Abstract and Keywords
This chapter deals first with Marquard's representation of Christ's Passion. It argues that Marquard opposed the contemporary trend in fourteenth‐century devotional writing towards the elaboration of ever more ‘secret sufferings’ undergone by Christ. Instead he insisted on the conceptualization of Christ's sufferings as primarily interior and mental, experienced throughout his whole life, and caused by his bearing of the totality of all human sin. This unusual position is shown to be based directly upon Petrus Johannis Olivi's interpretation of the scriptural accounts of Christ's prayer in Gethsemane. Similar positions are identified in the works of other Franciscan Spirituals, notably Ubertino da Casale and Angela da Foligno. The chapter deals secondly with Marquard's writing on contemplation of the Passion. It considers his understanding of the relationship between Passion contemplation and access to the treasury of merits, and between Passion contemplation and mystical ascent.
The crucifixion of Christ stands at the very centre of the Christian religion as a moment of profound theological and devotional significance. Its position in the theological economy of salvation was cast in the new light of the theory of satisfaction, and thereby elevated to a new level of importance for the entirety of the Middle Ages, by Anselm's Cur Deus homo. In the devotional framework of the later Middle Ages, meanwhile, its position went beyond that of primus inter pares alongside other elements of central soteriological significance: specifically the incarnation and the resurrection. Instead the Passion formed the central apex of the faith. Richard Kieckhefer has observed this focus on the Passion in the devotional mentalité of the fourteenth century to be so exclusive as to eliminate almost entirely the significance of the resurrection, with which one would otherwise, on theological grounds, expect the Passion to be intimately associated.1 Marquard's elder contemporary Ludolf von Sachsen (d. 1378) described the cross as the culmination of Scripture, the Passion as the epitome of perfection, and Christ's death as consummation of all Christian teaching. Knowledge of the Passion enables the individual to know everything necessary for salvation:
[I]n cruce Domini, est finis Legis et Scripturae, in Passione ejus, summa omnis perfectionis, in morte ipsius, est consummatio omnis sermonis. Unde Apostulus dicebat: ‘Non judicavi me aliquid scire inter vos, nisi Jesum Christum, et hunc crucifixum’ [1 Cor. 2: 2], nempe quia hoc scire, est omnia scire quae ad salutem spectant.2(p.38)
(In the cross of the Lord is the culmination of the law and of Scripture; in his Passion is the apogee of every perfection; and in his death is the consummation of all his teaching. Wherefore the Apostle said, ‘I resolved not to know anything amongst you, except for Jesus Christ, and him crucified’, because to know this is indeed to know everything that pertains to salvation.)
The growing theological and devotional focus more broadly on the humanity of Christ in the eleventh and twelfth centuries had, as Giles Constable has demonstrated, made Christ's life on earth into the supreme exemplar for imitation. The apostles, saints, and church fathers came to be seen as those who had already followed in his footsteps: edifying examples, perhaps, but only models for imitation insofar as they had imitated Christ. This literal imitation of Christ found its greatest and most obvious exponent in Francis of Assisi (d. 1227) and became a normative feature of late medieval piety.3 Simultaneously a shift of emphasis in the image of the crucified Christ had taken place. Christ was no longer Christus triumphator, but Christus patiens, the innocent man suffering and nailed to the cross: a transition newly explored by Rachel Fulton.4 Christ crucified became, to use Eric Saak's phrase, the source of identity for the late medieval believer.5 In terms of religious literature, Berndt Hamm has pointed repeatedly to the Passion as the ultimate focus of the process of ‘normative Zentrierung’, and which occupied a position of unparalleled significance within the late medieval ‘Frömmigkeitstheologie’.6 The construction of the image of the Passion is thus the ideal place to begin an analysis of Marquard's works.
From the late twelfth century, the well‐known developments in medieval devotion to the Passion were accompanied by a massive expansion in the production of new literature of all genres on the subject, an expansion that continued into the early modern period and beyond. The fourteenth century witnessed the production of compendious narrative treatises on the life and Passion of Christ, of which Ludolf's Vita Christi, from which the quotation above was drawn, is distinguished by its particular enormity. In the mid‐fourteenth century the first Passion narratives in the German vernacular began to emerge. Recent work by Thomas Bestul, Eric Saak, and in particular Tobias Kemper has given new attention to the identification, (p.39) categorization, and analysis of this literature.7 The expansion in the quantity of literature produced was matched by a corresponding expansion in the narrative content on the Passion. Kemper's study draws on and advances older work by Kurt Ruh, F. P. Pickering, and James Marrow in demonstrating precisely how the processes of narrative elaboration operated. He shows that the exegetical and typological principles by which the New Testament accounts of the Passion were amplified and expanded were present, in nuce, in the relationship between the Gospels themselves and Old Testament material. The legitimating principle of the concordantia Veteris et Novi Testamenti underpinned the mapping of Old Testament passages in various ways onto elements of the Passion narrative.8 Alongside these central processes by which parts of the Old Testament (in particular Psalm 21), understood as evangelica narratio, were transposed onto the figure of Christ and integrated into the Passion narrative, Kemper identifies a series of other sources for the elaboration and extension of that narrative. Of these, the most important are the New Testament apocrypha, in particular the Evangelium Nicodemi; the consideration of Passion relics, especially after the translation of the Byzantine collection to Paris in 1238–42; and the introduction of ‘factual’ material: natural scientific, medical, geographical, and topographical information together with rationalizing explanations of inconsistencies in the evangelical accounts.9
The extensive elaboration of the account in narrative texts was not a purely literary phenomenon, but reflected a deepening interest in the events of the Passion and the increased desire to know those events more intimately. Saak explains this in terms of a wider cultural shift, on the basis of his examination of Jordan von Quedlinburg's Meditationes de passione Christi. He argues that the elaboration of the Passion story in the Middle Ages both reflected and served to constitute the broader process of the self‐definition of Christian society. This is to be seen specifically in the emphasis on the Jewish role in and responsibility for the crucifixion, which Saak interprets (in conscious accordance with the theories of R. I. Moore) in terms of the definition of a Christian society against outsiders. The demonization of the Jews in Passion texts, he argues further, was not so much a ‘racial’ demonization of the Jews qua Jews, but a demonization of Jews as (p.40) representatives of negative human traits that medieval writers sought to target and exclude. This ‘demonisation of human sin’, to use Saak's phrase, forms the anti‐Semitic tone of the medieval texts that elaborated the various corporeal sufferings of Christ, the better to show the different ways in which Christ was assaulted by the Jews of his time—and thus to admonish contemporary individuals against taking similar underlying attitudes.10 There is certainly something to this argument, and we will return to Saak's position later, once we have considered Marquard himself. But even if we accept it at this stage, it does not explain the whole interest in elaborating the Passion narrative, much of which elaboration had nothing to do with the Jews.
Kemper has shown that the intention of medieval writers in using the Old Testament exegetically and typologically to write the history of the Passion differed markedly from that of the Gospel authors themselves. The evangelists were concerned to use Scripture to show Christ as the innocent man suffering and the just man condemned, and to support the faith in Christ as the awaited Messiah and son of God. None of this was doubted in the Middle Ages: whilst the exegetical and typological methods of utilizing Scripture to construct a narrative of the Passion may have been similar, the purpose could not be. This purpose was more simple: to know the history of the Passion and the life of Christ more intimately. Kemper roots the origins of this desire in the new reception of apocryphal texts from the twelfth century onwards, and the contemporaneous and similarly novel interest, stimulated by the Crusades, in the relics of the Passion. The medieval texts themselves justify their enterprise with reference to the incomplete and inconsistent status of the evangelical accounts. The continuation of the narrative elaboration in the later Middle Ages was a feature of contemporary contemplative practice: the requirement to meditate in prayer on every detail of the Passion and each individual suffering of Christ.11 This might be regarded simply as a feature of ‘gezählte Frömmigkeit’: the well‐known late medieval phenomenon in which merit was conceived in quantitative terms and the maximum possible merit achieved by the accumulation of, for instance, prayers or indulgences. Perhaps more accurately, we might regard the desire to know every detail of the Passion as a reflection of the desire to conform every aspect of an individual's life as closely as possible to the life of Christ, and in particular to the consummation of that life (remembering Ludolf's terminology) in the Passion. This (p.41) might be regarded as the ‘positive’ side of the coin, in contrast to (but not incompatible with) the ‘negative’ side: namely Saak's interpretation of the elaborated Passion narratives as a sequence of admonitions, of things not to do and attitudes not to hold.
Much of the elaboration of the Passion story consisted of an increasingly graphic and ultimately gruesome focus on the bodily sufferings of Christ. The earliest Passion narrative to be written originally in German, the well‐known Christi Leiden in einer Vision geschaut, was produced most likely in the second quarter of the fourteenth century, and is already at this early stage a particularly noteworthy representative of the exceptionally graphic depictive tradition. It survives in three different recensions and purports to contain a nun's vision of the Passion, from the arrest of Christ to the resurrection. All versions consist almost entirely of narrative, with very little additional commentary or guidance in contemplative practice.12 Marrow says of this work that its purpose was not to instruct the reader or engage him in deeper meditation on the topic, but simply to move him by graphic depiction of Christ's sufferings.13 Pickering was less cautious. ‘Taken out of its context, it must appear the work of a sadistic maniac; even in its context (sensational devotional literature) it is still the most extravagant representative of its kind I have so far been able to discover.’14 Saak regards Christi Leiden as ‘graphic simply for the sake of impression’.15 The prologue, which Pickering considered to be an integral component of the original version, describes how the nun desired that Christ's Passion simply be more intimately known to her. Her thoughts switched from the incarnation to Christ's deeds and to his suffering, as she sought that which would stimulate her desire for the Passion:
Nu begerde sy dat ir dat lyden Christi vns heren gruntlich zo hertzen gienge vnd arbeite sich darna mit vil begerden. Nu gedechte sy an syn komen in menscheliche nature, Nu an manche wunnencliche doegende die he dem menschen gedaen hatte, Nu an syn demoedich lyden dat he vmb syne doegent geleden hait, vnd gedechte hyn vnd her, so wat sy vant dat ir begerde reitzen solde zo Christus lyden.16
(Now she desired that the Passion of Christ our Lord would enter her heart of hearts, and applied herself to this end with great desire. Now she thought about his advent in human nature; now about the many delightful virtues that he had manifested to mankind; now about his humble Passion, which he suffered for his (p.42) virtue; and she thought about this and about that, about whatever she found that should stimulate her desire for Christ's Passion.)
Her vision is received in response to her inability to focus on the Passion. The divine voice that then speaks to her maintains simply that God desires ‘that the Passion of his child is perceived and known’ (‘dat man syns kindes lyden bevyndet vnd bekennet’).17 There is little more in any recension of the entire work on how or why the subject matter is to be approached.18 On one level, one might argue that the ways and purposes of considering the Passion were too self‐evident and manifold to require explanation. Yet the guidance that Christi Leiden provides is so brief and so sparsely distributed in the work that it is hard not to concur with the common view, that the work itself was intended simply to move the individual to shock and sympathy—even if it would be complemented in practice by other material in the Passion devotion of those who read it.
Similar in its almost exclusively narrative approach, and in its graphic emphasis on bodily suffering, is the Extendit manum Passion treatise attributed to Heinrich von St Gallen, a master of the university of Prague. Much longer than Christi Leiden, it is another of the earlier Passion narratives written originally in German, and is distinguished by its enormous transmission. With more than 180 extant manuscripts, it is one of the most widely circulated medieval German texts of all. The earliest known manuscript dates approximately to 1400 and a securely datable manuscript survives from 1416; its composition, regardless of the problematic attribution of its authorship, is generally placed in the last quarter of the fourteenth century.19 It is thus exactly contemporary with Marquard's works. Aside from the narrative, it contains just two short passages on the manner of contemplation: a statement regarding disciplines that foster conformity to Christ,20 and a brief section translated from the Stimulus amoris added at the very end.21
(p.43) Not all late medieval works on the Passion took an exclusively narrative approach, of course. The long and widely circulated Latin treatises all combined narration with instruction and guidance in the meditation and contemplation of the Passion, beginning with the preface to Bonaventura's Lignum vitae (c.1260), the seminal Meditationes vitae Christi, written around 1300,22 and Ubertino da Casale's Arbor vitae crucifixae, the first recension of which was written in 1305—all incidentally Franciscan texts. The longest of all, the Carthusian Ludolf's Vita Christi, combines material from a wide range of existing works with particular focus on the manner in which the historical events (though no less graphically described) were to be contemplated.23 The Vita Christi is slightly earlier than Marquard's writings, being written at some point in the period 1348–68, and probably prior to 1360 in the Charterhouse at Mainz.24 It was especially popular in Germany. Strasbourg, where Ludolf is believed to have spent his latter years, became the epicentre of its transmission. A copy of the first part of the work was donated to the Franciscan convent there in 1375, at which time Marquard may have been a resident.25
With this broad background in mind we must now turn to Marquard. We will look first at his presentation of the Passion, and then at the response that his works on the subject require and encourage of their readers. As with any late medieval author, all his works contain occasional references to the Passion. But three in particular adopt the Passion as their central focus: the third part of his (German) treatise De anima Christi, and his sermons on Good Friday (no. 10) and on Christ's suffering (no. 14). In addition, we can draw as necessary on the theological background to these German works presented in his Latin treatises De reparatione hominis and De perfectione humanitatis Christi.
The sequential depiction of the Passion receives limited attention in these works. The introduction to the Good Friday sermon briefly describes the innocent suffering of Christ on the cross. The crucified Christ is compared to the needy poor, who place themselves on the path in front of churches so as to evoke compassion: (p.44)
>Respice in faciem Christi tui<, inquit psalmista. [Ps. 83: 10] Also schribet der kuͤng Dauid: >Sich an das antlit dines Cristus.< Es ist sitt, das arm duͤrftigen, die krank vnd siech sind, sich seczend fuͤr die kilchen an den weg vnd den lúten zoͤgend ir krankhait vnd ir siechtagen, dǎr vmb daz si erbaͤrmd mit in habend. Suss hǎt huͤt getǎn der hǒh wirdig gottes sun, vnd ist huͤtt gegangen an das cruͤcz arm vnd blǒss, daz er nit hett, dǎr vff er sin hǒbt genaigen moͤht [Matt. 8. 20], vnd hǎt erzoͤiget allen menschen sin armůt, sin liden vnd sinen verwunten lip, sin hend, sin fuͤss durch negelt, sini ǒgen rǒt von wainen, sin siten offen, sinen blaichen mund getrenket mit essich vnd mit gallen, sin hǒbt gecroͤnet von den dornen, sin antlit verspuͤwen von den juden, vnd hǎt gesprochen durch den propheten Jeremiam: >O uos omnes qui transitis etc. O ir all, die da gǎnd durch den weg, nemend war vnd sehend, ob kain schmerz gelich si minem schmerczen.< [Lam. 1: 12] Hǎnd erbaͤrmd mit mir, vnd sehend min antlit an, wan ich es alles vnschuldeklich lid durch vͤwern willen.26
(‘Respice in faciem Christi tui’, said the Psalmist. Thus writes King David, ‘Look upon the face of your Christ.’ It is customary that the needy poor, who are ill and sick, sit down on the road in front of churches, showing their illnesses and ailments to the people, so that they may take pity upon them. The exalted son of God has acted thus today, and today he has gone to the cross poor and naked, ‘such that he had nothing upon which he could rest his head’. To all mankind he has shown his poverty, his suffering, and his wounded body; his hands and his feet pierced with nails; his eyes red with tears; his side opened; his blanched mouth quenched with vinegar and gall; his head crowned with thorns, and his face spat upon by the Jews; and he has spoken through the prophet Jeremiah, ‘O vos omnes qui transitis, etc. O you all, who pass by along the road, behold; and consider if there is any pain equal to my pain.’ Take pity upon me, and look upon my face; because I am suffering it all innocently for your sake.)
The focus of this passage, however, is on the appropriate response to the image of Christ's suffering, rather than on the sequential presentation of that suffering itself. The individual is exhorted to gaze on Christ's face (following Psalm 83: 10), to consider the extent of his suffering (following Lamentations 1: 12), and to have pity and compassion with Christ because he suffered innocently for mankind's sake. The direct address to the reader in the second person, the focus on Christ's face (which evokes the Veronica imagery associated with the cult of the Holy Face), and the comparison with an instance of contemporary reality in the form of the needy poor combine to create a sense of immediacy and an intimacy between the crucified Christ and the individual. It is then the appropriate response to the crucified Christ that forms the substance of the sermon itself. Similarly in the Eucharistietraktat, a short sequence of the principal points of the Passion forms the basis of a prayer to be said following sacramental (p.45) reception, structured to impress upon the individual the fact that it was for his sake that Christ suffered, and in supplication to seek participation in Christ's eternal reward.27
The primary textual basis for a consideration of Marquard's presentation of the Passion is therefore his German treatise De anima Christi. This mediates into German and extends ideas incipient in his long Latin work De reparatione hominis. It is a tripartite treatise on the imitation of Christ, dealing successively with his poverty, humility, and suffering, beginning with the injunction of Exodus 25: 40: ‘Inspice et fac secundum exemplar’ (‘Look carefully, and act according to the exemplar’).28 The third section, on suffering, is divided into six subsections. The second part of the first of these deals with the multiplicity of Christ's corporeal sufferings. In this we find a very short narrative of the Passion, attributed to Bernard of Clairvaux. This switches midway to present a list of the injuries inflicted upon the organs of Christ's five senses, and the wounds received by the parts of his body:
Von diessem manigfeldigen lyden redet sant Bernhart, spricht eynen suberlichen spruch vnd ludet also: Vnßer herre vnd vnser erloser wirt durch lieden mit allerleÿ pÿne in allen deÿlen der sÿnne vnd von allen menschen: Die konige, die spotten. Die richter vrteylten. Der iunger verkaufft ÿne. Die zwolffboden flohen. Die bischoff[,] schriber vnd glissener clageten. Die heyden geysselten. Die schare verdumete. Die ritter creucigeten[. D]az heubt, do von erziederten die engelischen geiste, wart von dicken dorne durch stecket. Das schone antlitze uber alle menschen kynden wirt entstellet von dem verspeyen der Iuden. Die liechten augen uber die sonne, die werdent in den dot verfinstert. Die oren enhorent nit den sang der engele, (p.46) mer das spotten der sunder. Der munt, der do leret die chore der engele, der wirt getru[n]cket mit eßige vnd mit gallen. Die hende, die die hymmel schuffen, die werdent gestrecket an das crutze, der gantze lÿp wirt durchslagen. Die fuße, der schemel angebedet wirt, die werdent an das crutze, der gantz lip wir[t] durchslagen. Die sÿtte mit eÿme spere [wirt] durchstochen. Vnd nicht bleip an ÿme, dan die zunge alleÿne, das er vor die sunder beden mochte vnd sin mutter dem iungern beuelhen.29
(St Bernard talks of this manifold suffering. He makes a seemly statement that is as follows: Our Lord and our saviour is pierced through with every kind of pain, in every portion of his senses, and by every estate of mankind. The kings scorned him. The judges condemned him. The disciple sold him. The apostles fled. The prelates, scribes, and Pharisees accused him. The pagans whipped him. The crowd damned him. The soldiers crucified him. His head, which the angelic spirits adorned, was gored by fat thorns. His face, more beautiful than that of any child of man, is disfigured by the Jews' spittle. His eyes, brighter than the sun, are dimmed in death. His ears hear not the angels' song, but the scorn of sinners. His mouth, which taught the choirs of angels, is quenched with vinegar and gall. His hands, which created the heavens, are stretched out on the cross; his whole body is beaten through and through. His feet, whose resting place is adored, are beaten through and through with his whole body. His side is pierced by a spear. And nothing remained in him, save his tongue alone, so that he could pray for the sinners and commend his mother to his disciple.)
After this passage, Marquard asks which of Christ's corporeal sufferings was the greatest. He identifies four possibilities. In each case the content is unexceptional in the context of contemporary literature on the Passion, established using conventional strategies, and the item concerned is stated briefly, without an especially graphic accentuation. In all cases, parallels can easily be found in the standard contemporary works.
(p.47) First, Marquard considers the flagellation. An Old Testament verse (Ps. 128: 3) ultimately underpins his statement. Initially, however, he quotes from an unspecified chancellor of Paris, who maintains that the whips were equipped with knife‐points that removed a piece of flesh each time they pierced Christ's body:
Doch zum ersten mogte geantwort werden, das er das groste lÿden enphing, do er gegeÿsselt wart. Wann iß schriben ein kentzeler von Pariß, das er gegeÿsselt worde mit ysern messern, die forne heubter hatten, also das sie mit dem slahen in den edeln lÿp dieff gingen vnd ÿn dem wieder uß ziehende ÿe eÿn deÿl synes zarten lybes heruß rissen. Darumb sprach er auch durch den wÿsensagen: Vff mÿme rucke hant gesmÿdet die súnder [Ps. 128: 3]. Diß enist zwiuel nit, iß were eÿn große bitterkeÿt vnd eyn große bitter martel, wann sie in [an] alle erbermde an allem deÿle sÿnes edeln lybes geÿsselten.30
(But first one might answer that he received the greatest suffering when he was whipped. For a chancellor of Paris writes that he was whipped with iron knives that bore barbs at the front, so that they went deep into his noble body when the whip was cracked, and each tore out a piece of his tender body as they were pulled out. Thus he spoke also through the prophet: ‘The sinners have hammered upon my back.’ There is no doubt that this would be tremendously severe and a great and bitter torture, because they whipped him mercilessly in every part of his noble body.)
The second possibility for Christ's greatest corporeal suffering is the crown of thorns. The thorns were pushed through Christ's skull into his brain, causing internal as well as external trauma. In the contemporary tradition, this idea rested on a typological association with the blinding of Samson; an association so long‐standing that Marquard does not even have to adduce it directly.31 The third possibility is his capture, beating, and being spat upon (p.48) by the Jews. This spitting on his face was such that, according to an unnamed teacher, Christ would have suffocated had he not been sustained by divine assistance. The underlying typological association here, which Marquard again does not directly adduce, is to the legend of the martyrdom of Hur, Moses' brother‐in‐law, through suffocation by being spat upon in the face.32
The fourth possibility, and that which Marquard concludes constituted Christ's severest corporeal suffering, was the second unclothing of Christ, after the flagellation and prior to the crucifixion itself. The clothes replaced on his whipped body stuck to the wounds, and caused greater pain when the clothes were removed again. Of all Christ's wounds, all but five were inflicted prior to the nailing to the cross, and those inflicted by the second unclothing were, supported by a physiological justification, the most severe:
Zúm vierden schriben etzliche, das er das groste lÿden vber alle lÿpliche lÿden enphyng in dem, do sie ÿme sÿn gewant uß zogen vnd ÿne crutzigen wolden. Das halden auch ich vnd bewÿset also: Wann der erwirdige sanctus Anßhelmús sprichet, das Cristus enphing sehß dusent sehß hundert vnd sehße vnd sechtzig wunden. Wann er die an funff enden enphing in der stat vnd da ÿme die bosen Iudden ÿn der wirßheit vnd in dem fließenden der wonden sÿn eÿgen gewant hant an gethan, daz sich da druckente vnd want von der wÿde wegen in die wonden vnd darinne verhartete. Vnd auch von dem dragene des sweren crutzes das gewant in die wonden gedrúcket vnd verbacken deste me vnd ÿme da darnach vnder dem crutze, da alsus syn gewant in den verserten lip verhartet was, vnd do so gar vnmÿldeclichen vnd mit grymmer boßheit vnd großer hertigkeit das gewant abe gezogen wart. Von dem abe ziehen sÿne dieffe[n] verserúnge vnd syne wonden wiedder ernúwet vnd widder fliessende worden. Das schetze ich, das das sÿn groste, bitterste lyden were, als eyn (p.49) igliche mensche selber wol befindet vnd werck ader duch daruff leget, Wer ÿme des uß zucket, als iß darinne verhartet ist, iß geet ÿme durch alle synen lÿp vnd dut yme vil weherser wann das erste snÿden an ÿme selber.33
(Fourth, some write that he received the greatest suffering beyond any other bodily suffering when they took off his clothes and wanted to crucify him. I hold this position too, and it is proven as follows. For the venerable St Anselm says that Christ received six thousand, six hundred, and sixty‐six wounds. He received these in five places in the city, and then, his wounds flowing, the evil Jews in their wickedness replaced his clothes, which pressed upon him, adhered to his wounds on account of their breadth, and dried in them. His clothes were pressed into his wounds even more by his bearing of the heavy cross. After this, as he stood beneath the cross, when his clothes had hardened in his lacerated body, his clothes were taken off again with the utmost cruelty, fierce wickedness, and great severity. From this unclothing his deep lacerations and his wounds were reopened and flowed with blood again. In my estimation that was his greatest, and most bitter suffering. Each and every person can sense this for themselves, [if they cut themselves] and place a woven cloth or bandage on the wound: as the bandage is pulled away when it has dried in the wound, the pain shoots through the entire body and hurts much more than the initial cut.)
