The Ark Returns to the Temple - The Entrance of the Theotokos

 

On November 21 (regardless of when November 21 falls for you), Orthodox Christians as well as some more traditional Roman Catholics celebrate an ancient Christian holiday known in the East as The Entrance of the Theotokos into the Temple, and in the West as the Presentation of Mary. Although it concerns historical events not specifically found in Holy Scripture (which should not trouble anyone; the Gospels are particular works written with particular purposes, not catch-all historical records), this feast is deeply “biblical” in the way that it gathers up Old Testament imagery.

In his letter to the Ephesians, St. Paul describes the end goal of God’s whole economy of salvation as being to build a temple “built on the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Jesus Christ Himself being the chief cornerstone… in whom you also are being built together for a dwelling place of God in the Spirit.” The purpose of creation—and of all of human history—has been to establish this cosmic temple, a place where Heaven and Earth meet and where humanity can commune with God.

This was the purpose of the Paradise of Eden, until our first parents violated the commandment and were expelled. The whole long history of the people of God, from Adam to Christ, is the story of many attempts to re-establish Paradise, the Mountain of God, within the midst of humanity. That’s how a man named Moses found himself on top of Sinai (another instance of “the Mountain of God”), in the thick darkness of the cloud, being given the plans for a very special building. This building—called the Tabernacle or “Tent of Meeting” because it was the place where God met with His people—was made to very particular dimensions and filled with very particular furnishings. Some of these furnishings—censers, altars, menorahs, etc.—will be familiar to us, since they have continued by be used by traditional Christians in their worship of the God of Israel.

One of the furnishings was something called an “Ark.” We know from archeology and history that there were many “arks” in the ancient world. These were ritual chests which functioned as both reliquaries (holding items sacred to the cult of a particular god) and also a portable throne for a god. Such chests were carried on poles and often overlaid with gold, and crucially, they usually had a lid which bore the image of the deity. The “Anubis chest” from the tomb of King Tutankhamun in the Valley of Kings is a good example. If you google a picture of this chest, it looks very similar to depictions of the Ark of the Covenant, with one exception: it has an idol of the god Anubis on its cover.

When God commands Moses to make an Ark (and shows him the pattern for doing so) he is not asking him to make something that he had never seen before. What is unique about the Ark are its contents (which prefigure Christ and His mother, as attested throughout the Tradition of the Church) and its lid. This lid bears not a depiction of the God of Israel, for as yet Israel could still not depict their God. Rather, it bears two guarding cherubim, an angelic order understood in the ancient world as guarding the throne of the deity. The message of this Ark was clear: this box is the throne of the God of Israel, whom the Hebrews could not depict. What we see in the Old Testament is that where the Ark goes, there goes the presence of God.

When the Ark is built, it is brought into the Tabernacle. There, the glory of God fills the tent to such an extent that even Moses is not able to enter:

And the Lord spake unto Moses, saying, On the first day of the first month shalt thou set up the tabernacle of the ten of the congregation. And thou shalt put therein the ark of the testimony, and cover the ark with the veil… Thus did Moses: according to all that the Lord commanded him, so did he. Then a cloud covered the tent of the congregation, and the glory of the Lord filled the tabernacle. And Moses was not able to enter into the tent of the congregation, because the cloud abode thereon, and the glory of the Lord filled the tabernacle. (Exodus 40)

Fast-forward a bit through time, and the Ark doesn’t actually stay in the Tabernacle. It gets taken out, is captured, returned, and eventually makes its way to Jerusalem at the time of the king and prophet David. David’s son Solomon builds a temple for God—something God had not requested or commanded, but which he condescends to allow out of love for David and for his heir. When Solomon builds his temple and the Ark is brought into it, the glory of God fills the new temple, just as it had the tabernacle in Moses’ time (3 Kingdoms 7-8).

Centuries pass, and the Ark goes missing (taken to Ethiopia, some say, or swallowed up by the earth). The beautiful temple which Solomon built is destroyed by the Babylonian (that’s Neo-Chaldean for those of you keeping score in the back) Empire, and the people of God go into exile for 70 years. When they return, they build a new temple. When the foundations of the new temple are laid, every celebrates except for the old men, who weep because they still remember the glory of what was lost (Ezra 3). And most importantly, the new or “Second Temple” was missing the Ark. The glory of God never filled the Second Temple the way it had the Tabernacle and Solomon’s Temple. Even according to the record of the Jews, something was missing.

The historian Josephus records that when Pompei the Great entered the Jerusalem Temple, in 63 BC, that he barged into the Holy of Holies (a place no Gentile was allowed to enter) but found it empty. In fact, this seems to have impressed Pompei even more than finding the Ark would have, leading the Romans to the impression that the Jews worshipped God “in mind only.”

Suffice it to say that, when the story of Mary, the Mother of God begins over half a century later, things were in bad shape in Jerusalem. The Temple and its environs were for the most part controlled by a sect known as the Sadducees, who had maintained their power since the time of Pompei by collaborating with the Romans. The truly faithful in Israel had dwindled down to just a handful of families—the most important of which was of course the parents (Joachim and Anna) and cousins (Zacharias and Elizabeth) of Mary, the Mother of God. Her family. Christ’s family. Our family. And it was into this family that Mary, a very special girl, was born—a miraculous gift given to two parents long past the age of childbearing.

Like another Anna (aka Hannah; they’re the same name in the Scriptures), the righteous Anna gave her miraculous child to serve God at the Temple. It was common in those times (in a practice which goes back to the beginning of the Second Temple period and possibly further) for the vestments and furnishings of the temple to be made and cared for by a group of consecrated widows and virgins who lived near the temple, and Mary was to be one of these. She was young, so young, when she was first brought to the Temple, but already she loved God deeply. In a scene that is seen as a fulfillment of the prophecy concerning her in Psalm 44/45, she is led to the steps of the temple by the young women of her clan, carrying lamps to light her way. At the steps of the temple her Kinsman, Zacharias, does something very strange: Inspired by the Holy Spirit, he leads this little girl up the steps into the temple—a place which as a woman she is not supposed to enter—and then leads her into the Holy of Holies, the innermost sanctum of the Temple itself—the place where the Ark was once kept.

