Was Saint Olaf canonised?

Today is the feast of Saint Olaf of Norway, who died at the Battle of Stiklestad in 1030, in an attempt to regain control of the Norwegian kingship. In the following year, Olaf's remains were translated from their first place of burial to a shrine in the Church of Saint Clement in Trondheim. (A church that is believed to have been found in a recent archaeological dig.)

Saint Olaf - thirteenth-century wooden sculpture, Drev Church, Sweden

The life of the historical Olaf, as well as the history of his posthumous cult, have been the subject of much scholarship in the past century, and because Olaf was a saint venerated throughout the North-Atlantic and the Baltic culture-spaces this is a very rich material for academic discussion. One aspect that often comes up when talking about Saint Olaf is how we should understand the events of August 3, 1031. Very often, one will see that this is talked about as a canonisation, which is the typical term for describing when someone is proclaimed a saint in the later Middle Ages, as well as in the modern period. In this blogpost, however, I aim to explain as well as I can why this term is not accurate, and does not provide a good understanding of what happened that day in August almost a thousand years ago.

Olaf is prepared for the translation

Detail from an altar front from an unknown church, Trondheim, c.1330-40

(Courtesy of Wikimedia)

The translation of Olaf's relics was initiated and supervised by Grimkell, the bishop of Trondheim who had come to Norway in Olaf's retinue, and a man likely of Anglo-Norse background and well-versed in the cult of saints. Following Olaf's death on Stiklestad July 29, the body was interred unceremoniously and in secret, according to the account in Snorri Sturlusson's Heimskringla from c.1230 (it is not mentioned in Olaf's saint-biography, now known by the title Passio et Miracula Beati Olavi, which was finalized in the early 1180s). Following reports of miracles, the bishop interpreted these as signs that God was proclaiming the holiness of the would-be king. Olaf was exhumed and enshrined, which consisted of a translatio, a moving of the relics of a holy person to a new resting place. The feast was eventually also included in the liturgy for the Norwegian archdiocese, but we do not know exactly when this happened. The cult of Saint Olaf was thus established.

On August 3 1031, Bishop Grimkell of Trondheim proclaimed to the people that Olaf was a saint of God and demonstrated this by moving his relics to a shrine where those relics could be venerated. The question then remains: Should we call this a canonisation? The simple answer is no, and I will try and explain why this is the case, and why the terminology matters.

First of all, a canonisation means to inscribe the name on a list, a canon, which thus makes the status of this name official. Such a list of saints - be it physical or just an abstraction - became part of the later medieval papacy's system of ensuring orthodoxy in Latin Christendom. In the context of the cult of saints, the term itself, canonisation, means to be formally acknowledged as a saint by the papal authority.

The problem with using the term "canonisation" for the proclamation of Olaf's sainthood in Trondheim in 1031, is that Olaf was never formally acknowledged by the pope, and neither did he have to be. By the early eleventh century, the proclamation of sainthood was left to the authority of bishops. In the more developed church organisations, as we see in Germany, France, England, Spain, a proclamation of sainthood was often done following a synod of several bishops, to ensure that the proclamation was valid. Certainly, the verb "canonizare" had existed in Latin since at least the tenth century, but it was not widely used, and it was not the terminology that accurately described a synodal confirmation of someone's sainthood. The reason why the proclamation of sainthood was an episcopal matter had to do with the limitations of the papal church at the time: In the first half of the eleventh century, the pope's authority was mainly local, and while he was acknowledged as the head of the entire Latin church, he did not have the administrative infrastructure to control the cult of saints throughout the expanding Latin Christendom. The declaration of sainthood, therefore, was an episcopal responsibility. Moreover, since the Norwegian church organisation by 1031 was still very much in its infancy, the authority of Grimkell as bishop of Trondheim was sufficient for establishing the sanctity of Olaf. When canonisation became a mechanism of control for the papacy in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, this did not work retroactively, and was only used for new cults. Every person that was already venerated as a saint was allowed veneration - unless it was a controversial case.