The painful reopening of Christ's wounds in this way is founded on Old Testament parallels, to which Marquard again does not allude here. It was another standard feature of the contemporary narrative texts on the Passion, first introduced in the Meditatio passionis Christi, a thirteenth‐century work commonly attributed to Bede.34 Marquard's rationalization of the painfulness of this unclothing, given at the conclusion to the quotation above, is very distinctive. The painfulness is evident, says Marquard, because anyone who has bandaged a wound and allowed the cloth to harden with blood therein will know that the removal of the bandage causes more pain than the initial injury. This is not a stock feature of the contemporary narrative texts. Significantly, however, the motif of the clothes hardened with blood is found in the German Passion treatise of the Franciscan Johannes von Zazenhausen († c.1380). Written in the period between 1360 and 1371, this work achieved a moderate circulation, (p.50) being extant in twelve manuscripts.35 Alongside Christi Leiden in einer Vision geschaut and the Goldene Muskate, neither of which was widely circulated, this was one of only three (four if one accepts a very early dating for Heinrich von St Gallen's Extendit manum Passion treatise) narrative works on the Passion to be written originally in German prior to Marquard's death in 1392. The relevant passage on the painful unclothing reads thus:
Merck, do si vnserm hern vör dem crewtz nackent auszugen, do waz der vnder rock vast in sein frisch wunden verpachen; vnd do man in auz zöch, do prachen die wunden all wider auf. Die marter tet im vil wirs, wann do er mit den gayseln verwunt wörd; noch entet im voͤr kain marter nie so we. Daz mag ain ieglich mensch wol versten, der ez reht betraht, wie we es tüt, dem man auzz einer wunden ain werck czerret oder ain tůch daz dor inn verpachen ist.36
(Note that when they undressed our Lord naked in front of the cross, his undergarment was firmly dried into his fresh wounds. When he was undressed, the wounds were reopened anew. This torture hurt him much more than when he was wounded by the whips; nor had any earlier torture hurt him so much. This can be easily understood by anyone who properly considers how much it hurts when a woven cloth or a bandage is pulled out of a wound into which it has dried.)
The textual parallel of the concluding statement to the corresponding passage in De anima Christi is very close indeed. It is probable, though not certain, that Johannes von Zazenhausen's treatise was the earlier of the two works. It would be difficult to argue for a direct relationship on the basis of such a short parallel passage. If one is not based on the other, then both drew on a common source.
Marquard's treatment of the corporeal Passion of Christ in De anima Christi is not at all extensive. The four instances of bodily suffering to which he pays particular attention represent a very small selection from the countless sufferings described at tremendous length in the contemporary Passion literature from which he could have chosen. All four—the flagellation, the crown of thorns, the defilement by the Jewish onlookers, and the unclothing prior to the crucifixion—have their origins in the New Testament accounts, even if they have been elaborated in the medieval tradition. Marquard is, moreover, considerably less graphic than the gruesome and gory descriptions of the same events produced at about the same time by Heinrich von St Gallen. Marquard pays surprisingly little attention to matters of the body at all: and unlike the sermons, this is not because De anima Christi is preoccupied with the response (p.51) on the reader's part. Rather, Marquard's focus is far more strongly on the interior, mental sufferings of Christ, which becomes clear from this overview of the structure of the third section of the work:
Introduction (200. 1–7)
1. Manifold nature of Christ's sufferings (200. 8–201. 38)
1. in the soul
2. in the body
Question: Which was the worst of the corporeal sufferings? (202. 1–203. 21).
2. How suffering (formulated generally) was perceived so profoundly by Christ's soul (203. 22–204. 15)
Question: What mental issues caused Christ to sweat blood in the garden of Gethsemane? (204. 16–38)
3. The particular receptivity of Christ's body for suffering, corporeal, and mental (205. 1–32)
Question: Was Christ's suffering moderated by his participation in the hypostatic union of the Trinity, thus constantly perceiving the joy of divinity? (205. 33–206. 31)
4. The temporal extent of Christ's interior sufferings (206. 32–207. 21)
Question: Which was the worst of the interior sufferings? (207. 22–9)
5. Christ's (interior) suffering was never ameliorated and never stopped (207. 30–208. 32)
Question: Did Christ suffer in his soul whilst he was asleep? (208. 33–209. 6)
6. Christ needed supernatural assistance to survive, because his interior sufferings were so grave and unceasing (209. 7–29)
Question: Why did Christ choose to die by crucifixion?—with an appended discussion of the principles of satisfaction (209. 30–212. 7)
Marquard does not just relativize the corporeal Passion by treating it with much greater brevity than the interior sufferings, which we shall examine presently. In two other works, he makes decisive statements—unusual in his oeuvre—against the contemporary elaboration of the bodily sufferings of Christ. The first of these is found in the Good Friday sermon. He concludes a discussion of the appropriate response to the crucified Christ's face, which forms the first of three sections to the sermon, with a question. In this he attacks the invention of ‘secret sufferings’—that is, sufferings of Christ that are not based upon scriptural authority: (p.52)
Die frǎg: Weles sind die haimlichen liden, die vͤnser herr laid, als ettlich luͤt haltend? Die antwuͤrt: Sant Dyonisius sprichet >De diuinis nominibus<, capitulo primo: >De hac occulta deitate non est audendum aliquid dicere uel cogitare etc.< Das sprichet, das man von got nichtes nit sol sagen noch gedenken, denn als vil vͤns die hailig geschrift ze bekennend git. Vnd bi disem spruch merkest du wol, das man kain haimlich liden fuͤr die wǎrhait halten sol, daz nit in der hailgen geschrift begriffen ist. Vnd hier vmb sol man sich vff daz sicher keren vnd daz vnsicher lǎssen.37
(Question: What are the secret sufferings that our Lord underwent, as some people think? Answer: St Dionysius says in the first chapter of De divinis nominibus, ‘De hac occulta deitate non est audendum aliquid dicere uel cogitare, etc.’. This states that one should not say or think anything at all about God, except insofar as Holy Scripture gives us to understand. From this saying you should note clearly that one should not believe any secret suffering to be true that is not encompassed by Holy Scripture. Therefore one should turn towards the safe ground, and leave the unsafe.)
Marquard makes an even more categorical rejection of the contemporary trend of inventing new sufferings of Christ without scriptural authority in his Latin commentary on John 1: 1–14. This rebuttal forms one of a short series of statements that condemn various errors of heretics, ancient philosophers, and others:
[…] vnde et multi deuoti aliqua ex se ipsis addunt et meditantur de passione Domini vel de operibus Christi, que nullus ewangelistarum scribit nec sanctus aliquis posuit; et plerumque talia super falso sunt fundata ex adinvencione propria. Idcirco inquit beatus Dyonisius in De angelica ierarchia, capitulo primo, quod de Deo nostro nihil est dicendum aut cogitandum, nisi quod scriptura sacra exprimit.38
(Wherefore many devout people add something from their own pen concerning the Passion of the Lord or the works of Christ, and meditate upon it; something that none of the evangelists wrote nor any saint maintained to be true. For the most part such things are grounded on error and derive from personal invention. Therefore (p.53) the blessed Dionysius says in the first chapter of De angelica hierarchia [actually De divinis nominibus], that nothing is to be said or thought about our Lord unless it is something that Holy Scripture articulates.)
The ‘haimlich liden’ (‘secret sufferings’), the focus of Marquard's criticism, refers to a series of invented incidents ascribed to Christ during the day and night immediately prior to his crucifixion, and which are without scriptural foundation. There has been little modern research into the secret sufferings, and there is no precise definition as to exactly what does (or does not) constitute a secret suffering. Ulrich Köpf, who has most recently given attention to the issue, identifies three broad groups of secret sufferings: the sequence of Christ's repeated falling down; the sufferings experienced during the night Christ spent imprisoned in Caiaphas' house; and a small group of motifs associated with the flagellation, including Christ searching in the dust for his clothes and acquiring his ‘secret shoulder wound’.39 It is the second of these groups—Christ's sufferings in the dungeon—that became most prominent, and gave rise to a rich iconographical tradition in the early modern period (notably ‘Christus auf dem Dreikant’, ‘Christus im Kerker’, and ‘Christus mit der Zungenwunde’).40 The early modern texts listing a sequence of fifteen secret sufferings ascribe their revelation to Margareta von Freiburg (also known as Margareta Beutlerin, or Margareta von Kenzingen; d. 1458), although Friedrich Zoepfl, in his seminal study of the secret sufferings in 1937, regarded the establishment of precisely fifteen secret sufferings as an early modern development.41 The texts associated with Margareta do, however, provide evidence alongside other fifteenth‐century texts of the late medieval origins of the secret sufferings, and James Marrow argued that all the principal iconographical components were present in the Netherlands by the second quarter of the fifteenth century at the very latest. These included a specifically Dutch ‘secret suffering’, the ‘spikeblock’: a wooden board studded with nails and attached to Christ's waist by a cord, lacerating his legs and ankles as he bore the cross to Calvary.42 In fact, one member of an interrelated group of (p.54) Dutch texts on the Passion, all produced in the later fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries, actually bears the title De heimelike passie.43 D. A. Stracke, who edited this particular text, indicated that the term ‘heimelike passie’ referred to all elements of the Passion narrative not attested in the Gospels, and certainly De heimelike passie itself has a much broader remit than the ‘secret sufferings’ as defined by Köpf alone. But Stracke was writing a generation before the studies by Pickering and Ruh that laid the foundations for the understanding of the narrative elaboration of the Passion by the exegetical interpretation of Old Testament texts.44 And even though Marrow himself used the English term ‘Secret Passion’ to refer ‘to the entire class of literature, or to extra‐Gospel elaborations of the passion in general’,45 nonetheless a distinction must be drawn between the narrative elements derived exegetically from Scripture, and entirely invented elements without scriptural basis. Such a distinction is recognized by Kemper,46 who does not otherwise treat the secret sufferings, and also—despite his very general use of the term ‘Secret Passion’—by Marrow, concerning the spikeblock.47 The distinction is also clear from Marquard's critique. For Marquard distinguishes not between the Gospel accounts and all other material, but between the narrative elements that can be legitimately established from Scripture—that which is ‘in der hailgen geschrift begriffen’, perhaps best translated as ‘encompassed by Scripture’—and that which is pure invention and stems ‘ex adinvencione propria’.
Marquard is not alone in the Middle Ages in his rejection of the unconstrained elaboration of the Passion narrative. Kemper discusses similar statements in the Coelifodina of Johannes von Paltz (d. 1511). In the prologue to this work, five typical errors of Passion preaching are discussed, amongst which is found a condemnation of the introduction of figmenta without a basis in Scripture, the works of established ecclesiastical authorities or even reason. Kemper notes that this condemnation does not include such material as is derived from exegetical and typological interpretation of the Old Testament, of which the Coelifodina—no less reticent than any other late medieval text on the Passion—contains plenty of (p.55) examples.48 This same distinction is also true of a Dutch treatise on the Passion from the second half of the fifteenth century, discussed by Marrow, in which the invention of the spikeblock is criticized for its lack of any foundation in Scripture, authoritative tradition, or even in truth. Significantly, this unidentified author cites a little book called ‘die verholen passie’ (‘the concealed Passion’) as the only source transmitting knowledge about the spikeblock.49 And ultimately the same distinction holds true for Marquard, whose statements on Christ's bodily suffering ultimately depend, in certain part, on the established exegetical‐interpretative principles.
Marquard, however, was writing at least a century before either Johannes von Paltz or the anonymous Dutch critic of the spikeblock, which Marrow regards as a ‘notably early’ reaction to the excessive elaboration of the Passion narrative.50 The criticism of the inventive elaboration of the bodily sufferings of Christ with which these authors are associated is present, fully formed, in the later fourteenth century in Marquard's works. Placed together, these three authors are potentially indicative of a current of opposition to the fictive elaboration of the Passion well before the Reformation, with Marquard as the earliest figure by far. Perhaps more significant, however, is the contrast between Marquard's position and that formulated in contemporary fourteenth‐century works, in which the elaboration of Christ's life with extra‐scriptural detail is not criticized, but justified. Thomas Bestul discusses such a passage in the prologue to the Meditationes vitae Christi,51 a justification which, more precisely contemporary to Marquard, is incorporated and extended in the prologue to Ludolf von Sachsen's Vita Christi:
Nec credas quod omnia quae Christum dixisse vel fecisse meditari possumus scripta sunt, sed ad majorem impressionem ea tibi sic narrabo prout contigerunt, vel contigisse pie credi possunt, secundum quasdam imaginativas repraesentationes, quas animus diversimode percipit. Nam circa divinam Scripturam meditari, intelli (p.56) gere, et exponere, multifarie possumus prout credimus expedire, dummodo non sit contra veritatem vitae, vel justitiae, aut doctrinae, id est, non sit contra fidem, vel bonos mores. Quicumque vero asserit de Deo aliquid quod non est tibi certum, vel per naturalem rationem, vel synderesim, vel per fidem, vel per sacram scripturam, praesumit et peccat. Cum ergo me narrantem invenies, ita dixit vel fecit Dominus Jesus, seu alii qui introducuntur; si id per Scripturam probari non possit, non aliter accipias quam devota meditatio exigit: hoc est, perinde accipe ac si dicerem: meditor quod ita dixerit vel fecerit bonus Jesus: et sic de similibus.52
(You should not believe that everything that we may consider Christ to have said or to have done has been written down. But to give you a better impression I will relate those [unwritten] things just as they happened, or can piously be believed to have happened, according to certain imaginary representations that the mind grasps in different ways. For we can meditate on Holy Scripture, understand it, and expound it in different ways, as we believe it to be useful—providing that it is not against the truth of [his] life, justice, or doctrine: that is, that it is not against faith, or good morals. Indeed whoever claims something about God that does not seem certain to you—either by natural reason, conscience, faith, or Holy Scripture—is presumptive, and commits a sin. When therefore you find me relating that the Lord Jesus, or others who are introduced, acted or spoke in a particular way, then even if it cannot be proven by Scripture, you should take it exactly as devout meditation requires. That is, take it as if I were to say, ‘I consider that the good Jesus acted or spoke in such a manner’, and thus of similar instances.)
The position shared by the Meditationes vitae Christi and Ludolf von Sachsen is diametrically opposed to that taken by Marquard. For these works, narrative elements need not be justified from Scripture—they must simply not contradict it.
Marquard's rejection of excesses in the contemporary approach to the narrative elaboration of the Passion is not the end of the story. Nor is he simply content in De anima Christi to present Christ's bodily sufferings in a comparatively very mild and restrained manner. Rather, he reformulates the terms in which the Passion itself is presented by shifting the focus completely away from Christ's bodily suffering and onto his interior suffering. This shift is accomplished in two ways: by the interiorization of Christ's bodily suffering, and by the creation of a new category of purely interior, mental sufferings.
Marquard interiorizes Christ's bodily suffering in the second part of the Passion section of De anima Christi. The bitterness of Christ's suffering, says Marquard, may be seen in that it was perceived so inwardly and profoundly by his soul. This interiorization of (exterior) sufferings occurred (p.57) as a result of the sharp perceptivity of Christ's faculties of memory and reason: his soul had ‘so clare spitze gehugniße vnd auch vernufft’ (‘such a clear, focused memory and reason too’).53 His reason grasped even the slightest suffering to the deepest possible extent, so that his whole self was moved to the utmost and placed in the most terrible suffering.54 Simultaneously, Christ's desire—‘begierde’—was located in the faculty of the will. As his desire was always for justice (a statement of his desire to redeem mankind by satisfaction), and he understood that so much injustice would be inflicted upon him and his friends, an especially inner suffering and unspeakable pain was present in his will. With all the other powers of his soul conformed to his will, all his suffering was perceived by his entire soul in the most interiorized and profound way possible: ‘alle sÿn lÿden off den ynnigsten vnd gruntlichsten wart in sÿner selen entphangen von ynnigem begriffen’55 (‘all of his suffering was received in his soul in the most interiorized and profound way, as it was grasped inwardly’). Thus Marquard establishes the interiorization of Christ's exterior suffering, and introduces the idea of interior suffering independent of bodily pain. The especially just soul of Christ suffered not because of the corporeal afflictions per se, but because they were acts of injustice which offended his overwhelming desire for justice.
Marquard then asks whether Christ's sweating of blood as he prayed in the garden at Gethsemane derived solely from the profound realization and perception of his coming Passion. In the Eucharistietraktat, this sweating of blood is briefly mentioned, with two causes given, fear and burning love: ‘v́nser herr bettet vor siner marter vff dem berg, da er von angsten vnd jnbrúnstiger minne blůt schwitzte’56 (‘before his martyrdom our Lord prayed upon the mountain, where he sweated blood as a consequence of his fears and his burning love’). Here in De anima Christi, Marquard offers an excursus on this subject, determining which of these was the primary cause. On the one hand stands the opinion that fear was the cause, as (p.58) Christ's humanity was overcome by it. On the other, the opinion that fear drives blood inwards—not outwards—and so the sweating of blood was rather a consequence of Christ's love and the earnestness of his prayer. Marquard decides upon a middle path: fear drove the blood inwards, but Christ set himself against this fear, and his burning love drove the collected blood through the body and out of it. The earnestness of prayer and love was the primary cause, but fear played its part: ‘Suß was des ußdringens alleÿne eÿn sache der große ernst vnd die mÿnne. Aber fo[r]chte halff auch etwas dartzu, als ich gesprachen han’57 (‘Thus one cause on its own of the emanation was the great earnestness and love. But to a certain extent fear contributed to it as well, as I have said’). Marquard makes the same point in De reparatione hominis, with additional discussion of the reasons why fear was not the primary cause. In his conclusion there, he adds further that the sweating of blood was not miraculous—‘non fuit miraculosa’—and so, as we have seen, can be explained in physiological terms.58 Without denying Christ's fear, Marquard downplays its primacy within his soul. This downplays the emphasis which that primacy places on the significance of his forthcoming corporeal sufferings. This is the opposite approach to that taken by the treatise Christi Leiden in einer Vision geschaut, in which the significance of the forthcoming corporeal sufferings is heightened by emphasizing Christ's fear of his approaching Passion as the ultimate cause for the sweating of blood.59 Both Heinrich von St Gallen and Ludolf von Sachsen offer (different) explanations that also suggest a cooperation between love and fear, but eventually have recourse to the supernatural and rely upon the assertion of a miraculous event having taken place to explain the sweating of blood.60
(p.59) The issue of Christ's emotions at Gethsemane and the related issue of his sweating blood has a long theological tradition, which has recently been discussed by Simo Knuuttila and (independently) Kevin Madigan. The issue is constitutive for Marquard's understanding of Christ's interior suffering beyond the issue of the sweating of blood. The background is formed by the more general issue of whether an initial thought itself constituted a sin, or whether sin was first present only in the deliberation on an initial thought. Medieval theologians differed on the issue, but all held this same underlying distinction between initial thoughts, termed ‘first movements’ or ‘pre‐passions’ (propassiones), and the deliberation upon them, the resultant emotions or ‘passions’. The distinction was derived from Jerome, who had distinguished ‘between a pre‐passion as a non‐deliberated emotional reaction and a passion as an affection with consent’. He had first made this distinction in his commentary on Christ's suffering in the garden of Gethsemane, and his elaborations on the issue were incorporated into all the early and high medieval commentaries on the relevant scriptural passages.61
The issue was this. Matthew's Gospel states that Christ had become sorrowful in Gethsemane, and had declared that his soul was pained even unto death. He prayed to God to remove the burden that he faced, but then declared that God's will, and not his, should be done:
Tunc venit Iesus cum illis in villam quae dicitur Gethsemani. Et dixit discipulus suis: ‘Sedete hic donec vadam illuc et orem.’ Et adsumpto Petro et duobus filiis Zebedaei, coepit contristari et maestus esse. Tunc ait illis: ‘Tristis est anima mea usque ad mortem. Sustinete hic et vigilate mecum.’ Et progressus pusillum procidit in faciem suam orans et dicens, ‘Mi Pater, si possibile est, transeat a me calix iste. Verumtamen non sicut ego volo, sed sicut tu.’ [Matt. 26: 36–9]
(Then Jesus came with his followers into the place called Gethsemane. And he said to his disciples, ‘Sit here while I go to that place and pray.’ And after he had taken Peter and the two sons of Zebedee to himself, he began to be sad and sorrowful. Then he said to them, ‘My soul is sorrowful unto death. Wait here and keep watch with me.’ And having walked a short way forwards, he fell down on his face, praying and saying, ‘O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me. But yet not as I will, but as you will.’)
Christ then repeated a similar prayer twice (Matt. 26: 40–5). Mark's Gospel contains the same narrative of the threefold prayer (Mk. 14: 32–42), stating that Christ began to fear and become weary (‘coepit pavere et taedere’ (Mk. 14: 33)) in place of Matthew's statement that Christ began (p.60) to be sad and sorrowful (‘coepit contristari et maestus esse’ (Matt. 26: 37)). Luke's Gospel omits the significant statement that Christ's soul was pained unto death, but describes Christ as suffering in agony (‘factus in agonia’ (Lk. 22: 43)). He adds that an angel descended to comfort him, and that his sweat was as drops of blood falling to the ground:
[…] et positis genibus orabat, dicens: ‘Pater, si vis, transfer calicem istum a me. Verumtamen non mea voluntas, sed tua fiat.’ Apparuit autem illi angelus de caelo confortans eum, et factus in agonia prolixius orabat; et factus est sudor eius sicut guttae sanguinis decurrentis in terram. [Lk. 22: 41–4]
(Having knelt down he prayed, saying, ‘Father, if you will, take this cup away from me. But yet let not my will be done, but yours.’ And now an angel appeared to him from heaven, comforting him, and suffering in agony he prayed more extensively; and his sweat became like drops of blood falling on the earth.)
