A lesson from the legend of Saint Christopher

I often think that if we, as a twenty-first-century society, ought to be more familiar with the literature of the past, in order to get a better sense of the psychological breadth that humankind contains. While we now have a much better grasp of some of the nuances of the psychological spectrum, our public discourse is often framed by axioms that are too general to capture the variety of human individuals - even though we are living through an age marked by unparalleled individualism. For instance, the idea often attributed to the stereotypical economist, that a person would not do something that was not in their own best interest, makes it difficult to understand how things have developed the way they have for the past ten years or so. Moreover, the ideals touted by the more optimistic types, such as how people will step up in a time of crisis or other variations on that theme, have been severely challenged by the blatant and overt willingness of so many actors to serve those who happen to be in power. In the case of those who take up the yoke offered by authoritarian powers, this is often explained as being driven by economic gain. After all, it is more financially profitable to serve the powerful, however morally ruinous it is.  

However, I find myself unconvinced that economic profit is always the best explanation for why people flock to the powerful. It might be true of the broad majority of such people, but I also believe that a significant number of those who become willing servants of authoritarian powers do so for other motives than just financial gain. This is where medieval literature comes in handy. In particular, I think the legend of Saint Christopher is particularly useful. 

In the Latin Middle Ages, Saint Christopher gained prominence in the thirteenth century, especially following the compilation of the Legenda Aurea by Jacobus de Voragine, which became widely disseminated - including in vernacular translations - from the last quarter of the century onwards. According to this version of the legend, Saint Christopher - originally named Reprobus before his conversion to Christianity - set out to serve the most powerful king. This ambition brings him into the service of a Canaanite king, but at court Christopher learns about the Devil. When witnessing how the mere mention of the Devil makes the king cross himself, Christopher sets out to serve the Devil instead, since he is so much more powerful. After entering into the service of the Devil, however, Cristopher learns that the Devil is afraid of Christ, and so he sets off on a new quest. Instructed by a hermit, Christopher settled by a river to carry travellers across, since such a task would fit the commands of Christ. One day, he carried Christ in the shape of a child across the river, and by this act - which became a popular motif in Latin medieval art - Christopher gained his new name (since Christoforos means Christ-bearer in Greek). 

While I am convinced that Saint Christopher never existed, historical existence is never a requirement for providing valuable lessons. The most important detail in this legend is that Christopher set out to serve, but to serve the most powerful. The reason for this desire is not expressed in the version found in Legenda Aurea, but the desire itself is identified clearly and matter-of-factly. And this is the lesson that I wish we would remember better in our own time, namely that some people are very eager to serve. In some cases, this eagerness is directed towards positive means of service, such as caring for those who need it, or engaging with your local community. But the desire to serve can also be perverted and have power as its lodestone, and there are indeed those who choose their masters simply because they admire and venerate power, no matter the configuration and consequences of that power. Saint Christopher - while he was still Reprobus - provides a clear example of this kind of service, and while we are allowed to doubt the reality of Christopher's story, its relevance for our own time, and its psychological depth, should be clearly acknowledged. 

Saint Christopher carrying the Christ-child (fifteenth century)

Sanderum Church, Denmark

Death and otherness - a note for the feast of the Holy Innocents

Today, December 28, is the feast of the Holy Innocents, instituted to commemorate the children murdered on the orders of Herod according to the Gospel of Matthew. Throughout the Latin Middle Ages, the feast held a high liturgical rank, and the episode itself was frequently depicted in various media. One of the best preserved examples is from the ciborium of Ål stave church, which was painted sometime in the second half of the thirteenth century. The scene is deeply moving, and hits immensely hard with its detailed rendition of violence and blood, and the raw humanity of the pleading mothers.  

Detail from the ciborium of Ål stave church 

Norway, thirteenth century 

Currently at the Museum of Cultural History, Oslo

This scene reminds me how universal grief is, and how the violent loss of children is a tragedy recognisable across temporal and cultural divide. Heart-rending and disturbing though it is, the depiction of the royally ordered slaughter of young children is nonetheless a valuable reminder of grief, of pain, and of motherly love. 