And then something happens to the Second Temple that had not happened since the time of Solomon: the shekinah, the Glory of God, fills the temple, just as it had done in the Old Testament when the Ark was brought. The Holy Spirit now filled the Temple because it had descended upon Mary, the new and living Ark, the true Ark of which the one which Moses built was only a type.

In all of this, the hymns of the Orthodox Church see the fulfillment of the words of the Prophet David concerning his descendant, the “queen” who stood at the King’s “right hand” that: “Virgins shall be brought to the King after her: her companions shall be brought unto Thee / With gladness and rejoicing shall they be brought : they shall be brought into the Temple of the King.” (Psalm 44:15-16, LXX). For no Queen of Israel before her was this ever true, and yet the tradition of the Church records that the Virgin Mary was accompanied by the young women of her people, and that she was brought into the “Temple of the King.” Elsewhere, she is referred to as an “acceptable sacrifice,” and we are told that she was brought “into the Holy of Holies [because she was] a sacrifice acceptable to God.”

Mary will become a literal ark—her womb carrying not merely relics, but God Himself—and also a throne, as her lap will be the seat in which Christ sits when the Magi from the East come to pay him homage. In this sense she is revealed as being very literally “more honorable than the Cherubim, more glorious than the Seraphim,” that is, the angels who guard and carry the Throne of God, for she has become the throne itself.

But as glorious as all of this is, it is as we sing in the Troparion of the feast, only the “foreshadowing of the good pleasure of God.” In her, Human Nature is revealed as the true and proper Tabernacle of God the Word, but it is God the Word Himself who will, as we sing at Christmas, forever raise up the image—the icon—which fell with Adam.

Dragons in the Water: Hymns of the Forefeast of Theophany

Christmas is a wonderful time to be a medievalist. It's really the only time of year that society at large, however faintly, takes an interest in old songs and old traditions. Ours was a very liturgical Advent and Christmas, and it's only now that I find myself with time to sit down and write again (though I've done a bit of fiction writing over the holidays--but I don't usually post that here).

Before I get on with the subject of today's post, I wanted to go ahead and drop one small note about another project I'm working on: The Cave Dwellers Podcast. The Cave Dwellers has the potential to morph into something more as the year wears on, but for now it's simply a place for my daily narrations of my attempt to read through the complete works of Plato (spurious dialogues included) in a year.  Since we're only 3 days into the read (it's only weekdays; you get weekends off) it's not too late to join me. By "narration," I mean a simple-yet-effective technique used in Classical Education/Charlotte Mason Education circles of telling back information in my own words in order to synthesize it. Anyway, I'll be doing that for the rest of the year, in case you want to follow along.

Now, about those dragons.

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Monday (January 6) is the Feast of Theophany in the Eastern Rite (usually known as Epiphany in the West, where the focus of the feast is slightly different). This is one of the ancient Church's great feasts of light, along with The Nativity (Christmas) and the Presentation of the Lord (Candlemas, aka Groundhog Day). After Easter, it's the most ancient of the Great Feasts, with the practice of keeping vigil all night before the feast day dating back at least to 140 AD. Alas, it's little known or celebrated in modern times outside of Orthodox and Catholic circles.

The Byzantine hymnography and iconography for this feast yields some rich examples of the traditional understanding of the feast in reference to ancient paganism, Old Testament typology, and the use of paradox which seems to be a defining note of Eastern Rite hymnography.

Fresco of the Theophany, St Seraphim Orthodox Cathedral, Dallas TX

Consider this Doxastichon (a special kind of hymn sung between the "Glory to the Father... Both now and ever..." following the chanting of Psalm 129 (LXX) during Vespers) of the Forefeast of Theophany:

Make ready, O river Jordan: for behold, Christ our God draws near to be baptized by John, that He may crush with His divinity the invisible heads of the dragons in thy waters. Rejoice, O wilderness of Jordan; dance with gladness, O ye mountains. For the eternal Life hath come to call back Adam. O voice that criest in the wilderness, O John the Forerunner, cry out: 'Prepare ye the ways of the Lord, make his paths straight.'

The reference here to "dragons in thy waters" might seem curious to modern ears, and downright puzzling to anyone who goes to any of the four Gospel accounts of Christ's baptism looking for any dragons in the story. This is not a scriptural reference, but rather a memory the Church's tradition preserved, through her hymns and iconography, until its source was recently discovered by modern archaeologists. As Fr. Stephen De Young points out in an article published this time last year, this reference to dragons or monsters in the water (present in almost all of the icons of the feast as well) refers to the ancient Semitic sea and river gods Yam and Nahar, whose subjugation to YHWH is an important part of both the Exodus narrative, but also to much of the later Hebrew prophetic works (see Isaiah 27). The Hebrew scriptures presented a direct challenge to the sacred stories of rival religions in the Levant (such as the Baal Epic), and for centuries before the modern rediscovery of Ugarit and the Baal Cycle, that challenge continues to inform the liturgical hymns and iconography of this feast.

Icon of the Theophany

And then there's this wonderful bit of juxtaposition from yet another Doxastichon, this one coming at the end of Psalm 92 (LXX) during Vespers:

Let the desert of Jordan rejoice exceedingly and blossom as the lily. For the voice of one who crieth hath been heard within it: 'Prepare ye the way of the Lord.' For he who weighed the mountains in scales and the wooded valleys in a balance, who fillest all things as God, is baptized by a servant. he who bestoweth rich gifts hath now become poor. Eve was once told, 'In sorrow shalt thou bring forth children,' but now the Virgin hears: 'Hail, thou who art full of grace, the Lord who hath great mercy is with thee.'

