Lately, I've been thinking about journeys. Alfred the Great traveled to Italy as a young boy to be knighted by Pope Leo IV. The panels Bede observed at Monkwearmouth-Jarrow were brought from Rome. The Greek litany in King Athelstan's psalter is the result of the travels undertaken by Israel of Trier, according to Michael Wood in The Story of a Book. Wood writes that the journey embarked upon by British Christians to Rome "reestablished their links with Rome," which was their "spiritual heartland" (Wood 181). Journeys, then, have been integral to the story we are following in this course.
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| Route undertaken from Canterbury to Rome by Cristina Menghini |
Yet, as we brought up in class on Thursday, medieval monks like Bede spent their time ensconced in monasteries, practicing the strict daily schedule we read about in St. Benedict's Rule for Monasteries. At the beginning of class on Thursday we asked how Bede and his contemporaries knew about the symbolism of the tabernacle and the veil. What led them to this knowledge, in the absence of regular communication with Rome? For monks who spent their lives in monasteries, how did they connect with their "spiritual heartland" while staying put?
The methods used by the monks to embark upon their spiritual journey did not require them to physically travel anywhere. Journeys, even if they entail moving from place to place, are not only physical. There are some voyages that we know so well we can run through them in our minds. My most familiar journey is the short, hour-long car ride from my home in Albuquerque, New Mexico, to my grandfather's house in Santa Fe, which I have undertaken regularly since before I can remember. Since being in college, though, I have physically undertaken this journey only twice. Despite a reduction in frequency, however, I can recall every brown, shrub-covered hill that rises to the sides of I-25, and every shady spot where snow stays all winter, refusing to melt. My mental recollections of this trip have become just as vivid as what I experienced when actually undertaking the journey.
Characteristic of my journey, and most, is a change in surroundings. You begin in one place and end up in another, progressing through different landscapes, physical conditions, and mental states. One can embark upon a journey, I believe, by progressing through a multitude of experiences that change your mental or spiritual state. To me, the opening of a book like the Codex Amiatinus and the recitation of psalms mimic the change in surroundings that is experienced during physical travel. As mentioned in class, upon opening the Codex Amiatinus one immediately sees the purple pages and is welcomed into the mystery of the tabernacle. The illustrations on the pages and the artful script serve not only to convey ideas or stories but to embody the glory of God---the reader can "see" God as Moses did on the mountaintop. To turn through the book, whether reading the words or appreciating its appearance, is to journey into the holy of holies. The physical book provides you with a changing visual experience which, along with the story told in the text, lets you into the spiritual realm. Turning through the Codex Amiatinus or other holy manuscripts, which medieval monks like Bede may have done, provided a journey into the spiritual that was just as, if not more, meaningful than a physical journey to the spiritual homeland of Rome.
Galba A XVIII or The Athelstan Psalter
The monks, however, spent most of their days reciting psalms rather than flipping through books. The recitation of psalms daily, in a specific order, served a similar but more powerful purpose for the monks than looking at a manuscript. To chant the psalms, like turning the pages of the Codex, is to enter into the mystery of God. In their recitation, the monks embark upon a spiritual journey. What separates this journey from that undertaken when reading a book is that chanting the Psalms is an active, participatory event while reading is passive. You devote very little physical energy to reading. When reading the Codex, the main entrance into the tabernacle comes from the passive, sensory experience of viewing the purple pages. When reciting psalms in a monastery, however, a monk would have had both the passive sensory experience of hearing the psalms from his brothers around him and reciting the psalms himself. He would not only listen but participate in the creation of the sound and rhythm. Active participation in this recitation mimics the physical act of undertaking the journey to Rome.
The organization of the psalms, too, contributes to the journey embarked upon by the monks every day. Benedict says, in chapter 13 of Rule for Monasteries, that on weekdays the Morning Office should begin with Psalm 66 followed by Psalm 50. Since I am writing this on a Friday, we will follow Benedict's direction and follow Psalm 50 with Psalms 75 and 91. This selection of four psalms takes us through praying for God's favor (Ps 66), repenting for sin (Ps 50), telling of God's protection of His Church (Ps 75), and praising God (Ps 91). These are followed by the "psalms of praise" along with additional hymns, litanies, and canticles. In reciting these psalms one is taken through different spiritual landscapes, encountering different features of the Lord: His grace, His mercy, His protection. Different psalms are chosen for each day of the week, taking the one who recites them through a different progression of events and, therefore, a different journey upon each recitation.
The recitations, however, occur on a cycle: one set of psalms during one part of the day and certain psalms for each day of the week. A monk who spent his entire life in a monastery knew the psalms by heart. We tend to think of journeys in terms of what we get out of them, and we often tie this newfound knowledge to the experience of a new place or path. When deciding where to travel we would rather see new places than return to a place we have already been. How, then, can the journey that is reciting the psalms continue to be enlightening when undertaken so often? In class, we recognized that the constant recitation of psalms through a monk's life would lead him to deeper contemplation of God's mystery, why? The interesting thing about journeys is that when one path is undertaken often, the memories of past trips begin to blur together, engaging in conversation with each other across time. When I drive from Albuquerque to Santa Fe I am reminded of times forgotten and gain knowledge about myself through the comparison of present and past. If the recitation of the psalms is a journey, then, the value of it lies in the repetition, for through repetition a monk engaged in conversation not only with the material but also with his memories of reciting the material and all the questions this material triggered throughout his time engaging with it. Through this conversation, the monk traveled deeper into the mystery. The more often the journey is undertaken the more there is to discover. Just as travelers to Rome returned with artwork, books, and ideas, so too did monks like Bede return from their daily recitations with knowledge and questions concerning the divine.
-Aethelryth (AB)
Lovely analogy of the monks' psalm singing with your journey across the desert from one mountain to another! You capture beautifully the sense of novelty (revelation?) arising out of repetition, such that the journey through the text is as changeable and yet constant as the journey across the landscape. Monks would recognize this well as a form of "pilgrimage"! I would take issue with you, however, on the physical experience of reading: it is, in fact, quite demanding, which is why people find it hard. You have to focus your attention in ways that the monks often write about—and worry about when they cannot, through their reading, discover the understanding they are looking for. Watch for this as we are reading Anselm!
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