The question then is: Why does it matter whether we use the term "canonisation" to talk about the moving of Olaf's relics in 1031. First of all, this is simply a matter of precision. While the term "canonizare" did exist in 1031 and is therefore not anachronistic, it was not widely used and it is very unlikely that Grimkell himself thought in such terms. Secondly, the term "canonisation" implies a stronger contact between the nascent diocese of Trondheim and the papal see than was in place by 1031. To call the translation of what was essentially a local saint a canonisation is to vastly overplay the importance of Olaf in the Latin cult of saints. Even though Olaf became immensely popular throughout Northern Europe, this success came in stages and was not directly due to the ceremony of August 3 in Trondheim. In this way, to say that Olaf was canonised is to imply that there were people in Rome, in the minuscule papal administration, that knew anything about the recently-dead Norwegian would-be king. There were other mechanisms by which the cult of Olaf gained popularity, and the term canonisation tends to overshadow those mechanisms.

Olaf was, in other words, not canonised. His relics were translated, and by this translation he was proclaimed to be a saint, who could intercede for those who venerated him and who had merited a shrine in the church and a liturgical feast. This was established through episcopal authority, the highest authority needed for these affairs in the 1030s, be it in Norway, in Germany, in Spain, or any other part of Latin Christendom. 

Hopperstad stave church, part 2 - The flight to Egypt

In my previous blogpost, I talked about Hopperstad stave church in Vik in Western Norway, and its exterior. My aim was to showcase how the exterior decorations served to emulate styles from other parts of Latin Christendom, thus demonstrating that this wooden church in the Norwegian fjords was part of that same cultural community. In this blogpost, my purpose is the same - to highlight the interconnectedness of the Latin Christian world of the Middle Ages - but this time I will do so by focussing on one element from the church interior, namely a thirteenth-century ciborium.

The nave of Hopperstad stave church

Stave churches are small spaces, even those the most stupendous of them. This has mostly to do with the centralised skeleton of logs, around which the walls are raised. Consequently, the church space is different in a stave church than in, say, a basilica or a cruciform church, where the nave can be extended and where it is possible to build a broad and long space. This means that the division between nave and choir - an important division in the medieval liturgy - must be made in a different way than in other churches. As might be seen from the pictures, the ciborium where the priest performed the mass was not a separate room from the nave, but was situated in the nave itself. It is possible that in order to emphasise the difference between the space for the church-goers and the space for the ministrant priest, this ciborium was erected.

(It should be noted that the church as it stands today does have an apse-like choir, but this is a later addition.)

The decorations on the outside of the ciborium is from the thirteenth century, while the inside of the ciborium vault is covered with a series of roundels traditionally dated to the turn of the fourteenth century. It is especially this pictorial narrative that serves to highlight that the iconographic expressions of medieval Norway were the same as those found elsewhere in Latin Christendom.

The roundels in the vault recount the story of Christ's birth and the flight into Egypt. The narrative runs from left to right as you face the congregation, and the top four roundels contains the first part of the narrative, while the rest is told in the lower four.. In the top roundels we see the Annunciation, the Nativity, and the angel announcing the birth of Christ to the shepherds. In the bottom roundels we see the gift of the magi, the presentation in the temple, the slaughter of the innocents, and then the flight into Egypt.

These roundels are made in a style typical of its time, in emulation of styles in England and on the continent. The fact that the captions of the roundels are in Latin, and also impossible to see when you are part of the congregation, suggests that these roundels were intended primarily for the priest. We can only guess as to why it was painted, and one suggestion has been that it served to educate and remind the priest of the how the second-most important narrative of the Gospels actually progressed. This suggestion, while in and of itself reasonable, is borne out of a traditional impression of Norwegian medieval priests as poorly educated, barely latinate and in need of constant supervision. While there are sources from medieval Norway that testify to troublesome and insufficiently educated priests, the idea that this was representative of the entire medieval clergy in Norway is probably at its core a Protestant interpretation, which formed part of their general demonisation of the Catholic Middle Ages. Ultimately, we can only guess why this vault was painted the way it was when it is only visible to the priest, but considering that medieval church interiors were often covered in image cycles for educational as well as pious reasons, we should expect that these Norwegian roundels came about through a combination of intentions and desires - just as similar cycles did elsewhere in Christendom.