Look at the contrasts here: A desert blooms; the one who weighed the mountains is baptized by a servant; the one who gives gifts is now poor; Eve's sorrow replaced by Mary's joy. This last contrast hints at one of the most important ideas of Theophany, its origins found as early as the writings of St Paul in the New Testament (see Galatians 3:27 and traditional understandings thereof): Christ's baptism is, in some sense, a re-creation of humanity (or at least enables the re-creation of human persons through their baptism). This is developed beautifully in the Troparion and Kontakion of the forefeast:

Prepare, O Zebulon, and adorn yourself, O Naphtali; River Jordan, cease flowing and receive with joy the Master coming to be baptized. Adam, rejoice with our First Mother and do not hide yourself as you did of old in Paradise; for having seen you naked, He has appeared to clothe you with the first garment. Christ has appeared to renew all creation.

Today the Lord enters the Jordan and cries out to John: “Do not be afraid to baptize me. For I have come to save Adam, the first-formed man.”

The "first garment" seems to be a reference to a very ancient tradition found in Rabbinical sources, as well as the Syriac Peshitta, of "garments of light" (perhaps a way of describing the unmarred imago dei in which they were made) in which Adam and Eve had been clothed before the fall. Fourth century Church father and poet St. Ephraim the Syrian vividly imagines Christ as having left the "garment of light" for us in the water during his baptism; by being baptized ourselves, we follow him down into the water and put on the garment of light (one might say, of righteousness) which he has left for us.

Finally, consider this imagined dialogue between Christ and the Baptist, sung at Matins on the eve of the feast:

Christ: Why dost thou doubt, O Baptist, concerning the dispensation that I fulfill for the salvation of all? Set now aside the old and think of the new. Believe in God who has come down to earth, and drawing near, obey me. For I have come as God, to cleanse in my compassion fallen Adam. 

John: Taking our sins upon thy shoulders, thou art come, O Jesus, to the streams of Jordan: and I am afraid at thy dread coming. How, then, dost thou bid me baptize thee? Thou thyself hast come to cleanse me, and how dost thou, the Cleanser of all, seek baptism of me? 

Christ: My nature is beyond understanding: but clothed in the form of a servant have I come forth to Jordan. Doubt not at all concerning me. Come, fear not, draw near me. Place thy right hand upon my head and cry aloud, 'Blessed art thou, our God made manifest: glory to thee.' 

John: Beyond all thought and without measure is thy poverty, O Word of God! I know that, for my sake who am fallen, thou has from pity clothed thyself in Adam, and all the posterity of Adam thou makest new again. Obeying thy command I cry to thee in faith, blessed art thou, our god made manifest: glory to thee!

All of the hymns of this wonderful, ancient feast, encourage us to dance with the mystery rather than define it. In the Gospels, Christ rather cryptically tells the Baptist that He must be baptized in order to "fulfill all righteousness" (Matthew 3:15). These ancient hymns, which document the Church's lived-out experience of Theophany, help us examine these mysterious words from a variety of perspectives largely lost to modern interpreters of Scripture.

þær his eðel wæs: The Dream of the Rood, lines 70-156

Last week, in celebration of the Feast of the Exaltation of the Cross, I shared the first half of the Anglo-Saxon poem known as The Dream of the Rood. Earlier this week, I took a closer look at a few lines from the poem which I find particularly poignant. 

As we come to the conclusion of the afterfeast, here's the rest of the poem, again with translation and some notes for students provided. Going through the second half of this poem again, I am struck by how deftly the author weaves a number of theological themes which feature prominently throughout medieval literature. Indeed, it is not the poets themes which are unusual, but the highly original way in which they are presented.

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Initial from a Breviary (12th c.) for the Feast of the Exaltation of the Cross

70-89

Hwæðere we ðær greotende    gode hwile

stodon on staðole,    syððan stefn up gewat

hilderinca.    Hræw colode,

fæger feorgbold.    Þa us man fyllan ongan

ealle to eorðan.    Þæt wæs egeslic wyrd!

Bedealf us man on deopan seaþe.    Hwæðre me þær dryhtnes þegnas,*

freondas gefrunon,**

gyredon me    golde ond seolfre.

Nu ðu miht gehyran,    hæleð min se leofa,

þæt ic bealuwara weorc    gebiden hæbbe,

sarra sorga.    Is nu sæl cumen

þæt me weorðiað    wide ond side

menn ofer moldan,    ond eall þeos mære gesceaft,

gebiddaþ him to þyssum beacne.    On me bearn godes

þrowode hwile.    Forþan ic þrymfæst nu

hlifige under heofenum,    ond ic hælan mæg***

æghwylcne anra,    þara þe him bið egesa to me.

Iu ic wæs geworden    wita heardost,

leodum laðost,    ærþan ic him lifes weg

rihtne gerymde,    reordberendum.****

[Yet we there weeping a good while stood in place, after the voices of the warriors had departed. The body cooled, fair life-dwelling. Then one began to fell us all to earth. That was an evil fate! One buried us in a deep pit; nevertheless there one of the Lord’s servants,* friends heard,** and adorned me with gold and silver. Now you can hear, my good man, that I the Evil One’s works have endured, painful sorrows. The time is now come that men should honor me far and wide; that men over the earth, and all this glorious creation should pray to this Sign. On me the Son of God suffered for a while; therefore, I rise glorious now under heaven, and I am able to save*** each of those for whom there is fear of me. Long ago I was made of punishments the cruelest, most hateful to the peoples, before I them the true way of life cleared for speech-bearers.****]

*The word I have translated here as “servant” is “thegn,” Modern English thane. This word usually means the aristocratic retainer of a king or chieftain in ancient Germanic society, and by extension, the noble class in general. The reference is to St Helen, who—in an event commemorated every September 14^th—is said to have found the True Cross (along with the other two crosses from Golgotha), which had been buried beneath a temple to Venus built on the site by the Roman Emperor Hadrian.

**We’re missing a half-line here, so it’s hard to say what the actual meaning of this line is.

***The verb is gehælan, “to heal, to comfort, to make whole.” A related word, Hælend, is used in Anglo-Saxon to refer to Christ as Savior.

****reordberend “speech-bearers” is a simple kenning for humans, employed several times in this poem for the sake of alliteration.