Gethsemane thus represents something of a hornet's nest of Christological problems—most crucially, how Christ (who is God, and so impassible) could experience fear.62
Jerome reasoned thus. Christ, like all humans, had a natural will and a rational will, except that in Christ's case his rational will always conformed to his divine will and so always submitted to the will of the father. Christ, being omnicognizant, knew of his impending crucifixion. The natural will tends, quite literally by nature, towards good things and away from bad things without deliberation; the rational will makes decisions on the basis of deliberated evaluations. If Christ's sorrow in Gethsemane had been a passion (i.e. an emotion), it would have been a deliberated evaluation of the rational will. This would have meant that Christ knew that something bad was going to happen to him against his will—that is, against his rational will, and consequently against the divine will of God. That would have been logically impossible, because it was God's will that Christ should be crucified. His natural will, however, would have reacted negatively to the prospect of crucifixion, in itself a bad thing, as it naturally tended away from the bad. Christ's sorrow in Gethsemane had, therefore, to be an unreflected ‘first movement’—to use Jerome's term, a pre‐passion—of his natural will (assuming, like Jerome, that such unreflected ‘first movements’ were sinless), which his rational will, following the divine will, then opposed.63 If we look at Jerome's actual statement, we see that he intro (p.61) duces the further idea that Christ did not begin to be sorrowful out of fear of (bodily) suffering, but because of the rejection and betrayal by his people that he would face:
‘Et adsumpto Petro et duobus filiis Zebedaei coepit contristari et maestus esse’ [Matt. 26: 37]. Illud quod supra diximus de passione et propassione etiam in praesenti capitulo ostenditur, quod Dominus, ut ueritatem adsumpti probaret hominis, uere quidem contristatus sit sed, ne passio in animo illius dominaretur, per propassionem coeperit contristari. Aliud est enim contristari et aliud incipere contristari. Contristabatur autem non timore patiendi qui ad hoc uenerat ut pateretur et Petrum timiditatis arguerat, sed propter infelicissimum Iudam et scandalum omnium apostolorum et reiectionem populi Iudaeorum et euersionem miserae Hierusalem.64
(‘And after he had taken Peter and the two sons of Zebedee to himself, he began to be sad and sorrowful.’ What we have said above of the passions and pre‐passions is again demonstrated in the present chapter: because the Lord, so that he might show the truth of the humanity he had assumed, was truly in fact sorrowful; but so that a passion would not dominate in his soul, began to be sorrowful by way of a pre‐passion. For it is one thing to be sorrowful, and another to begin to be sorrowful. He, who had come so that he would suffer and had accused Peter of fearfulness, was sorrowful however not from the fear of suffering, but because of the most wretched Judas, the scandalization of all the apostles, the rejection of the Jewish people, and the destruction of the lamentable Jerusalem.)
Jerome's distinctions formed a standard part of almost all the medieval commentaries that tackled the issue, and so constituted a generally known understanding of Christ's sorrow in Gethsemane. Disconsonant patristic positions (notably those of Ambrose and Hilary of Poitiers) were reconciled by the scholastic theologians, as Madigan has shown, to Jerome's explanation of this very difficult biblical scene.65 Knuuttila provides a comprehensive conspectus of references that we need not repeat here;66 the Glossa ordinaria forms a reasonably representative example:
‘Coepit contristari’ [Matt. 26: 37] non timore passionis qui ad hoc venerat, sed pro scandalo apostolorum et perditione impiorum. Hieronymus: ‘Coepit contristari vt veritatem assumpti hominis probaret. Vere contristatus est, sed non passio eius animo dominatur. Verum propassio est, vnde ait, “coepit contristari”. Contristatur autem non timore patiendi qui ad hoc venerat, sed propter infoelicem Iudam et scandalum apostolorum et eiectionem iudaeorum et euersionem hierusalem.’ ‘Tristis’ [Matt. 26: 38] anima est quae timet et tristatur. Petrus inferior non timet dicens ‘ (p.62) animam meam ponam pro te’ [John 13: 37], quia vt homo vim mortis ignorat. Christus timet, quia vt deus in corpore constitutus fragilitatem carnis exponit; qui corpus suscepit omnia debuit subire quae corporis sunt.67
(‘He began to be sorrowful’, not from the fear of suffering, as he had come for this purpose; but because of the scandalization of the apostles and the perdition of the ungodly. Jerome: ‘He began to be sorrowful so that he might show the truth of the humanity he had assumed. Truly he was sorrowful, but a passion does not rule in his soul. It is rather a pre‐passion, wherefore it says, “he began to be sorrowful”. He, who had come for this purpose, was sorrowful however not from the fear of suffering, but because of the wretched Judas, the scandalization of the apostles, the exile of the Jews and the destruction of Jerusalem.’ ‘Sorrowful’ is the soul which is sad and afraid. Peter subsequently is unafraid when he says ‘I will lay down my life for you’, because he, being a man, does not know the power of death. Christ is afraid, because he, being God incarnate, displays the frailty of the flesh; for he who has received a body, has had to take upon himself everything that pertains to the body.)
The patristic and scholastic tradition thus saw Christ's sorrow on Gethsemane as a (sinless) pre‐passion, a manifestation of his natural will and thus an indication of his human nature. The sweating of blood was an extension of this sorrow, dependent on Luke; in late antiquity the information concerning the angelic visitation and the intensity of Christ's sweat was evidently felt to point too strongly in the direction of a passion rather than a pre‐passion, and the pertinent passage (Lk. 22: 43–4) was struck out of the Codex Siniaticus and omitted from a number of very important early manuscripts.68
Marquard's position on the sweating of blood is compatible with this earlier tradition. Fear (the pre‐passion) drove the blood inwards; but Christ set himself against this fear—that is, he engaged his rational will—with burning love, i.e. the love for mankind that motivated his desire to seek crucifixion and redeem mankind, driving the blood outwards. Marquard's physiological explanation as to how the sweating of blood actually occurred is very distinctive, and permits the identification of his very surprising source: Petrus Johannis Olivi's Lectura super Matthaeum. In commenting on Christ's prayer in Gethsemane, Olivi addresses two issues: the actus orandi (the question as to why and how Christ, who was God, prayed to the Father, who was God—a problem with a long intellectual history of its own)69 and then the forma orandi, the nature of (p.63) that prayer and Christ's experience in Gethsemane. Here he asks six questions, of which the fifth asks why Christ sweated blood as he prayed.70 Marquard reproduces an abbreviated form of Olivi's answer.
It is easiest to demonstrate the textual dependence by placing Olivi's (Latin) commentary alongside the Latin text of Marquard's De reparatione hominis, rather than by comparing it to the German text of De anima Christi. I provide a subsequent translation of Marquard's text alone.
Marquard von Lindau
Petrus Johannis Olivi
De reparatione hominis, a. 23(122. 28–123. 3)
Lectura super Matthaeum 26. 36, et seq. (fols. 147vb–148ra)
(147vb) Ad quintum dicendum quod quidam dicunt quod ille sudor fuit ex multo horrore mortis, quod probant ex tribus.
Primo quia ipsa oratio erat pro euasione mortis, tanquam timens eam.
Secundo quia angelus confortans eum tunc apparuit. Confortatio autem ut videtur est contra timorem.
Tertio quia in agonia et in laborioso certamine mortis dicitur tunc fuisse.
Quapropter et sanguinem sudavit ex intimo fervore. Non enim aestimo, quod sudavit ex timore sanguinem, iuxta quod autumant plurimi, quia timoris est sanguinem ad interiora revocare, non ad exteriora diffundere. Et etiam timoris est infrigidare et non calefacere. Et quamvis ex luctu sensualitatis et horrore seu timore per accidens sanguis effluxit, non tamen dolor per se hoc fecit.
Alii dicunt quod fuit ex multo feruore, quod duppliciter [sic] probant.Primo quia ut dicunt ex timore hoc esse non potuit, quia timoris est sanguinem ad inte(148ra)riora reuocare, non ad exteriora diffundere. Eius et est infrigidare, non calefacere.
Secundo ex proprietate fortis orationis, cuius est feruere, et ebullire, ac inflammare. Et Luce .xxii°. videtur hoc attribui prolixitati orationis. Dicto enim quod ‘prolixius orabat’ [Lk. 22: 43] subditur ‘et factus est sudor eius,’ et cetera [Lk. 22: 44].
Timor enim potuit ad hoc cooperari recolligendo totum calorem ad intima et sic per consequens per accidens calefacere.
Michi videtur quod ex vtroque simul hoc esse potuerit, et ita esse congruerit. Timor enim ad hoc potuit cooperari tribus modis.
Primo recolligendo totum calorem ad intima, et sic tandem per accidens calefaciendo; quia recollectio caloris ad interiora reddit ipsum calorem magis in se mutuum, ac per consequens et in intimis magis accensum.
Secundo quia excessivus timor habet fortissime dissolvere omnes humores et concutere totum corpus, et sic per viam huius validissimae dissolutionis potuit fieri fluxus sanguinei sudoris.
Secundo quia excessiuus timor habet fortissime dissoluere omnes humores et concutere totum corpus. Vnde etiam in Ezechiele dicitur quod ‘propter nimium timorem cuncta genua fluent aquis dissoluta’ [cf. Ez. 7: 17] scilicet humore ruine. Per viam ergo dissolutionis potuit fieri fluxus sudoris sanguinei.
Tertio quia timor iste naturalis viriliter resistebat fervori urgenti, occasione autem huius resistentiae maior accessio fiebat in corpore. Intimus autem fervor rationis, quo Christus se totum eviscerabat et offerebat patri et se totum modo ineffabili exponebat morti, timori resistebat. Et sic ex ista mutua resistentia linguor iste sanguineus exprimebatur et emanabat.
Tertio quia terror ille naturalis naturaliter resistebat feruori orantis. Et loquor de resistentia nichil habente de vicio occisione autem huius resistentie maior accensio fiebat in corpore. Feruor autem orationis quo Christus se totum euiscerabat patri, et se totum modo ineffabili exponebat morti, causam priorem superangebat.
Ex his igitur patet, quod ista sudatio sanguinea non fuit miraculosa nec etiam per se ex timore causata, sed ex concurrente timore et fervore intimo, sanguis iste benedictus sic emanabat.
(Therefore he sweated blood on account of his innermost ardour. I do not think that he sweated blood out of fear, as most assert, because it is in the nature of fear to draw blood inwards, and not to impel it outwards. And it is also in the nature of fear to cool something down, and not to heat it up. And so although the blood flowed out because of the anguish of the sensory power of the soul (the sensualitas), and so contingently because of terror or fear, nevertheless suffering did not cause this in itself. But fear was able to contribute to this [first] by drawing all the heat together in the innermost part of the body, and thus contingently heat up the body in consequence. Second, because excessive fear has the property to liquefy all the humours most aggressively and weaken the entire body; and thus by means of this most vigorous liquefaction a flow of bloody sweat is possible. Third, because this natural fear strongly opposed the driving force of his ardour; by reason of which opposition a greater intensity [of ardour] arose in his body. The innermost ardour of his reason, moreover, by which Christ totally emptied himself, offered himself to the Father and abandoned himself to an unspeakable death, (p.65) opposed the fear. Thus I state that this bloodiness was forced out and emanated as a result of this mutual opposition. From this it is therefore clear that this bloody sweat was neither miraculous nor, in fact, caused by fear in itself; but rather this blessed blood emanated on account of the conflict between fear and innermost ardour.)
This is not the only excerpt from Olivi's commentary on Matthew that Marquard adapts. Indeed, the section of text in De reparatione immediately prior to the quotation presented above is itself extracted from a slightly later passage in Olivi's commentary to Matthew 26: 36.71 A much more significant borrowing concerns the issue of Christ's interior suffering, which Olivi addresses after concluding his six questions noted above, and which we shall consider presently.
Before Marquard continues in De anima Christi with that theme, however, he offers a short excursus on how Christ's physical sufferings were felt especially profoundly by his body.72 This functions as the companion piece to his discussion of the profound perception of suffering by Christ's soul. He begins by asserting that Christ had an especially tender body, ‘der nit von harter naturen eÿnes mannes, mer von dem reÿnsten, luttersten blut, so in der wirdigen meÿde lyp was geformiret, also gar zartiglichen vnd meysterlichen’73 (‘which was not of the tough nature of a man, but rather of the purest and most spotless blood that was formed in the noble Virgin's body, and was thus most tender and exquisite’). Caroline Bynum has shown that the feminization of Christ's body in this way was an uncontroversial and widespread tenet of later medieval considerations of Christ's physiology.74 Marquard's source was probably Bonaventura, who makes exactly the same point in his treatise De perfectione vitae.75 At the same time as Marquard feminizes Christ, so too he asserts that his body was (p.66) so noble and royal that it was more receptive to pain,76 and that Christ's limbs were so sensitive that they felt all things most deeply, another standard point of Bonaventuran derivation.77 Finally, he adds a peculiar physiological statement about Nazarenes, of which Christ was one. Nazarenes, says Marquard, are so full of blood that it is even in their hair and nails, which they consequently do not cut. When a person is full of blood that is integral, and not superfluous, that person has greater love, liveliness, and receptivity to suffering. On this occasion, even Marquard is aware of the peculiarity of the point, conceding that he had not read it ‘in bewerter schrifft’78 (‘in an authoritative work’).
After this, Marquard turns to Christ's interior sufferings proper. He does not confine Christ's suffering to the immediate circumstances of the crucifixion. Rather, it began at the moment of his conception. Suffering, as Marquard says in a sermon on the holy martyrs, was ‘daz edel klaid dez geminten gottes sun, daz er an leit in der můter lib vnd trůg schlǎffend vnd wachend bis in den tǒd’79 (‘the noble clothing of the beloved Son of God, which he put on in his mother's body, and bore day and night unto his death’). It was, as he says at the beginning of the third section of De anima Christi, the third foundation (along with poverty and humility) upon which Christ's life rested: ‘bitter lÿden, in dem Cristus stǔnt an underlaß in alle sÿme leben’80 (‘bitter suffering, in which Christ remained for his entire life, without any remission’). The temporal extent of Christ's suffering is a prominent theme of the third section of De anima Christi. Marquard begins the fourth subsection with an opening statement on its continual quality: (p.67)
Zum vierden wirt gepruffet bitterkeÿt des lÿdens, das iß so lange werende was. Wann der susse Cristus eyn stunde nach eyn nǔwe in der zÿt an bitter lyden nÿe enwas, wanne in dem ersten nuwe der gescheppede syner selen entphing vnd weret in alle syme leben biß in den dot.81
(The bitterness of his suffering is seen fourthly in its extremely long duration. For the sweet Christ was not without bitter suffering even for an instant after his first moment in the temporal world, because he felt it in the first moment of the creation of his soul, and it lasted for his entire life until his death.)
He then outlines five objects that Christ's soul perceived without intermission across his entire life, which caused this unceasing interior suffering. The parallel section of De reparatione hominis likewise pays attention to this theme, and uses very distinctive terminology in order to identify the incipient point of Christ's suffering: ‘Nam ab instanti suae conceptionis numquam fuit sine intensione doloris usque ad obitum mortis amarissimae’82 (‘For he was never without the intensity of suffering from the moment of his conception until the final moment of his most bitter death’). Marquard repeats the statement that Christ suffered ‘ab instanti suae conceptionis’, which corresponds to the German ‘in dem ersten nuwe der gescheppede syner selen’, in the following exposition no less than four times.83 His source, as indicated above, is not Bonaventura or a more conventional source, but again Olivi's Lectura super Matthaeum. The precise interrelationship will be examined shortly, after the broader issue is addressed: namely, what it means to relocate the origin of Christ's suffering in the moment of his conception.
The relocation of the origin of Christ's Passion is a striking and persistent theme in late medieval devotion. It took two principal forms, both of which can be conveniently identified in Ludolf's Vita Christi. The first involved setting the beginning of Christ's corporeal sufferings at some early point in his earthly life. This served to encourage imitative suffering as a general virtue and principle of the Christian life, by extending Christ's sufferings across his whole life. This is an extension of the notion whose origins are conventionally associated with Bernard of Clairvaux, namely that Christ was born, grew up, and went through all the stages of human life in order to provide a complete, lifelong model for man to follow.84 Ludolf draws our attention to the origins of Christ's sufferings in his childhood, and sets the (p.68) beginning of Christ's suffering in the hardship he faced in the stable at Bethlehem. This is all then placed in the context of a discussion of Christ's lifelong poverty, humility, and suffering, so that man might more closely imitate the entire life of Christ:
Potuisti etiam attendere in utroque [ie. in the birth of Christ, and in the Christ‐child himself], et maxime in puero Jesu, non parvam corporis afflictionem. Inter ceteras autem, haec una fuit, quod quando mater sua in praesepio eum locavit, et pulvinar vel alius hujusmodi non haberet, ad caput ejus quemdam lapidem, non sine grandi cordis amaritudine posuit, interposito forte feno, quod ab animalibus mutuo accepit. Et, ut dicitur, adhuc ille lapis, ibidem ad memoriam reservatus, videtur. Paupertatem igitur et humilitatem, afflictionemque corporis studeas et tu pro posse amplecti, et in his Christum pro modulo tuo imitari.85
(You have been able to take note in both [the birth of Christ, and the Christ‐child himself], and most of all in the Christ‐child, of the not insignificant affliction of the body. Amongst the others, moreover, one was that when his mother placed him in the crib, she did not have a cushion or anything similar of that kind. Under his head she placed a certain stone, not without a bitter unhappiness in her heart, although she had put some hay in between which she had borrowed from the animals. It is said that this stone, kept in remembrance in the same place down to the present day, is still to be seen. You should consider therefore his poverty, his humility, and the affliction of his body, to embrace Christ as best you can, and to imitate him in these things as far as you are able.)
In Ludolf's scheme, we can see a clear link between this and his incipient injunctions to contemplate all of Christ's life, identifying with each of those who saw or were with Christ at all the stages of his life.86 In a later passage in which Ludolf enumerates all the afflictiones of Christ's life, he elaborates on the idea taken from a text commonly attributed to Augustine that the life of a Christian was a bearing of the cross unto death, as it had been for Christ. It is very important to note that Ludolf places the incipient point of these afflictions at Christ's birth, not—unlike Marquard—at his conception:
[S]ciendum est, quod si nos omnia quae Christus in mundo passus est, vellemus enarrare, innumerabilia utique essent, praesertim cum tota vita Christi in terris quaedam passio fuerit. Nimirum, cum etiam tota vita cujuslibet Christiani, si secundum Evangelium vivat, quaedam crux atque martyrium sit, ut Augustinus (p.69) dicit, quanto magis hoc indubitabile est de ipso Domino Christo, qui Evangelium condidit, et in seipso perfectissime adimplevit? Exordiendo enim a primordio Nativitatis suae, inspice quam pauper natus fuit, qui nec domicilium neque vestes habuit, sed in vili diversorio natus, in praesepi super feno exiguo ante bruta animalia reclinatus, pannis vilibus involutus fuit87
(It should be known that if we wanted to relate all the things that Christ suffered in the world in full, they would simply be innumerable—principally because Christ's entire life on earth was truly a Passion. Surely, since the entire life of every Christian is verily a cross or a martyrdom, if he lives according to the Gospel, as Augustine says; then how much more undeniable is this of the Lord Christ himself, who established the Gospel and fulfilled it in himself most perfectly of all? Commencing at the beginning of his nativity, observe how he was born poor, and had neither dwelling place nor clothes; but was born in a cheap inn, laid in a crib upon some meagre hay in front of the brute animals, and swaddled in shabby rags)
The second form of the relocation of the origin of Christ's sufferings is more complex. It involves the relocation not of the beginning of Christ's bodily afflictions, but of the Passion itself as a soteriologically efficacious event. It is mutually compatible with the first form of relocation, and it is likewise to be found in Ludolf's Vita Christi. By associating the soteriological value of the Passion with the letting of blood, the beginning of the Passion as a soteriologically efficacious event is relocated to the moment of circumcision:
[C]oepit hodie Dominus Jesus suum sacratissimum sanguinem pro nobis fundere, cum ipsius caro cultello incideretur lapideo. Tempestive coepit pati pro nobis, et qui peccatum non fecit, poenam hodie portare incepit pro peccatis nostris. Non solum enim in virili, sed etiam in infantili aetate sanguinem suum pro nobis voluit fundere.88
(The Lord Jesus began today to shed his most blessed blood for us, when his flesh was cut with a small stone knife. He began to suffer for us early on; and so he who committed no sin today began to bear the punishment for our sins. For he wanted to shed his blood for us not just as an adult, but even in his childhood years.)
(p.70) The circumcision is then regarded as the first of six such bloodlettings that structure Christ's life as a redemptive work.89
This extension of Christ's sufferings across his life by associating the six (or seven) bloodlettings has been discussed, with a number of late medieval English examples, by R. N. Swanson. He suggests that it presents suffering as a lifelong component of Christ's life, in order to encourage corporeal suffering as an enduring component of the imitation of Christ.90 But it also needs to be distinguished from the first process of extension, namely the location of the start of Christ's sufferings in the harsh circumstances of his birth. The temporal extension of the Passion as a soteriologically efficacious event across Christ's life, linked by the six (or seven) bloodlettings, is a separate process of extension to the invention of ever more corporeal afflictions for Christ to have suffered, none of which (unlike the bloodlettings) has any significance for the theology of redemption. One form of extension extends Christ's sufferings, whilst another extends his redemptive Passion.
For Caroline Bynum this second form of extending the Passion, namely to relocate its origin as a soteriologically efficacious event in the circumcision, is an assimilation, explicable with reference to medieval attitudes to blood: ‘Since medieval physiological theory saw all bodily fluids as reducible to blood and saw bleeding basically as purging, bleeding was an obvious symbol for cleansing or expiation, and all Christ's bleedings were assimilated.’91 The definitive medieval work on the subject—Bonaventura's Vitis mystica, whose structure is formed around the seven bloodlettings92—reveals that the connection drawn between them is not just an assimilation, but a typological prefiguration. Bonaventura begins his discussion of the circumcision with a reminder to his audience of the association between the circumcision and the naming of Christ (both of which took place on the same day, the feast being celebrated on 1 January). Christ's name, ‘Jesus’, means ‘saviour’; giving Christ this name at the time of his first bloodletting signifies his later shedding of blood for the salvation of mankind:
Primam igitur sanguinis effusionem legimus in circumcisione, quando fuit nomen eius vocatum Iesus, iam tunc mystice significando, quod effusione sanguinis sui nobis futurus erat verus Iesus, id est salvator.93(p.71)
(We read thus of the first shedding of blood in the circumcision, when he was called by the name ‘Jesus’, to signify mystically at that point that with the shedding of his blood the true Jesus, which means the saviour, was going to be present with us.)
The circumcision, Bonaventura continues, prefigures the crucifixion in an efficacious, typological sense as the moment at which Christ began to shed his blood for mankind:
Bene igitur in prima sanguinis Agni purissimi effusione aptatum est hoc nomen Iesus, quoniam pro nostra salvatione sanguis fundi coepit, qui in completione salutis totus fuerat effundendus.94
(This name ‘Jesus’ was rightly given in the first shedding of the lamb's purest blood; because for our salvation his blood, which was to be entirely poured out in the fulfilment of salvation, began to be shed.)
Marquard does not use either of these more conventional possibilities to extend the compass of Christ's bodily suffering across his entire life. In De anima Christi Christ's life on earth is neither presented as a life of bodily suffering that began in the harsh conditions of the stable in Bethlehem; nor is the beginning of the Passion located typologically in the circumcision. In contrast to Ludolf's Vita Christi, Marquard's De anima Christi represents the Passion as a soteriologically efficacious event as the single event of the crucifixion. Yet if Christ's corporeal sufferings are not extended in any temporal way, then Marquard must extend something else to make his statement that Christ suffered ‘ab instanti conceptionis’ hold true. Marquard (and Olivi) can be located more firmly in the tradition, and the concept of Christ's suffering ‘ab instanti conceptionis’ better understood, by beginning with a fuller consideration of Bonaventura's position on the suffering of Christ.