The scene unfolding in frozen timelessness on the wooden planks of the medieval ciborium also serves as a reminder of two great untruths that continue to influence the way many people deal with death and the cultural and temporal Other. There is a pervasive and seemingly inextinguishable idea that people in the past did not care that much about the loss of their children, as lower life expectancies had inured them against the pain of loss. While there might be variations of this idea where the callousness expected from medieval parents is not as hard, and where some grief is admitted, the core of the idea is nonetheless that grief hit differently back then. The temporal otherness of medieval people has enabled some of us to see them as different, and by consequence also less human. 

The reminder that the temporal Other could grieve like we do, is also tragically relevant in the second year of the genocide against the Palestinian people executed by the Israeli government. The way that the West has failed the Palestinians in their enormous and publicly unfolding tragedy is a blemish beyond words, and I believe it is related to deeply rooted prejudices that make so many people think that the cultural Other does not grieve and does not feel the way we do.  

The present blogpost is merely a grievous sigh in the midst of this ongoing calamity, and a faint hope that we might remember that grief, pain, and loss are human universals that cut like knives across temporal or cultural divides. 

 

Closing a chapter

 

Last Friday, I closed the most recent chapter in my life, as my postdoctoral contract came to an end. For 40 months, I lived and worked in Oslo, exploring new things, delving into old, familiar things, and learning more about myself and the world in the process. This period can best be summarised by the first of the two pictures below, as I quickly assembled a large collection of books in my office - most of them borrowed from the university library - and kept them as a reference library for both my actual and my intended writings. This was a temporary library, a library of ambitions. Some of these ambitions came to past, but, as is usually the case, the majority fell by the wayside due to time constraints, distractions, and various unforeseen or ad-hoc additional tasks that sucked both time and energy out of less prioritised projects.  

Friday December 14 was an emotional day. It marked the end of a period that entailed a lot of personal highs, but also some very crushing reminders of how academia is not a meritocracy, and that sometimes your efforts will not be rewarded. It was also a period that reminded how much academic work is hindered by admin, by formalities, and by various conventions that can often only be learned the hard way. I write this blogpost in quiet frustration, partly over the stunted personal hopes, but just as much because of the overarching societal trends that currently affect how we approach academic output and the value of universities and general education - trends that only make it more difficult to do the kind of work that helps us understand the nuances of reality somewhat better than what previous generations have been able to do. 

For the time being, I'm left to apply for jobs, and to digest all the lessons of the past 40 months, and to treasure those of my memories that can bring me joy.   

November 13

December 14 

Saint Nicholas in Compostela

Today, December 6, is the feast of Saint Nicholas. After the removal of his relics from Myra to Bari in 1087, his cult became more popular than before as it entered into the geographical ambit of the Latin Church, and thereby became more accessible to Latin Christian pilgrims. I do not yet know of any monographs that explore his cult in a longue durée perspective, and I only have a piecemeal overview of how his cult was received, what impact it made, and where the various parts of his iconography were embraced. In art, there were particularly three aspects that could be employed in the fashioning of statues or paintings, namely seafaring, a golden coin (which he gave to poor women in order to enable them to marry well), and his resurrection of three children that had been killed and placed in a tub. These last two episodes are rooted in his legend, whereas the seafaring might have had more to do with the voyage through which his relics were taken to Bari. Consequently, while several guilds came to embrace Saint Nicholas from the twelfth century onwards, depictions of him in art often appear to draw on his legend (although I should emphasise that this suggestion might be incorrect, and I encourage the reader to correct me if I am wrong).  

Two days ago, I was reminded of the miracle of the tub, since I was attending a guided tour of the cathedral museum of Santiago de Compostela. Among the many treasures of medieval art that have been made and used in the liturgical space of the cathedral since at least the twelfth century, is a fifteenth-century statue that is badly damaged yet completely recognisable thanks to the surviving iconographic feature, namely the tub. The statue shows Nicholas carrying the tub, while one of the three murdered boys climbs out of it. The boy is rendered in diminutive stature, perhaps both to emphasise his tender age, but also the greatness of Saint Nicholas. As this iconography was both widespread and common, it is likely that it has contributed to the metamorphosis of Nicholas towards the modern Santa Claus. Traditionally, the gift of golden coins is more directly linked with this trajectory, but as that story pertains to young girls rather than children more generally, it is tempting to suggest that both these episodes from Nicholas' legend have played their important parts in the eventual making of Santa Claus. 

One of the resuscitated children climbing up form the tub