A Rood in a church in Gotland, Sweden

90-114

Hwæt, me þa geweorðode    wuldres ealdor

ofer holtwudu,    heofonrices weard,

swylce swa he his modor eac,    Marian sylfe,

ælmihtig god    for ealle menn

geweorðode    ofer eall wifa cynn.

Nu ic þe hate,    hæleð min se leofa,

þæt ðu þas gesyhðe    secge mannum,

onwreoh wordum    þæt hit is wuldres beam,

se ðe ælmihtig god    on þrowode

for mancynnes    manegum synnum

ond Adomes    ealdgewyrhtum.

Deað he þær byrigde,    hwæðere eft dryhten aras

mid his miclan mihte    mannum to helpe.

He ða on heofenas astag.    Hider eft fundaþ

on þysne middangeard    mancynn secan

on domdæge    dryhten sylfa,

ælmihtig god,    ond his englas mid,

þæt he þonne wile deman,    se ah domes geweald,*

anra gehwylcum    swa he him ærur her

on þyssum lænum    life geearnaþ.

Ne mæg þær ænig    unforht wesan

for þam worde    þe se wealdend cwyð.

Frineð he for þære mænige    hwær se man sie,

se ðe for dryhtnes naman    deaðes wolde

biteres onbyrigan,    swa he ær on ðam beame dyde.**

[Behold, the Lord of Glory then honored me over all the wood of the forest, the Heaven-Kingdom’s Ward, in much the same way as he his mother also, Mary herself, the Almighty God for all men exalted above woman-kind. Now I command you, my good man, that you tell this vision to men, reveal with words that it is the Tree of Glory that the Almighty God suffered upon for mankind’s many sins and Adam’s ancient wrongs. Death he there tasted, yet afterwards the Lord arose by his great might, mankind to help. He then to the heavens ascended, and hither afterwards hastens to this Middle-earth, mankind to seek at Doomsday—the Lord Himself, Almighty God, and his angels with him. He will then doom—who has the power of doom—each of them according as he earlier merited in this transitory life. Nor may any be unafraid there, because of the word that the Ruler pronounces. He asks there in the presence of the multitude where the man be who for the Lord’s Name would taste of bitter death, as he [the Lord] did on the Tree.**]

*The word used repeatedly for “to judge” or “judgment” is some version of deman (“to judge, to deem, to praise”) or dom (“judgement, justice majesty, glory, honor”). The reference here is clearly to the Last Judgment as it was understood in medieval Christian theology, however it is important to point out that this is no merely judicial power as we might think of it today in an at least nominally democratic form of government—Christ’s power to judge is directly associated with his glory, majesty, and kingly attributes. There is a certain tendency in modern thinking and storytelling to assume that the idea of glory is inversely proportional to justice. Our poet (along with his audience) is completely comfortable with the idea that Christ’s coming in judgment would not be possible without his also coming in glory.

**Here I think we can most clearly glimpse the theological “goal” of this imaginative poem—to help the listener identify with the sufferings of Christ by considering them from the perspective of the Cross itself. Medieval devotion often employs this strategy, and many comparisons might be here made to the hymnography of the Eastern Orthodox Church as it has come down to us today. The goal of this approach is not (as many Protestant reformers would later think) to create an unnecessary barrier between the devotee and Christ; it is rather to provide yet another avenue of devotional engagement by considering the Lord’s Passion through the perspective of those who witnessed it firsthand—usually the Mother of God or St John the Beloved, or others who stood at the foot of the Cross. In this poem, uniquely, we are given the perspective of the Cross itself.

Another Rood from Gotland, this one over 800 years old. It is significant for portraying Christ triumphantly (as does this poem). Even on the cross, he is already wearing his crown.

115-156

Ac hie þonne forhtiað,    ond fea þencaþ

hwæt hie to Criste    cweðan onginnen.

Ne þearf ðær þonne ænig    anforht† wesan

þe him ær in breostum bereð    beacna selest,

ac ðurh ða rode sceal    rice gesecan

of eorðwege    æghwylc sawl,

seo þe mid wealdende    wunian þenceð."

Gebæd ic me þa to þan beame    bliðe mode,

elne mycle,    þær ic ana wæs

mæte werede.*    Wæs modsefa

afysed on forðwege,**    feala ealra gebad

langunghwila.    Is me nu lifes hyht

þæt ic þone sigebeam    secan mote

ana oftor    þonne ealle men,

well weorþian.    Me is willa to ðam

mycel on mode,    ond min mundbyrd is

geriht to þære rode.***    Nah ic ricra feala

freonda on foldan,    ac hie forð heonon

gewiton of worulde dreamum,    sohton him wuldres cyning,

lifiaþ nu on heofenum    mid heahfædere,

wuniaþ on wuldre,    ond ic wene me

daga gehwylce    hwænne me dryhtnes rod,

þe ic her on eorðan    ær sceawode,

on þysson lænan    life gefetige

ond me þonne gebringe    þær is blis mycel,

dream on heofonum,    þær is dryhtnes folc

geseted to symle,    þær is singal blis,

ond me† þonne asette    þær ic syþþan mot

wunian on wuldre,    well mid þam halgum

dreames brucan.    Si me dryhten freond,

se ðe her on eorþan    ær þrowode

on þam gealgtreowe    for guman synnum.

He us onlysde    ond us lif forgeaf,

heofonlicne ham.    Hiht wæs geniwad

mid bledum ond mid blisse    þam þe þær bryne þolodan.****

Se sunu wæs sigorfæst    on þam siðfate,

mihtig ond spedig,    þa he mid manigeo com,

gasta weorode,    on godes rice,

anwealda ælmihtig,    englum to blisse

ond eallum ðam halgum    þam þe on heofonum ær

wunedon on wuldre,    þa heora wealdend cwom,

ælmihtig god,    þær his eðel wæs.

