Margery Kempe And Her Close Encounter With A Falling Beam

By 1413, Margery Kempe—an up-and-coming mystic and self-proclaimed holy woman—was dividing the masses of England down lines of public opinion. Although she could not read, she apparently memorized much of the Bible through hearing, and she claimed to have had personal access to holy wisdom through vivid visions in which she saw and conversed with Jesus. Margery’s spiritualism pushed her in some unique directions; she became a vegetarian after a vision in 1409, then cajoled her husband into joining her in a vow of chastity by 1413, and, in her greatest calling-card, she became prone to profuse sobbing during religious services. Such antics made Margery one of those figures that people could only love or hate.

Around June 1413, Margery Kempe was concerned about her already divided reputation. As she dictated to a scribe in her autobiography, Margery Kempe, at that time, was “very much fearing public opinion, which said God should take vengeance upon her” (Book of Margery Kempe, Book I, chapter 9). To console her fears, Margery Kempe went to church in her hometown of King’s Lynn to pray, hoping for some divine aid in her ongoing struggle with public relations. Yet, ironically enough, what would occur that day in church would in no way bring her supporters and decriers together. Instead, what would befall her in the church would be seen by both her fans and critics as proof for their positive and negative opinions.

On that June day in 1413, Margery Kempe entered the church and lowered herself in prayer, calling up to the heavens for aid and strength. She quickly had an answer to her prayers, and other parishioners in the church did not need a mystic’s mind to hear God’s loud and clear response. Loud creaks and cracks echoed out in the sanctuary, and Margery Kempe described what happened next (in the third person) within her autobiography:

 “Suddenly—from the highest part of the church vault, from under the base of the rafter—there fell down on her head and on her back a stone which weighed three pounds, and a short end of a beam weighing six pounds, so that she thought her back was broken in pieces, and she was afraid that she would be dead in a little while. Soon after she cried, ‘Jesus, mercy,’ and immediately her pain was gone” (Book of Margery Kempe, Book I, chapter 9).

As this was a very public and eye-catching event, news about Margery Kempe’s close encounter with the falling rock and beam from her very church spread fast. Her supporters proclaimed that it was a miracle—God had shielded her from pain and harm, and she walked away from the incident unscathed. Yet, her detractors instead proclaimed that the falling rock and beam were a warning from God, and a sign that her actions were not looked upon favorably from heaven. As Margery herself mused, “many people greatly glorified God in this creature [Margery]. And also many people would not believe it, but preferred to believe it was more a token of wrath and vengeance than of mercy or favor” (Book of Margery Kempe, Book I, chapter 9).

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Detail of a miniature (dated c. 1320-1340) of an allegorical figure embodying Tristesse (Sadness). Image taken from f. 10 of Roman de la Rose (index Romance of the Rose), [Public Domain] via picryl.com and Creative Commons).

Sources:

• The Book of Margery Kempe, dictated by Margery Kempe, and translated to modern English by B. A. Windeatt. New York, Penguin Classics, 2000.

Saint-King Olaf II And His Victory Over The 5-King Conspiracy

In 1015, Olaf Haraldsson launched his bid for the throne of Norway, killing, exiling, or otherwise forcing into submission the regional jarls who were beholden to other kings of Scandinavia. By 1016, he had brought Norway under his control, becoming King Olaf II, but there were still pockets of resistance among the jarls, petty kings, and chieftains who were uneasy with their new king. Around 1017, King Olaf (also known as Saint Olaf) dramatically clashed with several of these wavering noblemen who did not agree with his efforts to spread Christianity in their domains. The ensuing showdown was recorded in verse by an 11th-century Icelandic skald named Ottar the Black, whose poem was cited by Snorri Sturluson (c. 1179-1241) in his Heimskringla (History of the Kings of Norway), specifically Saint Olaf’s Saga, which is included in that text.

