of
visionary mysticism in German, whereas Julian’s is the first known work in English by a woman.
Moreover, McGinn characterizes Mechthild’s work as one of the first major vernacular texts of
mysticism (223). Similarly, Julian’s text is one of the first major works of mysticism in the
English language. Turner explains that Julian’s choice of writing in the vernacular for the
common church is itself remarkable: “for in the history of the Western church, a theological
treatise… explicitly addressed to any and all Christians is not the norm, at any rate not since the
time when Latin was itself the vernacular” (14). Mechthild and Julian’s writing projects share
many other similarities, despite the gap of geography and nearly 100 years of time.
22
Both
utilize the humility topoi, and make clear that their writing was commanded by God
23
. “Writing
is not only an approved activity for Mechthild, then, but one demanded by the divine. She must
write; she cannot be silent about the wonders with which love occupies her” (Hollywood 2).
Mechthild claims:
Then he gave me a command that often makes me ashamed and causes me to weep
because my other unworthiness is obvious to my eyes; that is, he commanded me, a
frail woman, to write this book out of God’s heart and mouth. And so this book has
come lovingly from God and does not have its origins in human thought.
22
The gap of geography is not very wide, considering Norwich was a constant trading partner
with the low countries during the relevant time period. Further, if one considers that Mechtild
wrote into the 1280’s, and Julian was born only 60 years later, it is entirely possible that
Mechtild’s book had reached Norwich by the time Julian was writing.
23
“Mechtild uses the humility topoi of Christian literature to their advantage, for God argues that
his glory is mournfully displayed to her lowliness them (?) through the wise" (Hollywood 1).
Julian, on the other hand, contends that she is weak, feeble, and on learned, in the short text. By
the time that she writes the long text, Julian still claims the humility topos; however, at this point,
she simply claims that she is unlettered.
146
(144).
24
In Julian’s case, even though she contends that she is weak, feeble, and unlearned (in
the short text) and unlettered (in the long text), she feels compelled to share the visions with her
“even-Christians” because God intended the visions for Christians beyond Julian herself.
Further, it is clear that both visionary writers intend their work for a wide audience. Even
though Mechtild’s work appears personal, focusing on intimate visions, including a distinctly
sexual metaphor for union with Christ, it is nevertheless clear that Mechthild envisages wider
distribution. Mechthild writes in opening the book, “This book I hereby send as a messenger to
all religious people, both the bad and the good.”
25
Similarly, for Julian, even though her book
recounts in personal detail her near-death experience and the attendant visions, her book is
intended for a wide audience of Julian’s even-Christians.
26
Julian hopes that “alle my evencristen
had seen as I saw” (171). Moreover, like Julian, Mechtild makes clear that she never asked for a
vision: “God himself is my witness that I never in will or desire asked him to give me these
things that are written in this book” (139). Julian, similarly, states that she did not ask for a
vision beyond her desire to understand Christ’s passion: “Other sight nor shewing of God desired
I never none til whan the soule were deperted from the body…” (127).
27
24
Mechtild continues with the humility topos in Book IV, section 13 of which the heading is:
“The Text of this Book is Seen, Heard and Felt in all Members.” In this section, Mechtild states:
“I do not know how to write, nor can I, unless I see with the eyes of my soul and here with the
ears of my eternal spirit and feel in all parts of my body the power of the holy spirit” (156).
25
In fact, the prologue suggests that Mechtild’s book is a new vernacular Bible similar to the
revelation made to Paul resulting in his letters in the New Testament (33).
26
The dissemination of spiritual texts in English to a wide audience is a relatively recent
phenomenon when Julian is writing. Prior to Julian’s time, most spiritual texts were written for a
specific and small audience. For example, the Ancrene Wisse was written for sisters who were
anchoresses. Many of Richard Rolle’s works were similarly restricted in their audience.
27
This denial of a request for vision on the part of both Mechtild and Julian can be explained by
the visionary tradition of the time, which established a hierarchy of visions. The most valued
visions were visions that were spontaneous and not requested. In lesser order of visions were
visions that were requested by the recipient from God (Newman, Barbara. “What Did It Mean To
Say ‘I Saw’? The Clash between Theory and Practice In Medieval Visionary Culture.” Speculum
Footnote continued on next page
147
Interestingly, Mechthild also expresses a wish from her girlhood, not unlike Julian’s three
wishes. Mechthild recounts that despite her having been a favorite among her relatives and
friends, “long before this I had had the desire to be despised through no fault of my own” (140).
It was this wish that prompted Mechtild to move to Magdeburg, “a town where no one was my
friend except for one person” (140). God did not abandon her there, but instead, allowed her to
“experience such delightful sweetness, such holy knowledge, and such incomprehensible
wonders that [she] found little enjoyment in earthly things” (140). Julian’s girlhood wishes for a
first-hand experience of Christ’s passion, a longing for sickness unto death that would happen at
the age of 30, and a three-part wish for contrition, compassion and longing for God, which seems
illogical to today’s way of thinking, are not unlike Mechtild’s similarly illogical desire to be
despised (125-27).
28
Mechthild and Pain, Illness and God’s Absence
Scholars have long noted the significance of the female body to Mechthild’s texts.
29
Although the body can function as a source of spiritual nourishment,
30
more often it seems to be
Footnote continued from previous page
80, 2005, pp. 8-10). Further down the list were visions that appeared in dreams. For example,
Julian’s vision of the devil appears to her in a dream: “this ugly shewing was made sleping, and
so was none other” (333). Watson comments: “dreams were usually thought less authoritative
than waking visions, partly because they were more easily infiltrated by demons” (332).
28
“Which creature desired before the giftes by the grace of God. The first was mind of the
passion. The second was bodily sicknes. The thurde was to have of Godes gifte thre woundes”
(125).
29
For example, in “Renegotiating the Body of the Text: Mechthild Von Magdeburg's
Terminology of the Sublime” Amiri Ayana argues that the body itself becomes a narrative device
in Mechthild’s text. Exemplaria, 12/2008, Volume 20, Issue 4. In addition, Emily Hunter
McGowin examines passages which involve the body and pain in her article, “Eroticism and
Pain in Mechthild of Magdeburg's The Flowing Light.” New Blackfriars, Volume 92, Issue
1041, 09/2011,
30
Mechthild’s refers to her breasts flowing with milk, mixing with the blood flowing from
Christ’s wounds in an image of flowing love (I.22, p. 51), as argued by Michelle Voss Roberts in
Footnote continued on next page
148
an impediment to Mechthild’s spiritual progress. In Mechthild’s discussion of the soul as
Christ’s bride, the body is cast as the “beast of burden” and is “bridled with worthlessness;
contempt is its fodder and its stable is confession” (Mechthild Book I.46, p. 64). Sara S. Poor
notes that in a vision from Book II, Mechthild’s body is “weak and unworthy,” yet Mechthild’s
desire to attend mass “outweighs her weak or polluted physical state.”
31
In Book II, God even
questions Mechthild’s devotion to her body, saying that she is “more concerned about that
mongrel body of yours than about Jesus” (Book II.23, p. 87).
For Mechthild, one of the body’s primary functions is to serve as the repository of the
pain caused by God’s absence. Amy Hollywood explains the origins of this phenomenon. In
contrast to the Hebrew God, who was absent from humanity, the Christian God is present in the
body of Christ and the materiality that surrounds Christian ritual and practice. However, for the
medieval Christian mystics who, despite God’s presence, experienced His absence, they
experienced this absence as injury and pain in their bodies. “From Christian thinkers, with
apparently unshakable belief in the existence of God and of Christ, come accounts of suffering
caused by the dissimilarity between the believer and God, experienced as the absence of the
loved object.”
32
Hollywood goes on to explain the apophatic dimension of this dilemma. “The
products of material culture, moreover, from language to images political systems, despite their
value, are incapable of attaining the perfection the divine demands. All language falls short of
naming the divine, all images and concepts are but pale reflections of its glory, and all human
Footnote continued from previous page
her article “Flowing and Crossing: The Somatic Theologies of Mechthild and Lalleśwarī,”
Journal of the American Academy of Religion, Vol. 76, issue 3, p. 638-663.
31
Sara S. Poor, Mechthild of Magdeburg and Her Book, p. 59.
32
Amy Hollywood, The Soul as Virgin Wife, p. 15.
149
culture is tainted by the dissimilarity from that perfection.”
33
Accordingly, Hollywood argues,
the Christian body itself carries the mark of the problem presented by the absence of God. As
Hollywood claims, an examination of pain and absence is a framework that works well to
elucidate Mechthild’s text.
There can be no doubt that Mechthild experiences God’s absence as suffering. In Book
VII, section 8, Mechthild describes a vision and comments on the pain one experiences when
“God chooses to withdraw from someone”:
“Lord, my suffering is deeper than the abyss.
My heart’s anguish extends outward wider than the world.
My fear is larger than the mountains.
My longing is higher than the stars.
Nowhere in these things can I find you”
(Mechthild VII.8, p. 282).
Clearly, God’s absence alone can cause suffering. In a vision, Mechthild describes experiencing
God’s presence in such an intense (and arguably sexual) way that she longs for death so that she
can continue the experience. She asks God if he is going to receive her soul tomorrow, now that
she has received His “holy body.” He replies, “No…you are to become richer still in suffering”
(VII.8, p. 283). Two angels then appear to explain further God’s meaning. “We shall bring you
from suffering to suffering, from virtue to virtue, from knowledge to knowledge, from love to
love” (VII.8, p. 283). For Mechthild, suffering brings virtue, and virtue brings knowledge. Thus,
the pain of God’s absence allows Mechthild to advance spiritually.
33
Id.
150
In Book VI, section 14, entitled, “Those who Complain in Suffering Lack Six Things;
How One Should Bear Sickness and Contempt,” Mechthild makes clear that patient forebearance
of illness inures to one’s spiritual benefit.
Whoever in pain complains of his burdens / is either blind in knowledge /
or spineless in forbearance. / His love has grown old / and he is jaded in virtue, /
or his mind is dull / And blunt as to good words. For this reason our Lord said:
‘this person does not want to be sick and does not want to be scorned. What, then,
shall I use as the foundation of his glory?’ ‘Lord, when a person is sick and scorned,
how can he then increase your glory?’ ‘When he is sick, he should honor, serve and
love me alone with cheerful forbearance … It is an enhancement of their glory’
(Mechthild VI.14, pp. 240-41).
Mechthild emphasizes the transformative potential of pain and illness when facing God’s
absence. In Mechthild’s poem, Christ suggests that if the bride allows Lady Pain to be her
messenger, and remain “well-bred and prudent” in the face of such pain, then Christ will
embrace the bride and give her “union with my heart” (155). Thus, if one can accept pain and
God’s absence patiently and calmly, then one will be rewarded with Christ’s presence. Further,
Mechthild emphasizes, pain can be transformative. Lady Pain tells the bride, “Lord, I make many
blessed and yet am not blessed myself, and I consume many a holy body and yet myself am evil,
and I lead many to heaven and yet do not enter it myself” (155). In other words, Mechthild sees
Lady Pain’s power to elevate, to make many “blessed” and even to lead many to heaven, or in
Julian’s words, to make one’s soul rise.
Even though the bride remains in pain, she embraces it, together with God’s absence for
their transformative powers. She says “Ah, blessed estrangement from God, how bound I am to
151
you in love! You strengthen my will in pain and make pleasant for me the difficult long wait in
this miserable body” (156). Through the pain of estrangement, the bride is strengthened and
made better able to tolerate life in the body. Yet, contradictions abound in this poetic text. The
next line highlights the bride’s inability to sink away from God: “Oh Lord, in the depths of pure
humility I cannot sink away from you; alas in pride I easily stray from you!” (156).
Nevertheless, ultimately sinking and absence win the day--Mechthild closes this poetic passage
with the couplet: “but the deeper I sink, the sweeter I drink” (156). Clearly, for Mechthild,
God’s absence causes her pain yet, at the same time, the pain is transformative for her. Through
this pain, Mechthild finds God in the absence; God becomes present to her in a way that is
unexpected and yet meaningful.
Mechthild also embraces the theme of illness and pain as God’s tool for spiritual
advancement. In Book VI, Mechthild complains to God about a particular “religious person who
causes me much distress because of her contrary disposition” (VI. 7, 233). God shows
Mechthild that there was a “special devil” clinging to this person which was “pulling her away
from all good things.” Mechthild is then told that the person’s own free will was allowing this
devil to remain attached to her. In response to Mechthild’s plea to God to change the person’s
“attitude with Divine sweetness,” God replies,
“No,” said our Lord, “she is not worthy of my sweetness. Instead, I shall make her
body sick, and the pain will so paralyze her that only with great difficulty will she
continue on her sinful path. And, I shall striker her dumb, that she will no utter
spiteful words. She shall also become so blind that she will be ashamed to see
frivolity”
152
Thus, for Mechthild, illness, blindness and dumbness are not punishment for sin, but can be gifts
from God to change one from being sinful. Apparently, God’s plan to change this person’s
attitude with illness took place. Mechthild reports: “Fourteen days later this actually happened.
Alleluia” (Mechthild VI. 7, p. 234).
Suffering plays a prominent role in Book VI, section 20, titled: “This Book Came About
out of a Threefold Favor; Love flows, it is Rich and Full of Desire, It Becomes Sick; Who
Possesses Heaven; God Bestows Suffering and Consolation as Well.” In this book, Mechthild
links suffering to the absence of God, and vice versa--absence is linked to suffering as well. The
“threefold manner” in which God has bestowed divine favor includes: “first and foremost, with
great tenderness; then, with sublime intimacy; and now, with intense suffering” (249). Of
course, the tenderness and intimacy represent God’s presence. And, suffering is linked once
again with God’s absence. At times, God is the cause of this absence: “Oh, you are terribly
inconstant” (249). Yet, at other times, humans are the cause of God’s absence, not God: “and,
alas, sometimes love of God becomes so weak from the base sweetness of empty honor, from
swollen pride and from the loathsome frenzy of anger and from the unchecked desires for the
things of this world that it becomes paralyzed in all its members” (249). Yet Mechthild makes
clear that one need not remain in the state of God’s absence. By removing oneself from the
pleasures of the world, one can return to him through suffering. And, even though he is absent in
this suffering, “God cannot restrain himself – – and we cannot do without it – – from giving us
his abundance and his favor for everything we do, refrain from doing, and suffer” (249). Thus,
even though we suffer in his absence, God nevertheless consoles us.
153
Absence and Presence in Mechthild’s Texts
Recent theorizing on the play of absence and presence of God sees the origin of such play
residing in the biblical text Song of Songs.
34
Hollywood notes that “the problem of God’s
absence continues [for Christian believers], perhaps especially among those who claim to have
experienced the divine essence in extraordinary ways. The popularity of the Song of Songs as an
allegory of the relationship of the church or the soul and the divine points to the central quality of
the problematic interplay of Christ’s presence and absence.”
35
As discussed above, it is the
perception of God’s absence which causes Mechthild pain and illness. However, as Hollywood
points out, this absence can be particularly poignant for someone like Mechthild, or Julian, who
have experienced God’s presence in such somatic ways.
Denys Turner also focuses his analysis of the play of absence and presence on the Song
of Songs. Turner sees the Song of Songs as a vehicle that facilitates apophatic discourse in that
the erotic language used therein pushes the language for the love of God to the limit. In Eros and
Allegory, Turner notes that the Song of Songs, “when it is distanced from the carnal meaning of
the Song, its eroticism could be, not only a safe, but even apt, vehicle for the personal expression
of his [the exegete’s] love for God” (163). Thus, Turner views this use of erotic language as “the
perfect expression of the interplay between the positive and negative language that is found in
mystical texts” (Mysticism 95). While he emphasizes that such positive and negative statements,
or statements of presence and absence, should be taken together, Turner sees this interplay as
34
In Christian Mysticism, An Introduction to Contemporary Theoretical Approaches, the authors
note that performative language readings treat the play of absence and presence, especially the
interaction between similarity and difference, as an apophatic realisation of the unknowability of
God. They consider the interplay of opposites that this brings about to be a reflection of the game
of love that The Song of Songs engenders” (95).
35
Hollywood, Virgin Wife 15.
154
apophatic (95). Thus, both commentators see the interplay of absence and presence to be a means
of expression for humanity’s relationship with God. Although neither Mechtild nor Julian make
specific reference to the Song of Songs, and Julian uses little, if any, erotic language in her work,
both texts display a marked exploration of the interplay of God’s absence and presence.
Outside the context of erotic language, two scholars have set forth their own theorizing of
“the play of absence and presence” in an introduction to an article on Julian. Vincent Gillespie
and Maggie Ross claim that “the play of absence and presence characterizes the human
experience of engagement with the ineffable” (53). They set this “search for the Transcendental
Signified which is God” within the context of a fallen will and a fallen language which is
anchored in a world of “signifiers;” thus, “any speech about God is a speech about an absence”
(53).
Ross and Gillespie go on to discuss the intersection of language theory and apophatic
theology: “the desire to escape from the prison-house of language, and from the flickering play
of signification is fundamental to apophatic theology” (54). In a sense, a move toward the
apophatic is a move away from powers of the mind; accordingly, an apophatic image “tend[s]
toward the paradoxical” (57). An apophatic image allows layers of meanings to rest on a single
image, which then allow for the generation of productive paradoxes within the same signifier
(57). For Mechtild, as well as Julian, paradoxes abound as each writer attempts to wrestle with
images that are multivalent—absence and presence is often expressed within the same image, or
within the same stanza of text. Moreover, in the depths of paradox, for both writers, consolation
occurs, seeing is made possible, and the soul rises.
155
For Mechtild, the interplay of absence and presence expresses her relationship with God.
As Hollywood has observed in her discussion of mystics in general, Mechtild’s profound
experience of God’s presence is accompanied by accounts of suffering upon his perceived
absence. Moreover, Mechtild uses erotic language to emphasize the nearness of his presence.
36
Yet, Mechtild finds a deep connection to God despite his absence, and perhaps even because of
it. Although earlier in her writings Mechtild regards God’s absence as “anguish beyond human
dying / and beyond the torments of hell” (II 2), Mechtild learns to regard God’s absence as not
only a means for the soul to mature, but a means of connection as well.
37
Even though Mechtild
finds connection with God initially in his flowing down to her, McGinn points out that “the
closest form of union with God in this life, paradoxical as it may seem, will be through imitating
God and Christ in ‘flowing down’ or ‘sinking’ away from ecstasy into pain, humility, and even
into estrangement from God (gotesvremedunge/verworfenheit)” (240).
The interplay of absence and presence is best captured in an extended section of poetic
dialogue set forth in Book 4, section 12.