[But they are afraid, do not even know how to begin to speak to Christ. They do not have any reason to be afraid who before in their breasts bears the Best of Signs, but by means of the Cross wills the Kingdom to seek, from earthly regions—every soul who with the Ruler intends to dwell.” Prayed I then to that Cross, glad at heart, strong in courage, where I was alone with a small company.* Mind was focused on departure;** I endured many times of longing. It is now my life’s hope that I the Tree of Victory may seek alone, to offer it honor above all men. The desire for that is great in my mind, and I look to that Rood for patronage.*** Nor have I many wealthy friends on earth, but they forth hence departed from this world’s joys, sought for themselves the King of Glory, live now in the heavens with the Highfather, dwell in glory; and I expect every day when the Lord’s Rood, who I here on earth before saw, will fetch me from this transitory life, and bring me then to where there is great bliss, joy in the heavens, where the folk of God are set at banquet, where is everlasting bliss, and being set there I afterwards might dwell in glory, well with the saints, enjoying joys. The Lord shall be to me a friend, who here on earth formerly suffered on the gallows-tree for mankind’s sin. He redeemed us and gave us life and a heavenly home. Hope was renewed, with glories and with bliss, for those who there burning suffered.**** The Son was secure in victory on the journey, mighty and successful when he came with a multitude, a troop of spirits, into God’s Kingdom, Almighty Ruler, with angels to bliss, and with all the saints whom in the heavens before lived in glory when their Ruler came, Almighty God, where His homeland was.]

*Compare line 69b.

**That is, departure from this world.

***Literally taken, this line is: “and my mundbyrd is directed to that Rood.” Nearly everyone in Anglo-Saxon society had a mundbora, a patron and protector—ones parent, master, chieftain, earl, or king, depending on the position one held in society. By association, the word came to be used for the protection that God—via His saints and angels—offered to His people. The author or visionary is claiming the Rood as his own particular heavenly patron.

****The poem ends by connecting three themes which seem to have been closely intertwined for the poet (and probably for his audience as well): First, the visionary’s hope that he will gain heaven and the company of the saints by the intercession and patronage of the Cross; second, his expectation that the Lord will prove his “friend” at the day of judgment; third, that all of this—his own hopes for salvation and mankind’s hopes in general—rest upon the victory of Christ in the “Harrowing of Hell” (the Anglo-Saxon name for the Descent into Hades), the events of which are briefly recalled in the final lines of the poem. For the poet, the ideas of heavenly patronage, steadfast devotion, and the sure victory of Christ are not mutually exclusive—rather, they are complementary, woven together into a beautiful tapestry which would begin to unravel if any of the various threads were removed.

Rood screen at Our Lady of Egmanton, Nottinghamshire

Currently reading: The Life in Christ, Nicholas Cabasilas
Current audio book: City of Fortune: How Venice Ruled the Seas, Roger Crowley
Currently translating: The Dream of the Rood

Crist wæs on rode

Saturday's post of the first 69 lines of The Dream of the Rood has already become the most popular post on this blog. I don't have any explanation for this, unless it is that the poem is uniquely beautiful and also too little known. If that's the case, I am happy to have brought it to the attention of so many people. I thought I'd do a quick post this morning just to highlight what I find to be one of the most poignant passages in the whole poem: lines 39-56.

To explain why this passage works so well, one must know a little bit about Anglo-Saxon alliterative meter. To say everything that could be said about this deceptively simple meter would be the study of many lifetimes. At its most basic, however, it goes like this: Each line is made up of two half-lines (the double-space in the middle of each lines in the passage below indicates the break between these half-lines). The first half-line has two "beats" which place the stress on two alliterating sounds (with vowels always alliterating with other vowels). The second half-line has two beats as well, the first of which alliterates with the first half-line, the second of which introduces a new sound.

To give an example of what I mean, here's line 56 of the poem, with the alliterating stresses in bold:

cwiðdon cyninges fyll.  Crist wæs on rode.

There are of course endless variations to this basic line type, based on where the stresses fall and how many "filler words" (which function as extra, unstressed syllables) are allowed. Certain poems, such as Caedmon's Hymn, exhibit an extremely "tight" meter:

Nu sculon herigean         heofonrices weard,
meotodes meahte         and his modgeþanc,
weorc wuldorfæder,         swa he wundra gehwæs,
ece drihten,         or onstealde.
He ærest sceop         eorðan bearnum
heofon to hrofe,         halig scyppend;
þa middangeard         moncynnes weard,
ece drihten,         æfter teode
firum foldan,         frea ælmihtig.

Even if you can't read Anglo-Saxon, it should be easy to tell that these lines keep a fairly steady beat and, for the most part, stick to the alliteration rules I mentioned above. The stereotype that exists about alliterative verse is that the earlier stuff is tighter, the later stuff is looser and more "artsy"; some have drawn parallels between the breakdown of heroic society and the breakdown of heroic verse.

But The Dream of the Rood bucks this stereotype. It features a large number of what are referred to as "hyper-metrical lines"--lines that basically break the metrical rules I listed above. Usually, this is done for the sake of effect. But it almost seems that in the Dream of the Rood, it is metrical lines which are used for effect, and not the other way around. Let's return again to lines 39-56, which recount the crucifixion of Christ:

39-56

Ongyrede hine þa geong hæleð,  (þæt wæs god ælmihtig),                                       
strang ond stiðmod.  Gestah he on gealgan heanne,
modig on manigra gesyhðe,  þa he wolde mancyn lysan.                             
Bifode ic þa me se beorn ymbclypte.  Ne dorste ic hwæðre bugan to eorðan,                                   
feallan to foldan sceatum,  ac ic sceolde fæste standan.                               
Rod wæs ic aræred.  Ahof ic ricne cyning,                                     
heofona hlaford,  hyldan me ne dorste.
þurhdrifan hi me mid deorcan næglum.  On me syndon þa dolg gesiene,                               
opene inwidhlemmas.  Ne dorste ic hira nænigum sceððan.                                       
Bysmeredon hie unc butu ætgædere.  Eall ic wæs mid blode bestemed,                                 
begoten of þæs guman sidan,  siððan he hæfde his gast onsended.                                         
Feala ic on þam beorge  gebiden hæbbe
wraðra wyrda.  Geseah ic weruda god
þearle þenian.  þystro hæfdon                 
bewrigen mid wolcnum  wealdendes hræw,                       
scirne sciman,  sceadu forðeode,                             
wann under wolcnum.  Weop eal gesceaft,
cwiðdon cyninges fyll.  Crist wæs on rode.