Around 1017, King Olaf II began pressuring the Uppland districts to convert to Christianity. The topic of religion can get heated even in simple conversation, so the tension of the region understandably became quite hostile when King Olaf’s methods of spreading Christianity proved less than cordial. As Snorri Sturluson bluntly described, “if he found anyone who did not want to abandon heathendom, he drove him out of the land. Some he had maimed, having their hands or feet lopped off or their eyes gouged out, others he had hanged or beheaded, but left no one unchastised who refused to serve God” (Saint Olaf’s Saga, chapter 73). Such heavy-handedness, especially on a topic as sensitive as religion, did nothing to console the noblemen in the region who were still unsure of Olaf’s rule. Shocked by the stories of execution, mutilation and banishment, five petty kings of Uppland decided to work together in a conspiracy against King Olaf II.

Only three of the five conspirators are known to history by name, but all of them were said to have lived around the Lake Mjøsa area. Hrœrek and Gudröd were the most influential of the petty kings, while a certain King Hring and two other petty kings usually deferred to Hrœrek and Gudröd for guidance. As Olaf II ramped up his conversion campaign in the region, the five petty kings decided to meet in order to discuss what course they wanted to take. Although there was some debate, they all chose to launch a violent resistance against King Olaf. Yet, instead of an open rebellion, they decided to orchestrate a more subtle conspiracy, hoping to ambush Olaf II while the king was unaware of their disloyalty. Upon their agreement to conspire against their liege, the five petty kings vowed to remain together in a single camp, lest one of them be tempted to betray the others.

Fully committed, the conspirators started to gather warriors whom they presumed to be loyal to their cause. Each of the five petty kings allegedly pledged to recruit around 300 trustworthy fighters, and therefore, they hoped to obtain a force of at least 1,500 men. Meanwhile, as they slowly mustered their forces, the conspirators sent spies to keep an eye on King Olaf, who, at that time, was reportedly only guarded by a band of between 400 and 500 warriors.

Hrœrek, Gudröd, Hring and their fellow petty kings, however, were not the only ones with eyes and ears on the ground. King Olaf II, too, had a formidable spy network, and, to his fortune, one of his informants was invited to the conspiracy. This man, reportedly named Ketil, quickly relayed news of the conspiracy back to King Olaf, who, upon receiving the tip-off, quickly acted to crush the plot.

As the story goes, King Olaf and his guards stormed off to the nearest shore of Lake Mjøsa. There, they commandeered as many ships as they needed, and then set sail upon nightfall out into the lake. With help from his informant, Olaf knew the exact location where all five of the conspiring kings were camped together—a place called Hringiskar, near Gudbrands Dale. King Olaf reached his target well before dawn, and, after assembling his troops around the compound, he attacked at first light. Catching the conspirators unprepared and off guard, King Olaf’s troops made short work of the would-be rebels. In the fight, all five of the petty kings were captured, and Olaf severely punished the main two ringleaders of the group. King Hrœrek was blinded and forbidden to stray from Olaf’s company. Gudröd, similarly, was mutilated, but his tongue was taken instead of his eyes. Hring and the other two remaining petty kings were reportedly banished from Norway. Despite King Olaf’s victory, the blinded Hœrek would continue to conspire against the king, and Uppland would remain staunchly pagan for several more years.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Illustration by Christian Krohg (1852–1925) for the Heimskringla, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• Heimskringla, by Snorri Sturluson and translated by Lee Hollander. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1964, 2018.
• https://www.britannica.com/biography/Olaf-II-Haraldsson  

The Post-Burial Consecration System Supposedly Used In Early-Christianized Greenland

Leading families in Iceland and Greenland chose to accept Christianity around the year 1000. Yet, as they say, it is easier said than done, and the Icelanders and Greenlanders may have found implementing Christian ideas into their societies to be a trickier task than they might have imagined. One area of major confusion was apparently burials. Questions seemed to have abounded on topics such as whether the dead in Iceland and Greenland could continue to be buried in unconsecrated ground. Could burial sites be consecrated after the funeral? Did priests need to interact with the bodies before they were buried? In Greenland, some of the earliest Christians supposedly came to a hybrid decision in which they buried their dead whenever and wherever they wished, but included a small access point into the grave. At some later point, ordained priests could drop holy material down into the tombs, which would presumably bless the ground and burial.