Hopperstad stave church, part 1 - beasts of another world

Earlier this week, my family and I went south to visit Hopperstad stave church, which is situated in the village of Vik in Sogn. Hopperstad is one of the most spectacular surviving examples of Norwegian medieval architecture, and in the following blogposts I will present various details from this magnificent building.

The stave church is a famous building type, which has become emblematic of the Norwegian Middle Ages, thanks to the largest and most splendidly decorated of these churches, such as Hopperstad, but also Urnes, Borgund and Lom. The term "stave church", however, does not in and of itself signify a work of splendour and grandeur, it simply means the way in which the church was constructed. This was done by a basic structure of poles, or staves, forming the interior skeleton of the church, and such churches can be found in all shapes and sizes, from the stupendous specimens such as Hopperstad, or the more shack-like from poorer districts.

Unfortunately, only 27 stave churches survive to this day, out of several hundred that were likely operative in the course of the period 1100-c.1550. The majority of these lost churches were demolished in the latter half of the nineteenth century, when the department of churches had set down new rules for the minimum number of people that a church should contain. As many stave churches are small and not designed to house large congregations, these were destroyed by the government. A few were rescued, however, as in the case of Hopperstad, which was bought by the architect Peter Blix in 1882 and subsequently restored. At that point, the church was in a very poor condition, and some of the elements were replaced, and some were even added, as in the case of the arcade running along the sides of the church.

View into Vik from the nineteenth-century arcade

Hopperstad stave church was built around 1130, and is believed to have replaced an older church on the same site. By this point in time, Norway had been officially Christian for about a hundred years, and the ecclesiastical and secular aristocracy were very conscious about the fact that they belonged to a cultural network that connected them to the rest of Latin Christendom. Several of them had travelled by trading routes throughout the European continent, some had joined King Sigurd I in his crusade to Palestine (1108-12), and some had journeyed as pilgrims to the most holy places in the Latin Christian world. This connection to the world outside also meant that the Norwegian elites were familiar with the architectural styles further south, and they were eager to emulate the artistic expressions and vogues of that world. This can be seen very clearly in the case of Hopperstad, in particular in the carvings that decorate the portal into the church.

The right-hand side of the portal into the church

A gaping animal, most likely a wolf

The portal is covered with carved animals fighting an convoluted and frozen battle in a wilderness of leafy vines. Elongated, curving necks and bodies, a mixture of wings, maws, beaks and talons showcase the mastery of the medieval carpenters who could render a chaotic war while also making it possible to trace every line to its end and distinguish the individual figures that comprise the scenery. These entangled scenes have become emblematic of Norwegian medieval art, at least as it is understood in the modern imagination.

However, while these beasts of impossibly long necks, locked in an unending struggle, are excellent examples of the skill of the carpenters operative in Norway in the twelfth century - whether they were themselves Norwegians or brought in from abroad - these animals are also an example of that stylistic connection that tied Norway to the world outside, a world in which such convoluted images had long been part of the artistic practice. It is likely that such battles in the vines - perhaps signifying the strife of the temporal world in contrast to the peace of Heaven - were not conceived in Norway, but inspired by artists in other regions, such as Germany, England, France, Spain, etc.

In order to highlight these similarities, I have included a few images of the digitised manuscript Rouen - BM - ms.0008, a Bible from the turn of the eleventh century - about fifty to thirty years older than Hopperstad stave church - which was produced in Normandy, an area with which Norwegians were frequently in contact. Consider these initials, and while there are obvious differences in the images - owing in no small part to the different medium - notice most of all how the basic scene itself is the same in both Hopperstad and the Rouen MS, namely the vicious battle of beings in a self-contained world of vines and greenery.