[They stripped the Young Warrior—he who was God Almighty—strong and resolute. He mounted on the gallows high, valiant in the sight of many, when he would ransom mankind. I shook when the Warrior embraced me. Nor dared I to bow in any direction towards the ground—I had to stand fast. The Rood was raised. I exalted the Mighty King, Heaven’s Lord. I did not dare to bend. They pierced me with dark nails—scars easily seen in me; evil, open wounds. Nor dared I to harm any one of them. They besmirched both of us together. I was streaming all over with blood, drenched from that man’s sides, since he had his spirit sent forth. Much have I, on that mountain, tasted of an evil wyrd. I saw the warbands of God violently humiliated. Dark clouds closed over the Ruler’s corpse. Over shining splendor shadow went forth, dark under sky. All creation wept, bewailing the King’s fall. Christ was on the Cross.]

I have tried to put the stressed syllables for each line in bold, but for some of the hyper-metrical lines (easily visually identified due to the fact that they are much longer than the last 6 or so lines) it is sometimes difficult to hear exactly where the stress should go. In my opinion, this contributes to the dream-like effect of this mystical poem.

But notice what happens in those last six lines, starting at "wraðra wyrda..." The alliteration becomes perfectly regular, and the lines "tighten," at precisely the moment when the nails would be driven into the hands and feet of Our Lord. The dreamlike vision becomes, for a moment, something concrete. Each beat falls like a hammer-blow. And Crist wæs on rode.

This use of the meter creates an incredible aural effect. It's just one small example of the great genius of this poem, and one reason why it's almost impossible to translate well.

Beama beorhtost: The Dream of the Rood, lines 1-69

Today marks the feast of the "Universal Exaltation of the Precious and Life-Giving Cross," also known as Holy Cross Day, Holy Rood Day, or Roodmas in various traditions. The story behind this feast day, which involves the finding of the True Cross by St Helen (the mother of emperor St Constantine the Great) can be read elsewhere, and I hope to touch more on it in the next post in this series.

The two primary subjects of this blog are Germanic Philology, and the Liturgical Arts & Liturgical Year. Over the last several posts I've been deeply interested in rood-screens and the way they function in sacred architecture, and how medieval literature might itself function as a sort of verbal rood-screen (as Tolkien in fact believed that it could). In the Venn diagram of all of these interests, an Anglo-Saxon poem known as The Dream of the Rood is the almond-shaped overlapping area which connects them all.

Eastern Orthodox icon of the Exaltation of the Cross

I won't give you a lengthy introduction to the poem. The facts are these: It is at least as old as the 8th Century Ruthwell Cross, a beautiful 8th century stone Anglo-Saxon cross, which bears a partial text of the poem as well as quite a bit of beautiful iconography; it was of course destroyed during the rampant iconoclasm of the Protestant Reformation, but we've been able to piece a good bit of it back together. There is a decent chance that the poem is older than this, though, and it's considered to be a good candidate for the title of "oldest work of Old English literature." 

The Ruthwell Cross, 8th c.

There are all kinds of theories about the origins of poem itself. Its content, which seems to blend the heroic ethics of the Anglo-Saxon warrior aristocracy with Christian virtues, and its inclusion on the Ruthwell Cross have led many people to speculate that it was composed as a missionary tool, intended to help pagan Anglo-Saxons understand where their old values could be situated within a Christian context. Other attempts have been made to attribute the poem to known poets such as Cynewulf or Caedmon, though these attributions do not seem to have stuck. 

What can be said about the poem is that it is a beautiful, remarkable work of art. I am staggered just trying to imagine the mind which could compose it. Ever since I first encountered this poem in my first semester of Anglo-Saxon, I have wanted to attempt a verse translation of this poem which would make some effort toward communicating the beauty of the original. I'm not there yet, but I thought over the octave of the present feast I would share a rough prose translation I've been working on along with some notes. There's nothing revolutionary here--just some thoughts and notes I have been putting together for the purpose of teaching the poem to students who have little-to-no ability to read it themselves in Old English.

The idea would be to read each section aloud to the students in Old English, then go through the translation and draw out certain interesting meanings and aural effects which the poem accomplishes. In this way, someone who cannot read Old English would at least be introduced to the poem, and would get some sense of its beauty, and might go on to study it for themselves.

Without further ado, here are some notes on the first 69 lines of the poem. I'll publish the rest in 1-2 more blog posts (which should include some notes about the finding of the Cross by St Helen, since it is briefly mentioned in the poem) over the course of the next eight days.

The Anglo-Saxon Reliquary Cross, 10th c.

1-12

Hwæt! Ic swefna cyst  secgan wylle,                                        

hwæt me gemætte  to midre nihte,                                         

syðþan reordberend  reste wunedon!                                     

þuhte me þæt ic gesawe  syllicre treow                                  

on lyft lædan,  leohte bewunden,                                             

beama beorhtost.*  Eall þæt beacen** wæs                                        

begoten mid golde.  Gimmas stodon                                      

fægere æt foldan sceatum,  swylce þær fife wæron                                          

uppe on þam eaxlegespanne.***  Beheoldon þær engel dryhtnes ealle,                                   

fægere þurh forðgesceaft.  Ne wæs ðær huru fracodes gealga,                   

ac hine þær beheoldon  halige gastas,                                   

men ofer moldan,  ond eall þeos mære gesceaft.                

[Hark! I wish to tell of the best of dreams which came to me in the middle of the night, when speech-bearers seek their rest. It seemed to me that I saw a wondrous Tree suspended on the air, surrounded by light, of beams* the brightest. All that Sign** was covered with gold. Precious jewels shone forth, fair over the surface of the earth, and likewise there were five above the crossbeam***. I beheld there all the angels of the Lord, those fair from the foundation of the world. Nor was that indeed any criminal’s gallows, but there they kept watch: blessed spirits, men over the world, all this famous creation.]