 This interesting process was mentioned and described in Eirik the Red’s Saga, an anonymously-written text from the 13th century. On these burials, the saga  claimed:

 “It had been common practice in Greenland, since Christianity had been adopted, to bury people in unconsecrated ground on the farms where they died. A pole was set up on the breast of each corpse until a priest came, then the pole was pulled out and consecrated water poured into the hole and a burial service performed, even though this was done much later” (Eirik the Red’s Saga, chapter 6).

As the writer of the saga hinted, the process described in the book was apparently looked down upon by the church and more proper ways of burial were introduced and encouraged. Eirik the Red’s Saga, in case some people were still considering burials in unconsecrated ground, also included a tale about a draugr—a Norse zombie—that came back from the dead to beg for his body to be brought to a church and buried on hallowed ground. The worried zombie reportedly said:

“These practices will not do which have been followed here in Greenland after the coming of Christianity: burying people in unconsecrated ground with little if any service said over them. I want to have my corpse taken to a church, along with those of the other people who have died here” (Eirik the Red’s Saga, chapter 6).

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Scene from the Saga of Olaf Tryggvason, illustrated by Christian Krohg  (1852–1925), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• The Vinland Sagas (Saga of the Greenlanders and Eirik the Red’s Saga) translated by Keneva Kunz. New York: Penguin Classics, 2008.

Bishop Edmund Of Lindisfarne Won His Bishopric With A Joke

The bishopric of Lindisfarne was one of the most beleaguered of the ecclesiastical seats of power in medieval England. It was directly pillaged by Vikings in 793 and 875—even worse, Lindisfarne and the Kingdom of Northumbria were conquered by the so-called Great Heathen Army of Vikings in 867. When, by 876, it became apparent to the clergy of Lindisfarne that the Vikings in Northumbria were not going anywhere anytime soon, they made the ambitious decision to relocate their bishopric to a safer location in the south. Packing up their most holy relic, the body of St. Cuthbert, the priests of Lindisfarne set off to find their new home. For the remainder of the 9th century and most of the 10th century, they favored Chester-le-Street. Yet, in 995, the long-wandering bishopric finally reestablished itself at Durham.

Bishop Aldhun was credited with moving the bishopric from Chester-le-Street to Durham. Given the recent relocation and the general chaos for the bishopric over the last centuries, it is little wonder that the bishopric in Durham fell into some confusion after the death of Bishop Aldhun around 1018. As the story goes, the clergy of Durham could not decide on Aldhun’s successor and the bishopric remained leaderless as the debates went on unresolved. For nearly three years, no leader for the bishopric was decided upon. That was about to change, however, when a group of priests met in Durham around 1020.

During the meeting, the subject of the long-delayed appointment of a bishop was discussed. As had happened at other such meetings over the last two years, the priests could not come to an agreement, and it seemed as if the bishopric would continue to be neglected. In that gloomy and indecisive atmosphere, a certain well-liked priest named Edmund was suddenly inspired to lighten the mood of the unproductive meeting with a joke. According to the monk and chronicler Florence of Worcester (d. 1118), “Edmund stood up, and said in joke, ‘Why do you not choose me your bishop?’” (Chronicle of Florence of Worcester, AD1020). This joke or jest made lightbulbs flicker on in the heads of the priests present at the meeting. They eyed Edmund as a shared epiphany spread over the room—Edmund was a pious, well-liked, ordained priest—in other words, he was an ideal nominee for bishop. Realizing this, the clergymen thanked Edmund for volunteering and vowed to support him in his bid for the bishopric. Soon after the meeting, Edmund reportedly was awarded with a supernatural show of support. According to Florence of Worcester and his contemporary chronicler Symeon of Durham (d. 1130), disembodied voices in the tomb of Saint Cuthbert were heard proclaiming Edmund as the rightful bishop.