38
The heading of this section is: “How a Bride who is
United with God Rejects Consolation from All Creatures Except for That from God Alone, and
How She Sinks into Pain” (152). In this dialogue, the characters include “God’s bride,” “the
36
Many scholars have commented on Mechtild’s use of sexual imagery and erotic language to
express union with God. See, e.g., McGinn: “Mechtild's mastery of the language of love marks
her out as one of the premier voices in the history of the erotic mysticism in Christianity”
(Flowering 239).
37
In his introduction, Frank Tobin notes that Mechtild speaks of “sinking humility" and
“estrangement" as essential to her relationship with God. Tobin observes that sinking humility
allows Mechtild to “explore and value another dimension of divine love” (17). Tobin goes on to
note that “only in experiencing all aspects of God's love can the soul attain maturity.” As a result,
Mechtild accepts this “deepest point" as an integral part of her life and even seeks it (17-18).
38
Although McGinn does not identify this chapter as indicative of Mechtild’s interpretation of
absence and presence, he nevertheless cites it as an example of Mechtild’s “sinking humility,”
which involves a sinking away from God, and thereby, his absence (240).
156
creatures,” God and Lady Pain. The dialogue charts the bride’s spiritual growth as she is initially
devastated over the loss of her lover (God), but develops spiritual maturity as she finds
consolation in his absence.
39
I will discuss this dialogue at length to develop the themes of the
interplay of absence and presence, as well as the transformative potential of pain. At first, the
bride expresses despair over God’s absence:
So speaks God’s bride who has taken her rest in the sealed treasury of the holy
complete Trinity: “Oh get up and depart from me all of you creatures! You cause
me pain and you are not able to console me.”
The creatures say: “Why?”
The bride says: “my love left me as I slept, as I was resting in oneness with him”
(Mechthild IV.12, p. 152).
The bride experiences pain as a result of her lover’s absence, even though she projects the cause
of her pain onto the creatures instead of on her absent lover—God.
In confronting her pain, the bride sees that she cannot be consoled with the things of this
earth, nor with the things in heaven. Without God, she is inconsolable. Yet, the bride eventually
comes to terms with her pain. She realizes that she is content without His consolation. She says
to God “no, dear Lord, do not elevate me so much,” She sees herself as an unworthy soul when
she exclaims, “It’s much too good for me in the lowest part; for your honor’s sake I am quite
39
Tobin notes that for Mechtild, sinking humility is accompanied by estrangement, which
Mechtild describes in detail in Book IV, section 12. Tobin observes that although the soul
initially despairs over God's absence, she later embraces it. "In a transvaluation of values
incomprehensible to reason and categorized as an abnormality by human science, the soul
rejoices in its desolation finding that ‘gall has become honey for the palate of my soul’”
(Introduction 18). Tobin goes on to note "to estrangement is added pain, but this only increases
the soul’s joy: ‘the deeper I sink,/the sweeter I drink’" (IV 12).
157
happy always to remain there” (153). She goes on to note “then the poor wretch sank down
among those suspended and among the damned souls, and she thought this was too good.” She
continues sinking away from God. Then our Lord says, “how long do you want to be here?” The
bride says, “oh, leave me, dear Lord and let me sink further for your honor” (154). The bride
sinks so low, apart from God, that both her body and soul enter into a great darkness where she
loses knowledge of light and knows nothing of God’s intimacies. She is even removed from
God’s love.
Up to this point, Mechthild has been able to maintain authorial distance. She has not
inserted herself into this dialogue, but has maintained that the dialogue is between “the bride”
and God. Yet, this distance ruptures as the bride confronts disbelief, which “envelop[s] her
completely in such great darkness” (154). Even in this darkness, however, the Trinity reminds
her of his concern for her by helping her to remember her experiences with him. The father of
heaven tells her, “remember what you experienced and what you saw while there was nothing
between you and me.” The son said, “remember what your body suffered from my pain.” It
becomes clear that the bride is Mechtild when the Holy Spirit reminds her: “remember what you
wrote,” given that Mechtild is the writer, and there is no evidence that the bride wrote anything
(154).
After this rupture of the narrative line, “the bride” experiences “constant estrangement”
from God. Yet despite this estrangement, “the bride” finds that she is connected to God more
than ever. Mechtild develops her sexual metaphor by exclaiming to God: “you should take
158
delight from me and let me have estrangement from you” (154).
40
The interplay of presence and
absence is complete as the bride acknowledges “for now God is strangely with me, now his
estrangement from me is more welcome to me than he is himself.” Even though “the bride”
knows that God will console her in the depths of her estrangement she tells him, “remember
Lord who I am and avoid me.” Mechtild continues the sexual metaphor here by having God
respond to the soul’s protestations as follows, “Grant me this: that I might cool the heat of my
Godhead, the longing of my humanity, and the pleasure of my Holy Spirit in you.”
41
To this, the
bride replies, “yes Lord, but in such a way that is only good for you and not for me” (155).
At this point, just as the bride experiences physical pain, Lady Pain enters into the
conversation. She serves as a connection between the bride and Christ as he recognizes Lady
Pain as “the garment I wore next to my skin on earth” (155). Lady Pain also serves as a
transformative and potentially sanctifying aspect of divine intersection with this life, a theme
which Julian takes up as well. Like many other holy women, Julian herself requests an illness
unto death as one of her three wishes, which will be discussed later in this chapter.
The interplay of absence and presence remains a continuous theme for Mechthild
throughout the rest of the Flowing Light of the Godhead. For example, in book V, section 30,
40
McGinn notes that: “language drawn from human sexual experience… is Mechtild's dominant
motif for union… Mechtild often suggests, if indirectly, sexual intercourse itself as the most
appropriate symbol” (238).
41
Here, God’s desire is pictured as Trinitarian—Father as Godhead, Son as humanity and Holy
Spirit as pleasure. McGinn addresses this Trinitarian eroticism: "if the most widespread form of
language Mechtild employees to sure union with God is erotic, we must remember that the God
with she unites is the committee, not just Christ, although obviously erotic imagery is more
easily and frequently used in relation to the God – man” (238).
159
Mechthild poetically contrasts God’s “embracing” presence with his devastating absence. Yet,
within this absence is a presence, at times instructing, at times consoling.
42
Ah, dear divine love, ever embrace my soul,
for it would murder me beyond all pain
If I were to be separated from you!
Ah Love, let me now not grow cold,
My actions are all dead
when I do not feel you.
O love, you cause sweet pain and distress;
You give the true children of God instruction and consolation (211).
The contradictions apparent in this passage, as the passage goes from “murder,” “pain” and
“distress” to “instruction” and “consolation,” are typical of the mystic who attempts to express
the paradoxical experience of God’s love. Use of contradictions such as these can be considered
to be apophatic in nature. It is as if there are no words that sufficiently describe this love—thus,
it is necessary to use contradictory terms.
43
Contradictory experiences of absence and presence continue within this poetic stanza:
Ah, lady love, throw me beneath you.
I would gladly suffer defeat.
If you would only take my life,
That would be, Lady, all my solace.
42
“If I were to be separated from you! / Ah Love, let me now not grow cold, / My actions are all
dead / when I do not feel you. / O love, you cause sweet pain and distress; You give the true
children of God instruction and consolation” (211).
43
Sells, 163.
160
Alas, generous divine love, you pamper me too much.
This shall be my constant compliant,
Love, your most elegant greeting
Has filled my spirit. (211-212).
Interestingly, Mechtild indicates here that God/Love is gendered female, which was a
bold, but not unusual, characterization for mystics of this period. Significantly, Julian also
genders Christ female in her discussion of Christ as mother (chapters 60-75 of the long text).
Setting the gender issue aside, in this section of the poem, Mechtild demonstrates the sweetness
of Love/God’s presence, as it pampers her and greets her elegantly. Paradoxically, the passage
also contains a sexual metaphor, which includes imagery of rape, as Mechthild envisions herself
thrown beneath Love, suffering defeat, and even giving her life.
44
Thus, Love’s presence is
sweet, but also overwhelming. Yet, within a couple of lines, the pain/pleasure of absence is
revisited:
Love, your constant devotion
Has brought me to such sweet distress.
O divine love, how can I be patient in your absence
If you want to be estranged from me?
Love, it is a blissful heavenly exhilaration
That your absence is so pleasant for me. (212).
Once more, paradox reigns supreme as love’s presence causes “sweet distress” while its absence
causes impatience as well as exhilaration.
44
This passage is even more paradoxical given that notwithstanding the rape metaphor, Love is
gendered female.
161
Despite the paradoxical nature of absence and presence, Mechtild ultimately makes some
sense of this interplay as she recognizes that spiritual maturity requires an accepting and
reconciled approach to this absence/presence paradox:
162
Love, your leaving and coming
Are equally welcome to the well ordered soul.
Love, you have worked that great miracle,
That God has performed with us in heartfelt love. (212).
Thus, for Mechthild, the well-ordered soul becomes accustomed to, and even welcomes, the
interplay of absence and presence. It is precisely this experience and pain of the interplay of
absence and presence that enables the soul to become well-ordered. Such is the miracle of
heartfelt love.
Julian and Illness, Pain and God’s Absence
As previously discussed illness, pain and absence connect for Julian within the context of
her visions. And, those visions depend on Julian’s initial deathbed illness. Ironically, Julian had
requested just such an illness prior to her illness, presumably when she was a girl. The anchoress
provides her readers with clear details of the illness for which she had petitioned God:
I would that that sicknes were so hard as to the death, that I might in that sicknes
undertake all my rightes of holy church, myself wening that I should die, and that all
creatures might suppose the same that saw me. For I would have no maner of
comforte of fleshly ne erthely life. In this sicknes I desired to have all maner of
paines, bodily and ghostly, that I should have if I should die, all the dredes and
tempests of fiends, and all maner of other paines, save the outpassing of the soule”
(LT 2.20-25).
163
For Julian, illness unto death assumes pain, both physical and spiritual. Julian would receive no
“comforte of …erthely life” in this illness, which seems to imply that Julian would receive no
comfort from God either. Accordingly, even in her prayers as a girl, Julian desired to confront
the experience of God’s absence, knowing that it would bring her illness and pain.
Like Mechthild, Julian compares “the absens of oure lorde” to pain, finding that life in
pain and God’s absence was “more than I might bere” (323). Julian focuses on her own pain,
which included “wretchednesse, sloth, and werinesse,” all of which dampened her desire to live.
In response to this, “oure curteyse lord ansered for comfort and patiens,” assuring Julian that she
shall be taken from her pain. Thus, the lord asks: “Why shulde it than agreven thee to suffer
awhile, sithen it is my wille and my wurshippe?” (323). This chapter begins a multi-chapter
rumination on pain and absence whereby Julian assures her readers that they should take pain
and woe lightly. In contrast to taking his “behestes and his comforting as largely and as mightly
as we may take them,” Julian claims that God wants her readers to “take our abidinges and our
disseses as lightly as we may take them, and set them at nought. For the lightlier that we take
them, and the lesse price that we set at them for love, the less pain shall we have in the feeling of
them and the more thanke and mede shalle we have for them” (327).
Thus, for Julian, the more lightly we take pain, the less we will experience it. Moreover,
if we can take pain lightly, we will be rewarded in heaven for having done so. And, as Julian has
made clear, the more we are rewarded, the more our soul will rise and we will be able to see.
Julian repeats this idea in the following chapter. After a long discussion about loving God and
having nothing to fear other than God, Julian returns to pain: “though we ben in so much paine,
wo and disese that us thinkith we can thinke right nought but that we are in or that we feele, as
soon as we may, passe we lightly over, and set we it at nought” (329). Julian then asks: “And
164
whi? For God will be knowen” (329). Julian asserts that if we can move through times of God’s
absence, God will show us his presence because God wants to be known.
Ironically, Julian gives this advice just as she fails to take it. In the chapter immediately
following the above chapters, Julian shares her own story of succumbing to God’s absence and
failing to take her pain lightly. She says: “But furst me behoveth to telle you as anenst my
febilnes, wretchedness, and blindness” (331). Julian shares that although she was very ill and in
great pain prior to the showings, as soon as the showings began, “sodeynly all my paine was
taken fro me” and she had no pain or disease as long as the showings were taking place. As soon
as the visions ended, she “saw no more” and felt that she could live longer. However, “anone,
my sickness came agene; furst in my hed, with a sounde and a dinne, and sodeynly all my body
was filled with sickness like it was before” (331). At this time, Julian could see no more, and
consequently, felt God’s absence: “I was as baren and as drye as I had never had comfort but
litille” (331). Significantly, in other places in Julian’s text, the words dry and barren are used in
connection with blindness and the inability to see.
45
Moreover, Julian utterly fails to follow the
advice she offered in the previous two chapters. She recounts that as a result of feeling dry and
barren, she “as a wrech morned and heved for feeling of my bodely paines and for failing of
comforte, gostly and bodily” (331). Thus, in the face of God’s absence, with no spiritual
“comforte,” Julian is consumed by her physical pain.
Significantly, it is at this point that Julian denies her visions. Julian tells the story of
being in this state when “a religious person” came to visit her and asked her “how I fared” (331).
45
In other places in Julian’s text, Julian notes that in order for the soul to be receptive to God’s
presence, and to see God, it must be made supple, a clear antonym to the terms of dry and barren
used here.
165
Julian denied the reality of her visions, and instead replied that she “had raved to day.” Although
the religious man laughed sincerely at Julian’s admission of raving, when she went on to
describe the visions, he took her very seriously and even marveled at her visions. Julian, then, is
deeply chagrined at her failure to take her visions seriously: “anone I was sore ashamed and
astoned for my rechelesnesse” (331).
46
Julian notes that because of “feling of a litille bodily
paine,” she doubted her vision, which she believed when it happened, and intended to believe for
the rest of her life, and perhaps beyond: “This I beleft sothfastly for the time that I saw him, and
so was than my wille and my mening ever for to do without end. But as a fole I let it passe from
my minde” (333). Thus, in this instance, pain truly rendered Julian unable to see in that she
allowed her visions to become invisible to herself. And contrary to Julian’s advice of the two
preceding chapters, Julian did not take her pain lightly. Instead she allowed it to prevent her
from experiencing God’s presence. Despite this lapse, however, God nevertheless does not
“leeve” her. As soon as Julian recognizes her lapse and is contrite over it,
47
God remains present
to her and she “leye stille tille night, trusting in his mercy” (333).
Following Julian’s experience of pain and absence, and after she is tested by a showing of
the devil, she focuses on her visions, and is greatly comforted by God’s presence. She reflects:
“I was brought to gret reste and peas, without sicknesse of body or drede of conscience” (335).
And, as happens so often with Julian, this presence is then accompanied by an ability to see:
“oure good lorde opened my gostely eye and shewde me my soule in the middes of my harte”
46
Watson states that “Julian’s denial of Christ here is treated as a serious sin in the rest of A
Revelation” (330). Julian says that her failure to take her visions seriously “was a gret sinne and
a gret unkindnesse” (333).
47
Julian considers going to confession over this sin, but thinks: “How shulde a preste believe
me? I beleved not oure lorde God” (333). However, Watson points out that “a ‘religious person’
just has” (332). Interestingly, this is Julian’s only consideration of confession or penance in
connection with this sin, or any others in the text.
166
(335). She goes on to describe how she saw Christ as sitting in the middle of the human soul,
ruling from there, and enjoying his creation without end. And, Julian, repeating her advice from
the earlier chapters, conveys God’s will to her readers by advising them not to dwell on their
pain and sorrows: “he wille that oure hartes be mightly raised above the depnesse of the erth and
alle vaine sorrowes, and enjoy in him” (337). Thus, Julian sees this showing as “a delectable
sight and a restfulle showing that is without ende” (337). Not only is this showing comforting in
this life, but “beholding” (contemplating) it while we are here is “fulle grete sped to us” (337).
In other words, by contemplating this vision, we will rise and be nearer to seeing the beatific
vision.
Absence and Presence in Julian’s Texts
These themes of the interplay of absence and presence, pleasure and suffering and the
transformative potential of pain have been highlighted because they recur in Julian’s text with
some frequency and prominence. Absence is quite literally what Julian cannot see. Yet, as it
does in Mechthild’s writings, absence in Julian’s text, together with the interplay of absence and
presence, takes on a paradoxical and often apophatic quality. Gillespie and Ross find “the play
of absence and presence so fundamental to mystical experience has its place in Julian’s visionary
universe” (59). While Gillespie and Ross focus on a number of images with apophatic
dimensions, e.g., the crown of thorns as an apophatic signifier (“with its apophatic centre
surrounded by the signs of human suffering”), they only skim the surface of Julian’s discussion
of the problem of absence. Instead of quoting one of Julian’s key passages on the interplay of
absence and presence, they paraphrase: “she has him, but wants him; the play of absence and
presence flickers between her bodily sight and her sense of something more beyond for which
she longs, but which she is prevented from seeing by the veil of blood and by her own blindness
167
and lack of wisdom…” (70). Although Gillespie and Ross’s article continues for seven more
pages, they do not discuss this passage further, nor do they discuss any other passages central to
Julian’s understanding of the interplay of absence and presence. However, Gillespie and Ross
point to the connection between absence and presence and lack of vision: “she is prevented from
seeing by the veil of blood and by her own blindness . . .” (70).
One feature of Julian’s “not seeing” involves the play of God’s absence and presence in
her text. For Julian, not seeing God—experiencing his absence, is as important as seeing Him.
The “not seeing” is, in some ways, more important than the seeing, because through “not seeing”
Him, Julian experiences the pain of God’s absence, which enables “our soul to rise” (272). This
play of absence and presence, of seeing and not seeing, reflects Julian’s endeavor of not merely
recording visions (seeing/presence) and the lack of visions (not seeing/absence) but of creating a
book that engages and elucidates the process of seeing itself.
As discussed above, Julian explores her ideas of absence and presence in terms of the
central trope of her text: seeing and not seeing. Julian’s first discussion of the interplay of
absence and presence is prompted by her first vision, where she requests more light to see, and is
told that she needs no more light. In response, she comments:
For I saw him and sought him. For we be now so blind and so unwise that we can
never seke God till what time that he of his goodnes sheweth him to us. . . . And thus
I saw him and sought him, and I had him and wanted him. And this is and should be
our comen working in this life, as to my sight. (159).
In Julian’s terms, God is present when she sees him and absent when she must seek him. Further,
Julian and her readers are dependent on him showing himself to them, due to their blindness (see
168
Chapter 3) and lack of wisdom. Finally, Julian experiences God’s interplay of absence and
presence as seeing and seeking, having and wanting. In this way, God’s absence and presence
work together to play a central role in our daily lives.