*The word here is actually beama, the GP of beam, which can mean a tree (compare German Baum), a beam of wood, or (as throughout the rest of this poem) the Cross.

**OE beacen, from which we get our word beacon. It means a sign or portent. Throughout this poem it will be used both for the vision itself—the dream—as well as for the Cross. Given that this poem is never far from the legends of Sts. Constantine and Helen (and in fact will reference St Helen’s finding of the Cross later in the poem), I think it’s not unfair to see here an allusion to Constantine’s in hoc signo. Note though that there is already an OE borrowing from Latin signum: segn.

**OE eaxlegespann. I don’t have anything to say about this except that it’s a really cool word and “crossbeam” is a pretty uninteresting way to translate it.

13-23

Syllic wæs se sigebeam,  ond ic synnum fah,                                        

forwunded mid wommum.  Geseah ic wuldres treow,                                      

wædum geweorðode,*  wynnum scinan,

gegyred mid golde;  gimmas hæfdon                                      

bewrigene weorðlice  wealdendes treow.                                             

Hwæðre ic þurh þæt gold  ongytan meahte                                         

earmra ærgewin,  þæt hit ærest ongan                                  

swætan on þa swiðran healfe.  Eall ic wæs mid sorgum gedrefed,                              

forht ic wæs for þære fægran gesyhðe.  Geseah ic þæt fuse beacen                                           

wendan wædum ond bleom;  hwilum hit wæs mid wætan bestemed,                                       

beswyled mid swates gange,  hwilum mid since gegyrwed.

[Rare and marvelous was the Victory-tree—and I guilty with sins, wounded all over with evils! I saw the Tree of Wonder worshipfully vested,* shining with joy, adorned with gold; precious jewels had covered honorably the Ruler’s Tree. Nevertheless, I could see through that gold the evidence of a previous and wretched combat, where it first started to sweat and bleed from its right side. I was all with sorrow afflicted—afraid because of the fair vision. I saw that noble sign changed in garments and colors; at times it was with liquid moistened, drenched with flowing sweat and blood, at other times with treasures adorned.]

*Literally wædum geweorðode. Wǣd can refer to any article or garment of human clothing, but as it is often used to gloss Latin vestīmentum and since geweorþian carries the sense of rendering honor to an object or person, I have rendered it thus.

Anglo-Saxon Rood, or crucifix, Romsey Abbey. 10th c.

24-38

Hwæðre ic þær licgende   lange hwile                                      

beheold hreowcearig  hælendes treow,                  

oððæt ic gehyrde  þæt hit hleoðrode.                                     

Ongan þa word sprecan  wudu selesta:                                  

"þæt wæs geara iu,  (ic þæt gyta geman),                                            

þæt ic wæs aheawen  holtes on ende,                                     

astyred of stefne minum.  Genaman me ðær strange feondas,                    

geworhton him þær to wæfersyne,  heton me heora wergas hebban.                                       

Bæron me ðær beornas on eaxlum,  oððæt hie me on beorg asetton,                                       

gefæstnodon me þær feondas genoge.  Geseah ic þa frean mancynnes                                   

efstan elne mycle  þæt he me wolde on gestigan.                                              

þær ic þa ne dorste  ofer dryhtnes word                

bugan oððe berstan,  þa ic bifian geseah                                              

eorðan sceatas.  Ealle ic mihte                                   

feondas gefyllan,  hwæðre ic fæste stod.                

[Nevertheless I, lying there a long while, beheld sad-minded the Savior’s Tree, until I heard that it spoke. The Best of Woods began to speak these words: “It was long ago (though I remember it still) that I was hewn down at the holt’s end, removed from my stump. Strong enemies took me from there, made me into an awful spectacle, and commanded me to raise up their criminals. They bore me there, men on shoulders, until they set me atop a mountain. Many fiends fastened me there. I saw then the Lord of Mankind hastening with great courage that he might mount up upon me.* There I did not dare to go beyond the Lord’s word, to budge or break—I saw the earth’s surface begin to quake—even though I might have felled all those enemies, nevertheless I stood fast.]

*Throughout this poem, Christ’s action on the cross are seen as willing, with Christ almost always referred to in the terminology (as elsewhere—see the Old Saxon Heliand) of the Germanic warrior aristocracy. Christ is portrayed as totally in command of what takes place on the Cross. Although this takes place within the poet’s own cultural idiom, it is most consonant with the portrayal of the Passion in St John’s Gospel:

And Jesus answered them, saying, The hour is come, that the Son of man should be glorified. Verily, verily, I say unto you, Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit. He that loveth his life shall lose it; and he that hateth his life in this world shall keep it unto life eternal. If any man serve me, let him follow me; and where I am, there shall also my servant be: if any man serve me, him will my Father honour. Now is my soul troubled; and what shall I say? Father, save me from this hour: but for this cause came I unto this hour. Father, glorify thy name. Then came there a voice from heaven, saying, I have both glorified it, and will glorify it again. The people therefore, that stood by, and heard it, said that it thundered: others said, An angel spake to him. Jesus answered and said, This voice came not because of me, but for your sakes. Now is the judgment of this world: now shall the prince of this world be cast out. And I, if I be lifted up from the earth, will draw all men unto me. This he said, signifying what death he should die. (John xii)

Byzantine crucifix in the nave of St Seraphim Orthodox Cathedral, Dallas TX. Both Byzantine and Anglo-Saxon art and poetry place the focus on Christ's calm command of his passion, rather than on the suffering or gore. Thus, Christ is portrayed at rest.

39-56

Ongyrede hine þa geong hæleð,*  (þæt wæs god ælmihtig),                                         

strang ond stiðmod.  Gestah he on gealgan heanne,

modig on manigra gesyhðe,  þa he wolde mancyn lysan.                               

Bifode ic þa me se beorn** ymbclypte.  Ne dorste ic hwæðre bugan to eorðan,                                    

feallan to foldan sceatum,  ac ic sceolde fæste standan.                                 

Rod wæs ic aræred.  Ahof ic ricne*** cyning,                                      

heofona hlaford,****  hyldan me ne dorste.