Bonaventura held that Christ's entire life was worthy of reward—that is, it was efficacious in the context of the satisfaction of God—‘ab instanti conceptionis’. He explains this in two quaestiones in his commentary on the Sentences, concerning the precise moment at which Christ began to gain reward (‘meruit’).95 But suffering is not included in the reasons why Christ gained reward from the moment of his conception. Instead he argues that Christ gained reward through his desire to save mankind, his humiliation in the incarnation, and so forth. A useful summary of this position is found in the Breviloquium. Here he sets out a number of reasons as to why Christ (p.72) must be considered to have had the plenitude and perfection of every reward.96 The second of these reasons is the lifelong duration of his acquisition of reward, ‘ab instanti conceptionis usque ad horam mortis’ (‘from the moment of his conception until the hour of his death’). He argues this as follows:
Ratio autem ad intelligentiam praedictorum haec est: quia, cum in principio reparativo, Christo scilicet Domino nostro, necessario fuerit plenitudo gratiae et sapientiae, quae sunt nobis origo recte et sancte vivendi; necesse est, quod in Christo fuerit plenitudo et perfectio omnis meriti secundum omnem modum plenitudinis. Quia enim in Christo fuit plenitudo gratiae unionis, per quam erat Deus ab instanti conceptionis, habens gloriam comprehensionis et motum liberi arbitrii; hinc est, quod necessario fuit in Christo perfectio meriti et quantum ad excellentissimam dignitatem merentis et quantum ad celerrimam opportunitatem temporis.97
(The argument furthermore to understand the aforesaid is this: since at the very beginning of his redemptive work the plenitude of grace and wisdom was necessarily in Christ our Lord, grace and wisdom being for us the source of living an upright and holy life; so it is necessary that the plenitude and perfection of every reward according to every measure of plenitude was in Christ. For because the plenitude of the grace of union, by which he was God, was in Christ from the moment of his conception, whereby he had the glory of heavenly understanding [i.e. the beatific vision] and the movement of free will; so it was that the perfection of reward was necessarily in Christ—both with regard to the most excellent worthiness of acquiring reward, and with regard to the earliest appropriate time [of doing so].)
Marquard, incidentally, knew this doctrine as well: he repeats it in De perfectione humanitatis Christi as the fourth and final privilegium of Christ's soul, with a discussion that follows Bonaventura of the precise moment at which Christ began to gain reward (‘in primo instanti’ or just ‘ab instanti conceptionis’).98
It is not merely an argument ex silentio that Bonaventura omits the idea that Christ suffered ‘ab instanti conceptionis’ from his discussion on Christ's meritorious existence from that point. For Bonaventura (as later for Ludolf), Christ's sufferings began with his birth, with the soterio (p.73) logically efficacious Passion commencing at the circumcision.99 This is confirmed in the Vitis mystica, where we should note the clear statement that Christ suffered ‘a principio ortus sui’—from the beginning of his birth, not his conception:
O suavissime universorum Domine et Salvator, bone Iesu, quas tibi dignas referam gratiarum actiones, qui a principio ortus tui usque ad mortem durissimam, immo et post mortem pro me tantum tui sanguinis effundisti, qui ardorem excellentissimae caritatis tuae tam crebris sanguinis tui effusionibus manifestare curasti!100
(O sweetest Lord and saviour of all, kind Jesus, what worthy deeds of thanks may I offer in return to you, who shed so much of your blood for me from the dawn of your birth until your harshest death—nay, even after your death; you, who thought to manifest the ardour of your all‐excelling love with such frequent outpourings of your blood!)
Similarly in De perfectione vitae, Bonaventura gives the nativity as the point at which Christ's corporeal afflictions began:
A prima enim die nativitatis suae usque ad ultimum diem mortis semper fuit in passionibus et doloribus, sicut ipse testatur per Prophetam dicens: ‘Pauper sum ego et in laboribus a iuventute mea’ [Ps. 87: 16]; et alibi dicit: ‘Fui flagellatus tota die[’], id est [‘]toto tempore vitae meae’ [Ps. 72: 14].101
(For he was continually in suffering and sorrows from the first day of his birth until his last day of death, just as he himself attests through the prophet when he says ‘I am poor, and in travails from my youth’; and in another place he says ‘I was scourged all day long’—that is, ‘for the entire duration of my life’.)
The distinction between those states of mind that could have existed in Christ before the nativity, like humility or poverty (understood by Bonaventura as poverty of spirit, conceived as Christ's submission to the will of the Father in the incarnation), and that aspect of Christ's life which could only affect him after his birth—namely suffering—can be seen most clearly in the Sermo 1 de sabbato sancto. Bonaventura adapts Psalm 87: 16, ‘pauper sum ego et in laboribus a iuventute mea’ (‘I am poor, and in travails from my youth’), and defines poverty (implicitly of spirit) as an enduring condition existent in Christ ‘a principio incarnationis’ (‘from the start of his incarnation’), whereas his sufferings began only ‘a iuventute sua’ (‘from his youth’). (p.74)
Quamquam verum sit, quod sex diebus operatus est Dominus et die septimo requievit, veriori tamen modo habet veritatem in operibus recreationis, quia per sex lustra temporum operatus est Dominus et septimo requievit; quia a principio incarnationis Christus pauper fuit et in laboribus a iuventute sua, sed potissime fuit in laboribus per dies ante passionem102
(Although it may be true that the Lord worked for six days and rested on the seventh day, this holds true nevertheless in a truer way in the works of re‐creation [i.e. of salvation]: because the Lord worked for six periods of five years [i.e., until Christ was 30] and rested in the seventh; because Christ was poor from the start of his incarnation and in travails from his youth, but was in the greatest travails in the days before his Passion)
The corporeal sufferings of Christ cannot be extended backwards beyond the point of the nativity, whereas his states of mind and his capacity to merit can be. To attribute suffering to Christ ‘ab instanti conceptionis’, a non‐corporeal concept of Christ's sufferings must ex necessitate be employed. Otherwise, it would be necessary to suggest that Christ suffered physically by being in Mary's womb.
Bonaventura does touch on Christ's interior sufferings, without either presenting them as a coherent category or considering them as present ‘ab instanti conceptionis’. As we have mentioned earlier, he does present an influential consideration in his commentary on the Sentences of how Christ's soul perceived exterior pain.103 Additional considerations on Christ's interior sufferings are not, however, dealt with in this systematic way, but—to use Bonifatius Strack's phrase—‘durch alle Werke hindurch zerstreut’ (‘strewn throughout all his works’). Thus he treats the various ignominies associated with the shameful manner of Christ's death: but presented as signs of Christ's humility and humiliation, not as ways in which Christ suffered inwardly. Naturally, he presents certain instances that caused Christ sadness and inner pain—the absence of his disciples at the crucifixion, or his sight of Mary's sorrow under the cross—but these are presented as individual moments, and are not extended as underlying and enduring features of Christ's life.104 Christ's inner suffering, as he approached death, at the forthcoming separation of soul from body is likewise not a concept that Bonaventura extends across his entire life. Indeed, Bonaventura notes (following Bernard of Clairvaux) that the passio that Christ felt both by the prospect of death and by the pain of the crucifixion (p.75) itself was exceeded by his compassio for mankind. Had this not been so, Christ would not have sacrificed himself upon the cross.105 Marquard too held this unexceptional position.106 Strack has shown at length how Bonaventura understood this compassion as a manifestation of his caritas, his love for mankind;107 and this love was something that Bonaventura did consider as an enduring inner feature of Christ's life ‘ab instanti conceptionis’. Suffering was not such a feature. We see this clearly, and finally, when Bonaventura considers in his commentary on the Sentences whether external works add anything to good intention (they do). In favour, he states that Christ's suffering was an external work added later to the good intention that was present in Christ from his conception:
Christus nobis aliquid meruit per passionem, quod ante non meruerat nobis, utpote apertionem ianuae et multorum charismatum diffusionem: si ergo caritas Christi fuit eminentissima ab instanti conceptionis et maioris fuit efficaciae cum passione quam sine; videtur ergo, quod in quolibet alio excellentia operis exterioris addat ad meritum bonae voluntatis sive intentionis.108
(Christ acquired something for us through his Passion that he had not acquired for us beforehand, namely the opening of the entrance [to heaven] and the disbursement of the many gifts of the spirit. If therefore Christ's love was of the most all‐excelling kind from the moment of his conception, and was of greater efficacy with his Passion than without; then it is clear that in everything else the merit of the exterior work adds to the merit of the good intention or will.)
Marquard's position represents a significant development from this. Otherwise heavily influenced by Bonaventura's theology, Marquard has a very different understanding of Christ's sufferings. He presents a coherent category of specifically interior sufferings of Christ, which began ‘ab instanti conceptionis’ and which endured for his entire life. Five items constitute this category. First, all the dishonour ever done to God by people, and the gulf between God's goodness and sinners' failings. Second, that his suffering would be lost on so many for whose sake he would be dying. Third, all the scorn, poverty, and suffering he would face. Fourth, all the suffering that would be inflicted upon his mother and his especial friends. Fifth, all the prayers and immeasurable humility he would have to offer to his father, and the thanklessness of mankind: (p.76)
[D]er susse Cristus eyn stunde nach eyn núwe in der zÿt an bitter lyden nÿe enwas, wanne in dem ersten nuwe der gescheppede syner selen entphing vnd weret in alle syme leben biß in den dot. Vnd diß qwam do von, wann sÿne sele sach ane vnderlaß die funff gegenworff. Zum ersten, das sie clerlichen sach alles das vneren an, das got vmmer von keynem menschen solde gescheen. Vnd wanne die sele got so gút bekante vnd gebreche der sunder so dieff ane sach, herumb hatte er do von súnderlichen stedigen smertzen. Zum andern male, das syne sele sach, das syn manigfeldige, große lyden verlorn solde werde[n] an so viel menschen, durch der willen eß alles doch leÿt. Zum dritten male, das sie sach alle smacheit, armud vnd lyden, das sie vnd den edeln lÿp anfallen solde. Zum vierden, das sie sach alles das drucken vnd harte lyden, das syne wirdige mutter vnd alle syne lieben frunde vmmer biß an den iungsten tag solden lyden, das yme doch sunderlichen von syner wirdigen mútter wegen durch sele vnd hertze drang. Zum funfften male, das sÿne sele ane sach alle bede vnd vnsegeliche demud, die er von den menschen [wegen] dem ewigen vatter vmmer thún solde vnd darbÿ erkante die große vndanckbarkeit des menschen. Diese funff gegenworffe machten ÿme lyden vnd vnsegeliche pÿne in alle syme leben.109
(The sweet Christ was never without bitter suffering even for an instant after his first moment in the temporal world, because he felt it in the first moment of the creation of his soul, and it lasted for his entire life until his death. And this was so because his soul perceived these five objects without intermission. First, his soul clearly perceived all of the injustice that would be done to God by mankind. His soul knew God to be so good, and saw the sinners' failings to be so deep; and so he had continual, especial pain from this. Second, his soul perceived that his great and manifold suffering would be lost on so many people, for whose sakes he suffered it all. Third, his soul perceived all the scorn, poverty, and suffering that would befall his soul and his noble body. Fourth, his soul perceived all of the oppression and harsh suffering that his noble mother and all his beloved friends would suffer for all time until the Last Judgement. This pierced his heart and soul especially on account of his noble mother. Fifth, his soul perceived all the intercessions and inconceivable humility that he would have to manifest to his Father for man's sake for all time; and with this realized the great thanklessness of mankind. These five objects gave him suffering and inconceivable pain for his entire life.)
In the parallel passage in De reparatione hominis, Marquard cannot repeat often enough how each of these were present in Christ ‘ab instanti conceptionis’.110 He then appends (in both works, but in more length in De (p.77) anima Christi) a question that asks which of Christ's interior sufferings was the greatest. He concludes that this was the dishonour done to God—the dishonour of mankind's ongoing sin:
Die frage: Von welchen hatte nǔ die sele Cristi das groste lyden? Die antwort: Von dem vneren des vatters, wann die ere des vatters mÿnnet er uber alle ding. Vnd wann syn sele sach, das der vatter solde so manigfeldig enteret werden, sunderlichen ÿn ÿme vnd yn synen lieben frunden, das betrachte ÿme das groste lyden, das sÿn sele in allem lÿden hatte.111
(Question: From which of these now did Christ's soul have the greatest suffering? Answer: From the dishonour done to the Father, because he loved the honour of the Father above all else. And when his soul perceived that such manifold dishonour should be done to the Father, especially in him and in his beloved friends, this constituted the greatest suffering for him that his soul felt in all his sufferings.)
The idea of Christ's desire for the restoration of iustitia, for the redemption of mankind by satisfaction, has been transposed into a new context. Its logical consequence, Christ's hatred of all which damaged that iustitia—namely the continual sin of mankind—is understood as his greatest interior suffering.
Marquard relegates the corporeal aspects of Christ's suffering into second place in the remainder of the third section of De anima Christi by using a series of devices to enhance the reader's sense of the gravity of the interior sufferings. The fifth part of the treatise establishes that Christ's lifelong sufferings ‘ab instanti conceptionis’, which he has just defined in the fourth part as interior, were entirely without any temporary amelioration: Christ is said to have wept, but not to have laughed.112 Marquard makes the causes of Christ's interior suffering directly responsible for this absence of any amelioration, and expresses this even more clearly in the (nonetheless much shorter) corresponding passage in De reparatione:
Quinto eius passio magna, immo permaxima fuisse convincitur, quia erat sine omni interpolatione. Solent enim, qui amaro sunt corde, habere sublevamina et in cibi vel potus sumptione suarum miseriarum oblivisci. Ipse autem dei filius continue et incessanter obiecta predicta [i.e. the causes of interior suffering] inspexit et comedendo et bibendo et loquendo continue sine interpolatione crucem, quam passurus erat, vidit, et praedicta sex obiecta.113(p.78)
(Fifth, his suffering is clearly proven to have been great—indeed, the greatest of all—because it was without any intermission. For those who are bitterly unhappy in their hearts are accustomed to experience relief and to forget their miseries in the consumption of food or drink. The Son of God, however, perceived the aforesaid objects [of his interior suffering] continually and incessantly: and even when he ate, drank, and spoke, he saw the cross that he was about to suffer and the aforesaid six objects continually and without intermission.)
Christ's suffering did not even cease whilst he slept. His soul continued to suffer, and the pain radiated from the soul into his body. It was only with supernatural assistance that Christ was able to withstand his unimaginable interior suffering and sleep:
Die frage: Sint Cristus slieff vnd ruwete als eyn ander mensche, enhatte er do in dem slaffe nit vnderblibúnge sÿnes lÿdens? Die antwort: Als Cristus slieff vnd ußerlich liplich ruwete, so enruwete doch die sele nit, mer ir was alle ir lyden also geÿnwortig, als abe sie wechte. Vnd das lÿden der selen drang dann uß yn den lip, das der lip an lÿden nit enwas yn dem slaffe. Darumb was der slaff des lybes von sunderlicher ordenunge gottes vnd auch die nature ÿe etwas suchens vnd eyn deÿl wirckens yres gelaßens in dem slaff hatte.114
(Question: Given that Christ rested and slept like any other human, did he not have any respite from his suffering in his sleep? Answer: When Christ slept and rested his exterior body, his soul was not at rest. Rather, all the sufferings of his soul were as present to it as if it had been awake. The soul's suffering then penetrated outwards into the body, so that the sleeping body was not without suffering either. Consequently the body's sleep came from an especial divine ordinance, also so that his nature had a certain level of exertion and was partly active in its bearing during sleep.)
The sixth and final part of the Passion section of De anima Christi extends the argument of the magnitude of Christ's suffering, stating that it was so great that Christ's soul required constant supernatural assistance to remain alive at all.115 Nor, as Marquard had earlier established (in a question appended to the third part of the section), was the great joy that Christ experienced through his participation in God either diminished or ameliorated by his continual suffering. This was no natural state, but ordained—following Henry of Ghent in particular, and the communis opinio in general—‘von sunderlicher ordenunge gottes’ (‘by an especial divine ordinance’).116
(p.79) The creation of a coherent category of interior sufferings, borne by Christ throughout his entire life and present from the moment of his conception, has not been previously identified by modern scholarship. Its origins lie not with Bonaventura, as we have seen, but in the unlikely milieu of the Spiritual Franciscans, and Marquard's direct source in the even unlikelier location of Olivi's Lectura super Matthaeum. The context is again Christ's sorrow and sweating of blood in Gethsemane.117 Earlier we examined the fifth of six questions that Olivi poses with regard to this episode, namely the question as to how Christ sweated blood. After these questions, Olivi presents a long consideration on how the zenith of possible sorrow was present in Christ, partly because of the disposition of Christ's mental powers to be particularly receptive to all objects of (interior) sorrow, and partly because of seven lethal sorrows:
Ut autem plenius advertas causas tante tristicie eius, nota quod in ipso fuit summus dolor, tam ex parte rationum obitinarum seu mortinarum, quam ex parte dispositionis potentiarum suarum. Ex parte quidem rationum obitinarum fuit in eo dolor septiformis.118
(In order that you may perceive the causes of his great sorrow more fully, note that the most extreme suffering was in him; both on account of the lethal or fatal reasons, and on account of the disposition of his mental faculties. On account of the lethal reasons, indeed, there was a sevenfold suffering in him.)
Both parts of the following consideration are excerpted by Marquard. The much shorter part concerning the particular receptivity of Christ's mental powers to sorrow is incorporated, as mentioned earlier, in De reparatione hominis immediately prior to Marquard's disquisition on the physiological causes of Christ's sweating of blood. The seven interior sorrows that Olivi lists are adapted more freely by Marquard, and elevated to a new status both in De reparatione and, in German, in De anima Christi.119 We will use De reparatione as our point of comparison here, as it is easier to compare Latin with Latin. The adaptation is complex. Most obviously, Marquard loses one point from Olivi's list entirely: the seventh sorrow, and the most ‘corporeal’ of the causes—Christ's sorrow over his present bodily suffering: (p.80)
Septimo de actuali sufferentia mortis et tormentorum corporalium, que vtique non solum ferebantur ab extra, sed a predictis internis doloribus in eius corpore multipliciter redundabant.120
(The seventh came from the actual endurance of bodily torments and death, which certainly were not just borne by the external body, but resonated variously from the aforesaid internal sufferings into his body.)
The order of the remaining points is slightly adjusted, with no major effect: Olivi's sequence of 1–6 is presented in the order 1, 2, 6, 3, 4, 5. Marquard is in full agreement over the principal cause of Christ's interior suffering: the dishonour done to God as a result of the sins of mankind, past, present, and future; ‘hic dolor’, says Olivi, ‘ut credo fuit, in Christo omnium summus’ (‘this suffering, as I believe, was the most extreme of all in Christ’).121 The most striking feature of the adaptation, however, is Marquard's accentuation of the character of these sorrows ‘ab instanti conceptionis’. Olivi does not make this point very strongly at all. In fact, he only uses the phrase once, in the third sorrow. It is evidently not the sorrow itself, but the supplications, humiliations, laments, and tearful intercessions on mankind's behalf with the Father that Christ had ‘ab instanti conceptionis’:
Tertio de impetranda venia ac gratia et gloria nobis, per ineffabiles supplicationes et humiliationes sui ad patrem, et per ineffabiles lamentationes et lacrimabiles intercessiones pro nobis ad Deum, quas habuit ab instanti conceptionis tempore, sed circa crucem magis ostendit.122
(Third, from the pardons, gifts, and glories to be procured for us through his incalculable supplications and humiliations to the Father, and through incalculable lamentations and tearful intercessions for us with God, which he delivered from the first moment of his conception, but displayed more during the crucifixion.)
Whilst Olivi does place much stronger emphasis on Christ's interior sufferings in Gethsemane than Bonaventura, the position he formulates in this third sorrow is basically compatible with Bonaventura's understanding of what Christ had, and did not have, ‘ab instanti conceptionis’. Marquard, by contrast, extends all of these causes of interior suffering back to the point of Christ's conception, and is thus rather more radical than Olivi. He states the point of origin twice in introducing the corresponding passage in De reparatione: (p.81)
Quarto eius passio permaxima fuisse convincitur ex sua divinitate. Nam ab instanti suae conceptionis numquam fuit sine intensione doloris usque ad obitum mortis amarissimae. Nam ab instanti conceptionis sex obiecta habuit in anima generantia passionem.123
(Fourth, his suffering is clearly proven to have been the greatest of all on account of his divinity. For from the moment of his conception he was never without intense suffering until the final moment of his most bitter death, because from the moment of conception he had six objects in his soul that caused suffering.)
The point is restated firmly at the conclusion to the passage: ‘Haec igitur sex obiecta habuit ab instanti suae conceptionis usque ad mortem crucis’124 (‘He had these six objects, therefore, from the moment of his conception until his death on the cross’): and in three of the six individual causes of the interior suffering, Marquard introduces the phrase over and above Olivi. Let us take, for example, their statement concerning Christ's perception of the suffering that would be inflicted on the elect (and above all on Mary) in the entirety of the future. Marquard's addition is most clearly visible here, as there is less ancillary adaptation and abbreviation occurring. First, Olivi:
Quinto de omnibus passionibus et tormentis electorum suorum, et maxime sue piissime matris, quos omnis et singulis eorumque passiones ac temptationes et pericula, ipse incomparabiliter visceralius in suo corde portauit et sensit, quam ab aliquo ipse et eius passio portari potuit vel sentiri.125
(Fifth, from all the sufferings and torments of his elect, and most of all of his most holy mother. He bore those sufferings, temptations, and trials of each and every one of them himself, and felt them more incomparably intimately in his heart than his own suffering could ever be borne or felt by someone else.)
The corresponding point in De reparatione is the fourth in Marquard's sequence:
Quarto tormenta futura omnium electorum et maxime matris suae benedictae, quas omnes et singulas eorumque passiones, temptationes, pericula et tormenta visceraliter in suo corde ab instanti suae conceptionis portavit et sensit plus quam ab aliquo sua propria passio portari potuerit vel sentiri.126
(Fourth, the torments that were to befall all the elect and most of all his blessed mother. He bore and felt each and every one of their sufferings, temptations, trials, and torments intimately in his heart from the moment of his conception, more than his own suffering could have been borne or felt by anyone else.)