Although this faction of clergymen apparently threw their support in with Edmund in 1020, and this date usually marks the start of his time as bishop, the campaign for the bishopric may have taken longer. According to the aforementioned Florence of Worcester, it was not until 1025 that Edmund became the undisputed bishop of Lindisfarne and Durham. Bishop Edmund would continue to rule the church of Durham until his death, which occurred sometime between 1041 and 1048.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (painting of a church council by Francisco de Zurbarán (d. 1664), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• The Chronicle of Florence of Worcester translated by Thomas Forester. London: Petter and Galpin, originally published 1854.
• The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle translated by Benjamin Thorpe in 1861 and republished by Cambridge University Press, 2012. 
• https://archive.org/details/historicalworks00simegoog/page/n274 
• http://www.catholic-hierarchy.org/bishop/bedmnd.html 
• https://www.durhamworldheritagesite.com/history/prince-bishops/early-bishops 
• https://www.oxfordreference.com/view/10.1093/oi/authority.20110803100106681  

The Dramatic Burglary Of St. Martin’s Church

Around the year 581, a band of audacious thieves hatched a plot to burglarize an iconic structure in the city of Tours. Their target was the treasure-laden church of Saint Martin, the seat of power for the local bishopric, then led by the clergyman and historian, Bishop Gregory of Tours (c. 539-594). At a time—presumably at night—when Saint Martin’s had low foot traffic and little surveillance, the thieves infiltrated onto church property, entering through a graveyard that was adjacent to the apse of Saint Martin’s. The thieves, it was said, then vandalized one of the tombs in the cemetery, removing a length of railing which they used as a ladder or ramp to access a window along the apse. After smashing the window, the burglars entered Saint Martin’s and went about stripping the sanctuary of its valuable adornments. Gold, silver and ornate tapestries were stolen from the premises, and the thieves reportedly made quite a mess while gathering their plunder. In particular, Bishop Gregory of Tours commented with horror that there was evidence (footprints, or the like) of the thieves walking sacrilegiously over the tomb of Saint Martin.

After pulling down the wall-hangings of the church and gathering up all the precious metal adornments, trays and vessels that they could find, the thieves vanished into the night and escaped from the city of Tours without a trace. They eventually reached the city of Bordeaux, where the gang of burglars began dividing up the plunder, literally cutting apart the gold and silver objects so that each thief received a fair share. Yet, honor is dubious among thieves—especially medieval thieves who would ransack a church. Before long, heated disagreements arose between the various burglars in the gang, likely on the division of the ill-gotten gains or on the next step that the group should take. In the end, the differences became unreconcilable and the division became violent. As the story goes, one of the burglars was eventually murdered, a crime that caught the attention of local authorities in Bordeaux. In the course of the investigation, the entire gang of burglars was rounded up and their stash of valuables was discovered, to the relief of Gregory of Tours. All of the tapestries and wall-hangings were recovered intact, but some of the gold and silver was apparently traded away by the thieves, and much of the rest was broken up into barterable chunks.

King Chilperic of the Franks (r. 561-584) took special interest in the case, overseeing the imprisonment of the thieves and restoring the pillaged goods (or what was left of it) to the church of Saint Martin’s in Tours. Bishop Gregory of Tours claimed to have sent a messenger to King Chilperic, asking for the thieves not to be executed. Yet, the bishop did not say if the king heeded his advice. Gregory of Tours did, however, comment that “Saint Martin made a terrible example of these reckless men” (History of the Franks, VI.10). Therefore, the thieves likely were not given easy treatment by the law.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Image of a siege from The Story of Our Christianity by Frederic Mayer Bird (1838-1908) and Benjamin Harrison (1833-1901), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• The History of the Franks by Gregory of Tours, translated by Lewis Thorpe. New York: Penguin Classics, 1971.