Julian goes on to deal with the problem of seeing and not seeing in terms of God showing
her his presence and absence. At first, Julian experiences a sensation of “supreme spiritual
delight”
48
of his presence:
And after this, he showed a sovereyne, gostely likinge in my soule. In this liking, I
was fulfillede of the everlasting sekernesse, mightily fastned without any painfulle
drede. This feling was so glad and so gostely that I was all in peese, in eese, and in
reste, that ther was nothing in erth that shulde have grieved me (175).
This vision was followed by Julian’s not seeing, but experiencing his absence:
This lasted but a while, and I was turned and left to myselfe in heviness and werines
of my life and irkenes of myselfe, that unneth I could have patience to live. There was
no comfort ne none eese to my feling. . . (175).
Thus, Julian is shown (or sees) his presence and then, does not see, but expereinces his absence.
This experience of presence and absence proceed to alternate in a repeating fashion over and
over: “now that one, now that other, diverse times, I suppose about twenty times” (177). This
experience was so dramatic that Julian concludes that in her time of joy, “I mighte have saide
with Sainte Paule: ‘Nothing shalle departe me fro the charite of Crist’” (177). Yet, in her time of
pain, she claims she might have said with Saint Peter: “Lord, save me, I perish” (177).
48
Watson note 1, Chapter 15 (174).
169
Julian is confident that this experience of the alternation of absence and presence was
meant as a lesson for her: “this vision was shewed me to lerne me at my understanding that it is
spedfulle to some soules to feele on this wise: sometime to be in comfort, and sometime to faile
and to be lefte to themselfe” (177). Like Mechtild’s text, where God’s absence, and the resulting
pain were profitable to one’s soul, God’s absence (to be left to oneself) is profitable to one’s soul
for Julian’s text as well. “And for profite of mans soule of man is somtime left to himselfe…”
(177). As shown in the last chapter, Julian’s notion of “spedfulle” and for “profite” of a soul is
close to the notion of that soul rising. The higher the soul rises, the closer it is to seeing God.
Thus, in this passage, Julian indicates that God’s absence can cause one’s soul to rise—to get
closer to seeing God. She contends that sin is not always the cause of God’s absence: “for in this
time, I sinned not werefor I shuld be left to myselfe, for it was so sodeynn” (177). Just as Julian
did not deserve to have the “blisseful feling,” she believes she did not deserve the woeful feeling
either. But, in the same way that God allows us to feel bliss, he also “suffereth us in wo
sometime, and both is one love” (177).
Thus, like Mechthild, Julian experiences the interplay of absence and presence. And, like
Mechthild, this play of absence and presence takes on an apophatic dimension as Julian’s text
embodies paradoxes and contradictions in its effort to describe the indescribable. Moreover,
pain in Julian’s text functions much like pain in Mechthild’s text—it is connected with God’s
absence yet can be elevating to the soul. However, Julian’s text differs from Mechthild’s in one
great respect: God’s absence is further connected to not seeing, whereas God’s presence is linked
to the ability to see. In this way, Julian’s text becomes not only a visionary text, but a manual on
the process of seeing itself.
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Section Three:
Blindness and Sin—Julian and the English Christian Mystics
In this last section, I will discuss Julian and the limits on her vision within the context of
the English Christian mystics, a vernacular tradition in which most scholars include Julian.
Among contemporaries in this tradition who may have influenced Julian are Richard Rolle,
Walter Hilton, the Cloud author and Margery Kempe.
1
Their work might have impacted her
viewpoint in two significant ways. First, the English Christian mystics share a focus on spiritual
blindness. For Rolle, blindness is an impediment to seeing God, whereas for the Cloud author,
blindness is an apophatic way to approach God. Despite clear differences between Rolle and the
Cloud author, aspects of Julian’s thought align with both Rolle and the Cloud. Second, sin plays
a prominent role in these works. In Julian’s visions, sin serves a threefold function. One—it is
something that Julian cannot see, even though she asks to see it. Two—for Julian, sin is caused
by spiritual blindness. Three—despite sin’s deleterious effects, sin can allow one’s soul to rise
higher than it ever would without sin. While some of Julian’s views on sin are unique, others are
similar to those of Walter Hilton. Thus, Hilton will provide an interesting context for reading
Julian because his work both parallels and contrasts her point of view.
Although Julian’s outlook mirrors some of these works, in other respects, it seems as if
she is writing against the prevailing view of the time. In any case, the English Christian mystics
appear to have shaped Julian’s views on blindness, sin and their limits on vision. Of course, it is
impossible to prove whether Julian was exposed to these texts. As Denise Baker points out in
1
Margery Kempe’s book was written around the time of Julian’s death and would not have been
an influence on Julian. However, Margery herself spent a couple of days with Julian, which she
records in her book. Thus, her ideas could have influenced Julian even if her book didn’t.
171
“Julian of Norwich and the Varieties of Middle English Mystical Discourse,” difficult issues
persist when attempting to discern if, and to what extent, Julian was influenced by her
contemporaries.
2
Not only do the English Christian mystics have common views because they
share Christianity as a whole, with its common beliefs and vocabulary, but the issues are further
complicated by “the various strands of the contemplative tradition [which] are so complex and
interwoven” (54). Baker accedes that it is possible that Julian knew of Rolle, Hilton and the
Cloud author’s work, since the three wrote works guiding religious or recluses such as Julian.
3
However, Baker argues that “chronological and textual evidence make it very difficult to
ascertain whether Julian of Norwich knew the works of her male counterparts.”
4
Baker goes on
to argue that Julian’s texts differ strongly from the others. Baker concludes that, with respect to
Julian’s “assumptions about the nature of God and of humankind’s relationship to the divine,”
Julian’s texts are singular.
5
In the two following chapters, I will present ways that I agree and disagree with Baker on
pertinent issues. Baker’s argument focuses on the manner in which these works describe or see
God. In contrast, I will focus on the ways that God or sin cannot be seen or described. Although
it is impossible to prove a direct influence, there are certain unmistakable commonalities
between Julian, on the one hand, and Rolle, Hilton and the Cloud author on the other. There are
also points in which Julian differs so dramatically from these authors that it is as if she is refuting
their views. In any event, reading Julian together with the English Christian mystics is a logical
2
Baker’s chapter is collected in A Companion to Julian of Norwich, edited by Liz Herbert
McAvoy.
3
According to Watson, most Julian scholars now side with Nicholas Watson, who claims that
Julian was a Benedictine nun at Carrow Abbey before becoming an anchorite (Watson 9).
4
Baker, 55.
5
Id.
172
step as they provide a context in which to understand Julian’s work. In fact, Baker, in her book,
Julian of Norwich’s Showings, uses Rolle and Hilton to provide a context for her reading of
Julian. Further, scholars routinely group her with these authors.
The first chapter in this section (Chapter Five) will focus on spiritual blindness. In it, I
will compare Julian with Richard Rolle and the Cloud author. In his works, Rolle encourages
vivid imaginings of the Passion (much like Julian’s visions) yet juxtaposes those imaginings with
the concept of spiritual blindness and how it prevents him from seeing God.
6
Rolle argues that
spiritual blindness is caused by sin. In contrast, the Cloud author sees blindness as a means to
approach God. Although it may seem that Julian aligns more closely with Rolle, I will show
how she differs so sharply from him that she appears to be refuting his position on sin causing
blindness. Conversely, I will indicate how she shares significant ideas about blindness with the
Cloud author.
The second chapter in this section (Chapter 6) will examine Julian’s views on sin in the
context of her contemporary, Walter Hilton. Hilton’s conservatism extends not only to his
skeptical approach to visions in general, but to his damning opinion of sin. Hilton serves as an
example of the more representative views on sin in this time period. Although some of Julian’s
views support those of Hilton, other aspects of her work seem entirely unconventional.
6
Rolle, in exploring the depths of his sin notes that he becomes “as a blind creature” (119).
Rolle, Richard. The English Writings, ed. Allen, Rosamund. Paulist Press. NY (1988).
173
Chapter 5:
Julian, Blindness, Richard Rolle and the Cloud Author
Just as vision is a major theme in Julian’s texts, so too is blindness. Since spiritual
blindness signifies an inability to see God, it could be characterized as the equivalent of visual
apophaticism. Julian uses the trope of blindness to describe those times when she cannot see
God. She also uses the metaphor of blindness to explore the human condition—that state of
humanity, so far removed from God, that makes it impossible to see or understand Him.
Although blindness can be related to sin, it is not always caused by sin, as Julian makes clear.
Instead, it seems that blindness is simply a consequence of human limitations that can be
resolved only by divine intervention.
Blindness in the Middle Ages
Although blindness, both as a physical impediment and as a spiritual state, is a recurrent
theme in Scripture,
7
blindness gained even more importance in the Middle Ages. The medieval
meaning of blindness was complicated, and dependent on the cultural context, yet Moshe
Barasch notes that “some of the causes by which blindness was explained suggest that the
condition was linked to sin.”
8
Other scholars note that blindness became important in many
contexts of medieval life, as a sacred symbolic theme,
9
a scientific fascination
10
and even a
7
The theme of spiritual blindness goes back as far as Isaiah in the Old Testament, where the
Israelites are charged with spiritual blindness due to their arrogance and pride (Isaiah 29:9-10).
It continues as a theme in the New Testament in the following passages: John 9:1-41; Second
Corinthians 4:3-4, 16-18.
8
Barasch, Moshe. Blindness, The History of a Mental Image in Western Thought, p. 93.
9
As discussed below, many other devotional works used the theme of blindness with respect to a
lack of spirituality.
174
secular entertainment.
11
The Middle English Dictionary recognizes the word “blind” as meaning
not only “of a person, the eyes: blind, sightless; also, temporarily unable to see” but also
“Spiritually blind, lacking insight or perception, undiscerning, unenlightened.”
12
Edward
Wheatley emphasizes the medieval marginalization of the physically blind in both law and
literature. Wheatley points to a number of stories prominent in the medieval literature of France
and England where physical blindness becomes an important trope for spiritual blindness.
Although Wheatley finds that blindness as a disability is a construction which is dependent on
the cultural context, he recognizes that physical blindness is often connected to spiritual
blindness, which is then linked to sin.
13
Wheatley confirms that the stories he analyzes "produce
confusion between the symbol and the signified: what was a metaphor for sin... becomes the sin,
the consequence of sin, and the blind person is made the figure of the sinner" (88).
Footnote continued from previous page
10
William of Ockham, among others, studied blindness at Cambridge in the 14
th
C. In the 13
th
C., Robert Grossteste studied optics. For a more thorough discussion, see “Seeing While Blind:
Disability, Theories Of Vision, And Milton’s Poetry,” A FSU dissertation by Robert Silverman,
2011.
11
Disability theorists have begun to explore both the historical facts and meaning of blindness in
the Middle Ages. One discovery includes a common game in the Middle Ages which involved
blind people being lead over stumbling blocks. Another involved blind people being put in an
enclosed area and given sticks with which to beat a pig. The one who caught the pig was the
winner and could keep the pig. The entertainment value for the spectators, however, resulted in
the blind people’s confusion, whereby they often mistook each other for the pig and beat each
other instead. Although medieval England’s treatment of the blind was less cruel than France’s,
there was nevertheless a certain medieval bias against the blind which may further explain
Julian’s use of the term. See, Wheatley, Edward, Stumbling Blocks Before the Blind: Medieval
Constructions of a Disability (Corporealities: Discourses of Disability) Ann Arbor. University of
Michigan Press: 2010.
12
See, http://quod.lib.umich.edu/cgi/m/mec/med-idx?type=id&id=MED5215.
13
In his book, Stumbling Blocks Before the Blind: Medieval Constructions of a Disability,
Wheatley finds that Jews are also designated blind in these stories, in contrast to the Christians,
who are sighted (65-68).
175
This medieval view of blindness as having been caused by sin echoes Augustine on this
topic. Lootens argues that, for Augustine, sin “has rendered human sensation disorganized and
dysfunctional, and that as a result, humanity remains in a state of sensory exile while waiting for
the clarity of the ‘face to face’ vision.”
14
. Thus, for Augustine, our blindness is not due to God’s
absence. Instead, the inability to perceive God “remains fundamentally a problem of either the
sensing agent or the sense itself.” Lootens argues, “just as blind men cannot blame their
blindness on the lack of things to look at, so too those spiritually blind simply are unable to sense
anything” because sin has deadened their spiritual eyes.
15
Augustine writes: ‘How can I
demonstrate this immense sweetness to you, who have lost your faculty of taste in the fever of
sin?”
16
Richard Rolle and Blindness
Richard Rolle provides a useful context for Julian’s approach to blindness. Richard Rolle
(1300–1349), although an Oxford dropout, was the most widely read and influential of the
medieval English Christian mystics.
17
Writing in English and Latin, Rolle enjoyed a
considerable readership on the Continent as well as in England.
18
His enormous popularity is
14
Lootens, 66.
15
Lootens, 67.
16
Lootens, 67, quoting Augustine, En. Ps. Xxx, S3. 6 (CCL 38.217), trans. Boulding, vol. xv, p.
351.
17
Called the “Hermit of Hampole,” Rolle traveled in Northumbria. In his most famous work,
Incendium Amoris, he writes for an unknown woman solitary to describe his own mystical
experiences, which include heat and song (Palphrey 60). Born at Thornton, Yorkshire, England,
circa 1290, Rolle was educated at Oxford and in Paris from 1320-1326, before entering into the
life of a hermit. After several years of intense contemplation and wandering, he finally settled
down at Hampole where he assisted the spiritual development of the nuns in a nearby Cistercian
community (McGinn, Varieties 340-41).
18
His writing shows Franciscan influences, no doubt due to his education at Oxford (most likely
under William Ockham). Although Richard Rolle was not a Franciscan, he demonstrates their
Footnote continued on next page
176
demonstrated by a huge number of surviving manuscripts (over five hundred). His works in
English were translated into Latin, and from Latin into English as well.
19
In fact, according to
McGinn, Rolle was more widely read than Chaucer in the fifteenth Century (344).
Rolle was among the first writers who wrote in English specifically for the laity.
Although purportedly writing letters addressed to one or two people at a time, usually
anchoresses, hermits or nuns, Rolle’s writings were among the first works that were intended for
and, ultimately reached, a larger audience.
20
McGinn claims that Rolle’s renown in the late
Middle Ages is due to “the attraction of his sensate, highly somatic, affective mysticism,”
21
which, I believe he shares, in large part, with Julian. Although Rolle differs from Julian in
certain respects, Rolle and Julian share many common characteristics. Certainly, Rolle’s
devotion to Christ and his focus on Christ’s suffering seem much like Julian’s. For example, in
Meditations on the Passion, a tract arguably written to assist in the attainment of visions, Rolle
vividly describes the blood flowing from Christ’s head and the thorns which have “torn to pieces
the skin on [his] head,”
22
a description that closely resembles Julian’s account of her visions.
Moreover, although skeptical of visions in general,
23
Rolle admits to having had a visual
Footnote continued from previous page
influence, both in his aversion to materialism and in his devotion to Christ. His vivid description
of Christ’s passion in Meditations on the Passion bring to mind Julian’s descriptions of her
visions.
19
McGinn, Varieties, 339.
20
Julian abandons the conceit of only writing letters to a few people—she intends her text for her
“evencristens.”
21
Id.
22
Rolle, “Meditations on the Passion,” p. 94.
23
According to Rolle, visions can be dangerous. In “The Form of Living,” a letter specifically
intended for an enclosed anchoress, Rolle cautions that “Sometimes, as well, the Devil tempts
men and women who are solitary and alone in a way which is ingenious and sly.” He goes on to
describe that the devil transforms himself in to the appearance of an angel and “in this way
deceives silly people” (Rolle 158). But, if one is discerning, one may not be duped. Not that
Footnote continued on next page
177
mystical experience, not unlike one of Julian’s visions. In the Incendium Amoris, Rolle
characterizes his experience as “the opening of the door of heaven (allowing the eye of my heart
to contemplate heavenly things)” (IA, Chap. 14 [trans. Del Mastro]). Vision remains of
paramount importance for Rolle in describing things of God, even though he uses all his other
senses as well. When describing Christ’s passion in Meditations on the Passion, Rolle
repeatedly uses the term “I see” or “I can see” to introduce the topics of his meditations, e.g. “I
can see your red blood coursing down your cheeks. . .” (94), much like Julian does.
A medieval Carthusian monk must have seen the commonalities between Rolle and
Julian’s works because he collected their works together in The Charterhouse Manuscript,
housed in the British Library and dated to 1450. The Charterhouse Manuscript is a compilation
of Julian’s short text and a Middle English translation of Rolle’s Latin works as well as Middle
English translations of works by Jan Van Ruusbroec and Marguerite Porete. In a unique book
devoted entirely to the study of the Charterhouse Manuscript , Vernacular Mysticism in the
Charterhouse, a Study of London, British Library MS Additional 37790, Marleen Cre argues that
the manuscript was produced by and for Carthusian monks as a vernacular manual for spiritual
education. Thus, Cre claims the works were intentionally collected together—“purposely built,
rather than of a random accretion of material within one manuscript volume” (12). Since Cre
sees the works as progressing from relative simplicity towards greater abstraction, Cre contends
that the manuscripts were carefully ordered for the neophyte contemplative. The Manuscript
begins with Rolle’s work, then moves to Julian, then Van Ruusbroec, and finally to Porete, who
Footnote continued from previous page
some visions cannot be from God, but one must be cautious: “I’m telling you this, not because I
think that he is to be given permission to tempt you in this way, but because I want you to be
cautious if any temptations of this kind come your way, when you are awake or asleep, so that
you don’t give credence to appearances too quickly, until you are certain of the truth” (159).
178
Cre considers to be the most abstract. Julian and Rolle’s close relationship in this manuscript
suggest that they were read and studied together.
Scholars, too, have noted the possible connection between Julian and Rolle. Rolle and
Julian, together with Walter Hilton and the Cloud author are generally linked together and
studied as the “best examples of English mystical theology” (Palphrey 59).
24
Although Julian’s
life overlaps with that of Rolle by only six years (he died in 1349—she was born in 1343), due to
his enormous popularity, it seems logical that Julian may have read his works.
25
In any event,
Rolle’s works provide a deep mystical context in which to understand Julian’s work.