(p.82) Marquard's use of Olivi raises many questions: not least, exactly how Marquard could draw on the works of an individual whose oeuvre had been subject to two papal examinations that culminated in the condemnation of his Lectura super Apocalypsim by John XXII in 1326. At least one member of the second investigatory commission found the same faults in Olivi's Matthew commentary that he located in the Apocalypse commentary, and although there is no contemporary evidence that the Lectura super Matthaeum was condemned, the Dominican inquisitor Nicolas Eymeric recorded in 1376 that John XXII had indeed condemned it because it contained ‘haereses aliquae consimiles’ (‘some similar heresies’) to those located in the Lectura super Apocalypsim.127 Perhaps, though, the issue is not as problematic as it may seem. First, there is evidence that some of the manuscripts of Olivi's Lectura super Matthaeum circulated anonymously. At least one copy travelled under the far more reputable name of Nicholas of Lyra, and of the nineteen manuscripts examined by Marie‐Thérèse d'Alverny, the only complete copy from Germany (Klosterneuburg, Stiftsbibliothek, Cod. 769), a fourteenth‐century parchment manuscript, was marked by a late fourteenth‐century hand as a work of Alexander of Hales.128 Second, Marquard was well acquainted with the oeuvre of another speculative theologian to have attracted the critical attention of John XXII, namely Meister Eckhart, and displays no reticence in adducing such ‘radical’ works in support of his arguments. Third, Olivi's works held a certain appeal to the Franciscan Observants of the fifteenth century, not least Bernardino of Siena, whom Decima Douie describes as ‘particularly fond’ of the Lectura super Matthaeum.129
With Olivi and Marquard, directly dependent upon each other, as fixed points in place, we can begin to define the intellectual tradition of understanding Christ's interior sufferings in this way around them. It can, in fact, be identified more widely amongst the milieu of the Spiritual Franciscans, reaching different audiences through different works. Ubertino da Casale emerges as a key figure in this tradition. In 1305, some twenty‐five years after Olivi had written his Lectura in Matthaeum (probably produced in the (p.83) academic year 1279–80 or 1280–1),130 Ubertino undertook the first recension of the Arbor vitae crucifixae. At this point, Ubertino had withdrawn to the Italian mountain friary of La Verna, the site of Francis's stigmatization. The first of the two prologues to the Arbor vitae includes a detailed account of his literary activity there, which enables the different stages of the work's production to be reconstructed.131 It is this version that was printed in 1485, on which text modern scholarship has relied. Carlos Mateo Martínez Ruiz has proven that Ubertino would subsequently produce a second, heavily revised recension of the work prior to his death around 1330; a discovery that has major implications both for the interpretation of the Arbor vitae itself, and above all for the understanding of the subsequent transmission and reception of the work, but which need not concern us immediately here.132
Ubertino's first prologue incorporates considerable autobiographical material. He tells us that, at a certain point in his life as a friar, he came to study in the province of Tuscany, and found people in whom the spirit of Christ was very strong. One of these was Petrus Johannis Olivi, under whom he studied at Florence for two years between 1287 and 1289.133 He introduced Ubertino to the knowledge, amongst other things, of the most profound perfections of Christ's soul, and his study with Olivi clearly represented a turning point in his spiritual progress. Olivi taught Ubertino, with the spirit of Christ working inside him, to consider his beloved (Christ) in all things, and to feel himself always crucified together with him, in mind and in body. This experience is at the root of Ubertino's doctrine of the mystical transformation into the crucified Christ that the Arbor vitae sets out. Ubertino points to a central aspect of this experience in stating that he frequently felt almost submerged in the deepest sorrows of Christ's heart (‘inter abyssales cordis sui dolores’)—that is, his interior suffering.134 Later on in the prologue, Ubertino describes how he came to write the Arbor vitae in 1305. The beginning of this process involved writing commentaries on a series of short verses (the versiculi that ultimately serve as the chapter headings in the Arbor vitae). This was all Ubertino (p.84) intended to produce, but when he arrived at a certain versiculus, he felt strongly moved by the spirit of Christ to expound at length there on his dolores cordiales. This done, it served as the catalyst for the production of an entire life of Christ:
Cum uenissem autem ad illum135 uersiculum ‘Iesus futura preuidens’, fortissime fuit mihi immissum a spiritu Iesu ut cordiales dolores Iesu exponerem […], pro omnibus uolentibus in Christi passionibus exerceri. Quo facto, instigabar a Iesu quod sue passionis describerem totum cursum; et dum in his procederem, immissum est mihi quod totam uitam Iesu transcurrerem, et paruulum libellum ex euangelica silua transcriberem, quem dilecti Iesu myrrhe fasciculum appellarem.136
(When, however, I had reached that versicle ‘Jesus, foreseeing what was to come’, it had been communicated to me most strongly by the spirit of Jesus that I was to set forth the heartfelt sorrows of Jesus […], for all those who wanted to be schooled in Christ's sufferings. With that done, I was instructed by Jesus that I was to narrate the whole sequence of his Passion. While I was making progress in this, it was communicated to me that I was to cover the entire life of Jesus and to transcribe a small booklet from the Gospels' groves, which I was to call a bundle of myrrh of the beloved Jesus.)
Ubertino then mentions other things about which he was moved to write, notably the deplorable state of the church and laxity in the Franciscan order. But as far as the life of Christ is concerned, it is Christ's dolores cordiales that he singles out, pointing to the centrality of this concept to his own contemplative experience and to the production of the treatise. He guides the reader explicitly to the chapter with the versiculus ‘Iesus futura preuidens’. This is book 4, chapter 9 in the first recension, which was divided into two chapters (8 and 9) in the second—though without, states Martínez Ruiz, making much perceptible change to the content.137
This chapter is naturally that which considers Christ in Gethsemane. Ubertino begins with a discussion on the technical nature of the emotions Christ displayed there. He then explains that Christ was not subject to the same mental vicissitudes as other humans. By implication, the sorrow that was revealed in Gethsemane was not a temporally limited expression of his natural will. Nevertheless, it was fitting (conueniens) that he should choose this moment to reveal to the faithful by these perceptible signs something (p.85) that he had kept hidden since he was in Mary's womb, and which was beyond the comprehension of any created being—the ‘agonia dolorum cordis’ (‘agony of the sufferings of his heart’).138
He proceeds to a technical discussion of the physiological causes of the sweating of blood, and concludes with exactly the same distinctive, non‐miraculous explanation that Olivi and Marquard share:
Timor concussit suum sensitiuum, ex quo humor sanguineus fuit ad interiora reductus. Super quem timorem reiiciendum fortissimus et inestimabilis amor, tanquam mire immensitatis malleus repercutiens et ipsum excludens. Omnes poros corporis Iesu et uenas relaxasse uidetur, ut sic toto corpore flueret guttis sanguinis decurrentis in terram.139
(Fear struck his sensory appetite, by which the sanguine humour was drawn into his innermost parts. Above the fear that had to be expelled was an exceedingly strong and inestimable love, like a hammer of wondrous size, striking back and driving it out. It seems that every pore and vein of Jesus' body opened, so that he flowed in his whole body with droplets of blood falling onto the ground.)
Next, he explains the meaning of the sign that Christ gave by sweating blood. First, it was a manifestation of the sorrows Christ had felt for his entire life, from the moment of his conception (‘ab instanti conceptionis sue’) and which he had kept hidden. Second, it represented the sorrows he was experiencing at the present time. Third, it was a prefiguration of the sorrows he was about to suffer, in his corporeal body and in his mystical body (i.e. the elect).140 Ubertino then describes how each part of Christ's body had suffered during his life, or would come to suffer in the Passion. It is no wonder, he concludes, if such a burden were to be expressed by sweating blood—but he does not think that this is the case. Rather, the sign of sweating blood expressed Christ's continual interior suffering; a suffering that had been present ‘ab instanti conceptionis sue’:
Quid ergo mirum, si pondus tantarum passionum attendens, sustinens, et exprimere uolens, sic uoluit in sudore membrorum relaxare uenas. Sed magis credo internorum dolorum et anxietatum cordis sui immensitatem hoc signo uoluisse exprimere; licet multe rationes sint in hoc signo uoluisse exprimere; licet multe rationes sint in hoc signo contente. Vt autem modicum de his doloribus disseramus, cum reuerentia aliquid incipio balbutire[.]141(p.86)
(What wonder then, if, as he gave his whole attention to, endured, and wanted to express the burden of such suffering, he wanted to open his veins in the sweat of his limbs. But I believe rather that he wanted to express the immensity of his internal sufferings and the anxiety of his heart by this sign. It may be that there are many reasons in this sign that he wanted to express; it may be that many reasons were contained in this sign. So that we may, however, discuss his sorrows a little, I begin, with reverence, to stammer a bit.)
Ubertino's ‘modicum’ is (unsurprisingly) a great deal, despite his subsequent asseverations that he is only providing his reader with a small taste of the infinite sea of the sorrows of Christ's heart. His focus lies above all else on the entirety of human sin, and he explains the complex mechanisms in detail by which Christ's perception of all sin, past, present, and future, was the principal cause of his sorrow. He goes beyond the standard understanding of Christ's sacrifice as formal satisfaction for the sin of mankind, to view Christ as personally and directly afflicted in his mind by the totality of human sin: his love (amor) for man impelling him to bear this inconceivable weight of suffering (dolor).142 Christ did not just know of man's sin, but suffered from that knowledge. Sin was the principal cause of Christ's sorrow for several reasons, but chief amongst them—like Olivi, and Marquard—is the injustice that sin inflicts upon God. Ubertino makes this point repeatedly. In this passage, the relationship between individual sins as acts of injustice and the necessity for Christ to bear inner sorrow in reparation for each single act of injustice is made clear:
Et quia naturalis est filius Dei patris tantum aggrauauit istam iniuriam quantum ipsum dilexit, et inquantum istas iniurias ad satisfaciendum accepit, tantum dolorem assumpsit pro qualibet singulari iniuria omnis peccati quantum erat grauitas iniurie et requirebat emendam. Et si unius iniurie tanta est grauitas: quanta est simul omnium?143
(And because he is the natural son of the Father, he made that injustice greater the more he loved him; insofar as he took up those acts of injustice to make satisfaction for them, he received as much suffering for any single act of injustice as the weight of the injustice of every sin for which he needed to make amends. And if the weight of one act of injustice is as great as this, how great is that of them all together?)
Sic laborare eum fecimus in peccatis nostris, quia flexit rigorem diuine iustitie et eleuauit grauissimum pondus nostre culpe; quia uenit ut sponsus perfectissime diligens sponsarum decorem in doloribus et angustiis totum se reliquauit, et totum se per cineres malitiarum nostrarum infudit ut faceret de se lauacrum, ut posset delere et lauare tantam turpitudinem et maculam peccatorum. Et istam rationem doloris quam habebat illa dulcissima anima in horrore aspectus macularum nostrarum, quis enarrare sufficiat?144
(And thus we made him toil in our sins, because he turned aside the inflexibility of divine justice and raised up the heaviest burden of our guilt; because he came as the bridegroom who most perfectly loves the beauty of the bride, and forsook himself totally in sufferings and distress; he covered himself totally with the ashes of our acts of malice in order that he might make a ewer of himself, so that he might be able to expunge and wash away the great ugliness and stain of the sinners. And who could suffice to explain fully that reason of sorrow which this sweetest soul had in horror at the sight of our blemishes [i.e. our sins]?)
The examples Ubertino uses to illustrate his points are graphic and shocking, his intention being to confront the reader with horrible situations that are nonetheless far less awful than what Christ has to suffer in bearing each individual's sin.145 The ingratitude of man for Christ's sacrifice, manifest in man's continuing to commit new sins, constitutes an additional reason for Christ's inner suffering (a noua ratio doloris). Ubertino concludes his chapter with a concatenation of further reasons for this interior suffering, stretching over nearly three columns, and which expand at length on Olivi's list of seven items.146 The close parallel to Olivi's text here has already been noted by Martínez Ruiz, who has briefly made mention Ubertino's distinctive presentation of Christ's dolores cordiales (and it is this note that made possible the identification of Olivi's Lectura in Matthaeum as Marquard's source).147
Ubertino was also acquainted with another prominent Spiritual Franciscan, namely Angela da Foligno (d. 1309). We can identify a very similar conception of Christ's interior suffering in her Liber; notably in the second part, a series of texts offering guidance on various aspects of religious devotion known as the Instructiones. Instructio 3 provides a consideration of Christ using the common motif of the ‘liber vitae’, and examines his sorrow, prayer, and poverty in turn.148 His sorrow—that is, his interior (p.88) suffering—was so acute, Angela explains, for six reasons.149 The first of these was the ‘divina dispensatio’: the continual influx of divine wisdom to Christ's soul, which meant that he saw the ineffable measure of such excessive suffering apportioned to him from the moment of his creation to the end of his life: and not only saw it, but suffered by this foreknowledge. We can leave aside three further reasons as uncontroversial, reasonably standard ideas: Christ's compassion with Mary, his compassion with the apostles over the sorrow they would feel on his departure from earthly existence, and the particular tenderness and receptivity to pain of his soul. The most significant reason from our perspective, however, is Christ's compassion with mankind. He saw the sins committed and punishments received by mankind, past, present, and future, and had compassion with suffering man. His compassion manifested itself in bearing the sins of mankind, and it is from this that he incurred suffering:
Fuit etiam in Christo dolor intensissimus et acutus ex compassione supermirabili quam habuit humano generi quod diligebat tam summe. Compatiebatur enim unicuique cum summo dolore secundum mensuram uniuscuiusque quantitatis delicti et poenae, quam eos incurrere et incurisse sciebat certissime. Quia enim Christus quemlibet electorum suorum ineffabiliter diligebat et hoc amore deviscerato in eos, secundum mensuram cuiuslibet, continue praesentialiter sentiendo eorum offensam commissam et commissuram et poenam et poenas quas ex tanta offensa sustinere debebant, compatiebatur eisdem tollerando eorum poenas cum summo dolore.150
(An acute suffering of the most intense kind was also in Christ from the compassion, transcending all admiration, which he had for the human race that he loved in the highest. For he was compassionate with the greatest suffering to each and every one of them, in proportion to their crimes and the punishments which he knew most certainly that they were incurring and had incurred. For because Christ loved every single one of his elect ineffably, and by this love that he had emptied into them, he felt—continually, and as if present to him—the offences they had committed or were going to commit, and the punishment and pains that they must bear on account of such offences, according to the measure of each and every one of them; and he had compassion with them by bearing their punishments with the greatest suffering.)
Angela deepens the intensity of this suffering by introducing a new idea: that Christ suffered from the compassion he had with himself, on seeing the burden of sins, suffering, and punishment that he would be required to bear as a consequence of his compassion with mankind: (p.89)
Fuit etiam dolor in Christo compassionis proprie suimet. Compatiebatur enim Christus sibi ipsi de dolorosa poena et ineffabili quam super se infallibiliter venire videbat. Videns enim Christus se ad hoc missum a Patre ut omnium electorum suorum dolores et poenas in seipso portaret, nec posse falli, quod tam acutissimum et ineffabilem non sustineret dolorem, et se ad hoc totaliter datum, compatiebatur sibi ipsi cum summo dolore.151
(The suffering of his own compassion with himself was also in Christ. For Christ had compassion for himself from the grievous and inconceivable punishment that he saw inexorably coming upon him. For Christ, because he saw himself sent by the Father in order that he might bear in himself the pains and sufferings of all of his elect, could not be mistaken that he might not have to bear such inconceivable suffering of the acutest kind; and so having been given totally for this purpose, he had compassion for himself with the greatest suffering.)
Subsequently, Angela explains how Christ made known his great interior suffering through the cry of dereliction. She establishes that this suffering began at the moment of his conception—‘in ipso creationis suae instanti’—and says that the cry of dereliction serves to admonish the individual to imitate Christ by suffering internally in like manner, a recurrent theme of this third Instructio:
[S]olum pro nobis clamavit verbum illud, ut superacutissimum dolorem et continuum, quem non pro se sed pro nobis protulerat, nobis indicaret, et etiam ut moneret nos semper esse dolendos. Quia enim creatio corporis et eius organizatio et animae infusio et Verbi unio simul et semel fuerunt—ex qua supermirabili unione anima illa repleta fuit summa sapientia et ineffabili, omnia sibi praesentialiter praesentia ineffabili et infallibili repraesentans—ideo superacutissimum et omnino ineffabilem dolorem quem se videbat infallibiliter sustinere in ipso creationis suae instanti—divina haec sapientia dispensabiliter dispensante—totum et totaliter sustinuit et portavit continue usque ad animae separationem et carnis.152
(He cried that word out for us alone, in order that he might signal to us the continual suffering of the most intensely acute kind that he had carried not for himself but for us, and also that he might admonish us always to be in suffering. For because the creation and composition of his body, the infusion of his soul and the union with the Word all took place together at the same time—from which union, transcending all admiration, his soul was filled with the highest and infallible wisdom, and was thus able to make everything infallibly present to itself in an ineffable way. Thus he bore and carried the completely ineffable sorrow of the most intensely acute kind, which he saw himself infallibly to be sustaining in the moment of his creation itself—with divine wisdom ordering this appropriately—wholly, totally, and continually until the separation of his body and soul.)
(p.90) Instructio 28 returns to the same theme in shorter form. Christ is to be imitated in the three principal aspects of interior suffering, poverty, and being despised. In explaining how interior suffering is to be understood, Angela refers again to its incipience ‘ab instanti conceptionis suae’, uses Christ's words in the garden of Gethsemane as the concrete evidence that this suffering existed, and alludes to contemporary man as its cause:
Vult anima etiam transformari in dolores quos ipse sustinuit. Fecit enim eum Deus Pater Filium doloris, et semper fuit in dolore. Nam ab instanti conceptionis fuit in summa tristitia, quia divina sapientia tunc ostendit ei omnia quae debebat pati; et iste dolor tunc incoepit et duravit usque ad separationem animae a corpore. Et hoc manifestavit oratio, quam fecit cum dixit: Tristis est anima mea usque ad mortem; nam quia dixit mortem esse finem istius doloris, datur intelligi principium quod fuit tempus conceptionis. Et quia istorum dolorum fuimus causa, debemus in istos dolores transformari, quod facimus secundum mensuram amoris.153
(The soul also wants to be transformed into the sufferings that he himself bore. For God the Father made him the Son of suffering, and he was always in suffering. For he was in extreme sorrow from the moment of his conception, because at that point divine wisdom showed him everything that he had to suffer. And at that point this suffering began, and it endured until the separation of his soul from his body. And the prayer that he made when he said ‘My soul is sorrowful unto death’ demonstrated this: for because he said that death was the end of this suffering, it is given to be understood that the beginning was the time of his conception. And because we were the cause of those sufferings, we ought to be transformed into those sufferings, which we effect according to the measure of our love.)
In Angela's Instructiones we find essentially the same perspective on the relationship between the sin of contemporary mankind and the suffering of Christ, together with a similar understanding of the nature of that interior suffering itself—not least, the idea that it began ‘ab instanti conceptionis suae’—that we encounter in Ubertino's Arbor vitae. This should not surprise us. Angela and Ubertino were acquainted from around 1298.154 Most of the scholarly interest in their relationship has concentrated on its personal aspect; in particular, the question of their respective involvement with individuals or small groups associated with the Spiritual Franciscans. The separate issue of the relationship between their works is less well studied. Alfonso Marini has provided a recent conspectus of all existing research, and has discussed the potential parallels between the works that have been postulated. Few of these have any particular solidity. It is even (p.91) less clear what direction the textual influence, if there was any, took. Ubertino wrote the Arbor vitae in 1305, before Angela's death, but the dating of her Liber is controversial. It is clear that it is the product of a long process of writing and revision, and that it was a collaborative work: Angela dictated in Italian to a series of scribes, principally a somewhat mysterious ‘frater A.’ (‘brother A.’), who wrote the text down in Latin.155 As a consequence, if the Arbor vitae were the prior text, then we would be very unlikely to find direct textual parallels anyway. Regardless, this distinctive conceptualization of the interior sufferings of Christ is probably the clearest indication of an intellectual community between the two works identified thus far.
The origins of the elaboration of Christ's lifelong, interior suffering are clearly to be sought broadly in the milieu of the Spiritual Franciscans, developed in the decades after Bonaventura's death in 1274, and functionalized differently by its various exponents. Olivi is responsible for the creation of a coherent category of interior sufferings and for the theological foundations of the idea. He is the first thirteenth‐century intellectual to offer an original theological treatment of Christ's sorrow in Gethsemane, a theme that had been treated with great caution by earlier scholars, but which offered (or rather, because it offered) the only extensive insight into Christ's mind during the Passion to be found in the evangelical accounts. Ubertino is responsible for the elaboration of Olivi's insights within the context of writing the life of Christ, for accentuating the emphasis on the lifelong aspect of Christ's interior suffering, and for placing the burden of responsibility for causing this suffering squarely and directly on the shoulders of contemporary man. Angela, finally, presents the tenor of Ubertino's teaching distilled into components of a guide to perfected spiritual life. Whatever the literary genesis of Angela's Liber, her work is significant above all in its demonstration that the new conceptualization of Christ's interior suffering was not merely an abstruse theological issue debated between two trained intellectuals (Olivi and Ubertino), but was more widely received and discussed amongst the set of named individuals held to constitute the Spiritual Franciscans in the years around 1300. Marquard's De reparatione offers testimony to the theological development of these ideas, inherited here from Olivi, in a Latin scholastic context about seventy‐five years after Olivi's death, and about forty‐five years after that of (p.92) Ubertino. De anima Christi is considerably more significant. Not only does it attest to the reception and further development of these ideas in the German vernacular, but it elevates this conceptualization of Christ's suffering to a new status within the work that treats the issue. For despite the importance and originality of these ideas, proportionally they constitute just a fraction in each case of the total extent of Olivi's Lectura in Matthaeum, Ubertino's Arbor vitae, Angela's Liber, and Marquard's De reparatione. In De anima Christi, however, these ideas form the principal theme of one‐third of the whole work—and a very different kind of work at that, namely a vernacular treatise on the imitation of Christ.
Having sketched the intellectual genesis of these ideas, let us turn to the question of their reception beyond Marquard. The later Middle Ages is conventionally and rightly understood to have witnessed an explosion of literature that focused on the corporeal sufferings of Christ in ever more gruesome and manifold ways. Amongst the important fourteenth‐century Latin works that we have mentioned so far, there is no discussion of interior suffering in the Meditationes vitae Christi or in Michael de Massa's Vita Christi. In Ludolf von Sachsen's compendious Vita Christi there is just one tiny fragment on the issue. It is found in an epilogue to the narrative of the crucifixion, not in the presentation of Gethsemane, which is treated with much more conventional brevity. Ludolf states that the pain of Christ's suffering had not been confined to the events of the Passion itself. Rather, Christ's foreknowledge of his coming corporeal suffering was present, causing him pain, from the moment of his conception until the hour of his death:
Non est autem aestimandum quod Passionis suae poena, in ejus solum captione et traditione fuerit inchoata; sed potius ab instanti suae conceptionis usque ad mortem ejus duravit. Cum enim mortem suam acerbissimam, quam pro salute nostra pati voluit firmissime praesciret, et eam futuram infallibiliter cognosceret, oportuit quod in qualibet hora pro ea naturaliter doleret, praesertim cum cogitaret tantam mortis acerbitatem, et tantam doloris generalitatem, quae per totum corpus et omnia membra corporis, et per omnes vires inferiores animae diffundi debebat.156
(It is not, however, to be reckoned that the pain of his Passion began only when he was captured and turned over [to the authorities]; but rather, it lasted from the moment of his conception until his death. For when he foresaw his bitterest death, which he wanted most steadfastly to suffer for our salvation, and knew infallibly what was to befall him, it was fitting that he should suffer in his nature in accordance with that [i.e. the knowledge of his death] in each and every hour—especially when (p.93) he thought of such a great bitterness of death and such an all‐encompassing kind of suffering that was to penetrate both through his whole body and its every limb, and through all of the lower powers of his soul.)