Patriarch Theophylact And The Luxurious Lives Of His Horses

Theophylact was a son of Romanos I, the emperor of Constantinople between 919 and 944. Emperor Romanos, a skilled political maneuverer, sent young Theophylact to apprentice under the Patriarchs of Constantinople in 924, when the boy was only seven years old. The emperor intended for his son to take up the highest church office in Constantinople, but, as the boy was far too young to hold the office, he had to wait as an assistant to three successive patriarchs from 924-931. When Theophylact reached fourteen years of age in 931, Emperor Romanos I arranged for the then Patriarch Tryphon to resign from his clerical office. Theophylact, however, was still too young to take the job, so Romanos schemed to keep the patriarchal throne vacant for two years. Finally, in 933, the emperor succeeded in having his son named patriarch of the church of Constantinople.

Despite being apprenticed under different patriarchs for more than half of his life, Theophylact was said to have remained a spoiled nobleman at heart. He was only sixteen when he became patriarch and, despite his new high and holy office, he still wanted to engage in typical teenage pastimes. It was an understandable wish, yet his behavior distressed and disturbed the clergymen who looked to him for leadership. Like worrisome parents, the clergy constantly criticized the teen’s behavior—too much dancing, too much singing, too much partying, and too little respect for tradition. As Theophylact grew out of his teenage years, his partying gave way to a passion for luxury, and collecting horses became his greatest obsession.

According to the historian, John Skylitzes (c. 1040-1101), Patriarch Theophylact eventually owned more than two thousand horses. On the great care that the clergyman showed these animals, Skylitzes wrote, “He was not satisfied with feeding them hay and oats, but would serve them pine-seeds, almonds and pistachios or even dates and figs and choicest raisins, mixed with the most fragrant wine. To this he would add saffron, cinnamon, balsam and other spices and serve it to each of his horses as food” (Synopsis historian, chapter 11, section 10).

Theophylact’s great affection for his horses caused a minor scandal when a prized mare in his herd was pregnant. The patriarch was said to have been in the middle of a church service when a messenger arrived to tell him that the horse had foaled. Theophylact was reportedly so eager to go see the newborn animal that he speed-read through the liturgy as if he were an auctioneer, and eventually ran off to see the foal after he had directed the congregation to begin singing lengthy hymns.  Once he greeted the new member of the horse herd, Theophylact rushed back to the church and was able to join his flock in singing the final hymn.

Besides simply caring for his horses, Theophylact also enjoyed galloping with them around the vicinity of Constantinople. In 954, one such ride took a deadly turn. While gallivanting by the seawall on one of his steeds, Patriarch Theophylact was thrown from his horse and he crashed violently to the ground, landing awkwardly or hitting an object in the dirt. He reportedly never recovered from the fall, but instead sickened and deteriorated, eventually dying in 956.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Two Horses and a chicken in a Stable by Wouterus Verschuur (1812–1874), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• A Synopsis of Byzantine History by John Skylitzes (c. 1040-1101), translated by John Wortley (Cambridge University Press, 2010).

The Succession War Over The Bishopric Of Uzès

In the year 581, Bishop Ferreolus of Uzès died, creating a power vacuum that would lead to a succession crisis. Various candidates were put forth to lead the bishopric, with the locals of Uzès, the clergy, and the monarchy all favoring different people for the job. The locals, or more particularly the local government, made the first move. They put an ex-governor of Provence, by the name of Albinus, in command of the bishopric, presumably with the consent of the local clergy. The monarchy, however, was not at all happy at being cut out of the conversation and, therefore, sent another candidate, named Jovinus, to usurp power in the bishopric from Albinus. In case the people and government resisted this new candidate, the monarchy put Jovinus in command of an army.

As it happened, Albinus died that very year in 581, only three months after he had been proposed for office by the local government of Uzès. Despite the loss of this candidate, the regional powers in Uzès still did not want their bishopric to be ruled by Jovinus. Therefore, the clergy and the local government rushed through another candidate, a certain deacon named Marcellus, and consecrated him as their bishop before Jovinus arrived in the vicinity with his army.