Rolle’s first use of the trope of spiritual blindness appears in a verse from his work,
Meditations on the Passion (Meditations). Meditations is written for a novice religious or
anchorite and recommends precisely what it says: meditation on the passion, which Rolle claims
is “the best meditation for beginners in the religious life” (Allen 17). Meditations includes
Rolle’s own prose compiled together with verses, some authored by Rolle and others borrowed
from other sources. The verse in which Rolle expressed his ideas about spiritual blindness is
arguably his own (Allen 17).
A, Lord, kyng of myght, that levyn woldust thi might
And os nmyghty become, my wrongys to ryghte,
What is it that I speke and bete the wynd?
I speke of the feling of the, and fynde I no taste.
I blondre in my wyrkyng, os man that is blynd (Rollo 25).
24
McGinn treats each in his book, The Varieties of Vernacular Mysticism.
25
“It has been supposed that she may have read …or been read by the spiritual writers who were
her contemporaries” (Crampton 2).
179
Clearly the narrator is describing the frustrating experience of one who cannot experience
God. Rosamund Allen translates the last line as: “I stumble about as a blind man, as I move”
(98). Thus, in this passage, a “man that is blynd” is synonymous with one who is alienated from
God. The narrator concludes that the reason for his blindness is sin. Sin has “slayn” his “sowle”
and blocks his ability to smell the sweet aroma of God—“And stoppyth al the savoure, that I may
nought the fele” (Rollo 25).
Immediately following the above passage, Rolle continues his discussion of spiritual
blindness. But, since the meaning of blindness as a physical disability is often interchanged with
the meaning of blindness as a spiritual limitation,
26
Rolle begins his look at blindness by
referring to a Biblical passage that speaks of those who are literally blind:
27
But thou, gloryouse Lord, thou quykenyst the dede,
And turned hast thou manifold and brought hem to hevenly mede;
The blynde born you lighted, in book os I rede,
It betokenyth gostely werkys, it is no drede
28
(“Meditations on the Passion,” 25).
29
Rolle sees a scriptural promise for himself—that Jesus can heal the blind. Thus, he
prays:
26
Edward Wheatley observed that medieval texts often confuse the states of physical and
spiritual blindness (17).
27
In the Gospels, Jesus healed the blind several times; however the metaphorical meaning of
those healings was not lost on medieval readers.
28
Rosamund Allen, in Richard Rolle, the English Writings, translates the last two lines as:
“Those born blind you have enlightened, in the scriptures I may read, Signifying spiritual
actions, there can be no doubt of this” (98).
29
From English Writings of Richard Rolle, Hermit of Hampole, edited by Hope Emily Allen.
180
Quikne me, Lord Jhesu Crist, and gyf me grace, that I may fele
som of the savowre of gostely swetnesse. Lene me of thine lyght
(or syght)
30
that I may somwhat sight have in soule my thryste to
kele (“Meditations,” 25).
31
Rolle’s mixed metaphors of feeling, taste (savouring), seeing, and thirsting may speak to
McGinn’s observation of Augustine, who uses all the senses in a confusing way to highlight the
difficulty with language one experiences in speaking of direct experiences of God.
32
Yet, Rolle
makes clear from these metaphors that he feels spiritually blind and asks Jesus to enlighten him
as He “lighted” those who were born blind in the scripture.
33
Rolle further comments on sin in a passage from Meditations on the Passion, Text Two.
34
He expresses a series of “thankynges” of Christ for his various actions during the Passion. In
this particular passage, Rolle thanks “Swet Jhesu” for “That dispitous blyndfelling that the Jewes
did to the” (33).
35
Rolle then prays for protection from his own “blyndynge.”
30
Allen notes that in Text II, the manuscript reads “syght.”
31
Rosamund Allen translates this as “Bring me to life, lord Jesus Christ, and give me the grace to
be able to sense some of your light (MS: “sight”) so that I may have some degree of sight in my
soul to assuage my thirst” (98).
32
McGinn says, “Augustine’s accounts of immediate experiences of God, however, do not
depend on the metaphor of vision alone. Rather, his combining of the language of seeing
withmetaphors drawn from the other spiritual senses constitutes a deliberate mixing, even a
confusion, designed to convey something of the obscurity and ineffability of all close encounters
with God” (Early Christian Mystics 164).
33
Rolle offers advice to his reader, telling her that “anyone who desires and seeks in the right
way, although he is not able to feel you at all, already possesses what he is not aware of; that is
the love of your divine nature” (98-99).
34
What is the relationship between Text I and Text II?
35
In this passage, Rolle evinces the antisemitism and Jewish xenophobia typical of the medieval
period. Although not an official doctrine of the church, antisemitism was often expressed by
Footnote continued on next page
181
And here I pray the, swete Lord Jhesu, shild me fro blyndynge of
syn in custume, in longe unshrift, in overhope and overtrist to
myself; and shild me fro perpetual blyndynge of dampnacion and
excludynge fro the blissful sight of thy glorious face (33).
Although Rolle notes the blinding effect of very serious sin, he also depicts less serious
sins that can lead to blindness as well. He asks to be shielded from sin that can result from habit
or custom. Next, he asks to be spared blindness due the sin of taking too long between
confessions and the sin of being overly trusting in oneself. Finally, he asks to be protected from
“perpetual blyndynge” in which he would be excluded from the beatific vision. Clearly, for
Rolle, spiritual blindness is directly related to sin.
Rosamund Allen includes a passage from the Meditations in her translation that does not
appear in the Middle English text edited by Hope Emily Allen. This passage also documents
Rolle’s conviction that spiritual blindness is caused by sin. Here Rolle speaks of his more
serious sins, which he believes are so black that they block any perception of Christ: “I am
observing your passion intently and can detect no sensation of it; my sins are so numerous and so
[black] that they have obliterated reverent love and blocked off all detection of sweetness from
my soul, and so I am talking and blundering about like a blind creature, and talking without
Footnote continued from previous page
priests and clerics, especially in connection with charges of “deicide”—that the Jews killed
Christ. See, for example, Jeremy Cohen’s article, “The Jews As The Killers Of Christ In The
Latin Tradition, From Augustine To The Friars,” in Traditio, Vol. 39, 1983. Interestingly both
Cohen and Edward Wheatley note that, in the Middle Ages, Jews were accused of blindness in
their failure to accept Christ as the Messiah (Cohen 2); (Wheatley 65). Cohen notes that
sometime in the 13th Century, the view of Jewish blindness evolved into a view of
intentionality—a deliberate and knowing rejection of Christ by the Jews (3).
182
understanding or knowledge of such a revered topic. Our Father” (Rolle 119). Thus, sin results
in blindness where Rolle cannot see God, or even understand Him. In this passage, spiritual
blindness is so intrinsically linked with sin that Rolle needs Christ’s intervention in order to
make any spiritual progress. He asks Christ to send him “the radiance of grace” so that he may
have “some insight within my soul” (Meditations 119). Although Rolle mixes metaphors of
sight, taste, smell and touch, within this short passage,
36
it is clear that blindness is a key
metaphor for Rolle in depicting his sinful state.
The Cloud Author and Blindness
Spiritual blindness is also a prominent theme for the Cloud author. However, in contrast
to Rolle’s consistent emphasis on blindness being caused by sin, the term blindness is
multivalent and nuanced for the Cloud author. Sometimes, he uses the term to signify blindness
due to sin. However, the anonymous monk much more frequently uses the term “blindness” in
connection with shooting longing darts of love at the dark cloud, which is all we can see of God.
Hence, paradoxically, blindness becomes an apophatic way of seeing or approaching God. The
Cloud author’s usage of the term “blindness,” with its multiplicity of meanings, resonates with
Julian’s own usage of the term.
Little is known about the Cloud author other than that he most likely authored “the little
family of mystical treatises” known as “The Cloud of Unknowing group” (Underhill 11).
Scholars disagree about the details of the Cloud author’s life. Evelyn Underhill, in her
“Introduction” to The Cloud of Unknowing, claims that, although nothing is known of its author,
it “seems clear from his writings that he was a cloistered monk devoted to the contemplative life”
36
McGinn points out Rolle’s use of all the senses in his chapter on Rolle in Varieties.
183
(11). She adds that scholars think that he was a Carthusian, but she disagrees. On the other
hand, McGinn surmises that the Cloud author was “a priest, well trained in theology, and a
master of the contemplative life” (396). Both Underhill and McGinn agree that the Cloud author
is writing in the capacity of a spiritual director or spiritual friend, addressing those under his
direction or companionship, despite his annoyances with those less inclined to the contemplative
life than he (which Underhill points out) (McGinn 396; Underhill 11-12). Evelyn Underhill,
traces the Cloud author’s mystical roots to Denys alleging that he was the first to translate
Denys’ work into the vernacular by translating Mystical Theology into Middle English with the
title “Dionis Hid Divinite” (11). McGinn highlights the Cloud of Unknowing’s apophaticisim,
claiming that the book is unique in “its combination of practical spiritual advice and profound
apophaticism” (401). In this apophatic vein, the Cloud author instructs his directee to be “blind”
in his approach to God.
Unlike Rolle’s use of the term “blindness” to signify a sinful state, the Cloud author uses
“blindness” most often as an unseeing, unknowing way of approaching God in contemplative
prayer. In the third chapter, he confirms that within a prayerful state, the most one can hope for
initially is to find “bot a derknes” and an incomprehensible “cloude of unknowing” which stand
between the pray-er and God. Thus, even “yif ever schalt thou fele Him or see Him…it behoveth
alweis be in this cloude and in this derknes” (31). In this manner, it is both fitting and necessary
“beholvely” that the Cloud and the darkness should prevent one from ever seeing God. Given the
dilemma that one cannot see God “in this derknes and in this cloude of unknowing,” the only
way of approaching Him is “with a loving steryng and a blinde beholdyng unto the nakid being
of God Himself only” (39). One must look for God blindly and longingly, and not be satisfied
with any substitutes. Yet, the Cloud author suggests it is more than merely looking blindly—one
184
must behold blindly. Just as Julian advocates for beholding in her discussion of contemplative
prayer, discussed in Chapter Two, the Cloud author recommends “blinde beholdyng”—an
unknowing and unseeing form of contemplative prayer as the most effective means of
approaching this invisible God.
Blind beholding, or blind outreaching of love continues as a theme throughout the rest of
the work. In Chapter nine, the Cloud author calls the “werk” of contemplation “blynd” (40), and
cautions his directee not to settle for seeing something beneath God, but always to engage in
“soche a blynd stering of love unto God for himself” (41). In Chapter twenty-four, the Cloud
author claims that humility (and all the other virtues) are perfectly comprehended “in this lityl
blynde love put, when it is betyng upon this derke cloude of unknowing” (55). Further, in
Chapter thirty-four, the Cloud author instructs his directee to “Be blynde in this tyme, and schere
awey covetyse of knowyng, for it wil more let thee than help thee” (63). Blindness becomes a
synonym for unknowing, as it is contrasted with being covetous of “knowing.” Since knowing
will prevent, rather than promote, spiritual progress, it is best to be “blynde.” Finally, in Chapter
forty-two, the student is directed to “lift up thin hert with a blynde steryng of love” (70), for it is
only in this blind upsurge of love that one can hope to have God and not have sin. For, “synne
woldest thou lacke” (70).
37
The Cloud author occasionally resembles Rolle in linking blindness to sin. For example,
in his argument in favor of reading the Bible, he alleges that without reading “Godes word,” a
soul blinded by sin cannot see his own sins. In his extended discussion of this topic, the Cloud
37
The Cloud author offers a separate and distinct Dionysian approach to blindness in Chapter 13,
where he claims that by gazing on God’s super-abundant love, nature trembles, scholars become
fools and saints and angels are rendered blind (see, p. 78).
185
author likens “Goddes word” to a “mirour” and one’s “conscience” to one’s “goostly visage”
(one’s face)(64). Just as one cannot see a spot on one’s face without the use of a mirror,
“Withouten redyng or heryng of Godes worde, it is inpossible to mans understondyng that a
soule that is bleendid (blinded) in custom of synne schuld see the foule spot in his concyence”
(64). Thus, according to the Cloud, sin blinds, but reading God’s word enables one to see.
The Cloud author also links sin to blindness in his discussion of the use of reason as an
approach to God. As McGinn points out, the medieval mystical writers often wrote in opposition
to the scholastic writers of the time.
38
The Cloud author appears to oppose scholasticism when
he equates reason with blindness. Interestingly, unlike Rolle, who tends to personalize blindness
and see himself as blind due to his own sinfulness, the term “blindness” for the Cloud author
more often represents a condition of humanity due to the Fall and original sin. It is not attributed
to any particular sin. Blindness is first established as an attribute of the human condition when
the Cloud author discusses the functions of reason. He notes that humans use their reason to
distinguish good from evil, bad from good, good from better and worse from worst. He claims
that before “man synned” his “reson” would have been guided by “kynde,” a type of natural
reason connected to God. However, after the fall, reason is tainted. “Bot now [reson] is so
blendid with the original synne that it may not kon worche this werk bot yif it be illumined by
grace” (91). In other words, reason can no longer be trusted to make accurate distinctions, or
function properly at all, unless it is guided by grace.
The Cloud author continues his diatribe against scholastic theology and its blinding
potential in the Book of Prive Counseling. In this work, the Cloud author instructs his student to
38
McGinn 232.
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look up cheerfully to God and tell Him “What I am, Lord, I offer to you, for it is yourself” (162).
He says this is simple enough, no matter how “stupid one might be—or so it seems to me” (162).
However, the mystical monk cautions that most people “nowadays” are “blinded by subtle
scholarship, theological or natural” (163).
39
He claims that this scholarship should be “severely
rebuked” by God and his lovers because it deprives people of insight: “For the result is that
through their blindness and sophistication people have no more insight and understanding of this
simple exercise than the child at his ABC has of the knowledge of the greatest scholar in the
university, in indeed as much” (163).
40
Accordingly, the “blind” find the Cloud author’s simple
prayer to be “intellectual subtlety” (163). Their scholarship has “blinded” them from being able
to pray the most basic and effective prayer that a Christian can pray.
Against this backdrop, we can consider Julian’s approach to blindness. At times, Julian
agrees with Rolle and the Cloud author that sin can cause blindness. At other times, she seems to
side with the Cloud author in that her “reson” is blinded. She reaches beyond them both at other
times, by asserting that spiritual blindness is simply a natural consequence of the human
condition. Further, Julian seems to build on the Cloud author’s idea that blindness can lead one
to God, although Julian would most likely disagree with his methodology.
Julian and Blindness
As discussed above, Julian and Rolle both link sin to blindness. But, in Chapter forty-
seven, Julian reverses the causal order. For Rolle, sin causes blindness, but, for Julian, blindness
39
Again, the Cloud author challenges scholastic theologians (subtle theological scholarship).
Yet, here he seems to strike out at scientific endeavors as well (subtle natural scholarship).
40
Interestingly, Julian also compares those with little knowledge as having the understanding of
“the beginning of an A.B.C.” (LT 51.229).
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causes sin. Julian understood that man is changeable, frail, ignorant, unknowing of himself, and
overcome by his weaknesses. She claims that “the cause [for man’s weakness and the sin that
results] is blindhede, for he seeth not God” (LT 47.15-16). Julian says:
I understood thus: Man is changeable in this life, and by frailte and
uncunning falleth into sinne. He is unmighty and unwise of
himself, and also his will is overlaide in this time. He is in tempest
and sorow and woe. And the cause is blindhede, for he seeth not
God. For if he saw God continually, he shuld have no mischievous
feling, ne no maner stering nor sorowing that serveth sinne” (LT
47.13-17).
Julian assures her readers that, if only man could see God “continually,” then he would
not fall into sin. If man saw God constrantly, “he shulde have no mischievous feling, ne no
maner stering no sorowing that serveth to sinne” (LT 47.16-17). This approach is clearly unique
given Rolle’s position on sin. Julian shows a depth of understanding of psychology that Rolle
oversimplifies. Rolle takes the more conventional view of the medieval church: sin causes
blindness—humanity cannot see or be united to God because of sin. Julian’s depth lies in her
understanding that humans need to see God in order to avoid sin—when humans are blind and
cannot see God, human weakness takes over and sin is the result, not the cause of blindness.
In Chapter 72, Julian elaborates on her view that blindness causes sin by arguing further
for an uncoupling of the causal link of sin and blindness. Julian acknowledges that sin may play
a role in our lack of sight, just as the “weight of oure deadly flesh” may also play a role. But,
Julian also says that our spiritual eye is blind. There is no cause to explain this condition—it just
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is. Our lack of sight may be further enhanced by sin and “oure deadely flesh,” but these things
do not cause blindness.
[F]or oure gostly eye is so blinde, and we be so boren down with
weight of oure dedely flesh and darkhede of sinne, that we may not
see oure lorde God clerly in his fair, blisseful chere (LT 72.27-29).
Like Augustine, Julian sees humanity as borne down by the weight of our flesh and our
sin, which contributes to our lack of sight. However, it is clear that we start out blind, well before
the effects of flesh and sin are taken into account. Here, Julian severs the causal connection
between sin and blindness. Instead, blindness is simply an aspect of the human condition. Julian
adds, “No, and because of this darkhede, unnethes (scarcely) we can believe or trowe his grete
love and oure sekernesse of keeping” (LT 72.29-31). In other words, it’s the darkness (blindness)
of humankind that keeps us from seeing or believing God’s love for us, not sin.
Similarly, in Chapter 73, God showed Julian two sins, “unpatiens or slouth” on the one
hand, and “despair or doughtfulle drede” (LT 73.7-9) toward which she says humanity inclines,
because of “oure gostly blindhed and bodely heaviness” (LT 73.13-14). In this passage, again,
sin is not the cause of blindness; instead, it’s the other way around. Blindness causes sin—
because of blindness, “we are most enclining to theyse [sins]” (LT 73.14). Julian believes that
our blindness is simply a consequence of living “heer” on earth (LT 85.2). In explaining the light
in which “oure curtesse lorde beholdeth us,” Julian tells her readers that God shines this light,
“notwithstanding oure simpille living and our blindhede heer” (LT 85.1-2). Thus, unlike Rolle,
who views sin as causing blindness, Julian sees blindness as a mere fact of the human condition.
Julian’s blindness nevertheless, prevents humanity from seeing God, or seeing him clearly.