This passage would appear to be Ludolf's own. The section continues with a long text on Christ's Passion ostensibly drawn ‘ex verbis Augustini’ (‘from the words of Augustine’; an undoubtedly spurious attribution).157 This focuses on Christ's lifelong bodily suffering, beginning with the cold and difficult conditions he faced in the stable. Nothing more is made of his mental suffering ‘ab instanti conceptionis’. None of these three Latin works, crucial to the development of the Passion narrative in the fourteenth century, goes much beyond Jerome or the Glossa ordinaria in their presentation of the sweating of blood in the garden of Gethsemane.158
Amongst German works of the fourteenth century, it goes almost without saying that the graphic Christi Leiden in einer Vision geschaut contains nothing on the issue. There is scarcely anything more in the Passion narrative of Heinrich von St Gallen. The sole instance in which anything relevant is mentioned is in a quotation attributed to Bernard, in which three causes of Christ's tears upon the cross are set out:
Bernhardus spricht, das der herre weinte an dem crucze durch drierleie sache wille: Die erste sache dorumme, das her sach an alle der werlde nimant, der im siner marter danckte, dan der schecher alleine. Czum andren male dorumme, das der herre sach sine liben iungere so iemerlichen czustreuwit. Czum dritten male dorumme, daz her sach sine lipe muter sten vor sinen ougen und erkante das, das sie liber were tot gewest danne lebendic; daz liden tet dem herren wirs dan alle wunden, die her hatte an sime lichnam.159
(Bernard says that the Lord had three causes to weep on the cross. The first cause was that he saw no one in the whole world who thanked him for his martyrdom, save the thief alone. The second was that he saw his beloved disciples sundered so pitifully. The third was that he saw his beloved mother standing before his eyes, and recognized that she would rather have been dead than alive. This suffering hurt the Lord worse than all the wounds that he had on his body.)
It is evident that these are not lifelong interior sufferings: they are specifically tied to Christ being crucified. Christ's compassion with Mary is an ancient and long‐standing theme, as is the idea that his compassion for her (p.94) outweighed the physical pain of his crucifixion. That idea is associated with the standard notion that Christ's compassion for mankind, and especially for his mother, must have outweighed the pain of his Passion; had this been the other way round then he would not have sacrificed himself to redeem mankind.
Only one German work prior to 1400 other than Marquard's De anima Christi offers a discussion of Christ's interior suffering: the Passion treatise of the Franciscan Johannes von Zazenhausen. After narrating Christ's prayer in Gethsemane, and providing two subsequent quotations from Augustine, Johannes introduces an excursus on Christ's interior suffering that is presented as a distinction attributed to Hugh of St Victor. Johannes states that Christ's interior suffering began at the moment of his conception and endured for his entire life. It was not caused just by the knowledge of his forthcoming crucifixion, but, rather curiously, by the bearing of everything that every single person in all time would suffer in body and soul:
Hugo: Hie solt du mercken daz vnser behalter zwayerhant marter leyt. Ein leyt er an seinem leibe; die wert ie, wann er etwaz marter oder smachheit laid. Dise pein hett dick an im vnderleidung, so man im kayn laid tett. Die ander leyt er an seine[m] gaist. Die marter hüb an im an, do er enpfangen wörd vnd sein sel in seinen leib gegozzen wörd; die weret an im on vnderlaß biz das sein sel von seinem leib an dem crewtze schyed, daz er in vier vnd dreyßig jarn ainen awgenplick on ängstlich marter seines gaistes nie was. Wann alles, daz er an diser naht vnd an disem tag laid—lasters, schand, verspeyen, geyseln, krönen mit dörnen, mit pitterm tranck der gallen mirren vnd eßig, nägelen an daz crewtz—daz laid er alles zü mal sein sele mit ain ander allczeyt vör hin. Vnd nit allain alle ding, die er an sein selbes leibe laid, doch alles daz von Adam biz an den jungsten tag menschen der an der welt ende sol gepören werden, ieglicher sunder an seinem leibe oder an seiner sele ie geleyt peine, betrübt oder traurikayt oder noch leiden werdent: daz laidt Ihesus an seiner sele alles vnd allczeyt, vnd also gar peynlich daz im in iamers weyse [wirst det an siner selen yͤcliches lyden] denn es in tett oder noch tůn wurde an irm leibe so si ie mitten lyden[t].160
(Hugh: Here you should take note that our saviour suffered two kinds of torture. One kind he suffered in his body, and this lasted whenever he suffered any torture or ill‐treatment. This pain was frequently interrupted when no one was inflicting suffering on him. The other kind he suffered in his spirit. This torture began to afflict him when he was conceived and his soul was infused into his body, and it endured without intermission until his soul departed from his body on the cross. (p.95) As a result he did not spend a moment of his thirty‐four years without the terrible torture of his spirit. For everything that he suffered in this full day and night—the scorn, the shame, the spitting, the flagellation, the coronation with thorns, the bitter drink of gall, myrrh, and vinegar, the nailing upon the cross—he suffered all of this together and at the same time in his soul continually. And not just everything that he suffered in his own body, but every pain, distress, or grief that every individual human born in every corner of the world from Adam until the Last Judgement ever suffered, or would yet suffer, in body or in soul. Jesus suffered all of this continually in his soul, and so very painfully that every instance of suffering hurt him worse in his soul in the form of sorrow, than it did or would do to those who suffered it in their bodies.)
Johannes then sets out two underlying causes that made this interior suffering possible. First, Christ's divine omnicognizance. He saw everything that had happened and would happen, and so from the moment of his conception until his death he saw all the suffering that he would have to bear, and that every person had suffered and would suffer until the end of time. He suffered this in the lower powers of his soul and was more painfully tortured in his spirit than anyone who suffered bodily torture. This was because his interior suffering endured for his whole life without pause, whereas the bodily sufferings of the martyrs were inflicted over much shorter periods. Like Marquard, Johannes mentions that Christ did not laugh, though often cried. Second, Christ's great love for mankind. His compassion for mankind, and his suffering at the knowledge of the suffering that all mankind would bear caused him unspeakable pain. A series of scriptural quotations is adduced to substantiate the position that whatever harm is inflicted by one person upon another, is inflicted upon Christ. Finally, Johannes concludes his excursus with a discussion of how Christ was able to suffer internally if he was simultaneously united with God, source of the greatest joy.161
The ascription of this long excursus to Hugh of St Victor certainly does not imply that it is a verbatim translation from a much older Latin text. The work in question is Hugh's De quatuor voluntatibus in Christo, a short piece on the nature of the wills in Christ. Hugh discusses the relationship between passion and compassion, where compassion is defined as a form of mental suffering that proceeds from the emotional effect of witnessing another's suffering, and notes that Christ experienced both. He was fully human just as he was fully divine, and as compassion is the proprium of mankind—a feature that distinguishes man from animal—so Christ (p.96) experienced compassion, defined in this way, as much as he suffered in body. By suffering both in body and in mind, Christ was able to heal mankind in body and mind:
Nunc [vita] infirma in utroque et passione videlicet in carne, et compassione in mente, tunc in utroque sanabitur, ut per immortalitatem carnis contra passionem, et per immutabilitatem mentis contra compassionem confirmetur. Sicut enim aegritudo carnis est pati, ita aegritudo mentis est compati. Propterea Deus homo, qui utrumque tollere venit utrumque toleravit. Suscepit passionem in carne; suscepit compassionem in mente. In utroque aegrotare voluit propter nos, ut in utroque nos aegrotantes sanaret. Infirmatus est passione in poena sua; infirmatus est compassione in miseria aliena. […] In carne sua doluit pro nobis patiendo, in mente sua condoluit nobis compatiendo162
(Now ailing in both—in the flesh, by suffering (passio), and in the mind, by the experience of compassion (compassio)—human life will then be healed in both, so that it may be strengthened against suffering by the immortality of the flesh, and against the experience of compassion by the immutability of the mind. For just as the malady of the flesh is to suffer, so the malady of the mind is to experience compassion. Therefore the God‐man, who came to take both away, endured both. He received suffering in the flesh; he received the experience of compassion in the mind. He wanted to be sick in both for our sake, so that we, who are sick, might be healed in both. He ailed with suffering in his pain; he ailed with the experience of compassion in the misery of others. […] He was afflicted in his flesh by suffering on our behalf; he was afflicted in his mind by experiencing compassion for us)
Hugh then continues with his principal theme of the work, the examination of the different wills in Christ and the relationship between them.163 It is evident that De quatuor voluntatibus, and in particular this passage, provides some of Johannes von Zazenhausen's working material for his excursus on the interior sufferings of Christ. There are two important differences. First, Hugh does not know the idea of Christ suffering internally ‘ab instanti conceptionis suae’, which Johannes introduces independently. Second, Johannes's discussion of Christ's compassion for mankind is more extensive, and relies on the underlying idea of the faithful as Christ's mystical body to support the idea that Christ felt the suffering that all mankind had suffered and would suffer. The emphasis that Johannes places on Christ's compassion for mankind does suggest the influence of Bonaventura. It was his innovation to emphasize how Christ's compassion for mankind, driven by his excessive love for mankind, actually (p.97) outweighed the gravity of his corporeal passion.164 Though not explicitly present in Johannes' excursus, the emphasis on Christ's love for mankind in the context of his crucifixion does reflect the strongly caritative charge of Bonaventuran Passion theology.
It is not clear upon which, if any, of the Spiritual Franciscan works discussed earlier Johannes von Zazenhausen's excursus on Christ's interior suffering is dependent. The Gethsemane scene is elaborated, and the distinctive idea that Christ's interior sufferings began at the moment of his conception is present. But Johannes develops his excursus in an unusual way, by reference to Christ bearing the suffering inflicted on the entirety of mankind, implicitly reliant on the doctrine of the faithful as Christ's mystical body. Nor does the list of consulted authors provided in the Latin prologue to Johannes's Passion narrative (which includes Hugh of St Victor) include Olivi, Ubertino, or Angela. That said, this list cannot be accorded too much weight as a comprehensive catalogue of source texts. Alongside the named authors, Johannes states that his narrative is written ‘cum exposicionibus […] aliorum[…] sanctorum, phylosophorum etiam non nullorum’165 (‘with the expositions of other saints, and also of several philosophers’). Livarius Oliger has already noted that Johannes names authorities in the main body of the work who do not appear in the list,166 and it is possible that Johannes may have known a pertinent work anonymously. Finally, we do not find the crucial idea that links Olivi, Ubertino, Angela da Foligno, and Marquard: put simply, that the sin of contemporary man is responsible for Christ's interior suffering, which outweighed the corporeal pain of the Passion. At least, that is, not in this excursus. Much later in the work, Johannes sets out a series of reasons why Christ bowed his head as he gave up the spirit and died. The first of these is that Christ wished to indicate how severely he was burdened by the weight of human sin; a burden under which he had sweated blood in Gethsemane:
Zü dem ersten mal naygt er sein haubt auf sein prust das er vns zaygt wie swerlichen er mit vnsern sünden beladen wäre. Vnder dirr pürden hett er blütfarben swaiz vergoßen. Diser last waz im so swär, vnd [er] trüg an so lang biz er dor vnder viel, vnd sein haubt an sein hercz naigt vnd starib. Do von sprichet er durch den propheten Jeremias, ‘Ir sunder, ir seit swer burden.’167(p.98)
(He inclined his head upon his breast first to show us how heavily he was burdened with our sins. He had shed blood‐coloured sweat under this burden. This weight was so heavy for him, and he carried it for such a long time until he fell under its weight, inclined his head upon his heart and died. Thus he speaks through the prophet Jeremiah, ‘You sinners, you are a heavy burden.’)
Johannes was thus at least aware of this idea, although how precisely is not clear. Its presence in his German Passion narrative, however, is extremely minor. Kemper has noted that the work has a special status amongst the fourteenth‐century narratives of the Passion for its general reticence towards the graphic elaboration of the crucifixion, and its preference of the sensus historicus over the sensus allegoricus.168 It does not follow that the work discusses Christ's interior suffering instead of his corporeal torment. Rather, Johannes has what one might term an antiquarian interest in the associated details of the central narrative. He offers many excurses on such diverse themes as the different kinds of Roman soldier present at the crucifixion; the position of the wound in Christ's side; the significance of the number 40; and the different levels of faith held by Mary, the apostles, and the women in Mary Magdalene's circle immediately after Christ's death.
An emergent concern for the interior sufferings of Christ can, however, be identified in the religious literature of the Netherlands, which I have discussed at length elsewhere, and summarize here very briefly.169 Jan van Ruusbroec's Geestelijke brulocht, which Marquard knew well in German translation, includes a short but significant passage that formulates a coherent category of Christ's interior sufferings.170 On the one hand, this passage is very different to the ‘Franciscan’ understanding. The responsibility of mankind's sin is not mentioned, and the stubborness of the Jews is instead underlined. The interior suffering is not lifelong, but confined to the crucifixion. The context is provided not by Christ's sorrow in Gethsemane, but by the withdrawal of the Father's assistance and consolation from the Son that the cry of dereliction expresses. On the other hand, the passage does nonetheless attest to an elevation of the status of Christ's interior sufferings to equivalent weight with his bodily sufferings in an (p.99) extremely influential work for the spirituality of fourteenth‐century northern Europe. A concern for Christ's interior suffering is also evident in the devotional works of Gerard Zerbolt van Zutphen (d. 1398). Zerbolt too presents a coherent category of such interior sufferings independently of Bonaventura, on whom he otherwise relied heavily for his material on the Passion, and suggests cautiously that they may have outweighed Christ's corporeal sufferings. It is only in Jan van Schoonhoven's epistolary treatise De passione Domini, written in the period 1404–7, that the conceptualization of Christ's interior suffering takes on a markedly different character that reflects the direct inheritance of the ‘Franciscan’ tradition. In Schoonhoven's case, the work in question is Ubertino's Arbor vitae, the second recension of which circulated widely (and almost exclusively) amongst the canons regular of the Windesheim Congregation, and the direct dependence extends well beyond the issue of Christ's interior suffering. In the fifteenth century, the evidence for the reception of these ideas via the Arbor vitae in the Low Countries, and specifically in the milieu of the Devotio Moderna, multiplies greatly.
Marquard's De anima Christi, furthermore, also belonged to this widespread reception of Franciscan literature on the interior sufferings of Christ in the fifteenth‐century Netherlands. It enjoyed a substantial transmission in Dutch translation. The context of that transmission is instructive. In one such manuscript, the two principal texts are Marquard's De anima Christi and Alijt Bake's De vier kruiswegen, a treatise on the contemplation of the crucified Christ that includes a consideration of his interior sufferings (albeit one not known to be dependent on Olivi or the Arbor vitae).171 A more interesting case is provided by a short Dutch text that I have discussed elsewhere, which bears the rubric Vanden inwendighen gheuoelen Christi and covers three leaves of a later fifteenth‐century quarto manuscript that belonged to the Franciscan female tertiaries of Sint‐Catharinadal in Hasselt.172 This text is a compilation from a series of earlier works, including Meister Eckhart's sermon Beati pauperes spiritu.173 It deals extensively with Christ's interior suffering by means of a very long excerpt on the topic from Marquard's De anima Christi (corresponding to 206. 33–207. 29). The compiler appended directly to this a quotation attributed to Ubertino, (p.100) which states that whilst Christ was in Gethsemane, he received a pain equivalent to a five‐pronged spear being stabbed into his heart for every mortal sin that had ever been or ever would be committed. The text is additionally significant as it provides only the second piece of known evidence for the direct influence of Marquard's De anima Christi, alongside the works of the Franciscan (and, like Marquard, provincial minister of Southern Germany) Konrad Bömlin (d. 1449). In almost unaltered form it constitutes the entire middle section of his most extensive German work, Daz gúldin bůch, and is the principal source for two long sermons on the Passion.174
De anima Christi, then, had a perceptible influence in the fifteenth century, both in Southern Germany and the Low Countries, where it circulated alongside works that develop similar ideas on the interior suffering of Christ (though here Ubertino, and not Olivi, is the key figure). The final third of this treatise is a Passion meditation, and as such is among the oldest extant Passion meditations—as distinct from narrative works— in German. The earliest such text listed in the conspectus compiled by Kemper dates to c.1400.175 Only this third part of the work is known to have been subsequently translated into Latin, and to have thus awoken the interest of a fifteenth‐century recipient as a text sufficiently distinctive to merit the effort of such an undertaking.
The treatise is also important in the context of the Passion piety of the later fourteenth century. The emphasis on Christ's interior sufferings ‘ab instanti conceptionis’ has two principal purposes. First, it enables Marquard to present suffering as a constant and enduring feature of Christ's life, which must therefore become a constant feature of the life of the imitator of Christ. This weakens what we might term the ‘synchronic aspect’ of imitative suffering, the obvious connection that binds Christian suffering to the Lenten and Easter period in the ecclesiastical year. Such suffering now becomes an integral component of the imitatio Christi conceived more broadly. In De anima Christi, it now accompanies Christ's interior poverty (notably of will and of spirit) and humility, the lifelong nature of which is scriptural,176 as enduring features of the imitable model (p.101) Christ presents. But this could have been achieved more conventionally, and equally well, by extending Christ's bodily sufferings backwards in time, beginning with the poor circumstances of his birth—the approach taken by Bonaventura and Ludolf von Sachsen, following the path set initially by Bernard of Clairvaux. Olivi was not writing a life of Christ, but a scholastic commentary on theological issues raised by Matthew's Gospel; Ubertino, who was writing a life of Christ, regarded those physical afflictions not principally as instances of suffering, but rather as instances of poverty.177 Ubertino presents Christ's life above all as a life of poverty: in the first book of the Arbor vitae, for example, he asserts of Christ that ‘pugil noster accinctus est pauperta[t]e. Natus est enim pauperrime in confusione mundane affluentie; hanc nascendo inchoauit, conuersando continuauit, moriendo consummauit’178 (‘our champion was girded with poverty. For he was born the poorest of all in confutation of worldly wealth; he began this in his birth, continued it in his public life, and consummated it in his death’). Marquard was not a Spiritual Franciscan, and was not obsessed by material poverty; his statements on this issue in the second section of De anima Christi reflect a strongly Bonaventuran, ‘centrist’ position.
The second purpose of emphasizing Christ's interior sufferings ‘ab instanti conceptionis’ is to provide a different model on which to ground the lifelong imitatio Christi: an interiorized model, which required not the physical perception of suffering, but a transformation of the mental state of the individual into one of continual inner suffering. The doctrine rests on an important theological shift. It was long established that Christ had foreknowledge of his passion from the moment of his conception, and that his prayer at Gethsemane expressed a temporary pre‐passion, an indication to mankind that he was truly human. Now Christ not only had full foreknowledge, but suffered internally and mentally as well for the entirety of his life. The prayer and sweating of blood at Gethsemane was a manifestation of that continual interior pain, brought on by the proximity of the crucifixion. This shift serves additionally to move attention away from the quantification of the gruesomeness of Christ's corporeal sufferings; to alter the balance between the corporeal and the psychological in understanding, contemplating, and imitating the Passion; to address the (p.102) question of what the individual actually saw when visualizing the crucified Christ, a question on which Valentin Groebner has written eloquently, by remodelling the image that was visualized.179 A second theological shift is also perceptible. Anselm's Cur Deus homo had established the mechanics of satisfaction, the process by which mankind was redeemed. Christ's death had reversed the fall and enabled man to be saved. The actual responsibility for his death lay with the Jews and Romans who had performed the crucifixion. The doctrine of satisfaction was now no less true, but it was overlaid with a new accentuation. Christ's suffering was not principally corporeal, but mental. Christ had not only borne the burden of human sin in the technical sense of reversing the effects of the fall—of original sin—but had literally borne its burden, not just knowing the sin of all mankind but suffering from that knowledge. His death was not just because man is sinful and requires redemption, but because human sin was the direct causal agent of his suffering.
This is an approach towards the Passion which points directly towards the sixteenth century. For Ulrich Pinder's Speculum passionis, printed in Nuremberg in 1507, the final stage in the contemplation of the Passion was the recognition that human sin was its direct cause, and that the individual was personally responsible for Christ's death.180 This is, of course, a far more direct and explicit formulation than we encounter in Marquard's De anima Christi. It is, however, essentially the same approach. De anima Christi may not have enjoyed the broad, influential transmission of some of Marquard's other works, but it is an originally German product, reformulating the conception of the Passion for the first time in Germany in a manner that marks the beginning of the trajectory of German thought on the issue that culminates in the sixteenth century.
It is worth returning briefly to Eric Saak's position, which was mentioned at the beginning of this chapter. Saak, we will recall, maintains that the narrative elaboration of the Passion in the later Middle Ages placed the Jews in an increasingly negative light. He views the Jews as representatives of human sin, and therefore sees the increasing role accorded to the Jews in the responsibility for Christ's death as, in actual fact, the increasing role accorded to human sin. We find, says Saak, ‘the tactical accentuation of the graphic representation of Christ's Passion. Such an intensification demonized the Jewish role, which was then equated with the continued agency of such horrific violence done to the most beautiful, loving savior by (p.103) continued human sin.’181 We should note first that the Jews play almost no role at all in Marquard's De anima Christi. Marquard is able to intensify the demonization of human sin (to use Saak's phrase) without reference to the Jews at all. But a more subtle reading of Saak's evidence permits a more nuanced understanding of the situation. Saak supports his argument with an example from Jordan von Quedlinburg's Meditationes de passione Christi, in which the Jews' spitting on Christ's face is compared to a contemporary individual defiling his conscience (which, says Jordan, is the imago Dei) with impure thoughts and deeds. The difficulty is that Jordan presents these as analogous: impure thoughts and other contemporary sins may make a person like a Jew spitting on Christ's face, but they do not actually cause direct injury to the suffering Christ. Jordan repeatedly uses the term quasi to express this relationship. It is the human conscience, not Christ, that is being directly affected by the allegorical spitting. There is certainly no connection between human sin and the interior suffering of Christ. The Passion remains the responsibility of the Jews.182 Yet at the same time it is fair to say that Jordan and Marquard used different methods to increase the individual's sense of responsibility for his own sin.
The transformation of the imitable model is only one side, albeit the more important side, to Marquard's engagement with the devotion to Christ's Passion. The other side is formed by his guidance on the appropriate response towards the Passion, and the related issue of how contemplation of the Passion is understood as part of Marquard's broader contemplative schema.
De anima Christi places suffering as one of three principles, along with humility and poverty, on which Christ grounded his life and erased the effects of mankind's fall. This is made clear in the introduction to the treatise:
Inspice et fac secundum exemplar. Exodi XXV° etc. [Ex. 25: 40] Also redet got zu Moÿsi sÿme diener vnd sprach also: Siech iß an vnd thǔ nach dem bildener. Wer nǔ mit dem seligen Moÿses ane sehende ist den bildener aller volkomenheit ÿn dem claren spiegel des lebens Cristi Jhesu vnd rech[t] bedencket, wie die edele wirdige (p.104) persone mit ir selbest wirckunge dem irrende[n] menschen eyn bÿlde des gewaren engen weges hatte in so großer mÿnne vor getragen, der fÿndet, das sin wirdig leben stunt uff drÿen stucken, mit dem er uß rǔtte den dieffen fal des ersten menschen.183
(‘Inspice et fac secundum exemplar’; in the twenty‐fifth chapter of Exodus, etc. God spoke thus to his servant Moses, and said, ‘Look at it carefully, and act according to the exemplar’. Whoever now looks with the blessed Moses at the exemplar of all perfection in the clear mirror of the life of Jesus Christ, and correctly considers how this noble, worthy person presented by his own actions a model of the true, narrow path in such great love to errant man, will find that his worthy life rested on the three foundations with which he obliterated the deep fall of the first man.)