According to the writings of Bishop Gregory of Tours (c. 539-594), Uzès became quite a tense place when Jovenus arrived and found another bishop firmly entrenched in the city.  A confrontation ensued, and when Marcellus refused to give way, Jovinus brought his borrowed army into play and besieged the city. Uzès seemed to completely side with Marcellus, however, and its garrisons and local forces were willing to fight to keep their chosen bishop in power. Now that Marcellus had his own army manning the defenses of Uzès, the siege ground to a standstill. According to Gregory of Tours, Jovinus eventually became disillusioned with his mission and, after taking a bribe, admitted defeat to Marcellus and relinquished any claim to the bishopric of Uzès.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Bishop Absalon at Arkona, painted by Laurits Tuxen (1853–1927), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• The History of the Franks by Gregory of Tours, translated by Lewis Thorpe. New York: Penguin Classics, 1971.
• https://www.encyclopedia.com/religion/encyclopedias-almanacs-transcripts-and-maps/ferreolus-uzes-st  

The Dramatic Downfall Of Patriarch Tryphon of Constantinople

Emperor Romanos I was a brilliant political maneuverer who arose out of obscurity to become, for a time, one of the strongest men in the Mediterranean world. Although he held the title of emperor for decades, Romanos had no genuine claim to the throne—his remarkable rise to power came through the marriage of his daughter, Helen, to the child-emperor Constantine VII on May 4, 919. The very next year, Romanos climbed his way to the top of the child-emperor’s regency council by forcing Constantine’s mother into a convent and similarly disposing of other nobles who posed a threat to his ascendance. Romanos at first took the title of ‘caesar,’ but he quickly became a co-emperor, and by 921 he had gained enough power to supersede Constantine VII as First Emperor in the political hierarchy.

Romanos, however, did not ascend alone up the political ladder; he also brought his children along for the ride. Romanos’ son, Christopher, was similarly named a co-emperor in 921 and in 924, Romanos similarly crowned two other sons, named Stephen and Constantine. Romanos further increased his power in 927 by having Christopher named Second Emperor, pushing the original ruler, Constantine VII, down one more rung on the ladder of political hierarchy.

Another of Romanos’ sons, by the name of Theophylact, drew the metaphorical short straw when it came to high office appointment. While his brothers were named caesars and co-emperors, Theophylact was sent to join the church. Yet, for Romanos, only the position of Patriarch of Constantinople would do for his son. Nevertheless, there was a problem—when Theophylact was sent to join the church in 924, he was only seven years old. Although Romanos could not immediately place his young son at the head of the church in Constantinople, he was able to rush the boy through the hierarchy of the clergy. Theophylact was appointed as a cleric and put in the position of synkellos, a lofty title that made the young boy an assistant to the patriarch of Constantinople. It was an important appointment, as the synkellos was often considered the heir to the patriarchal throne. The newly appointed clergyman, however, was still a child, so he remained in the role of synkellos during the reigns of Patriarch Nicholas (d. 925), Patriarch Stephen (d.927) and Patriarch Tryphon. Emperor Romanos apparently had agreements with these patriarchs that they would step down when Theophylact finally came of age. Although Patriarch Tryphon had supposedly agreed to this plan, he was said to have become hesitant to relinquish power as the young synkellos began to reach his mid-teens.

The power struggle between Patriarch Tryphon and Emperor Romanos came to a head around 931, when Theophylact was about 14 years old. Medieval historians who wrote about the incident recorded differing accounts of the episode. Leo the Grammarian, Symeon the Logothete and the Theophanes Continuatus present the occasion dryly or in passing. The so-called Pseudo-Symeon (whose identity remains anonymous) and the historian John Skylitzes, however, recorded a much more dramatic tale. Whatever the case, bland or embellished, all of the scholars came to the same conclusion—Patriarch Tryphon ultimately resigned from his post in 931.