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Julian confirms that blindness is a part of the human condition and not caused by sin. At
times, our faith is challenged by our blindness, not by our own doing, but just because of who we
are (LT 70.25). In fact, in Chapter 73, Julian pairs “gostly blindhed” with “bodely hevinesse” as
if the blindness is somehow inherent in the body (LT 73.13-14). This blindness is also
demonstrated by our misguided understanding of fortune or chance. Julian assures her readers
that there is no such thing as chance—we simply think there is because we are blind to God’s
pre-ordained action in the world. Julian reports that she saw that “nothing is done by happe ne
by aventure” (by chance or by accident), but instead, that everything is foreseen by (and done by)
God (LT 11.5-6). The anchoress claims, “It is be hap or aventure in the sight of man, our
blindhede and our unforsight is the cause” (LT 11.6-7). So, as we go about our daily business
and something happens to us “sodeynly,” which “ledeth to the best end” it appears to be chance
to us because we are blind to God’s foreseeing wisdom in planning that event “fro without
beginning.” In that same chapter, Julian adds emphasizes man’s fallible perception when she
points out that man’s judgment of sin is faulty due to “the blind deming (judgment) of man”
(11.29). Finally, Julian establishes that many of the secrets contained in her showings are secrets
not only because God keeps them secret, but “they are prevites (secrets) to us for oure blindhed
and oure unknowing” (Lt 34.7). In other words, we are so blind that we cannot see what God
would like to reveal to us. Taken together, these references to blindness show that blindness has
nothing to do with sin, instead, it functions as an aspect of the human condition.
Like the Cloud author, Julian sees that blindness affects human reason. In Chapter 32,
Julian claims that “the use of oure reson is now so blinde, so lowe and so simple, that we can not
know the high marvelous wisdom, the might and the goodness of the blisseful trinite” (32.11-
13). Further, in Chapter 50, when plagued by the aporia of God’s refusal to judge sinners on the
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one hand, and the church’s condemnation of sinners on the other, Julian notes that her “reson
was gretly traveyled by my blindhede and culde have no rest, for drede that his blessed presens
shulde passe fro my sight” (50.14-16). Moreover, in Chapter 66, Julian calls herself blind for
failing to trust her visions: “But furst me behoveth to telle you as anenst my febilnes,
wretchedness and blindness” (LT 66.3-4). What’s clear from the above passages is that Julian,
like the Cloud author, finds a defect in human reason that results in blindness. Unlike Rolle,
Julian and the Cloud author suggest that this defect has nothing to do with sin in particular, and,
as Julian’s interpretation of the Lord and Servant Parable suggests, Original Sin can be ruled out
as well. Instead, spiritual blindness seems to be a function of the human condition as a result of
our binary anthropology and our flesh. As Julian says, “For we be now so blinde and so unwise
that we can never seke God till what time that he of his goodness sheweth him to us” (LT 10.11-
12). Even though God intervened for Julian and provided her with visions, those visions did not
resolve her blinded state because she still cannot see God reliably and must seek Him instead.
She accedes, “And thus I saw him and sought him, and I had him and wanted him” (LT 10.13-
14). Julian adds, “And this is and should be our comen werking in this life, as to my sight” (LT
10.14-15). As Julian sees it, all of humanity is so blinded, in our reason and otherwise, that the
best we can hope for, is an on-again, off-again visual relationship with God.
Julian and the Lord and Servant Parable
Julian gains further clarity on the issue of spiritual blindness, as well as on several other
deep theological issues, in The Lord and Servant parable. In Chapter 51, Julian explains that
God provided her with the parable to address her pressing questions on the discrepancy between
God’s view that sin is nothing, and the church’s view that sinners were condemned to hell. He
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offered her an “example” shown “full mistily” of a lord and servant. Julian recounts the basics of
the parable as follows:
The lorde sitteth solempnely in rest and in pees. The servant
stondeth before his lorde reverently, redy to do his lordes wille.
The lorde loketh upon his servant full lovely and sweetly, and
mekely he sendeth him inot a certaine place to do his will. The
servant not only goeth, but soddenly he sterteth and runneth in gret
hast for love to do his lordes will. And anon he falleth into a slade,
and taketh ful gret sore (LT 51.6-12).
In discussing the parable, I will focus on issues of spiritual blindness as they relate to
Julian’s view of humanity—in other words, Julian’s anthropology. Since the servant is spiritually
blinded in his fall, concerns regarding spiritual blindness are foremost in the story.
Other scholars cite different foci for the parable. Bernard McGinn claims that it deals
with issues of “the Fall and redemption” and “exemplifies Julian’s ability to do theology through
images, as well as her exegetical creativity in combining and refashioning scriptural material for
her own purposes” (Varieties 451). McGinn contends that “the parable of the Lord and Servant is
central to Julian’s theology, a teaching that often breaks with traditional readings of Fall and
redemption, but [is] always on a firm basis of biblical motifs and texts” (454).
41
He explains that
Julian’s view of the Fall is radical—“Adam is injured in his power and understanding, but not in
41
As McGinn notes, the parable is given in response to Julian’s cries due to being “deeply
troubled by the conflict between her sense of the presence of sin in herself and others and the fact
that she saw no blame in God for those who are to be saved” and helps her to resolve this
theological dilemma (LT 50.5-30; Varieties 451).
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his wille” (452). As Julian studies the details of the parable, McGinn emphasizes that she
engages all of salvation history, in addition to Trinitarian theology (453). Although McGinn
notes that “a key premise” of the parable is Julian’s view that there is no human nature
independent of Christ, McGinn does not examine the metaphorical import of spiritual blindness
with respect to Julian’s anthropology.
In another view, Denys Turner points out that the “example,” God’s response to Julian’s
“perplexities,” is not conclusive. Instead, Turner finds that Julian’s parable, much like her book
in general, is only told in part, because humanity cannot see the whole story from its vantage
point. For Turner, Julian tells her story in a bare outline, as it appeared to her in “bodely
likeness” (116). She then fills it in with the details of her inward teaching. Turner claims “what
is central to the parable’s meaning is its soteriological significance” (116). For Turner, Julian’s
example shows that “Creation, Fall and Redemption are all, somehow, contained within one
another, are in some unimaginable way a single divine action eternally willed in a single act of
willing, such that Julian can say ‘God doth alle thing’” (119). Turner certainly understands that
Julian views us as limited in our understanding. He emphasizes the partiality of human
understanding as made clear in both Julian’s text generally, and her parable specifically, as he
notes that “we make meaning of our lives within a story of which we know only a fragment”
(123). However, he does not focus on the larger aspects of what humanity is according to Julian
and her parable. A discussion of spiritual blindness within the parable will bring to light Julian’s
anthropology.
Certainly, what Julian tells her readers of Christ’s saving action in the world, as revealed
by the parable, is important. But, what Turner and McGinn miss in focusing on Julian’s
theology is her anthropology—a discussion of who and what we are, as revealed by her
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discussion of spiritual blindness. Grace Jantzen moves in this direction when she notes the
significance of blindness in the Lord and Servant story. Yet she ties blindness to sin, finding that
sin—“the fracturing of the personality”—leads to more sins. This cycle, in “Julian’s mind is the
blindness which the servant suffers and he falls into the ditch” (206). Jantzen notes that the
servant’s perspective was distorted in three ways: 1) he was blinded to his lord’s compassion, 2)
he lost his sense of self-worth and value, and 3) he was blinded to himself. Certainly, Jantzen is
on the right track as she comments that “This threefold blindness on the part of the servant is,
according to Julian, a parable of three-fold blindness from which we all suffer” (206-07). While
Jantzen explores Julian’s dichotomous anthropology, she ties the servant’s (and humanity’s)
blindness to sin. I argue that sin is only part of the story—that humanity is blinded, in part,
simply by virtue of being humanity—by taking on human flesh, we are spiritually blind.
As Jantzen observes, and I will demonstrate, blindness plays a significant role in the Lord
and Servant parable. In the parable, the servant is blinded as a result of his fall, when he fell
“into a slade,” where he “taketh ful gret sore” (LT.51.12). He “groneth and moneth and
walloweth and writheth,” but he cannot get up (“rise”) or help himself (LT 51.13-14). Julian
recounts the servant’s “gret paines” which include “sore brosing,” “heviness of his body,”
“febilnesse” and, significantly, blindness. Julian says “he was blinded in his reson and stoned in
his minde so ferforth that almost he had forgeten his owne love” (LT 51.22-24). She adds that he
“might not rise” from the ditch in which he found himself (LT. 51.23). As Julian identifies the
servant as Adam, she notes that “this man…was stoned (stunned) in his understanding, for he
was turned fro the beholding of his lorde” (279.90-91). In other words, he was so stunned by the
fall that he could not see God. Julian reveals that even though the lord told the servant/Adam of
His will, “but himself was letted (frustrated) and blinded of the knowing of this will” (279.92-
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93).
42
Thus, as a result of “falling,” the servant is rendered blind—he cannot see or know God’s
will.
Julian emphasizes that the servant is not blinded in actuality, but that he is spiritually
blinded—“blinded in his reson.” He is blinded to such an extent that he has almost “forgeten his
owne love,” the master (God). Initially, Julian identifies the servant as Adam. Yet, it becomes
clear early on that Adam stands for everyman,
43
which Julian later confirms: “for by Adam I
understond all man” (LT 51.187). Thus, Julian connects the servant (Adam)’s blindness with the
blindness inherent in humanity: “But man is blinded in this life, and therefore we may no se oure
fader, God, as he is” (LT 51.120-21). Later in her text, Julian notes that we are so blind that
“unnethes (scarcely) we can believe or trowe his grete love and oure sekernesse of keeping” (LT
72.29-31). All of humanity doubts God’s love because of this blindness. In fact, it appears that
the only human who escaped this blinding condition of falling into the flesh is Christ himself –
Julian makes no mention of Christ being blinded.
In Chapter 52, Julian continues to reflect on the Lord and Servant parable and its
connection to blindness. For the first time, the anchoress concedes that sin may be partly to
blame for our blindness. However, it is also clear that the blindness results simply by virtue of
Adam’s fall: “And by Adams falling we be so broken in oure feling on diverse manner by sinne
and by sondry paines, in which we be made derke and so blinde that unnethes (scarcely) we can
take any comforte” (LT 52.10-12). Julian then explains that God opens the “ey of oure
42
I agree with McGinn’s interpretation that the servant could not see God’s will (452). Watson
and Jensen interpret this passage differently. They claim that the servant is “frustrated and
blinded from knowing his own will,” which is consistent with a passage from Flete’s The
Remedy (278).
43
Later in the Chapter, Julian connects the servant with Christ as well (LT 51.179-280).
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understanding—by which we have sight, sometime more and somtime lesse” depending on how
much we can tolerate. And when He does this, “we are raised” up, and then he withdraws the
vision and “we are suffered to fall” (LT 52.15-16). Thus, we exist in this “medle (mixture) so
marvelous (confusing)” in which, when we sense God’s presence, we want to be with Him and
we hate sin; and then “whan this swetnesse is hid, we fall ayeen (again) into blindnesse and so
into wo and tribulation” (LT 52.23). Thus, blindness is humanity’s default state. Absent divine
intervention, we are in a perpetual state of blindness.
44
And, it is a central characteristic of
Adam—“and thus in the servant was shewde the blindhede and the mischefe of Adams
falling…” (LT 52.32-33).
Julian, herself, experienced humanity’s default state of blindness after the “shewing of
the example vanished” (LT 51.52). Julian claims that despite God’s instruction, she remained
confused as to the meaning of the vision: “notwithstanding all this forthleding, the marveyling
(confusion) of the example went never fro me…” (LT 51.53-54). She emphasizes, that she could
“not take therein full understanding to my ees” (LT 51.55-56) and that she “stode mekille (much)
in unknowing” (LT 51.58-59).
45
Julian’s own lack of insight or understanding, her blindness as
to the meaning of the parable, continued for 20 years, until she “had teching inwardly” with
instructions to pay attention to all the details of the showing (LT 51.73-75). By paying attention
to the details, as guided by divine intervention, Julian conquers her own blindness, for that time,
and gains insight into the parable and the “falling” that is so central to it. .
44
As I noted above, Julian finds this blindness applicable to all humanity: “[F]or oure gostly eye
is so blinde, and we be so boren down with weight of oure dedely flesh and darkhede of sinne,
that we may not see oure lorde God clerly in his fair, blisseful chere” (LT 72.27-29).
45
Of course, Julian noted this blindness elsewhere regarding her own understanding of her
visions and identified herself as “blind” (LT 66.3-4).
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Thus, the question arises, what is the falling depicted in the parable? When falling is
mentioned in connection with Adam, scholars assume Julian is addressing the Fall, Adam’s sin,
the expulsion of Adam and Eve from the garden and the doctrine of original sin.
46
Baker
explains that medieval theologians thoroughly adopted Augustine’s doctrine of original sin,
together with his juridical view of God and his wrath and vengeance. Significantly, Baker
argues effectively that Julian rejects and rewrites essential aspects of Augustine’s doctrine of
original sin. On the other hand, McGinn seems to assume that Julian is dealing solely with the
Fall, even though he notes that “Julian’s view of the Fall is radical (452).
Certainly, the Fall is part, but not all, of Julian’s interpretation of the servant’s falling.
Although Julian acknowledges the linkage between existence of original sin and the servant’s
fall, she focuses on it far less than most medieval theologians would.
47
Unlike other medieval
theologians, Julian does not even mention Eve, a significant omission considering the medieval
propensity to blame Eve as the cause for the Fall.
48
Further, although it was not uncommon to
see Christ as a second Adam in the theology of the Middle Ages, Christ (the redeemer) was often
set apart and differentiated from Adam (the sinner). Here, Julian makes the unconventional move
of yoking the identities of Adam and Christ together without emphasizing their differences. Both
were present in the image of the servant standing in heaven before coming to earth, ready to fall.
46
Although Chapter 4 of Denise Baker’s book is entitled: “The Parable of the Lord and Servant
and the Doctrine of Original Sin” (83), Baker sees Julian as refuting Augustine’s doctrine of
original sin in the parable (86). McGinn notes that “Julian’s view of the Fall is radical (452).
47
McGinn acknowledges that Julian’s theology “often breaks with traditional readings of Fall
and redemption” (454).
48
“The orthodox medieval understanding of Eve is… that Eve’s disobedience was responsible
for the exile of mankind from primal innocence and into an awareness of sexuality and death”
(Waller, Gary, The Virgin Mary in Late Medieval and Early Modern Literature and Popular
Culture, 2011, Cambridge Univ. Press). According to Joan M. Ferrante, in the Middle Ages, Eve
is usually a symbol of destructive female pride, deception, greed and weakness. In medieval
misogyny, she is the source of human sin and death (“Eve,” Dante Encyclopedia 360).
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And, both fell. But, unlike the orthodox belief that Adam’s fall lead to sin and death, Julian’s
Adam simply fell into a ditch by mistake. Further, Christ fell into the maiden’s womb. In this
way, Christ’s fall into the maiden’s womb joins with Adam’s fall to allow Julian to rewrite the
Fall. Instead of a fall from the Garden into sin, for both Adam and Christ, there is a fall from
heaven into the flesh of humanity.
Further, just as Adam represents everyman in Julian’s vision, Jesus also represents
everyman. Accordingly, Jesus’ fall is applicable to all humanity. Julian makes clear that it was
Jesus who was playing the part of the servant: “Thus was he the servant, before his coming into
erth, stonding redy before the father in purpose, till what time he wolde sende him to do the
worshipful deede by which mankind was brought again into heven” (LT 51.200-02). Yet, for
Julian, the meaning of Jesus’ fall is dependent on the meaning of Jesus’ humanity. After
examining the detail of the son standing ready to do his Father’s will, God gives Julian the
meaning of the humanity of Christ: “Wherfore this mening was shewed in understanding of the
manhood of Crist. For all mankind that shall be saved by the swete incarnation and the blisseful
passion of Crist, alle is the manhood of Crist” (LT 51.216-18). Julian reiterates: “For Jhesu is all
that shall be saved, and all that shall be saved is Jhesu” (LT 51.225-26). In other words, there is
a connection not only between Adam and all believers (“all who shall be saved”), but between
Christ and those believers as well. As a result of the shared identity between Christ and
believers, it would be consistent with Julian’s theology that, like Christ, all believers suffer a
Fall, but not one attributable to Original Sin. Instead, all believers fall from heaven to Earth into
human flesh.
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If Christ is all believers, and Christ fell into the maiden’s womb from heaven, then
perhaps all believers fell from heaven into their mother’s wombs, just as Christ did.
49
And, just
as the servant fell, and was stunned and spiritually blinded, then perhaps all believers are stunned
and spiritually blinded, simply by falling from heaven to Earth. If so, the cause of humanity’s
spiritual blindness would not be any particular sin, or Original Sin in general. Instead, human
blindness may simply be a result of being human. The taking on of human flesh itself may be
sufficient to render us blind, even absent original sin. As demonstrated above, a close reading of
passages of Julian’s text outside the Lord and Servant parable suggest just that—that sin does
not cause blindness—that instead, blindness is a part of the human condition. And, just as the
master pities and does not judge the servant, perhaps God pities and refuses to judge humanity
when it writhes in our blinded human state, even absent sin. Perhaps simply the act of taking on
human flesh, of falling into our mother’s womb, blinds us, and destines us for a life of pain and
sorrow. We need not sin to become blind—blindness is foundational to the human condition. It
is the taking on our “dedely flesh,” and the “heviness of the body,” that causes us to forget our
own love (God) and instead, writhe in our pitiable states of pain on Earth.
So, the question for Julian +becomes, why would God create such a pitiful existence for
us here? Julian addresses this inquiry early on in her recitation of the parable. She expresses the
Lord’s concern for his servant:
49
Of course, this notion presupposes that we were spiritual beings in heaven prior to coming to
Earth. As demonstrated in Chapter 60, that is clearly one of Julian’s beliefs. In fact, in a line rife
with Platonic overtones of emanation and return, Julian says: “But now me behoveth to seye a
litil more of this forthspreding, as I understonde in the mening of oure Lord: how that we be
brought againe, by the motherhed of mercy and grace, into our kindely stede where that we ware
made by the moderhed of kind love, which kinde love never leeveth us” (LT 60 1-4). Julian
revisits this idea in Chapter 63, where she says, “Thus I understode that all his blessed children
which be come out of him by kind shall be brought againe into him by grace” (LT 63.43-44).
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Lo, my beloved servant, what harme and disses he hath had and
taken in my servis for my love—yea, and for his good wille! Is it
not skille (reasonable) that I reward him his frey (fright) and his
drede (fear), his hurt and his maime, and alle his wo? And not only
this, but falleth it not to me to geve him a gifte that be better to him
and more worshipful than his own hele (health) shuld have bene?
And els me thinking I did him no grace (LT 51.40-44).
In Julian’s interpretation which includes humanity as standing in for the
servant/Adam/Christ figure, God recognizes the harm and difficulties humanity, or rather,
believers, endure by living on Earth and doing God’s will. As a result, God chooses to reward
them with a gift which would be better than their own health.