Rouen - BM - ms. 0008, f.002v, Bible from Jumièges, last quarter of 11th century 

(courtesy of enluminures.culture.fr)

Rouen - BM - ms. 0008, f.015v, Bible from Jumièges, last quarter of 11th century 

(courtesy of enluminures.culture.fr)

Rouen - BM - ms. 0008, f.244v, Bible from Jumièges, last quarter of 11th century 

(courtesy of enluminures.culture.fr)

Rouen - BM - ms. 0008, f.211, Bible from Jumièges, last quarter of 11th century 

(enluminures.culture.fr)

In comparing these initials with the carvings from Hopperstand, I'm not suggesting, however, that this manuscript was known to whoever decorated Hopperstad or commissioned those decorations. I am suggesting, rather, that both the MS and the carvings in a Norwegian fjord are renditions of the same basic graphic idea which was common throughout all of Latin Christendom by the first third of the twelfth century.

This comparison is also strengthened - as well as inspired by - the ongoing exhibition in the Museo Episcopal de Vic in Catalonia, Nord & Sud, in which medieval art in Catalonia and Norway are juxtaposed, thus highlighting the shared features of the art in these regions. I am in particular indebted to Dr. Judit Verdaguer for notifying me of this exhibition.

The legend of Santiago, as summarised in the cathedral of Segovia

Today is the feast of Saint James the Elder, one of Christ's apostles. According to the legend that solidified at the turn of the eleventh century - and that was later popularised through Legenda Aurea - James was beheaded in Judea, whereupon his disciples brought his body with them in a rudderless boat which God directed to Galicia, where James was eventually buried on July 25. This legend is the kernel of the cult of Saint James, or Santiago, at Compostela, and it was elaborated through the composition of Liber Sancti Iacobi, the Book of Saint James, early in the twelfth century.

Through the legend of Santiago, the apostle's saintly personality was elaborated and accrued more layers. From being an apostle preaching in Judea, he also became the apostle of Spain, a pilgrim, and a battle-helper, who could be called upon to assist in vanquishing enemies. This latter feature is a very common aspect of several saints, but in the case of Santiago this feature has become dominant. In the course of the conflicts between the Christian kingdoms and the Muslim leaders on the Iberian peninsula, Santiago developed into the figure of Santiago Matamoros, the Moor-killer, and he was very popular among knights and soldiers. 

Altarpiece for the chapel of Saint James the Elder, 1591 

Cathedral of Segovia

The development of the legend of Santiago shows how malleable the stories about the saints could be, and the historical evolution of the figure of Santiago is eminently well summarised in an altarpiece in the cathedral of Segovia. The altarpiece is situated in the chapel of Saint James. The altarpiece itself was made in 1591 by Pedro de Bolduque, while the depictions of Santiago as a pilgrim and the translation of his body were executed by Orazio Castellino. From bottom to top, we see here the iconographical development of Santiago, meaning that his entire legend is summarised elegantly in one framework comprised of three layered elements. In this way, the altarpiece shows how compressed the representations of saints' legends could be, and how efficiently church art could convey and remind the viewers of the complex and at times lengthy stories of the saints.

The bottom, the beginning and root of the cult, as it were, shows the translation of James' relics to his Galician resting place. This shows James the Apostle, the first configuration of Santiago.

We then see James the pilgrim, dressed in the cloak and hat emblematic of the pilgrim, and carrying the pilgrim's staff, signifying the numerous pilgrims that flocked to his alleged tomb from all over Latin Christendom. This is the second configuration of Santiago.

And on the top we see the last configuration, which is perhaps also the most visible configuration in Spanish iconography, namely Santiago Matamoros. This is the latest offshoot of the legend, and due to its dominating position in Spanish history, it is also fitting to see this configuration presiding at the top of the altarpiece.


The legend of Santiago shows better than most legends how saints keep evolving in the traditions of their venerators, and the custodians of their cult centres. This blogpost serves merely as a very cursory overview of the matter, but there are many and exciting layers of historical accretions to dig through in order to follow this development in its details.