The story presented by the Pseudo-Symeon and John Skylitzes about the downfall of Patriarch Tryphon is one of subterfuge and trickery. As the patriarch had done nothing to merit his resignation from the leadership of the church of Constantinople, Tryphon reportedly tried to delay or break his deal to step down. As the story goes, Romanos became impatient with the stubborn patriarch and he and his allies soon began to spread rumors about Tryphon to make the man’s position at the head of the church untenable. One such accusation that was reportedly spread insinuated that Tryphon was illiterate and did not know how to write. In 931, so the story goes, the patriarch convened a synod to disprove these rumors. Before the eyes of his peers, the patriarch was said to have written down his name and title on a document and handed it over to an acquaintance who would bring the proof of Tryphon’s literacy to the emperor. The messenger, unfortunately for the patriarch, was alleged to have been an agent of Emperor Romanos. Therefore, as soon as he had the chance, the mischievous messenger supposedly added a forged letter of resignation to Patriarch Tryphon’s signed document. According to John Skylitzes, before the clergymen of Constantinople left the meeting, the tampered document was brought back in and, “This ‘resignation’ was presented to the Synod and Tryphon was put out of the church, bitterly decrying the deceit which had been practiced on him” (Synopsis historian, chapter 10, section 26).

Whatever the truth behind Tryphon’s resignation, he indeed stepped down in 931. Although Romanos’ son was the successor to Tryphon’s position, young Theophylact was still not old enough to take up the role as Patriarch of Constantinople until 933, when he reached the age of sixteen. Theophylact would continue to oversee the church of Constantinople until his death in 956.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Second Ecumenical painted by Vasily Surikov, c. 1876, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• A Synopsis of Byzantine History by John Skylitzes (c. 1040-1101), translated by John Wortley (Cambridge University Press, 2010).

The Adventures Of Saint Cuthbert’s Body

Saint Cuthbert was a clergyman in the English region of Northumbria who was active in the 7th century. He was a supporter of the Synod of Whitby (c. 663/664), which chose the Roman church traditions over local Celtic Christian customs, and he became the Bishop of Lindisfarne in 685. His time as bishop was relatively short, and he died in 687. Yet, even in death, his legend and reputation were in no way finished growing.

Cuthbert was already considered a miracle-worker in life and his tomb at Lindisfarne quickly gained a reputation as a hotspot of miraculous power. His good deeds and list of reported miracles (which continued to increase after his death) speedily made Saint Cuthbert one of the most venerated saints from Britain. The location of Cuthbert’s tomb in Lindisfarne, however, would come under great danger just over a century after the saint’s death. In 793, Lindisfarne was sacked during one of the earliest Viking raids against England. Alcuin, writing to King Athelred of Northumbria that very year, expressed the shock experienced by the locals upon hearing the news: “Behold, the church of St. Cuthbert spattered with the blood of the priests of God, despoiled of its ornaments; a place more venerable than all in Britain is given as prey to pagan peoples” (Alcuin’s Letter to King Athelred, c. 793, ed. D. Whitelock, 1955).

Although Lindisfarne had been attacked and pillaged, the remains of St. Cuthbert were apparently undamaged, and the bishopric continued to function and see to the spiritual needs of the locals. Yet, unbeknownst to the bishop and clergymen of Lindisfarne, Northumbria had its worst days yet to come. The Viking raids became much worse in the next century, and by the 850s the Scandinavian raiders, for the first time, began staying in Britain during the winters instead of sailing home. England’s worst nightmare came true when a ‘Great Heathen Army’ of Vikings arrived in 866, and this mighty force defeated the kings of Northumbria by 867. Over the next several years the Viking forces traveled through various kingdoms in England, battling and conquering large swaths of locals. Yet, only around 875 and 876 did it become apparent that the Vikings were not just present in England to simply conquer and plunder, but also to personally settle the land. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle entry for 876 claimed: “That year, Halfdan divided up the land of Northumbria; the raiders became tillers of the land as well” (ASC 876). It was around that time when Bishop Eardulf and the clergymen of Lindisfarne packed up their things—among which was St. Cuthbert’s body—and decided to wander through safer regions of England until they could find a more secure headquarters for their bishopric.