Julian then notes that she received “an inward gostely shewing” of the lord’s meaning.
The spiritual meaning is that it is absolutely fitting and necessary that the servant should be
rewarded more highly than if he had not fallen:
And in this, an inward gostely shewing of the lordes mening
descended into my soule, in which I saw that it behoveth nedes to
be, standing his gret goodness and his owne wurshippe, that his
deerwurthy servant, which he loved so moch, shulde be hyely and
blissefully rewarded withoute end, above that he shuld have be if
he had not fallen. Yea, and so ferforth that his falling and alle his
wo that he hath taken thereby shalle be turned into hye,
overpassing wurshippe and endlesse blisse” (LT 51.50-51).
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In this way, whether it be caused by Adam’s Original Sin which taints us all, or one’s
own individual sin, or simply falling into human flesh, our falling will be rewarded. Moreover,
we will be rewarded more highly than if we had never fallen. And, all the servant’s “wo,”
including “harme and disses,” “frey and his drede,” “hurt and maime,” will be transformed into
“endless blisse” (LT 51.50-51). In Julian’s mind, this conversion clearly goes beyond turning
evil into good.
50
And, it is far more inclusive than the mere transformation of sin into good. In a
sense, Julian enacts Paul’s scriptural promise that God will turn all things into good.
51
Just as
the Cloud author asserts that we become closer to God through our spiritual blindness, Julian,
too, sees that we can connect to God through visual limitations. In Julian’s far-reaching
theology, even the spiritual blindness, which seems to be a requisite aspect of being human, will
be rewarded.
50
McGinn recognizes that in Julian’s theology, evil is turned into good (466).
51
Romans 8:28. “And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to
them who are the called according to his purpose.”
201
Chapter 6:
Julian, Sin, the Ancrene Wisse, and Walter Hilton
While vision and its limitations have been a dominant theme for Julian, sin, too, is a
challenging perceptual problem. Due to our perceptual limitations, we cannot see sin. And when
we do, we see it incorrectly. We see sin from our own judgmental and condemning perspective,
instead of from the loving perspective of God. As a result, we condemn ourselves for our sin,
which makes it all the more likely that we will sin again. Yet, contrary to Augustine’s argument
that humanity sins because we are being punished for Adam’s Original Sin, Julian sees sin as
part of the human condition due to our human limitations. Sin is a part of the human condition
not due to the orthodox understanding of Adam’s Fall, but due to the heaviness of our flesh.
Finally, we fail to see sin properly because it is not a condemnation for us, but instead, an
opportunity for spiritual growth. Beyond Augustine’s understanding of Adam’s sin as a felix
culpa, for Julian, sin offers all believers the ability to rise far higher than we would have, had we
not sinned. By focusing on Julian’s visual limitations, we can better understand her theology of
sin.
In her visions, Julian points out that “sinne was not shewde” (LT 11.18). Beneath the
simplicity of this statement, there is an undercurrent of sophisticated theological thought. Like
Augustine, Julian considers sin to be a privation of good—she sees that all things are good.
Since sin is a “no-thing,” it cannot be seen. Julian says, “But I saw not sinne. For I believe it
hath no maner of substance” (LT 27.22-23).
1
Despite sin’s invisible nature, it remains one of
the most important topics of Julian’s Revelations. For although Julian evinces key parallels with
1
Earlier in the text, Julian writes, “And here I saw sothly that sinne is no dede” (LT 11.16-17).
202
Augustine and the medieval tradition on sin, including sin as a privation of good, (a privatio
boni), Julian parts company with the tradition by asserting that sin is not an act of ill will which
will be judged by an angry God. Instead, she demonstrates, specifically in the Lord and Servant
parable, and more generally throughout her text, that sin, and even original sin, is the result of
our lack of knowledge for which God does not condemn or blame us. Not content with
regarding sin as mere wrongdoing, Julian takes a broader view of sin, defining it as “generally
alle that is not good” (LT 27.12). Sin is the area in which she is the most innovative in her
theology, and yet she is also, at times, quite traditional.
Reading Julian with the Ancrene Wisse and the Scale of Perfection by the Augustinian
friar Walter Hilton will provide a context in which to understand both Julian’s innovation and
her traditionalism. The Wisse was written about one hundred years before Julian was born, and
became a widely read rule for anchoresses. Hilton, Julian’s contemporary, was also widely read.
Both texts exemplify the traditional medieval view of sin, some aspects of which Julian shares,
and some of which she firmly rejects. This foray into Julian’s perceptual limitations on sin, and
the fact that she cannot see it, is worthwhile because it serves to reveal more about Julian’s
anthropology—her understanding of what humanity is. Sin cannot be seen, in part, because it has
no being. Yet, it also cannot be seen because God protects us from seeing it. For Julian, sin is,
simply put, part of the human condition. As Julian says, “we do right nought but sin.” On the one
hand, sin is caused by our lack of knowledge and it cannot be avoided. On the other hand, sin is a
“scourge” which must be avoided. Either way, it provides believers with an opportunity for their
souls to rise in a way that may be more effective than any other.
203
Sin in the Late Middle Ages
Sin was a great concern for believers in the Middle Ages, particularly after the Fourth
Lateran Council, in 1215.
2
The Fourth Lateran Council marks a time of increased legislation,
persecution, and overall anxiety about sin.
3
The Council approved Constitution 21, making the
annual confession of sins to a priest an obligation for all Christians.
4
Constitution 21 required
the priest to thoroughly question the penitent to “ascertain the nature and circumstances of the
sin committed, and then to impose in consequence an appropriate penance, suited to the goal of
healing the sinner’s soul” (Rusconi 206). As Denise Baker points out, “following the Fourth
Lateran Council’s decree… the themes of guilt and punishment came to dominate verbal and
visual pastoral instruction” (83). Baker argues that a “complex ecclesiastical apparatus
developed based on the conviction that ‘God the Creditor kept an exact account of every sin and
every debt”” (83). In addition, summae for confessors to assist in questioning the penitents
about their sins became popular (83). These summae ultimately led to the proliferation of texts
dealing with the seven deadly sins, as those sins provided an interpretive framework that could
shape how a confessor could organize his questions (Ruscone 214).
5
2
Even prior to the Fourth Lateran Council, penitential literature played a significant role in
understanding sin in the Middle Ages. Cistercian Monk, Alain de Lille wrote the Book of
Penitence, which attempts to assign penances in proportion to the penitent’s sins (Rusconi 212).
3
Noting the persecution of Jews and heretics, Frederick Bauerschmidt, in Julian of Norwich and
the Mystical Body Politic of Christ, theorizes that there was an increased concern over social
purity in the medieval world. He points out that “this period was heir to the ideology and
apparatus of what R.I Moore calls a ‘persecuting society’ which emerged in the period between
A.D. 950 and 1250 as a way of policing social boundaries” (67).
4
Roberto Rusconi “Hearing Women’s Sins,” in Medieval Christianity, ed. Daniel E. Boorstein.
5
The seven deadly sins, first introduced in a methodical manner by Evagrius Ponticus, were
codified into medieval lore by Dante Allighieri in The Divine Comedy.
204
Scholars have noted the importance of the seven deadly sins to this timeframe, as
evidenced by the amount of literature devoted to sin and its categorization. Morton Bloomfield’s
seminal study, An Introduction to the History of a Religious Concept, with Special Reference to
Medieval English Literature, emphasizes the prominent role sin, and especially the seven deadly
sins, played in medieval literature. Since Bloomfield’s study, scholars have continued to
chronicle the importance of sin in medieval literature, while contextualizing the role played by
sin in the author’s work.
6
In a recent study, Sin in Medieval and Early Modern Culture, scholars
examine the social concerns of the time, as well as the cultural practices in which the vices
develop in order to understand this preoccupation with sin. In this study, the editors note that the
“septenary of sins remained of central importance,” in medieval academic theology. The “heptad
of sins” served as a common element “in the seminal texts by Peter Lombard and, even more
important, Thomas Aquinus and other great masters of theology in the 13th century” (Newhauser
2-3). Although Julian does not fixate on the seven deadly sins, she nevertheless expresses deep
concern over sin. In fact, as scholars have noted, the aporia of sin and God’s love are of
paramount importance in her texts.
Although Augustine was not known specifically as a commentator on the seven deadly
sins, given Augustine’s importance to the Late Middle Ages, it is necessary to consider his
outlook on sin in order to fully understand the medieval mindset. Although Augustine’s views
on sin changed somewhat over his lifetime, he consistently maintained that sin is an act of the
will in choosing evil over good. Initially, he viewed sin as a “disorder or perversity, that is, an
aversion to the more preferable creator, and a conversion to the inferior creatures” (Simpl.
6
“Introduction” Sin in Medieval and Early Modern Culture by Richard G. Newhauser (Editor),
Susan J. Ridyard (Editor), York Medieval Press, 2012.
205
1.2.18). As a Manichean, Augustine sought the origin of evil, thinking it was a substance. In his
Confessions, Augustine recounts his quest. After observing that God is good, and his creation is
good, he asks, “Where, then, is evil, and what is its origin, and how has it crept into the
creation?” (Confessions 7.5, p. 63). He repeats the question two sections later—“What is the
origin of evil?” (Confessions 7.7, p. 67).
Ultimately, Augustine recounts that after his conversion, he gave up the quest for the
origin of evil, realizing that evil was not a substance but a privation—an absence of good. As
Augustine famously says, “For what is that which we call evil but the absence of good?”
7
In
book vii of the Confessions, the bishop of Hippo reasons that things which are subject to
corruption are good, and if things are deprived of all goodness, “they will have no being at all”
(72). He goes on to reason “therefore, all things which exist are good and that evil the origin of
which I sought is not a substance because, if it were a substance, it would be good” (72). In the
Enchiridion, Augustine makes an analogy between sin and the health of animals to develop his
privatio boni argument further. Augustine claims that just as diseases in animals are privations of
health which, when healed, do not relocate elsewhere, but instead cease to exist, so too are vices
in the soul absences of virtues which, when healed, will cease to exist.
8
Later in his life,
Augustine claimed that the origin of evil could not be known because evil was nothing, and
“what is nothing is not able to be known” (lib. Arb. 2.20.54).
For Julian, Augustine’s view is significant—she cannot see sin because she finds sin to
be a privation of good—it is nothing. However, she differs with Augustine on his position that
sin is the result of a broken will. In the Lord and Servant parable, Julian rewrites Genesis 3, and
7
Augustine, Enchiridion, Chapter III, number 11.
8
Enchiridion Chapter III, number 11.
206
makes clear that original sin was not the result of Adam’s fall because after the servant falls, his
will is intact.
9
In contrast to Julian, Augustine propagated the concept of original sin that was
followed closely by medieval theologians. According to Augustine, original sin arose because of
Adam’s rebellion and became a defect of human will, which is inherited from one’s parents.
Because of Adam’s willful rebellion, all of humanity, extending back to our original parents, has
contracted “sin.” As a result, humans are spiritually and morally incompetent. In De libero
arbitrio, Augustine limits the scope of free will significantly; however, he still defines sin as a
product of the will; “your sin is not your incompetence, but your refusal to turn to God for help”
(lib. Arb. 3.19.53).
Augustine’s views on sin are closely tied to an understanding of divine retribution.
Denise Baker argues that Augustine invoked “a juridical paradigm” when he argues that “sinners
are ordained to punishment. “This order is contrary to their nature, and is therefore penalty. But
it suits their fault and is therefore just” (83).
10
In other words, Augustine suggests that all
humanity is made up of sinners, who deserve the punishment that they receive. He proclaims
that God punishes with divine justice, but without wrath as we know it. However, the medieval
church failed to make the distinction between punishment and wrathful vengeance clear.
11
As
Baker points out, church art and architecture, which emphasized the terrible torments that those
who died in sin would suffer, supported the view of a wrathful God. Further, even though
medieval theologians recognized that God’s wrath was metaphorical, the sermons of the day
9
McGinn claims that “Julian’s view of the Fall is again radical—Adam is injured in his power
and his understanding but not in his wille (i.e., the godly will), which is kept whole in God’s
sight (51.89-91)” (452).
10
Baker quotes Augustine in The Nature of the Good.
11
McGinn emphasizes that Julian’s refusal to think of God as wrathful was daring because
medieval theologians, including Augustine and Aquinas “were convinced that the God of love
must also have an element, albeit on a higher level, of wrath or vindictive justice” (442).
207
reinforced the idea of a wrathful God.
12
Accordingly, Julian’s refusal to attribute wrath to God
seems all the more ground-breaking, given the tenor of her time.
13
Finally Augustine’s view on Adam’s sin is implicated by Julian’s understanding of sin as
an opportunity for growth. For Augustine, Adam’s sin was a felix culpa, a happy sin. Augustine
reasons that even though Adam’s sin was evil, this evilness was far outweighed by the goodness
inherent in Christ’s redemption of humanity, which Adam’s sin brought about.
14
Thus, Adam’s
sin was overall “happy.” Julian seems to adopt this concept yet applies it more generally and
simply to Adam’s sin. As discussed below, for Julian, all sin is “happy” because it allows the
sinner to rise higher than they could have had they not sinned.
Turning now to the English works which provide a further context for Julian’s texts, we
can observe a consensus on sin that is closer to the medieval tradition and, therefore, differs
significantly from Julian’s view. In both works, sin is the result of a fallible will and therefore,
deserves penance if not punishment. Both the Ancrene Wisse and Walter Hilton’s Scale of
Perfection analyze the seven deadly sins in order to assist anchoresses and those inclined toward
spiritual progress in examining their consciences and their own sins, in the face of a potentially
angry God.
12
For example, Marc Cels, in his article, “God's Wrath against the Wrathful in Medieval
Mendicant Preaching” demonstrates that in medieval preaching, Jesus was portrayed as enacting
divine vengeance. Medieval preachers instructed the faithful that all mortals should fear God’s
just wrath (1-2) (Canadian Journal of History, Vol. 43, No. 2 , Autumn 2008).
13
In contrast to the prevailing concept of God as wrathful, Mary Lou Shea, in her book,
Medieval Women on Sin and Salvation, finds a different approach taken by women writers. Shea
analyzes Julian, as well as Hadewiich of Antwerp, Beatrice of Nazareth, and Margaret Ebner and
concludes that medieval women writers were “struck by the profound interconnectedness” of
theologies of sin, fall, Incarnation and salvation. “One could not speak of sin without love, of
fall without rescue, for Christian theology centered on a relational God” (105).
14
Augustine, Enchiridion viii.
208
Sin in the Ancrene Wisse
The Ancrene Wisse (The Guide for Anchoresses) is an anonymous monastic rule (or
manual) for anchoresses, written in the early 13th century for three sisters. The work consists of
eight parts: Parts I and VIII deal with what is called the "Outer Rule" (relating to the anchoresses'
exterior life), Parts II-VII with the "Inner Rule" (relating to the anchoresses' interior life).
Because it was written specifically for anchoresses, scholars often note that Julian may have
actually read and followed this work.
15
Even if she did not, the text provides an excellent
context in which to read Julian. In particular, Part IV of the work offers a thorough discussion of
sin and the deep concern about sin that this spiritual director carried for his fledgling
anchoresses.
16
Accordingly, the seven deadly sins are outlined in great detail.
While, the Ancrene Wisse author shares an interest in vision with Julian, his perspective
is that vision/seeing is dangerous and can lead to sin. The analogy is clear—like the bodily eye,
the window is the eye of the anchorhold, through which the anchoress is always in danger of re-
entering the world. The author expounds on the dangers of the eye itself. Using examples such
as King David, who “saw” Bathsheba and leaped at her, Eve, who “saw” the apple and leaped at
it, and Lucifer, who gazed on his own fairness and leaped into pride, the author is explicit: “all
the woe that now is and ever was and ever will be—all comes from sight. . . sight went before
and made a way for harmful desire—and the act that all humanity feels came after it” (67). The
15
Frederick Bauerschmidt, in Julian of Norwich and the Mystical Body Politic of Christ,
assumes the applicability of the Ancrene Wisse to Julian, as he states that “much of anchoritic
practice, as well as theory, can be gleaned from [it]” (210). Noting that the regimen of prayer
outlined in the Wisse would occupy five or more hours a day, Bauerschmidt notes that the rest of
the day would be taken up with meals, sewing, “and, at least in the case of Julian, counseling
those who came for spiritual guidance” (211).
16
Although not a visionary, the author of the Ancrene Wisse nevertheless develops themes of
vision, seeing and being seen while detailing the dangers of having visions.
209
author goes on to personalize this dangerous seeing: “Thus, when you look at a man, you are in
Eve’s situation” (67). He also points out the dangers of being seen: “if anyone is eager to see
you, never believe good of it” (69) because “the wanton eye speaks, and is like a messenger for
the wanton heart” (69).
17
The author of the Ancrene Wisse carefully records medieval anxiety regarding sin. In a
section entitled “Temptations,” the author uses the metaphor of physical illness to describe two
potential states of sinfulness. First, the author worries over some anchoresses who are so sick
(sinful) that may not even be aware of their own sickness (sinfulness). Second, he expresses
concern about others who are in so much anguish (“se muchel angoise”) about their “sickness”
that they will not allow a spiritual director to touch the sore place within them so that they might
be healed (“hondli his sar ne thet me him heale”) (Ancrene Wisse IV.15-16). Of the first, and
more dangerous, form of illness, the author says,
Sec mon haveth twa estaz swithe dredfule: thet an is hwen he ne
feleth nawt his ahne secnesse, ant for-thi ne secheth nawt leche ne
lechecreft, ne easketh na-mon read, ant asteorveth ferliche ear me
least wene. This is the ancre the nat nawt hwet is fondunge.
Totheos speketh the engel i the Apocalipse: Dicis quia dives sum
et nullius egeo, et nescis quia miser es et nudus, et pauper et
cecus. "Thu seist the nis neod na medecine, ah thu art blind i-
17
Yet, there is no question that one set of eyes is always on the anchoress—God’s. The author
makes clear that anchoresses should not wear jewelry because, “in God’s eyes” she is more
lovely without (203).
210
heortet, ne ne sist nawt hu thu art povre ant naket of halinesse ant
gastelich wrecche" (Ancrene Wisse IV.7-14).
18
When the anchorite “feleth nawt his ahne (own) secnesse,” he resists healing and a cure for his
sin. This medical model follows the guide espoused by the Fourth Lateran Council itself—“The
priest shall be discerning and prudent, so that like a skilled doctor he may pour wine and oil over
the wounds of the injured one. Let him carefully inquire about the circumstances of both the
sinner and the sin, so that he may prudently discern what sort of advice he ought to give and
what remedy to apply, using various means to heal the sick person.”