þurhdrifan hi me mid deorcan næglum.  On me syndon þa dolg gesiene,                                 

opene inwidhlemmas.  Ne dorste ic hira nænigum sceððan.                                         

Bysmeredon hie unc butu ætgædere.  Eall ic wæs mid blode bestemed,                                   

begoten of þæs guman sidan,  siððan he hæfde his gast onsended.                                           

Feala ic on þam beorge  gebiden hæbbe

wraðra wyrda.  Geseah ic weruda god

þearle þenian.  þystro hæfdon                   

bewrigen mid wolcnum  wealdendes hræw,                        

scirne sciman,  sceadu forðeode,                              

wann under wolcnum.  Weop eal gesceaft,

cwiðdon cyninges fyll.  Crist wæs on rode.

[They stripped the Young Warrior*—he who was God Almighty—strong and resolute. He mounted on the gallows high, valiant in the sight of many, when he would ransom mankind. I shook when the Warrior** embraced me. Nor dared I to bow in any direction towards the ground—I had to stand fast. The Rood was raised. I exalted*** the Mighty King, Heaven’s Lord.**** I did not dare to bend. They pierced me with dark nails—scars easily seen in me; evil, open wounds. Nor dared I to harm any one of them. They besmirched both of us together. I was streaming all over with blood, drenched from that man’s sides, since he had his spirit sent forth. Much have I, on that mountain, tasted of an evil wyrd. I saw the warbands of God violently humiliated. Dark clouds closed over the Ruler’s corpse. Over shining splendor shadow went forth, dark under sky. All creation wept, bewailing the King’s fall. Christ was on the Cross.]

*geong hæleð

**beorn. As is well known, this particular word is packed with etymological controversy. It has a highly disputed link (which however I consider credible) to ON bjǫrn, a northern variant of the Proto-Germanic root for “brown.” Northern Indo-European languages have a great reticence to refer to bears by name (thus there is no Germanic cognate for Latin ursus), and usually refer to them as “brown one” or “honey-eater.” A warrior who is particularly fierce, hairy, and given to large meals and long naps (one finds many such people in Germanic folklore and legend) might be a “bear” by association, and since most aristocratic males were warriors and since the word is very close to bearn “son [of man]”, it seems to often just function as a poetic word for “man.” As Nelson Goering once told me, we have to understand ALL of the above layers (and probably some that I’m missing) as having been present for the original audience of these poems. In translation, highlighting one sense usually comes at the expense of the others.

***ahof could be translated “raised” or “exalted” and thus seems to be something of a pun, in keeping with the spirit of the Gospel passage cited above.

****Here I have to play around a bit, which I can do because this is a personal blog and not a scholarly publication. There are a few different words in Anglo-Saxon which are translated as “Lord.” This one is hlaford, which developed from earlier OE hlafweard or “loaf-warden,” as in the one who has control over, or gives out, loafs of bread. Over time, OE hlaford > ME louerd, lord > ModE lord. It’s difficult to imagine a more appropriate name for Christ than “loaf-warden,” and certainly Medieval Christians would not have been deaf to the Eucharistic associations of the term.

57-69

Hwæðere þær fuse  feorran cwoman                      

to þam æðelinge.  Ic þæt eall beheold.                   

Sare ic wæs mid sorgum gedrefed,  hnag ic hwæðre þam secgum to handa,                          

eaðmod elne mycle.  Genamon hie þær ælmihtigne god,                

ahofon hine of ðam hefian wite.   Forleton me þa hilderincas                        

standan steame bedrifenne;  eall ic wæs mid strælum* forwundod.                          

Aledon hie ðær limwerigne,  gestodon him æt his lices heafdum,               

beheoldon hie ðær heofenes dryhten,  ond he hine ðær hwile reste,                           

meðe æfter ðam miclan gewinne.  Ongunnon him þa moldern wyrcan     

beornas on banan gesyhðe;  curfon hie ðæt of beorhtan stane,                   

gesetton hie ðæron sigora wealdend.  Ongunnon him þa sorhleoð galan                

earme on þa æfentide,  þa hie woldon eft siðian,               

meðe fram þam mæran þeodne.  Reste he ðær mæte weorode.

[But then noble folk came from afar off to that prince. I beheld it all. I was in pain, with sorry afflicted, nevertheless I bent down to those men, down towards the side of the hill, humble-minded and with great courage. They took there the Almighty God, lifting him up from that heavy torment. I relinquished that Warrior, remained with Moisture covered; I was all with arrows* gravely wounded. There they lay down the weary-limbed one and stood at the head of his corpse. There they looked on Heaven’s Lord, and he with them rested there a while, weary after the great struggle. They began the grave to make, those warriors, within sight of his killer; they carved that grave of bright stone, and set therein The Lord of Victory. They began then a burial hymn to chant on that miserable evening. Then, weary, they would afterwards leave that most excellent Lord. He rested there with a small host.]

*strælum “with arrows” seems to be a reference to the nails embedded in the wood of the cross. Here, we might think of certain iconography of Anglo-Saxon saints, or of St Sebastian, who were tied to a tree and then shot to death with arrows. The below illumination depicts the death of St Edmund, King and Martyr, shot to death by Viking raiders. The point of this and other references to the Cross’s wounds seems to be to transfer the Cross itself from an instrument of torment to a victim who suffered, obediently, along with Christ. The reference in line 60 to elne mycle “with great courage” highlights the Cross’s own courage in obedience. As has often been pointed out elsewhere, the whole poem casts the Cross in the light of the obedient thegn, the servant or bodyguard of his lord who is expected to stand with his lord until the end. The poem puts a particularly Christian twist on this idea, though, since the Cross is not supposed to fight or defend its lord (even though it seems capable of doing so); instead, it (and therefore we) must partake in and therefore identify with the sufferings of Christ. It is the peculiarly Christian understanding that sees this moment of greatest suffering as the moment of greatest exaltation. The double-vision of the cross streaming with gore/arrayed in gold and jewels and costly vestments is a good example of the paradox which the poet so effectively conveys.

Medieval illumination of the death of St Edmund