It is a characteristic feature of De anima Christi that the focus remains throughout the treatise on the ‘inspice’ (‘look!’) and not on the ‘fac’ (‘do!’) of the initial quotation. The reader is repeatedly told to take note (‘mer prufe’, ‘nu mercke’, and so on) of this or that aspect of Christ's humility, poverty, and suffering, and thus implicitly to construct a particular mental conceptualization of Christ's life. The general strategy of the work in terms of directing the reader's response is thus relatively unambitious. That said, at certain points the reader is instructed to take up a more active, engaged response.
The conclusions to the first two sections of the treatise contain exactly this kind of instruction. At the end of the first section Marquard explains that Christ's poverty checked the greed of the primi parentes. Our own poverty is well received by the Father in Christ's poverty, and so the individual who desires to regain the prelapsarian qualities of mankind must ‘press’ himself into the poverty of Christ, by which the Father is superabundantly satisfied, and finds himself impelled to restore these prelapsarian qualities to the individual in Christ's reward:
Hie midte sÿe eÿn ende dieser tieffen armǔdt des richen godes sone, mÿt der er wieder druckete girikeit des ersten menschen vnd ÿn der alle vnser armudt gÿricheit vnd entphangen wirt von dem hyemelischen vatter. Gelust nǔ yemant, wiedder zu haben gewalt synes selbest an allen strÿt, der ÿn irrende sÿ ane seligkeit[, v]nd dartzu gewalt vnd richeit zu haben aller creaturen, die zwo edelkeit der menschen enphing vnd sie mit girickeit verloß, der drucke sich nǔ in diese armǔdt des richen Ihesu Cristi. Wann sieder mÿt der dem ewigen vatter gnung ist gebeßert vnd dartzu me[, s]o mag sÿn milde hertze gelaßen nit, er engebe dem menschen die zwo edelkeÿt wieder vnd fruchtberlicher ÿn dem verdienen synes gemÿnten sones, dann er sie in ÿme selber vmmer hette gehabet.184(p.105)
(With this let there be an end to [the exposition of] this profound poverty of the rich Son of God, with which he curbed the greed of the first man, and in which all our poverty and greed is received by the heavenly Father. Should anyone now desire to regain power over himself without any internal resistance, which leads him astray from holiness, and further to have power and possession of all creatures—which two nobilities of man were received, and lost by greed—let him press himself now into this poverty of the rich Jesus Christ. For, given that the eternal Father is satisfied and more besides with this, his merciful heart cannot then rest unless he gives these two nobilities back to man in the reward of his beloved Son, in a more fruitful way than man could ever have had them in himself.)
A very similar passage is used to conclude the second section. Christ's humility, explains Marquard, is a manifest demonstration to mankind from his love, by which Christ checked the pride of the primi parentes and God is superabundantly satisfied. The individual who desires to regain the prelapsarian qualities of mankind associated with humility (namely justification, wisdom, and the soul's decoration with virtues) must ‘press’ himself into the humility of Christ, in which Christ gained gifts of grace that exceed man's prelapsarian condition:
Diß ist die verworffen demǔd des hohen godes sones, die dem irrende menschen so uß großer mÿnne zu eÿme bilde vorgetragen ist vnd mit der dem ewigen vatter me dann gnung vmb alle hoffart gescheen ist. Darumb wann der mensche verloiß mit syner hoffart syn erste gerechtigkeit, in der er stunt vnd dartzu sÿne hoe wÿßheit vnd zierheit an dugenden syner edeln selen[. G]elust die zwo edelichs ÿemant wiedder zu haben, der drucke sich ÿn die dieffe demǔdigkeit des edeln Ihesu Cristi, in der er wieder beholet viel adelicher gaben der gnaden, dann die erste gerechtigkeÿt des paradises was vnd hoher wÿßheit von heÿmlicheit des obersten gudes geÿn der wÿßheit alle bekennen eÿn nit wÿßen ist vnd alle befÿnden eyn irrende irren.185
(This is the scorned humility of the exalted Son of God, which was presented as a model to errant man out of great love, and with which the eternal Father is more than satisfied for all pride. Man, in his pride, lost the initial justification in which he stood, and further his elevated wisdom and his noble soul's decoration with virtues. Should anyone now desire to regain these two nobilities, let him press himself into the profound humility of the noble Jesus Christ. In this he recaptures gifts of grace that are far nobler than the initial justification of paradise, and elevated wisdom of the secrets of the highest good [i.e. the summum bonum], compared to which wisdom all knowledge is an unknowing, and all perception an erring error.)
The conclusion to the third section, and thus to the entire treatise, extends the same kind of instruction. In the question appended to the sixth and final part of this section, Marquard explains how Christ chose to be (p.106) crucified in order to offer himself to the Father in a manner most commensurate with checking greed, pride, and lust, the sins by which the Father had been dishonoured in man's fall, and by which crucifixion the Father would be satisfied. The individual who considers this (‘Vnd wer ÿme nach byldet…’) discovers the counteraction to each aspect of man's fall in Christ's crucifixion, in which death Christ made all mankind alive again in him. Christ did not leave man without first sacrificing himself for man, a sacrifice so well received by the Father that he removed the postlapsarian restrictions imposed on mankind, and in which thus man's every prayer was heard and fulfilled. The primi parentes lost the delight of the corporeal paradise, the heavenly paradise of the interior powers, and the tree of life that brought immortality; but in the ordered bitterness of Christ's death, man gained access to God in time, access to God in eternity (i.e. access to heaven after death), and the eucharist respectively to replace those earlier losses.186 Next Marquard considers the ennoblement of humanity in the incarnation and crucifixion of Christ. Christ is a noble vessel (‘faß’), in whom the human form is washed with God's blood, covered internally with the gold of divinity and externally with the silver of Christ's humanity, and decorated with the gemstones of Christ's reward and his gifts (i.e. of grace).187 This noble vessel of Christ's person is so beloved by God that the Father cannot turn away anyone who bears it with him, who is similar to it or who pleads to the Father through it; God sees all through Christ, and (p.107) loves man insofar as he is in Christ. Thus the individual must ‘press’ himself into Christ's humanity with the gemstones of his reward, in order to access his divinity:
Herumb diß edele faß ÿme so wert vnd so liep ist, das er mynnet alle die, die ÿme helffent diß edele beslagen faß der wirdigen personen Cristi rǔmen vnd liep haben, nach nÿemant enkan von sÿnen gnaden den vertriben, der diß faß mit ÿme brenget ader sich ÿme in eÿnnichen weg glichet ader iß doch ÿne ermanende ist. Vnd wann er alle ding yn der clarheit diesses faßes schauwet vnd also vil als eÿn iglich mensche eÿn in diessem faße ist, vnd darnach er iß vil ader wenig liebet. Darǔmb drucken wir vns mit der krafft der steÿne sÿner gnaden vnd synes verdienens zu dem silber sÿner lutern menscheit, das wir da durch ÿnewendig kommen zu dem fÿnen golde der gotheit, in dem wir eÿns in ÿme blieben vnd do lost vnd wol gefallen entphahen, das er iß selber an mÿnnet.188
(Thus this noble vessel is so valuable and so dear to him that he loves all those who help him to praise and adore this nobly adorned vessel of the worthy person of Christ. Nor can he drive anyone away fom his grace who brings this vessel with him, or who is similar to it in any way, or who reminds him of it. He sees everything in the clarity of this vessel, and loves each individual person more or less depending on how far that person is in this vessel. Because of this therefore we must press ourselves with the power of the gemstones of his grace and his reward to the silver of his pure humanity, so that we may come inwardly through it to the fine gold of the divinity, in which we remain one in him and receive joy and delight there, wherein he loves himself.)
The mystical overtones of the penultimate sentence expressed in the idea of coming to union with Christ's divinity through his humanity—an adaptation of the patristic dictum per Christum hominem ad Christum Deum—should not be emphasized too strongly. This is the only sentence in the entire work in which an instruction to the reader refers in any way to a mystical ascent, which militates against a mystical interpretation of the sentence or of the work as a whole. Furthermore, the language of these three concluding passages is that of the treasury of merits. The clear message is that the individual is made welcome in the sight of God by acquiring access to Christ's superabundant reward and gifts of grace. The location of the individual within Christ's mystical body, to which Marquard refers in stating that Christ made all mankind alive in him through his death on the cross, underpins the standard theology by which the treasury of merits was understood to function.189 In describing Christ as a vessel inlaid with gold (divinity) and coated in silver (humanity), in whom the human form is (p.108) washed and cleansed in blood, Marquard almost certainly has in mind the terminology of a passage from Clement IV's bull Unigenitus of 27 January 1343 (in which the theology of the indulgence was formally codified), which derives its own terminology in turn from 1 Peter:
‘Non enim corruptibilibus auro et argento, sed sui ipsius agni incontaminati et immaculati pretioso sanguine nos redemit’ [cf. 1 Pet. 1: 18–19], quem in ara crucis innocens immolatus non guttam sanguinis modicam, quae tamen propter unionem ad verbum pro redemptione totius humani generis suffecisset, sed copiose velut quoddam profluvium noscitur effudisse ita, ‘ut a planta pedis usque ad verticem capitis nulla sanitas’ [cf. Is. 1: 6] inveniretur in ipso. Quantum ergo exinde, ut nec supervacua, inanis aut superflua tantae effusionis miseratio redderetur, thesaurum militanti ecclesiae acquisivit, volens suis thesaurizare filiis pius Pater, ut sic sit infinitus thesaurus hominibus, quo qui usi sunt Dei amicitiae participes sunt effecti.190
(‘For he redeemed us not with corruptible things in silver and in gold, but with the precious blood of his own immaculate and unpolluted lamb itself’, which was sacrificed, though innocent, on the altar of the cross, and is known to have shed no small drop of blood—which still would have been sufficient for the redemption of the entire race of man because of its union with the word—but did so copiously, like a certain flowing forth, so ‘that from the sole of the foot to the crown of the head no soundness’ might be found in him. How great then, so that no useless, worthless, or superfluous fine would be paid of such bloodshed, a treasury did he acquire thereby for the church militant; the holy Father wanting to lay up treasure for his sons, so that an infinite treasury exists for all men, in which those who made use of it were made partakers of God's friendship.)
Access to the treasury of merits, however, is by the acquisition of indulgences, as Clement's bull then makes clear. Marquard's model of access in De anima Christi is completely different. The access to Christ's superabundant reward and gifts of grace is instead achieved by ‘pressing’ oneself into Christ's humility, poverty, and suffering. This verb ‘drucken’ appears to signify both the constriction of the self into the model of humility, poverty, and suffering that Christ presents, and the incorporation of the individual into participation in the actual humility, poverty, and suffering of Christ, by which the individual can participate (implicitly as part of Christ's mystical body) in his supererogatory reward. In this context it is worth noting a passage in the first part of the third section of the treatise (which deals with the manifold nature of Christ's suffering), in which the relationship between an individual's suffering and Christ's suffering is explained. (p.109) Though not formulated as a direct instruction, it functions as an implicit instruction to the reader to suffer for Christ's sake in order that that suffering is incorporated into Christ's redemptive suffering, and thereby made acceptable to the Father:
Vnd mercket dann do bÿ, wie das lyden, das durch synen willen wirt getragen, so gar in ÿme geedelt ist, wann er das alles knuppte an sÿn eÿgen lÿden vnd iß in dem synen opperte dem hymmelischen vatter an dem crutze, das iß von billichen genemelichen vnd uff genommen wart[. M]er so ist das zu envergeßint, das keÿn lyden yn keynem menschen nÿe gefallen enist, das ÿn vngedult vnd uß gnaden ist getragen, das das selbe lyden von vndanckbarkeÿt des menschen vnd vngeordenhafftig des lydens Cristi auch nit ensolde in synem wirdigen lÿden knuppen vnd dem vatter oppern.191
(Take note, then, how suffering borne for his sake is totally ennobled in him, because he bound it all to his own suffering, and in his own [suffering] offered it to the heavenly Father on the cross, so that it was pleasing and rightfully accepted. It is not to be forgotten, furthermore, that no suffering has ever befallen any individual, borne in such impatience and so far outside grace, that that same suffering, because of the thanklessness of the individual and its distance from the pattern of Christ's suffering, should not be bound into his worthy suffering and offered to the Father.)
The idea of coming to God through the imitation of Christ is hardly unconventional. Marquard's instructions to the reader in De anima Christi place a very distinctive cast upon this general idea, in which the theology and the language of the treasury of merits is functionalized as the framework by which God is ultimately reached and man is saved, but in which framework the means of access to that treasury is not through the acquisition of indulgences, but through a process of identification of the individual with, and incorporation of the individual into, Christ's humility, poverty, and suffering. Similar, isolated statements can be found elsewhere in Marquard's oeuvre.192 This distinctive framework is significant, and bears resemblance to a very specific parallel: the indulgence theology of Heinrich Seuse's Büchlein der ewigen Weisheit. The radical nature of Seuse's theology of indulgences, by which indulgences are accessed not by juridical means, but by compassion with Christ (understood as com‐passio, or ‘suffering with’ Christ, not just a weak form of sympathy), and which (p.110) establishes an alternative theological model by which the treasury of merits is accessed to that codified by Clement VI, has been uncovered and underlined by Arnold Angenendt and Alois Haas.193
Seuse's theology of indulgences—or rather, his theology of accessing the treasury of merits—operates on two levels: that between the individual and souls in purgatory, for whom indulgences are retrospectively sought to remit their sins; and that between the individual and Christ, where the individual seeks remission for his own sins prior to his death, and so shortens the time he shall have to spend in purgatory. It is this level with which we are principally concerned here. In the fourteenth chapter of the Büchlein der ewigen Weisheit, the conversation between the servant and Eternal Wisdom turns to the issue of contemplation of the Passion. Towards the end of the chapter, Eternal Wisdom explains that a sinner can shorten the time he will have to spend in purgatory very considerably by accessing his (Christ's) treasury of merits:
Wie soͤlt nu ein grozer súnder, der vil licht me denn hundert totsúnde hat getan, und umb ieklich totsúnde soͤlte nach der scrift siben jar buͤzen, oder die ungeleisten bůsse in dem heissen eitoven dez grimmen vegfúres muͤste leisten, eya, wenn soͤlte dú ellend sel ir bůze vol uz geleisten, wenne soͤlte ir langes ach und we ein ende nemen? Wie wurd es ir so gar ze lang! Sih, daz hat si behendeklich gebuͤsset und gebessert mit minem unschuldigen wirdigen lidenne; si mag als wol in den edlen schatz mines verdienten lones kunnen grifen und zů ir ziehen. Und soͤlte si tusent jar in dem vegfúr brinnen, si hat es in kurzer zit nah schuld und bůze ab geleit, daz si ane alles vegfúr in die ewigen vroͤde vert.194
(How then should a great sinner, who has committed perhaps more than a hundred mortal sins, and according to the letter of the law ought to do seven years' penance for each mortal sin, or would have to do the incomplete penance in the hot oven of terrible purgatory—well, when should the piteous soul have completed its penance fully? When should its long alas and alack come to an end? How it would be far too long for it! See, the soul has swiftly done the penance and made amends with my innocent, worthy suffering; it can equally well reach into the noble treasury of my earned reward and draw it to itself. And if it ought to have burned in purgatory for a thousand years, it has now set aside its guilt and penance in a short time, so that it can journey into eternal joy without any sojourn in purgatory.)
Eternal Wisdom then sets out, at the servant's request, a quadripartite schema for an approach (‘grif’) of this nature. The first two stages involve the contrite consideration of the gravity of the individual's sins, and of the (p.111) insignificance of the individual's own works of reparation in comparison to the extent of those sins.195 The next two are much more significant: the consideration of the immeasurable extent of Christ's superabundant reward, which is accessed insofar as the individual makes himself resemble Christ by compassion; and the humble incorporation of the individual's own works of reparation into those of Christ:
III. und denn mit einem húglichen wegenne der unmessigen grozheit miner besserunge, wan daz minste troͤphli mins kostberen blůtes, daz da unmesseklich allenthalb us minem minnerichen libe vloz, daz vermoͤhte vúr tusent welt súnde besseren; und doch so zúhet ieder mensch der besserunge als vil zů im, als vil er sich mir mit mitlidenne gelichet. IV. Und dar nach, daz ein mensche als demuͤtklichen und als vlehlichen die kleinheit des sinen in die grozheit miner besserunge versenke und verhefte.196
(Third: and then with a joyful appraisal of the immeasurable magnitude of my reparation, because the smallest droplet of my valuable blood, which flowed boundlessly there from every part of my loving body, could have made amends for the sins of a thousand worlds; and so each individual draws this reparation to himself according to the extent that he resembles me by compassion. Fourth: and then that the individual should submerge the modicum of his reparation into the magnitude of mine and bind them together in humility and supplication.)
Seuse makes comparable statements in his Latin reworking of the Büchlein der ewigen Weisheit, the Horologium sapientiae, which he wrote in 1331–4. These passages, in chapter 14 of the first part of the Horologium, are subsequently adopted verbatim into Ludolf von Sachsen's Vita Christi.197 The relationship between the Horologium and Ludolf's Vita Christi is direct. These passages are not held in common with Jordan von Quedlinburg's Meditationes de passione Christi, a work that stands in a very close textual relationship to the Vita Christi, not least in the chapter of the Vita Christi in question here.198 We may cautiously place Marquard's De anima Christi in the same intellectual community, though the precise (p.112) relationship to these other works is not clear. If we assume that De anima Christi is roughly contemporary with De reparatione hominis, completed in 1374, then it is just about possible that Marquard knew Ludolf's Vita Christi, completed before 1368 and attestable in Strasbourg in 1375; but it is almost inconceivable that he did not know Seuse's works, given their massive transmission and much earlier date. But this is not an unproblematic assertion, because J. W. van Maren has shown definitively that none of the (very few) previously identified textual parallels between Marquard's works and those of Seuse stand up to close scrutiny.199 That said, Marquard's Good Friday sermon and Seuse's Büchlein der ewigen Weisheit use the same, highly distinctive terminology to describe the crucified Christ as a book of life, as we shall shortly see. This presents the first evidence, albeit partial, for a direct connection between Marquard and Seuse, alongside their comparable views on the access to the treasury of merits. Haas follows Angenendt in identifying an intellectual proximity between Seuse's theology of access to the treasury of merits and that of Martin Luther, largely in terms of their common rejection (in Seuse's case, very much an implicit rejection) of the official doctrine of indulgences.200 This is tantalizing, but not a trajectory I intend to pursue here. Instead, we can see that Seuse's theology of the treasury of merits was already gaining influence by the mid‐fourteenth century, via the Horologium sapientiae, when we take note of its presence in Ludolf von Sachsen's Vita Christi. That picture is further modified if we now bring Marquard's De anima Christi into this intellectual community. It is less important in this case that a German text is involved (the Büchlein der ewigen Weisheit is also in German), but rather an issue of the prominence of the reception of Seuse's theology within the recipient work. Ludolf's Vita Christi is an extremely extensive compilatory work, in which this issue is but a minor component. It is further such a sammelsurium that Walter Baier was moved to comment on its lack of systematic clarity and theological uniformity.201 And even though Seuse's Büchlein der ewigen Weisheit and Horologium sapientiae are both less extensive than the Vita Christi, they are still weighty works in which the question of access to the treasury of merits by suffering and compassion with the crucified Christ is treated very briefly. By contrast, Marquard's De anima Christi is a comparably short work, and one in which the entire framework of instructions to the reader as to how to respond to Christ's humility, poverty, and above all his suffering (insofar as such a framework exists) is (p.113) written in the context of this distinctive theology of access to the treasury of merits. It is the relative prominence of this unusual doctrine in De anima Christi that accords Marquard a particular significance in the intellectual history of this idea in fourteenth‐century Germany.
Let us turn now from De anima Christi to Marquard's Good Friday sermon. We have already seen the opening to this sermon, in which the individual is exhorted to gaze upon the face of the crucified Christ. The first of the three sections of the sermon then elaborates six different situations involving a response towards another, which provide a moral example to the individual to behave correspondingly, and thereby appropriately, towards Christ. Marquard does not make six specific and discrete points: it is instead the cumulative effect of the entire passage that builds up a general tenor of the appropriate response. By far the most important feature of this appropriate response is that of reciprocal love for Christ. This is introduced in the first example, that of the faithful doctor and his patient. Christ, says Marquard, freely gave mankind more than just costly medication, and more even than a limb of his own body; rather he gave his entire life for mankind to save man (or rather, to save you, as the sermon addresses the reader in the second person), and asks for nothing in return but that you love him in return.202 The most extensive exposition on reciprocal love follows in the fifth example, that of the lover and the beloved. This falls into two halves. In the first, Marquard says that it is common to like to gaze upon the face of one whom we love. Great love, so Aristotle, manifests itself in weeping, involuntary sighing, and the eager casting of glances at the beloved's face. Christ loved man so immoderately that he could have saved mankind with a single drop of his blood, but chose instead to die so that man might feel his bottomless love. Thus the individual should rightfully be inflamed by reciprocal love and gaze on Christ's face with a loving, burning heart:
Ze dem fúnften, so ist es gewonlich, wa ains minn vnd liebi hǎt zů dem andern, das daz sin anlit gern ansiht. Vnd ist das es grǒss minn vnd liebi zů im hǎt, so werdent im sin ǒgen waͤssrig vnd suͤfczet vnwissend, vnd emsigklich schuͤcz siner ǒgen tůt er vnder sins geminten anlit, als Aristotiles schribet. Vnd sider vͤns gottes sun so gar vnmaͤssklich hǎt geminnet, vnd v́ns wol ǎn sin sterben hett erloͤset oder mit dem minsten blůcz tropfen, vnd doch alles sin benedict blůt wolt verreren vnd willeklich sterben, daz wir sin grundlǒs minn spurtind, hier vmb solten wir mit widerminn enzuͤndet werden von billichen vnd sin antlit mit minnendem, brinnendem herczen an sehen.203(p.114)
(Fifth, it is usual that where one has love and affection for another, he gazes gladly upon the other's face. If he has great love and affection for the other, then his eyes become tearful, he sighs involuntarily, and eagerly casts fleeting glances upon his beloved's face, as Aristotle writes. Given that the son of God loved us beyond all compare, and could well have redeemed us without his death, or with the smallest drop of blood—and yet wanted to pour away all his blessed blood and to die willingly, so that we might feel his bottomless love—so we should rightfully be inflamed with reciprocal love, and gaze upon his face with a loving, burning heart.)
In the second half, Marquard addresses the noble soul to gaze on the beloved's face and speak as the bride of the Song of Songs. The bride's exhortation ‘Ostende michi faciem tuam’ (‘Show me your face’; Cant. 2: 14) is deployed as an exhortation to Christ to show the lover his tormented face, and specifically to show his face as a mirror in which to see moral virtues like patience, humility, love, and so forth. The bride‐reader then implicitly becomes John the Evangelist, asking Christ to lower his head upon her breast and rest on her heart (or rather, my breast and my heart, as Marquard presents this exhortation as a first‐person address by the bride to Christ). The bride finally desires to see Christ's face in order to appreciate his unspeakable pain, because her love and compassion are as strong as death (following Cant. 8: 6, ‘fortis est ut mors dilectio’: ‘love is as strong as death’), which will separate her from all love of the worldly and the bodily:
Hier vmb edli sele, sich an das antlit dines geminnten, sprich mit der minenden sel: >Ostende michi faciem tuam etc. Zoͤg mir din antlit< [Cant. 2: 14], wan es ist vol gnǎden vnd guͤtlichait. Zoͤg mir din antlit verspoͤczet vnd verspottet, erblaichet vnd durlitten. Zoͤg mir din antlit als ainen spiegel, in dem ich schǒw gedult, demůt, minn vnd grundlos erbaͤrmd. Zoͤg mir din antlit zwo stund vor dem tag, do du an ainer staininen sul gebunden stuͤnd in allem spott vnd durchaͤhtung. Naig din hǒbt vff min brust, vnd ruͤw vff minem herczen. Zoͤg mir din antlit, das ich schǒw dinen vnsaͤglichen schmerczen, wan min liebi vnd min mitliden ist stark als der tǒd, der mich von billichen sol von allem lust der zit vnd des libes schaiden.204
(Thus, noble soul, gaze upon the face of your beloved and say with the loving soul, ‘Ostende michi faciem tuam, etc. Show me your face’, because it is full of grace and goodness. Show me your face spat upon and scorned, blanched, and tormented. Show me your face like a mirror, in which I see patience, humility, love, and bottomless mercy. Show me your face two hours before daybreak, when you stood, scorned and despised, bound to a stone column. Incline your head upon my breast, and rest upon my heart. Show me your face, so that I can see your unspeakable pain; because my love and my compassion is as strong as death, which ought rightfully sever me from all joy in the temporal world and the body.)