St. Cuthbert’s remains had quite the journey, and it would be over a century before the late saint was once more laid to rest in a permanent region. As the story goes, Bishop Eardulf wandered with the saintly remains for around seven years, venturing through areas such as Cumberland and Galloway, until the former Bishop of Lindisfarne set up a temporary headquarters at Chester-le-Street around 883. With the exception of a short trip to Ripon, the body of St. Cuthbert stayed in Chester-le-Street for the remainder of the 9th century and most of the 10th century. In 995, however, the clergymen in charge of the body of St. Cuthbert were suddenly stuck with inspiration on where to place their holy cargo—Durham. Over the course of several years, a new shrine was built for St. Cuthbert, and it was finally completed around 999. Except for a short trip back to Lindisfarne in the time of William the Conqueror, the remains of St. Cuthbert have been housed in Durham since the end of the 10th century. His tomb and remains are currently at Durham Cathedral, although some conspiracy theorists are convinced that monks hid the holy body of St. Cuthbert during the reign of King Henry VIII (r. 1509-1547), and replaced it with a random cadaver.

Written by C. Keith Hansley.

Picture Attribution: (Scene of St. Cuthbert performing a healing miracle from BL YT 26, ff. 53v-54, [Public Domain] via picryl.com and Creative Commons).

Sources:

• Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People (and relevant letters), translated by Leo Sherley-Pride, R. E. Latham and D. H. Farmer. New York: Penguin Classics, 2003.
• http://www.bbc.co.uk/legacies/myths_legends/england/wear/article_1.shtml
• http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/04578a.htm 
• https://www.durhamworldheritagesite.com/history/st-cuthbert 
• https://www.britannica.com/biography/Saint-Cuthbert 
• https://www.lindisfarne.org.uk/general/cuthbert2.htm 
• https://www.oxfordreference.com/view/10.1093/oi/authority.20110803100106681  

The Peculiar Tale Of Archdeacon Leunast Of Bourges

In the 6th century there lived a certain clergyman named Leunast, who reached the rank of archdeacon in the city of Bourges. According to Bishop Gregory of Tours (c. 539-594), author of The History of the Franks, Archdeacon Leunast long suffered from terrible cataracts in both of his eyes, rendering him completely blind. Leunast, however, was determined not to relinquish his sight without a fight. In his quest to fix his cloudy eyes, Archdeacon Leunast shocked his clerical peers by not simply praying for his eyes to be healed, but instead taking the near-blasphemous action of seeking out the advice of secular doctors. The state of the medical field in 6th-century France, however, was quite abysmal, much less the study of eye care. As the ideas of laymen doctors did not help his eyes, Archdeacon Leunast traveled to the church of St. Martin in Tours, where he fasted for several months, praying for a miracle. Leunast’s prayers, it was said, were answered on St. Martin’s feast day, and his sight began to return. The miraculous healing, however, was not perfect—Archdeacon Leunast’s eyesight, although improved, was still not clear or crisp.

As the story goes, Leunast, still not content with his imperfect eyes, decided to reconnect with some of the secular doctors who had attempted to treat him earlier, hoping they could fine-tune his newfound vision. The archdeacon’s favorite medical practitioner, who remained unnamed, agreed to try his hand at improving Leunast’s already clearing eyesight. After receiving consent for the operation, the doctor prepared his instruments and tried some of the dubious medical techniques of the Middle Ages, including blood-letting and the use of cupping-glasses. Suffice it to say, the procedures did not help poor Leunast’s eyes, at all. Instead, the archdeacon unfortunately left the doctor’s office with his eyes, once more, reduced to a state of blindness.

Upon losing his eyesight for a second time, Leunast reportedly rushed back to the church of St. Martin and resumed his fasting, hoping for a second miracle. Unfortunately, his sight reportedly never returned. The moral of this story, at least according to Gregory of Tours, was: “Let this story be a warning to every Christian man, that when it has been granted to him to receive a cure from Heaven, he should not then seek earthly remedies” (History of the Franks, V.6).

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Tobias healing his blind father, from the workshop of Rembrandt  (1606–1669), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• The History of the Franks by Gregory of Tours, translated by Lewis Thorpe. New York: Penguin Classics, 1971.