19
Julian adopts the medical model of sin and penance in Chapter 39, yet transforms it for
her own purpose. Instead of looking to the priest for penance, Julian directs her readers to
embrace contrition, compassion and longing for God (Julian’s three wishes). Julian claims that
“by these medicins behoveth that every sinfulle soule be heled” (LT 39.24). Julian adds that in
order for a “soule” to be “heled,” the “woundes” are “sene before God not as woundes but a
wurshippes” (39.24-26).
The Wisse details the origins of temptations in a similar fashion as Julian details the
origins of sin: “Theos inre fondunge kimeth of the feond, of the world, of ure flesch other-hwile”
(Wisse IV.42-43). Yet, unlike Julian, the Wisse author delves into a detailed discussion of the
seven deadly sins, a topic which Julian does not even mention. As the Wisse author states,
18
All quotations come from the University of Rochester Teams Middle English Text Series,
Ancrene Wisse, edited by Robert Hasenfratz, 2000.
19
Ruscone 205, quoting, Decrees of the Ecumenical Councils.
211
Gath, thah, ful warliche, for i this wildernesse beoth uvele beastes
monie: liun of prude, neddre of attri onde, unicorne of wreaththe,
beore of dead slawthe, vox of yisceunge, suhe of yivernesse,
scorpiun with the teil of stinginde leccherie - thet is, galnesse. Her
beoth nu o rawe i-tald the seoven heaved sunnen: (Wisse IV.203-
06).
Savage and Watson translate the above paragraph as follows:
But go very warily, for in this wilderness are many harmful beats:
the lion of pride; the serpent of poisonous envy; the unicorn of
anger; the bear of deadly sloth; the fox of covetousness; the sow of
gluttony; the scorpion with the tail of stinging lechery, that is lust.
Here now are the Seven Deadly Sins, described in order: (Savage
and Watson 120).
The text that follows analyzes and categorizes the sins, down to the eleven cubs of the lion of
pride, which include vainglory (“vana gloria”), contempt (“indignatio”) and contentiousness
(“contentio”), among others (IV.230-38). This medieval proclivity for the dissection of sin is not
evident in Julian’s text. Instead, Julian demonstrates that this hypervigilance over sin is not
productive. She shows that this fixation over sin only leads to feelings of depression and
“unworthinesse,” which then lead to more sin.
212
Hilton’s The Scale of Perfection and Sin
The fourteenth century saw a proliferation of vernacular spiritual writing and Walter
Hilton was a major figure in that vernacular surge. Hilton (d. 1396) was a Canon of the
Augustinian Priory of Thurgarton and Julian’s contemporary. Trained as a Canon lawyer,
possibly at Cambridge, he reportedly renounced a promising legal career to take up spiritual
writing.
20
McGinn notes that Hilton’s legal training did not preclude him from acquiring “a good
knowledge of theology” as he connects his mystical teachings with “traditional Western
monastic theology,” starting first with Augustine. McGinn claims that “Hilton is a good example
of the ability of traditional Western Augustinian-monastic mysticism to adapt itself to a changed
world in which an educated laity was becoming a major audience for mystical literature” (377).
More significantly, “Hilton’s real importance emerged from the fact that he was more widely
read for centuries than either Julian or the author of the Cloud” (McGinn 378).
Hilton’s Scale of Perfection is his masterpiece—it has been called “a Summa of the
spiritual life.”
21
It articulates “a program of ascetic theology that the author of The Cloud of
Unknowing and Julian of Norwich would have taken for granted.”
22
The Scale was popular both
in and outside the Cloister, with an abundance of manuscripts attesting to its widespread
readership.
23
One of these manuscripts included a book made for a grocer and mentioned in his
will in 1416 as a “common profit” book.
24
After Julian’s death, it was printed in London by
20
“Introduction” by John P.H. Clark and Rosemary Dorward. Walter Hilton, The Scale of
Perfection (p. 13 & 27).
21
Introduction p. 33.
22
Id.
23
Introduction p. 33. McGinn notes that there are 45 manuscripts surviving manuscripts of the
first book, and 26 of the second (374).
24
Introduction p. 33.
213
Wynkyn de Worde (1494) and enjoyed many successive printings up to the time of the
Reformation. Given the Scale’s popularity, it is possible that Julian was acquainted with the
themes, even if, as Denise Baker argues, it is unlikely that Julian ever read the book.
25
As noted
above, it describes an ascetic approach with which she would have been deeply familiar.
Sin is a major topic of the Scale. Since the Scale was an authoritative transmitter of the
medieval tradition, the concepts of the Fall and original sin are underpinnings of the work. In
contrast to Julian’s groundbreaking re-reading of the Fall, Hilton espouses the traditional view
that man was made in God’s image, but that image was damaged in the Fall.
26
Although the
predominant theme of the books is the effort to reform or restore that image of God in the human
soul, the theme of sin is inescapable. As Hilton says, “Now hast thou herd a litil what thi soule is,
and what worschippe it hadde, and how he loste it, and also y have told thee that this worschipe
mught bi grace and bisi travaile sumwhat be recovered agen, in partie of felynge” (Scale, Book
1, Ch. 52, lines 1477-79) p. 89). McGinn locates Hilton within the Augustinian school of
thought in his Imago Dei anthropology (379). And, an underlying assumption of this traditional
view is that through original sin the image of God in man was “loste” (defaced).
27
Thus, original
sin and the Fall remain foundational to Hilton’s project.
Hilton also shares with the Augustinian tradition the view that sin is nothing. In
describing progress on the spiritual path, Hilton tells his readers that they will come to an image
in their soul that is “a merk ymage…whiche hath neither light of knowynge ne felynge of love ne
likynge” (I.52.1495-96). The image is “al belappid with blake stykande clothis of synne, as
25
Baker, “Julian of Norwich, Varieties,” 55-56. .
26
Introduction p. 35; McGinn 379.
27
McGinn 379.
214
pride, envie, ire, accidie, glotonye, and leccherie” (wrapped with black stinking rags of sin, as
pride, envy, anger, covetousness, gluttony, sloth and luxury) (I.52.1496-98, p. 90).
28
Hilton
clarifies that “this is not ymage of Jhesu, but it is an ymage of synne” (I.53.1500). And, as
Augustine would say, this image is “not” (Scale I.53.1510). Hilton elaborates: “This nought is
nothynge ellis but a lackynge of love and of light, as synne is nought ellis but a wantynge of
God” (I.53.1512-13). Just as in the Enchiridion, where Augustine theorizes that the absence of
disease is health, therefore, the absence of evil is good, Hilton theorizes that when his readers dry
up the image of sin in their souls, all that will be left is Jesus (I.53.1515). Because Hilton’s
readers “art not yit reformed,” their soul is inhabited by “not but merknesse and hevynesse,”
together with the “blak smoke of goostli blyndeness” (I.53.1520-23).
29
Hilton, quoting Paul,
specifically identifies this darkness of sin with “the first Adam” (I.54.1544).
Hilton acknowledges that his readers may have difficulty understanding sin as “nought,”
so he defines the image for them as “a fals misruled love unto thisilf” (I.55.1556). He explains
that “Out of this love cometh al maner of synnes bi sevene ryveres” (I.55.1556-57, p. 93). In this
manner, Hilton introduces his discussion of the seven deadly sins. Hilton continues the water
analogy by comparing sin in an individual’s life to a stinking well in a person’s yard. The
stinking well had “many ryveres fro it” which were endangering the garden and the spring
(Christ’s love) within the yard. Hilton suggests that unless the person cleans out the stinking
well thoroughly, the entire garden and the spring will be completely polluted (“corrupted”)
28
The image is wrapped in the seven deadly sins.
29
This description of darkness, blindness and heaviness brings to mind Julian’s description of
humanity, as discussed later in this Chapter.
215
(I.55.1570-75).
30
In this way, Hilton demonstrates his adherence to both the concept of original
sin (the “welle”) and the concept of individual sins caused by it (the “many ryveres”). Further,
in Book I, chapters 56-65, Hilton proceeds to discuss the seven deadly sins thoroughly, paying
particular attention to pride, envy, wrath, covetousness and gluttony. Hilton also draws careful
distinctions between venial and mortal sins. Julian does not even mention the seven deadly sins
in her work, nor the distinction between venial and mortal sin.
Julian and Sin
Scholars consistently point to Julian’s radical approach to sin.
31
Paramount in this view
is Julian’s assertion that God does not blame us for sin. This viewpoint is epitomized in the Lord
and Servant Parable, as was discussed in Chapter 5. In the Parable, we see that when the Servant
(whom Julian acknowledges is everyman) falls, God does not condemn him. Instead, God
regards the Servant, and thus, humanity, with pity and empathy. As Grace Jantzen says, “[God]
longs to help us and heal us; he is not angry with us nor does he wish to punish us” (179). As
Julian states even before setting forth the Parable, “Thus I saw how Crist hath compassion on us
for the cause of sinne” (28.1). Julian takes this interpretation of the Parable even further. As
Jantzen notes, Julian “puts this in very strong terms: she says that there is a sense in which it is
inaccurate to speak of God forgiving us for our sins, because to forgive presupposes that there
30
McGinn notes that elsewhere Hilton suggests that the reformation process is the struggle
between the “false image of sin” and the “true image of Jesus.” McGinn describes this process as
“rooting out of what Hilton often calls ‘the gound of sin’” (380).
31
Baker states that “one of the most striking features of Julian of Norwich’s solution to the
problem of evil is her refusal to attribute wrath to God.” Yet, Baker mistakenly equates this
refusal of identifying God as wrathful to God ascribing no manner of blame to humans (83).
216
must be something needing to be forgiven, and God does not look on us in that way” (179-80).
32
Thus, for most scholars, Julian’s theology of sin consists of God’s refusal to blame humans for
their sins while offering compassion instead.
However, Julian’s theology of sin goes much deeper than that. One cannot fully
understand Julian’s theology of sin without considering how Julian’s visual limitations and
perceptual problems impact her notions of sin. In Julian’s theology of sin, humanity’s real
problem lies in its inability to perceive properly. Making a nuanced Augustinian argument, she
posits that sin is not a substance, but is instead a privation of good. Most importantly, we cannot
see it. Thus, Julian claims that sin is a perceptual problem on the part of humanity. We see
ourselves as blameworthy for sin, which causes us to feel badly about ourselves and, as a result,
we sin more. We cannot see sin as God does. God does not blame us for sin, but instead pities
us. However, we see sin as deserving condemnation. We blame and chastise ourselves so much
that we are likely to fall into more sin.
In addition, we see sin incorrectly because we think sin is the result of Adam’s fall.
However, Julian opposes this Augustinian notion of original sin. In her view, sin is not caused
by Adam’s faulty will, but is instead the result of our human condition and our changeable
nature. Also involved are the “stering of oure enemy, and by oure own foly and blindhede” (LT
76.26-27). “But for the changeablete that we are in, in oureselfe, we falle often into sinne” (LT
76.25-26). Finally, sin is a perceptual problem because we fail to see that sin provides a unique
32
Jantzen elaborates: “Rather he sees us as perfect in Christ, our substance entirely united with
him, and longs to unify our sensuality with our substance so that those things which we rightly
consider to be sinful will plague and destroy us no longer” (179-80).
217
opportunity for spiritual advancement. Because of God’s accepting attitude toward sin, we are
given the opportunity to rise higher than we could have done had we not sinned.
Julian Can’t See Sin
At the outset of Julian’s discussion of sin, she claims that she cannot see sin at all. In
Chapter 11, Julian discusses a vision in which she saw “God in a pointe.”
33
She explains that in
this vision, she saw that God is in all things—which brings her to the question, if God is in all
things, “What is sinne?”
34
This question confounded her, because she claims that “God doth alle
thing, be it never so litile” (LT 11.4-5). The anchoress returns to the idea of God in a point, “For
he is in the mid point of all thinges, and all he doth, and I was seker that he doth no sinne.”
Echoing Augustine, Julian claims, “And here I saw sothly that sinne is no dede, for in alle this,
sinne was not shewde” (11.16-18).
35
Although Julian concedes that “in another time he shewde
for beholding of sinne nakedly,” which she promises to discuss later, she emphasizes that, for the
most part, sin is a perceptual problem on our part. “For man beholdeth some dedes wele done
and some dedes eville, and our lorde beholdeth them not so” (11.30-31). She concludes that all
things are made by God and things that are done are “in properte of Gods doing…For ther is no
doer but he” (11.32-35). Julian’s emphasis on the role of vision is significant. She says that
God’s meaning in the vision was, “See, I am God. See, I am in all thing. See, I do all thing…”
(11.42-48).
33
Julian’s claim to have seen God in a point is an apophatic gesture which scholars, including
McGinn and Mason, have discussed thoroughly.
34
This question seems to echo Augustine’s question in Confessions book vii: “Whence evil?”
35
McGinn notes that “in the third showing Julian came to understand that sin is nothing, because
God does all things but does not do, or make, sin, and therefore does not show it to her” (455).
218
In Chapter 27, Julian insists that she could not see sin. She notes that even though she
saw the extent of the pain in Christ’s passion, which was “the most pain and overpassing,”
36
she
“saw not sinne” (27.18-22). Julian explains “For I believe it hath no maner of substance, ne no
part of being, ne it might not be knowen but by the paine that it is cause of” (27.22-23). Watson
and Jenkins translate this statement as “I believe it has no kind of actuality, nor any share of
existence, nor could it be apprehended were it not for the pain it causes” (208). The editors
suggest that although this notion sounds “daring,” they call Julian’s characterization of sin as an
absence a “theological commonplace” and argue that Walter Hilton said much the same in The
Scale. Hilton explains that sin is merely “a lackinge of love and light … a wantinge of God”
(208, quoting The Scale 1.53). Of course, Hilton would share Julian’s view of sin as a privation
because he was an Augustinian friar. As demonstrated above, both Julian and Hilton are
following Augustine in this case. Julian confirmed that she “saw not sin” in Chapter 34, but she
countered that by saying “And than saw I that alle is welle” (34.20).
Related to Julian’s inability to see sin is Julian’s refusal to see wrath in God. “But in God
may be no wrath, as to my sight” (LT 13.13-14).
37
As previously discussed, Julian’s refusal to
see wrath is contrary to most medieval theological thought. Julian claims that instead of God
being wrathful, he stands against “the reproved”
38
with “might and right” (13.16-17). Julian
seems to grasp the distinction that some medieval theologians draw between divine justice and
36
Watson and Jenkins translate this as “for all this pain, I understood Christ’s passion to be the
greatest and transcendent pain” (208).
37
On this point, Grace Jantzen claims, “Julian insists that there is no wrath in God: the wrath is
in us, when we choose to separate ourselves from him. God does not blame us for our sins; he
sees the frailty of our nature and our fractured contrariness, and recognizes that sin is both a
consequence and an augmentation of our brokenness” (179) .
38
Watson and Jenkins note here that “reproved” “would normally be souls destined for
damnation, but in the context of this passage, may rather be the demons” (168).
219
divine wrath and sides with the theologians who err on the side of divine justice. In the
Confessions, for example, Augustine straddles a fine line between emphasizing God’s mercy and
allowing for some wrath. He says, “But you, O Lord, abide forever, and you are not angry with
us forever since you are merciful to dust and ashes…” (68). Although Augustine claims that God
is not angry forever, he leaves open the possibility that God may be angry at some point. Julian
goes a step further by claiming that even though God takes a stand against sinners, he is never
angry—she sees no wrath in God. And, even God’s “withstonding” is done with his believers in
mind. Julian establishes that God’s judgment is subject to two provisos—that it is to his own
worship and for his believers’ spiritual advancement. “For our good lorde—endelessly having
regard to his awne worshippe and to the profite of all them that shal be saved—with might and
right he withstondeth the reproved” (13.15-16). Thus, all that God does, including standing
against sin, is done so that believers can rise spiritually.
Despite the fact that Julian cannot see sin, she does not give up trying to understand it
because she has a sense that it nevertheless exists. When she thinks of her desire to see God, she
believes that she was held back from seeing what she desired because of something she calls sin.
She claims that she “saw that nothing letted (prevented) me but sinne” (27.1-3). She explains:
And so I beheld generally in us alle, and me thought: “If sinne had
not be, we shulde all have be clene and like to oure lorde as he
made us.” And thus in my foly before this time, often I wondred
why, by the grete foreseeing wisdom of God, the beginning of
sinne was not letted. For then thought me that alle shulde have
been wele (LT 27.3-6).
220
Even though Julian cannot see sin, she detects it not only in herself, but “generally in us alle” and
she refuses to ignore it. Writing from the perspective of hindsight, Julian realizes that her
idealistic musings about a world created with no sin are “foly.”
39
And, even though she knew it
was a thought to be “forsaken,” Julian persists in wondering why “sinne was not letted.” It is to
this end that in her vision, she received her acclaimed answer, “Sinne is behovely, but alle shalle
be wele, and all shalle be wele, and alle maner of thinge shalle be wel” (LT 27.9-10).
40
The word “behovely” has received much scholarly attention recently, particularly in
Denys Turner’s book, Julian of Norwich, Theologian. Translated as both fitting and necessary,
41
Turner states that Julian’s understanding of the word behovely would be a Middle English
equivalent of the Latin word conveniens. After “protecting his flank” by suggesting that Julian
could have learned the meaning of conveniens in compilation texts written in the vernacular for
those wanting theological training outside the University system, Turner asserts that “behovely”
means to Julian much the same as what conveniens means to “Anselm, Hugh of St. Victor,
39
Grace Jantzen claims that the more general question of why any sin was allowed in the first
place, which Julian ponders and receives more theological and spiritual insight, is the question
which brings Julian’s book so much depth. She adds that Julian’s questioning “brings together
the urgent anguish of the world and the loving compassion of God in the person of the suffering
and dying Jesus, and from this juxtaposition binds insight about ourselves and about God” (176).
40
Baker asserts, “these words from the thirteenth century revelation of Julian of Norwich’s Book
of Showings have been inscribed on modern consciousness by T.S. Eliot’s quotation of them in
the Four Quartets” (63) Baker recognizes that “Eliot’s incorporation of Julian’s voice into his
dialogue with the past has brought her recognition within the literary establishment,” but she
claims that it has “reduced the message of her Showings to a conservative, secular
mysticism”(63). Baker argues that the charm of Julian’s words “belies the complexity of her
thought” (63). Baker goes on to note the eschatological reassurance inherent in these words (69).
41
Colledge and Walsh translate behovely as “necessary” (225). Watson and Jenkins translate
“behovely” as “necessary or fitting, also good or opportune” (208). Watson and Jenkins trace
“behovely” to the verbs behoveth and behoved, used elsewhere in Julian's text. As for the
statement sin is behovely, the editors suggest that it parallels the words from the Easter liturgy:
“O happy fault, O necessary sin of Adam.” If so, the editors claim that behovely may translate
both “happy” and “necessary” (208).
221
Thomas Aquinas, and Bonaventure”—that it “fits,” or “it is just so” (37-38). Turner then
explains that even though Julian is told that sin is “behovely”—it is part of God’s plan—we
cannot see what the plan is, at least not right now. And, in a sense, Turner is right. Julian makes
clear that the reason for sin is now secret.
42
However, as will be discussed further, in another
sense, Julian does understand why sin is “behovely.” Sin is fitting because, as discussed later in
this chapter, it serves an educative function—it allows for spiritual enlightenment. As Julian says
in Chapter 27, the pain caused by sin “purgeth and maketh us to know oureselfe and aske for
mercy” (27.24-25).
Sin as a Perceptual Problem
So, why is sin so bad? Is it God’s judgment that makes sin so dangerous? No, Julian’s
argument is consistent. It is never God’s judgment that creates sin’s deleterious effect—instead it
is our own view of sin which causes us to punish ourselves. As Julian demonstrates in Chapter
11, sin is a perceptual problem on man’s part: “For man beholdeth some dedes wele done and
some dedes eville, and our lorde beholdeth them not so” (11.30-31). And so, contrary to sin
being rewarded in heaven, Julian sees that “we be ponished here with sorrow and with penance”
(LT 39.25-26). Julian makes clear here and elsewhere that penance is man’s creation, not God’s,
and derives from life. And, the sorrow is our own, not imposed by God. Thus, sin is a matter of
perception--our punishment is our own doing, not God’s.
42
As to why God made the world with sin, Julian states: “And in theyse same words, I saw an
high, marvelous previte (secret) hid in God, which previte he shalle openly make knowen to us in
heven. In which knowing we shalle verily se the cause why he suffered sinne to come, in which
sight we shalle endlessely have joye” (LT 27.32-35).
222
Julian emphasizes the perceptual dimensions of this problem again in Chapter 50. She
asserts that because of man’s judgment of sin, we fall into “tempest and sorrow,” which only
leads us to sin more (50.1-5). Yet, in her visions she sees that God does not blame sinners (50.9-
10). This insight deeply troubles Julian because of the discrepancy between her understanding
that God does not blame believers for sin and the teaching of the medieval church, which
condemned sinners. Julian anxiously expresses her hope to either “se in God that sinne were all
done awey, or els me behoved to see in God how he seeth it, whereby I might truly know how it
longeth to me to see sinne and the manner of oure blame (LT 50.16-19). Julian emphasizes this
discrepancy as a perceptual problem—if only she could see as God sees, then she would know
how to see sin. Julian’s desire to see sin is answered by the Parable of the Lord and Servant.
Finally, Julian suggests that sin blinds us because of our negative perception of it (72.10-12). It is
deadly because it makes us feel dead, even though we are not dead in the sight of God (72.13-
16). It’s entirely in our perception. Sin is dangerous because of how it makes us see ourselves,
not because of how it makes God see us.
Sin Is Caused by the Human Condition, Not Original Sin
Just as spiritual blindness is part of the human condition, Julian instructs her readers that
sin is a routine part of their lives as well. In Chapter 36, God tells her that he shall do a great
deed, and, in the meantime, she “shalle do right nought but sinne. And my sinne shall not let his
goodness working” (36.3-5). In other words, as God works wonders in the world, he expects no
more of humans than that they will go right on sinning in their daily lives. And no amount of sin
will stop God’s working in the world. Julian confirms this everyday nature of sin in Chapter 37:
“God brought to my minde that I shuld sinne” (37.1). Julian is then instructed that God intended
223
to include all humanity in that statement—“Though oure lorde shewed me that I shuld sinne, by
me alone is understonde alle” (37.6-7). Thus, all believers will sin, even though sin is invisible.
Sin as an Opportunity for Spiritual Growth
But, as Julian elucidates in Chapter 38, sin is not always deleterious, but instead can be
instructive and even beneficial. In fact, Julian claims that instead of being shameful, sin will be
an honor to believers. “Sinne shalle be no shame, but wurshippe to man” (38.1).
43
As
paradoxical as this declaration seems, Julian stands by it and elaborates: “For right as to every
sinne is answering a paine by truth, right so for every sinne to the same soule is geven a blisse by
love” (38.1-3). The editors translate this statement as “just as truth creates for every sin a
corresponding pain, so love gives the same soul a specific joy for every sin” (Watson 236).
What Julian is saying is that sin will be rewarded by God. Julian confirms this—she writes that
God, in His goodness, does not allow a soul to come to heaven without being rewarded for its sin
(38.6-8). In fact, each sin is made known and the soul is restored with transcendent worship
(38.9-10).
Why is sin rewarded? This notion seems to defy what the medieval church taught.
Perhaps cognizant of the radical nature of her claim, Julian points to scripture for support. She
instructs that David in the Old Testament, and Mary “Magdaleyne, Peter and Paule, Thomas of
Inde (Doubting Thomas), Sent John of Beverly, and other, also without number, they be knowen
in the church on erth with ther sinnes” (LT 38.12-14). Not only are these prominent Biblical
figures known for their sins, but their sins are “to them no shame, but alle is turned to them to
worshippe” (38.14-15). According to Julian, these individuals are honored for their sins in part
43
Watson and Jenkins translate this as “sin will not be a cause of humiliation but will do a
person honor” (236).
224
here on Earth, but even more so in heaven.
44
The only one who would not have been
immediately recognizable as a Biblical figure was Saint John of Beverley (died 721). Saint John
was a local saint from Northumbria who, during his lifetime, served as Bishop of Hexham and
Bishop of York. John remained prominent as an English saint for seven hundred years, including
all of Julian’s lifetime.
45
In fact, Susan Wilson, in her book, The Life and After-life of Saint John
of Beverley: The Evolution of the Cult of an Anglo-Saxon Saint, asserts that in 1377, the town of
Beverley (founded by John) owed its status as England’s tenth largest provincial center to the
saint’s popularity (134). Clearly, Saint John was an important saint during Julian’s lifetime and
one with whom Julian’s readers would have been familiar.
Despite Saint John’s prominence in England, Julian felt the need to provide more
background for her readers. Yet, Julian’s biography of the saint does not tell us much,
presumably because she assumes that her readers would have been familiar with his basic story.
Julian reminds her readers of his importance by alluding to an account of his falling into sin and
rising from it.
And Saint John of Beverley, oure lorde shewed hym full highly in
comfort of us for homelyhed, and brought to my minde how he is a
hende neighbur and of oure knowing. And God called hym seynt
John of Beverley, plainly as we do, and that with a fulle glade and
swet chere, shewing that he is a full high seynt in hys sight and a
44
Denise Baker finds that “the grace received by the penitents surpasses the gifts they would
have obtained if they had not sinned” (72).
45
In The Life and After-life of Saint John of Beverley: The Evolution of the Cult of an Anglo-
Saxon Saint, Susan Wilson examines hagiographical material by Bede and others to discern
details about the saint’s life as well as the prominence of his cult.
225
blissful. And with this he made mention that in his youth and in his
tender age he was a dereworthy sarvant to god, full mekille God
loving and dredingg. And nevyrthelesse God suffered hym to falle,
hym mercifully keping, that he perished not ne lost no tyme; and
afterward God reysed hym to manyfolde more grace, and by the
contrition and the mekenesse that he had in hys lyuyag, god hath
gevyn hym in hevyn manyfolde joyes, overpassyag that he shuld
haue had yf he had nott synnyd or fallen
(LT 38.18-29).
As suggested above, Julian notes that Saint John is a neighbor and “of oure knowing.” Thus, she
expects that her readers will know something of him—they just need to be reminded of the
pertinent details. And, for Julian, these details include God allowing John to fall into sin, keeping
him so he did not perish, and raising him above the status that he would have had if he had not
sinned. Thus, the pertinence of Saint John’s life for Julian’s narrative lies in John’s falling and
rising.
But, what is this story of falling and rising to which Julian is alluding? Scholars
acknowledge that Julian is, in fact, citing a legend of Saint John, but they claim that the legend
thus far has been unidentified by scholars, or lost to time.
46
Alan Deighton suggests that the
46
Grace Jantzen informs us that Julian “seems to expect her readers to know about [the story of
John’s fall] and goes into no detail, and no record or even legend is now extant” (188). Denise
Baker, in her book, Julian of Norwich’s Showings, notes that Julian refers to “an event in John’s
life thus far unidentified by scholars” (72). Similarly, Susan K. Hagen, in her chapter, “St.
Cecilia and St. John of Beverley: Julian of Norwich’s Early Model and Later Affirmation,”
collected in Julian of Norwich, A Book of Essays, notes that Julian alludes to “an apparently lost
Footnote continued on next page
226
story to which Julian refers is, in fact, based on a clearly apocryphal account of the life of St
John of Beverley: the Dutch chapbook Historie van Jan van Beverley first printed in Brussels in
around 1512 by Thomas van der Noot.
47
Deighton describes the legend this way:
There once lived in England a rich and powerful man, the Earl of
Beverley, a widower who had been left two children -- a son
named Jan and a daughter Colette. On reaching manhood and
acquiring a knowledge of Good and Evil Jan decides to reject and
escape the blandishments of this world. His father is upset at this
loss of an heir but cannot change his son's mind, who prays for his
father and then departs to live a hermit's life in a cell in a wood.
There he receives a visit from his sister, to whom he explains his
decision. She thanks him and leaves, promising to visit him more
often. The Devil appears to Jan in the form of an angel, telling him
that to avoid eternal damnation for having prided himself on his
piety he must commit one of three sins: drunkenness, inchastity, or
murder. Jan chooses drunkenness, thinking it to be the least of the
three evils. At the next visit of his sister he asks her to bring some
wine, which she does, staying with him while he drinks it lest evil
befall him. Thoroughly drunk, he rapes and then murders her,
burying the body to hide the evidence. Sober again he repents and
Footnote continued from previous page
legend of this late seventh century saint’s straying away from God and recovery by grace…”
(109).
47
Alan Deighton, “Julian of Norwich's knowledge of the life of St John of Beverley,” Notes and
Queries. 40.4 (Dec. 1993): p440.
227
decides to make confession to the Pope in Rome rather than
despair. Having heard his confession, the Pope is unable to fix a
suitable penance and advises the unrecognised sinner to go to
England and seek the advice of the pious hermit Jan van Beverley.
At home again Jan decides to walk only on all fours, drink water,
eat grass like an animal, and not utter a word until a child is born
who at the age of one day will tell him that God has forgiven him.
Seven years pass. Jan's father has died and a new earl has been
chosen. To celebrate the birth of his child the earl goes hunting.
Some hunters find Jan whom they take to be a new species of wild
animal. He is captured and taken to the earl's court, where the new-
born child absolves him, upon which the Bishop [sic] of
Canterbury is brought to Beverley to hear Jan's confession. He then
returns to Colette's grave, opens it to discover his sister still alive
and describing the joys of Paradise which she has been
experiencing in the company of angels since her murder. They go
off together praising God and in search of the Bishop in order to
receive the Holy Sacrament (Deighton 440).
Deighton asserts that the legend of St. Jan van Beverly is a conflation of two originally separate
narratives. The first, a popular medieval exemplum, is “that of the hermit who, called upon to
commit one of three sins, chooses to commit that apparently least harmful and as a result,
228
commits all three” (2).
48
The second, almost equally popular, is the “story of a hairy anchorite
who, as a penance for a great sin, usually murder, lives for some years like an animal and is
finally absolved by a new-born child” (2).
49
Is this the legend to which Julian points? Although it is impossible to attest with
certainty, the broad identifying markers suggest a match. First, the name, Jan van Beverley
appears to be more than a coincidence. That this story was recorded in a Dutch chapbook does
not detract from the likelihood that the tale is about the English John of Beverley. As discussed
in Chapter 3, the Netherlands and Norwich and the Northumbria area developed strong trade
connections—it is reasonable to assume that those trade ties included stories as well as goods.
Further, as Deighton asserts, Julian’s version of the story shares “the same contours with the
version in Jan van Beverley: his youthful piety and fear of God, his sin, his penance and
humility, and thereafter, the prospect of salvation” (2). Moreover, as Deighton argues, the
chance of there being two independent apocryphal versions of the life of John of Beverley seems
remote. It is much more likely that the Dutch chapbook version is the version to which Julian
alludes. Deighton suggests that because the Dutch chapbook version includes verse dialogue, it
may be based on an original English morality play or other form (3).
Julian includes John of Beverly in her list of Biblical characters to make the point that
falling (sin ) creates the opportunity for rising (penance and spiritual advancement). It is likely
that the legend of Jan van Beverley is the story to which Julian alludes because the legend
supports her point. Certainly, Jan sinned, fell and repented. Further, as he was absolved of his
48
Deighton suggests that this exemplum has been documented in various versions by scholars
and appears in F. C. Tubach, Index Exemplorum, A Handbook of Mediaeval Religious Tales (2-
3).
49
Deighton chronicles that this tale has also been documented by Tubach, as well as others.
229
sin, he rises by discovering his sister still alive and celebrating with her, praising God.
Assuming that the medieval mind believed that the legendary Jan shared the same identity as the
English Saint John of Beverley, Jan was further raised up to become Bishop and after performing
many miracles, was eventually canonized a saint. Accordingly, the legend comports with
Julian’s more traditional belief that one must be repentant for one’s sins. However, it does not
contradict Julian’s view that God does not punish sins. Instead, it supports her position that He
raises up the sinner “in heven [with] manifold joys, overpassing that he shuld have had if he had
not sinned or fallen” (38.26-27). Grace Jantzen notes, “from this example, Julian took comfort,
accepting that although it is only in a few instances like this that we can actually see how the
fragmentation of sin is turned into honour, they do illustrate that it is more generally true” (189).
But, Julian cautions that one should not simply adopt a sinful life, relying on the promise
of being raised up for those sins (40.22-25). In Chapter 39, immediately following her
discussion of John, Julian insists that sin also causes great harm: “Sinne is the sharpest scourge
that any chosen soule may be smitten with” (39.1). Adopting a more traditional view of sin, the
anchoress warns her readers that sin can beat down (“forbeteth”) and break (“forbreketh”) the
sinner. It can disgust the sinner in his own sight and make him think he is unworthy and should
simply sink into hell (39.2-4).
50
Julian returns to this idea in Chapter 40, where she instructs her
readers that if they had to choose between all the pain in earth, hell and purgatory and sin, they
should choose pain rather than sin (40.30-32). She explains, “For sin is so vile and so mekille for
to hate that it may be liconned (likened) to no paine which paine is not sinne” (40.32-33).
Watson and Jenkins assert that Julian considers sin to be in its own category and cannot be
50
Unworthiness is a significant theme in Julian’s texts. Julian sees unworthiness as a major
impediment to spiritual advancement.
230
likened to anything else, including pain (244). Sin is so unique that there is “none harder helle
than sinne” (40.33). Consistent with her earlier statements about sin being a privation of good,
she reminds her readers that “all is good but sin and nought is evel but sinne” (40.33-34). It
appears that this absence of good is far more dangerous than Julian’s readers may be lead to
believe in light of a God who doesn’t judge or condemn.
Julian contrasts the difficulty of sin here with the rewards that sinning believers shall
receive in heaven. She promises that “we shall be rewarded in heven by the curtesse love of oure
lord God,” who will give full credit in heaven to believers who suffer “traveyle” because God
rewards instead of judges sin (39.27-29). Since all shame shall turn to honor, “the mede
(rewards) that we shal undertake shall not be litille, but it shalle be high, glorious and
worshipfulle” (39.31-33). Even though, in general, believers do not reap the rewards until they
come to heaven, God’s actions have consequences here in this life. The anchoress assures her
readers that God does not want his servants to “despair for ofte falling ne for grevous falling”
because “oure falling letteth not him to love us” (39.33-34). Julian summarizes this passage by
promising her readers that the more often they fall, the more they give God the opportunity to
reward them (39.38-39).
Interestingly, Julian expresses an equivalent concept of sin in Chapter 49, but changes the
terms. In particular, Julian omits the word “sin” and renames it “contrariness” (LT 49.38). In
this chapter, she assures her readers that there will be no contrariousnes in heaven. However,
while here, “that contrariousnes which is now in us, our Lorde God of his goddnes maketh it to
us fulle profitable” (49.38-39). In other words, God uses our contrariness to advance us
spiritually. Julian asserts much the same idea in Chapter 59, yet from a different perspective. In
this discussion, Julian looks at the “blisse” believers will have in heaven and claims that “which
231
manner blisse we might never have had and knowen, but if that properte of goodnesse which is
God had ben contraried” (59.1-2). Again, Julian uses the word “contraried” instead of “sinned.”
Julian further explores the concept of falling and rising in Chapter 61 and defines it as
“profite”. She asserts, “And whan we falle, hastely he raiseth us by his lovely becleping and his
gracious touching” (61.8-9). She notes that sometimes God allows some believers to fall harder
than ever before. And when this happens, the ones who fall, because they are not wise, think they
are spiritually back to where they had begun. But, Julian claims, “it is not so” (61.14). For if the
fallers did not fall, they would not see that they had sinned in this life, nor would they have “an
high and marvelous knowing of love in God without ende” (61.15-22).
In sum, Julian advocates that believers should see sin differently. Believers should see
sin not as a point of condemnation, but instead, as an opportunity for growth and spiritual
advancement. For, as Julian makes clear, if believers did not sin, they would not be raised, nor
would they have an understanding of God’s love.
232
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Abstract (if available)
Abstract
Blindness and visual limitations play a significant role in Julian of Norwich's recounting of her receipt of sixteen visions. As ironic as it may seem to focus on issues of non-sight in discussing a book containing visual narratives, a focus on Julian's visual difficulties provides a window into Julian's understanding of not only God, but humanity as well. Just as apophatic theologians have discussed the invisibility of God due to both his transcendence and humanity's limitations, Julian, too, uses tropes of non-seeing to explore that which cannot be seen of God. Julian finds that even though our vision of God is severely curtailed by human limitations, those limitations nevertheless, and the difficulties they cause, allow our souls to rise. As a result of these visual limitations, humans can grow closer to God in a way that spirits who do not suffer the same limitations cannot.
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Gosselin, Janna Smith
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Blind seeing: the limits of vision in the texts of Julian of Norwich
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visions