(p.115) This example is, first of all, demonstrative of the complexity and literary quality characteristic of Marquard's sermons. In just twenty lines of text in the modern edition, Marquard brings together a rich spectrum of imagery and scriptural reminiscences in a passage that switches cleverly from one form of address to another.
The argument for the literary quality of Marquard's oeuvre is not an argument to be pursued here. Instead the main thrust of Marquard's point should be noted: that Christ died for mankind out of his unimaginably great love for mankind, and so the individual should respond with reciprocal love (‘widerminn’) for Christ in an exclusive relationship focused solely on Christ, as signalled by the metaphor of the bride and bridegroom. This discourse of love met by love provides the impetus not only for this example, but for the whole sermon, and indeed more widely within the rest of the sermon collection. God's love for man, and man's love for God, are admittedly very common themes in medieval religious writing. Marquard, however, gives this discourse an especially strong prominence in his Good Friday sermon, and lends to it a distinctive cast. This reflects a similar prominence accorded to the discourse of love in Bonaventura's theological and devotional writing on the Passion. Marquard's emphasis on reciprocal love for the crucified Christ represents an important case in point of the phenomenon characterized by Kurt Ruh as ‘Bonaventura deutsch’, of which there has been little mention thus far (though there has been much ‘Olivi deutsch’).205
Let us begin with Christ's love for man, expressed in the Passion. We will recall that Marquard said in the passage above that Christ could have saved man with the tiniest drop of his blood, but that he wanted to expend all his blood and die so that his bottomless love for mankind might be made known. The idea that Christ did not ultimately have to die on the cross to save mankind is grounded in the conventional medieval understanding of the superabundance of Christ's satisfaction.206 But the precise cast (p.116) Marquard lends to this idea in adding that Christ went further than necessary (and died) as a manifestation of love is found in identical formulation in Bonaventura's De perfectione vitae:
Dic, quaeso, dilecte mi Domine, dic, cum unica tui sacratissimi sanguinis gutta potuisset sufficere ad totius mundi redemptionem, cur tantum sanguinem de corpore tuo effundo permisisti? Scio, Domine, et vere scio, quia propter aliud hoc non fecisti, nisi ut ostenderes, quanto affectu me diligeres.207
(Tell me, I beseech, O my beloved Lord, tell me this; since a single drop of your most sacred blood would have sufficed for the redemption of the whole world, why did you allow so much blood to be poured forth from your body? I know, O Lord, and truly I know, that you did this for no other reason except in order to show with how much affection you loved me.)
In fact, Bonaventura was responsible beyond this for a major shift in the medieval theology of Christ's Passion, with the development of what we may term a caritative theology of redemption, on which Bonifatius Strack has written extensively.208 The medieval understanding of redemption had, of course, long since been defined by the influential Anselm in terms of satisfaction: not the appeasement of God's anger at the sins of mankind (God being immutable), but the restoration of the appropriate relationship between God and man; the rectitudo of the divine order according to the iustitia Dei.209 Bonaventura modified this theology. Satisfaction remained the primary formal reason underlying Christ's desire to die, but the primary actual reason was his love for mankind: his nimietas (or excessus) amoris (or dilectionis). This is expressed variously in his theological writing, as for example here in his commentary on John 3: 16, in which he discusses the final of the three underlying principles of salvation. Having set out the ‘principium salvans’ and the ‘modus salvandi’, he turns to the ‘ratio movens ad salvandum’: (p.117)
‘Sic enim Deus’ etc. [John 3: 16] Tangitur hic tertium, scilicet ratio movens, ad sic salvandum; et haec fuit immensitas divini amoris ad hominem perditum. Propter quod dicit: ‘Sic enim Deus dilexit mundum’, id est hominem mundanum et peccatorem; ‘ut Filium suum unigenitum daret’; ad Ephesios secundo: ‘Deus, qui dives est in misericordia, propter nimiam caritatem suam, qua dilexit nos, cum essemus mortui peccatis, convivificavit nos Christo’ [Eph. 2: 4–5].210
(‘For God so’, etc. The third point is touched upon here, namely the motive reason to save [mankind] in this way; and this was the magnitude of divine love for fallen man. Because of this it says, ‘For God so loved the world’, i.e. the worldly man and the sinner, ‘that he gave his only‐begotten son’; and in the second chapter of the letter to the Ephesians, ‘God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive together in Christ because of his excessive charity, with which he loved us [even] when we were dead in our sins.’)
Outside the strictly scholastic context, Bonaventura was less restrained. In a sermon on the fourth Sunday after Whitsun he maintains, on the basis of 1 John 3: 16, that Christ's love for mankind was the only reason for his submission to suffering and death:
Si enim quaeratur: Quid movit Filium Dei ad patiendum pro nobis, non invenitur alia causa quam eius benevolentia et caritas misericordissima. Unde 1 Ioannis 3, 16: ‘In hoc cognovimus caritatem Dei, quoniam ille pro nobis animam suam posuit.’211
(For if it is asked what impelled the son of God to suffer for us, no other cause is found than his benevolence and most merciful love. Wherefore 1 John 3: 16, ‘In this we perceived the love of God, because he laid down his life for us.’)
Inside that scholastic context, Bonaventura was compelled to explain exactly how he understood the relationship between love as the impetus of redemption, and the more traditional understanding of satisfaction, as here in his commentary on the Sentences:
Ad illud vero quod obiicitur de manifestatione benignitatis et misericordiae, dicendum, quod summa benignitas et misericordia in Deo non excludunt iustitiam, et ideo non sic debuit manifestari in opere reparationis, quod iustitia non haberet locum; sed ita debuit manifestari divina misericordia, quod simul cum hoc ostenderetur divina iustitia. Et hoc idem factum est, cum Deus reparavit genus humanum per mortem Filii sui, ubi fuit maxima aequitas in exigendo tantae satisfactionis pretium, et maxima benignitas in tradendo unigenitum Filium suum.212(p.118)
(To the objection made about the manifestation of kindness and mercy it is to be said that the supreme kindness and mercy in God does not exclude justice, and therefore it should not have been manifested thus in the work of reparation, because justice had no place [there]; but divine mercy should have been manifested thus, because divine justice was shown together with this. And this was effected likewise when God restored the race of man through the death of his Son, where there was the greatest even‐handedness [i.e. justice] in requiring the price of such satisfaction, and the greatest kindness in giving over his only begotten Son.)
This caritative theology of redemption has significant consequences for Bonaventura's writing on man's appropriate response to the crucified Christ. Understood as an act of love, it should appropriately be met by love, and specifically by an imitation of Christ's love for man in the individual's love for his fellow man. That is to say, Christ's love has an exemplary function, and this is a point that Bonaventura makes often.213 In a sermon for the second Sunday after Easter that elaborates exactly these exemplary functions of the Passion, for instance, he binds the idea of Christ's (and, indeed, God's) exemplary love in the crucifixion to an exhortation to love one's fellow man likewise:
O admirabilis pietas Creatoris! ut servum redimeres, Filium tradidisti. Et hoc exemplum caritatis nobis reliquit, secundum quod dicitur primae Ioannis tertio: ‘In hoc cognovimus caritatem Dei, quoniam ille animam suam pro nobis posuit’; et quia hoc exemplum est imitatione dignum, ideo subdit; ‘et nos debemus pro fratribus animas ponere’ [1 John 3: 16], non tantum pro honore Dei, sed etiam pro salute proximi.214
(O admirable devotion of the creator! In order that you might redeem your servant, you gave up your Son. And you bequeathed this example of love to us, in accordance with what is said in the third chapter of the first letter of John: ‘In this we perceived the love of God, because he laid down his life for us’. Because this example is worthy of imitation, therefore it continues, ‘and we should lay down our lives for our brothers’, not just for the honour of God, but also for the salvation of our neighbours.)
This passage demonstrates clearly Bonaventura's adherence to the model of 1 John, which brings a ‘horizontal’ dimension to the appropriate response to the manifestation of Christ's love in the crucifixion—namely love for one's fellow man. The prominence and pre‐eminence of love is a distinctive feature of Bonaventura's theology in general, as a number of modern (p.119) scholars have noted. Love (caritas) is, literally and metaphorically, the principal commandment in his theology. He not only provided an original and highly influential justification of this, but also developed a sophisticated model by which different expressions of love—notably that towards one's fellow man, which binds the individual by love within Christ's mystical body—are interconnected, and ordered such that all correctly ordered love is ultimately subsumed within the overarching love of God; the dilectio proximi and the dilectio Dei are reconciled and organized towards a common head.215 This builds on an understanding of the appropriate love of the crucified Christ present in the works of Bernard of Clairvaux, notably in his forty‐third sermon on the Song of Songs.216
Whilst Marquard clearly and unequivocally shares with Bonaventura the understanding of love as the driving force underlying the crucifixion, and the requirement for that love to be met by love on man's part, the direction of that reciprocal love is quite different. This is not to say that Marquard would deny that Christ's love has an exemplary function, or that the dilectio proximi is unnecessary. But Marquard's model of reciprocal love is marked by exclusivity—the individual must direct his love exclusively ‘vertically’ towards Christ—and so the model lacks the ‘horizontal’ dimension of imitative love for one's fellow man that Bonaventura accentuates. A sense of duty towards Christ, and of the consequent requirement to gaze on the crucified Christ's face, is more generally evident in Marquard's Good Friday sermon and is the principal point of two (the third and the fourth) of the six illustrative examples of how to gaze on Christ's face that Marquard presents in the first section of the sermon.217
A third element to the broad response, alongside love and duty, is introduced by the second of the illustrative examples, namely sorrowful compassion. As a faithful son should follow the body of his father to the grave, if his father has died for his sake, so the individual should follow Christ's body similarly: ‘so soͤllend wir huͤt der lich nǎch gǎn ze grab mit mitlidendem betruͤbtem herczen’218 (‘so today we should follow the body to the grave with a compassionate, troubled heart’). This is unexceptional. More exceptional is the fourth and final element to the broad response that is introduced in the sixth and final illustrative example: the tuition in virtue (p.120) and wisdom from the exemplar of the crucified Christ, understood using the motif of the book of life. In itself, this is familiar material; but the language with which it is expressed is distinctive, and repays closer examination:
Ze dem sechsten so ist es gewonlich, wǎ ain hǒher erluͤhter maister liset vnd leret, so sehend sin junger sin antlit an mit grǒssem ernst vnd begirden. Nun ist huͤt die ewig wisshait vff dem hǒhen sessel des hailgen cruͤczes erhebet, vnd ist vͤns lerend alle tugend vnd wisshait an sin selbes lib als an dem lebenden bůch, wan daz bůch ist huͤt vff getǎn, vnd ain blatt von dem andern zertennet. Hier vmb ruͤffet er huͤtt vnd sprichet: Sich mich an armer mensch als daz lebend bůch, vnd lis an mir, wie widerzaͤm mir hǒhfart ist, wan ich hie hangen blǒss vnd verschmaͤht enmitten vnder den schǎchern. Lis an mir, wie widerzaͤm mir ist aller nid vnd hass, sider ich hǎn gebetten den vatter fuͤr die, die mich hǎnd gecruͤczget, vnd als ain lembli gedulteklich vnd schwigend bin in den tǒd gefuͤret. Sus soͤllend wir huͤt als die junger tůnd, vnd vͤnserm erluͤhten maister vnder sin antlit sehen.219
(Sixth, it is usual that where an eminent and enlightened master reads and teaches, his pupils look upon his face with great earnestness and desire. Now today the eternal wisdom is raised to the high chair of the holy cross, and teaches us all virtue and wisdom upon his own body as in the book of life; for that book is opened today, and one leaf is torn asunder from another. Thus today he cries aloud and says, ‘Look upon me, poor person, as the book of life, and read upon me how repellent pride is to me; for I hang here naked and scorned amidst the thieves. Read upon me how all jealousy and hatred is repellent to me; for I have prayed to the Father for those who have crucified me, and have been led to death patiently and silently like a lamb.’ So we should act today like the disciples, and look upon the face of our enlightened master.)
The motif of Christ as a book—and as the book of life—is Carolingian at the latest, and depends on the interpretation of Apocalypse 20: 12 (‘et alius liber apertus est, qui est vitae’; ‘and another book was opened, which is [the book] of life’) and Apocalypse 5: 1 (‘et vidi in dextera sedentis super thronum librum scriptum intus et foris, signatum sigillis septem’; ‘and I saw in the right hand of him who was sitting upon the throne a book written within and without, sealed with seven seals’) with reference to Christ.220 Bonaventura is regarded as the greatest exponent of book symbolism in relation to Christ, specifically concerning the imagery of the ‘liber vitae’, which he adapted, as Grover Zinn has shown, in part from Hugh of (p.121) St Victor's De arca Noe.221 The association of the ‘liber vitae’ imagery and Christ's Passion is repeated in Bonaventura's oeuvre, and has been subjected to close examination by Winthir Rauch.222 Marquard would undoubtedly have been familiar with this association, which is a commonplace in fourteenth‐century religious writing. The Latin preface to Johannes von Zazenhausen's German narrative on the Passion, for example, takes Christ as book (presumably in dependence on Bonaventura) for its central imagery.223 Heinrich Seuse's Horologium sapientiae presents the crucified Christ as a ‘liber vitae’ in a manner not dissimilar to Marquard, and the relevant passage entered Ludolf's Vita Christi.224
The most important parallel to Marquard's usage in his Good Friday sermon is that in Seuse's German Büchlein der ewigen Weisheit, where it forms what Bernard McGinn regards as the very heart of Seuse's ‘philosophia spiritualis’ (on which more later).225 In fact, the ‘liber vitae’ metaphor is deployed twice in this work, and it is the first usage that is of interest here. It comes at the end of the third chapter, in reply to the servant's plea to understand how he might progress in his response to the Passion from tearful plaint (‘ein weinliches klagen’) to loving imitation (‘ein minnekliches nahvolgen’).226 Eternal Wisdom explains how he should go about pursuing this shift, and describes his instructions as a beginning in the school of wisdom, which can be read from the open book of his crucified life. The significant feature is the terminology that Seuse uses, and which is common to Marquard: not just the specific verbs ‘uftůn’ and ‘zertennen’ to describe the crucified body of Christ, but the appellation of Christ as the Eternal Wisdom—otherwise quite foreign to the Good Friday sermon, and to Marquard's oeuvre in general—and Marquard's statement that not just virtue (as is conventional), but also wisdom is learned from contemplation of the crucified Christ.
Entwúrt der Ewigen Wisheit: Brich dinen lust an verlasener gesicht und úppiger gehoͤrde; laze dir wol schmaken von minnen und lustig sin, daz dir vor wider waz, leg ab dur mich zartheit dins libes. Du solt alle din růwe in mir sůchen, liplich (p.122) ungemach minnen, vroͤmdes úbel willeklich liden, verschmeht begeren, dinen begirden erbleichen und allen dinen gelústen ertoden. Daz ist der anevang in der schůle der wisheit, den man liset an dem ufgetanen zertenneten bůch mines gekrúzgeten libes.227
(Eternal Wisdom's answer: Abandon your delight in seeing the profane and hearing the trivial; let what you previously found repellent now taste pleasantly of love and be a source of delight; cast aside the frailty of your body for my sake. You should seek all your repose in me, love bodily discomfort, willingly suffer evils from outside, desire shame, diminish your [bodily] desires, and kill all your pleasures. That is the beginning in the school of wisdom, which is read upon the opened book torn asunder of my crucified body.)
Together with the parallels to Seuse's theology of access to the treasury of merits, and in view of the very extensive transmission of his works generally, these terminological similarities concerning the ‘liber vitae’ imagery indicate strongly that Marquard was familiar with the Büchlein der ewigen Weisheit, though did not draw on it as extensively—or in the same way, namely as a source of quotations—as he did on the works of Eckhart, Tauler, and Ruusbroec.
In the first section of the Good Friday sermon, then, Marquard develops four broad themes in the individual's response to the crucified Christ: first, and primarily, reciprocal love; second, a sense of duty; third, compassionate sorrow; and fourth, learning virtue and wisdom from Christ as exemplar. The second section of the sermon is structured around Christ's seven words on the cross. This is a theme whose exposition had remained a predominantly Franciscan tradition well into the fourteenth century.228 As Nigel Palmer has recently noted, Marquard's (extensive) treatment of this theme here constitutes one of the very earliest examples in German.229 In view of the amount of attention just given to the first section of the sermon, this second section need not be examined in similar detail: it would require a more substantive examination of the contemporary tradition on the ‘seven words’, which would distract from the issue of the response to the crucified Christ. For present purposes it suffices to examine the purpose Marquard has in his presentation of the ‘seven words’. Each word is equipped with an interpretation, which is followed by at least one question. These questions ask what the individual should learn from each word, according to the interpretation that Marquard has provided. This instruction centres on (p.123) moral‐ethical lessons, especially in the first three words.230 The fourth, fifth, and seventh words focus again on the manifestation of Christ's love for mankind, and the necessity of reciprocal love on the individual's part. The exposition of the fourth word (‘sitio’; ‘I am thirsty’, John 19: 28) is particularly interesting in this regard, as it uses the imagery of incorporation into Christ's mystical body by Christ's ‘drinking’ our love, and man's ‘drinking’ from the water of life (understood as the supernatural gifts of divine grace) in pursuit of his own salvation, to express this reciprocity of love.231 The instruction then elicited from the fifth word includes an admonition to imitate Christ in the manner of his patient bearing of suffering, should it befall the individual, as such suffering flows ultimately from God's bottomless love.232 This is strongly reminiscent of the approach towards suffering taken by Heinrich Seuse in the later part of his life (insofar as it is presented by the Vita), encouraged in the Büchlein der ewigen Weisheit, and which is established there in opposition to a more strongly (even violently) ascetic, corporeal castigation in the desire to inflict painful suffering on the self.233
The mention of Seuse in connection with what is a fairly general idea in Marquard's exposition on the fifth word is not without point, because in the sixth word Marquard expounds once more his theology of access to the treasury of merits, which we have seen from De anima Christi, and which bears close comparison to Seuse's understanding of the same issue. Christ's sixth word, his commendation of his spirit to the Father (‘Pater, in manus tuas commendo spiritum meum’; ‘Father, I commend my spirit into your hands’, Lk. 23: 46), is interpreted as the demonstration of Christ's return to the Father's heart. It is also a rebirth and re‐entrance of all loving, faithful souls into their eternal origin; a process of re‐entry in which all virtue, suffering, and turns to God—whether internal or external—are borne upwards and made acceptable to the Father in Christ. In this process, continues Marquard, Christ made his legacy: he left his spirit to his Father, and in his spirit all creatures in a state of grace: (p.124)
Das sechst wort was: >Vatter in din hend bevilh ich minen gaist.< [Lk. 23: 46]. Vnd in disem wort zǒgt vͤnser herr ainen lutren widerker sin selbes in daz vaͤtterlich hercz. Er zǒgt ǒch ain wider geburt vnd ain wider intragen aller minnenden geloͤbigen selen in iren ersten vrsprung. Er erzǒgt ǒch ain wider opfren vnd vfftragen aller tugentlicher werk, so all sin fruͤnd vͤmmer soͤltend tůn, vnd ǒch alles liden, vnd inre vnd vsser minnrich ker, die immer von allen engeln vnd menschen soltend beschenhen, die opfret er alle in sinem lutren gaist dem ewigen vatter, in dem alle werk allain dem ewigen vatter genaͤm sind, vnd machet hie mit sin sel geraͤt, wan er besaczt dem vatter sinen gaist, vnd in sinem gaist alle begnǎdeten creaturen.234
(The sixth word was ‘Father, I commend my spirit into your hands’. In this word our Lord expresses his pure return into the paternal heart. He expresses the rebirth and re‐entry of all loving, faithful souls into their initial origin. He expresses further a reoffering and bearing up of all the virtuous deeds that all his friends should ever have done. All the suffering and loving turns [to God], both internal or external, that should ever be undergone by any angels and any person, he offered in his pure spirit to the eternal Father, in which alone all works are acceptable to the eternal Father. With this he made his legacy, because he left his spirit to the Father, and every creature in a state of grace in his spirit.)
After a pertinent quotation attributed to Ambrose, Marquard turns to the implication for the reader. The individual should hold suffering and oppression dear, says Marquard, as this is the surety of his soul; as the cross is established for mankind out of God's great love, so man should always love and contemplate the cross:
Die frǎg: Was lernend wir bi disem wort? Die antwúrt: Wir lernend da bi, daz vͤns sol so gar waͤrd vnd lieb sin alles liden vnd druͤk, sider es vͤnser selgeraͤt ist, vnd vͤns beseczet ist das cruͤcz so vss grǒsser minn von vͤnserm herren, vnd daz wir alle zit soͤllend minn vnd betrahtung hǎn nǎch dem cruͤcz vͤnsers herren. Vnd lernend ǒch da bi, das wir an vͤnserm end ǒch soͤllend so gar ledeklich vnd luterlich vͤnsern gaist bevelhen in die gnǎdrichen hend des ewigen vatters.235
(Question: What do we learn from this word? Answer: We learn from it that all suffering and oppression should be greatly honoured and beloved by us, because it is our legacy. The cross is left to us by our Lord out of his great love, and we should always have love and contemplation for the cross of our Lord. We also learn from it that we too, at the ends of our lives, should commend our spirits so freely and purely into the merciful hands of the eternal Father.)
(p.125) Here, the accentuation on compassio—suffering—as the means by which the individual can associate himself with Christ's reward and participate in his ‘selgeraͤt’ (meaning a legacy or gift, usually one donated to secure the salvation of an individual's soul) is much stronger and more exclusive than in De anima Christi, quite possibly conditioned by the liturgical feast (Good Friday) for which the sermon is intended.
The second section of the Good Friday sermon, then, provides four broad types of instruction: first, moral‐ethical lessons; second, some didactic theological lessons; third, the repeated exhortation to love Christ in response to his love manifested in the Passion; and fourth, the admonition in the sixth word to imitate Christ's suffering and so participate in his reward. The third section of the sermon proceeds to elaborate six methods by which an individual whose devotion is cold might inflame himself to the contemplation of the Passion. A search for similar instruction reveals that Marquard had a direct source for this section, namely the third section of the first book of the Stimulus amoris maior. This is, in fact, a family of three ever‐longer recensions of the Stimulus amoris minor, the original substrate of the work probably produced at the very end of the thirteenth century by an otherwise unknown Italian Franciscan named James of Milan. The last, and longest of these recensions was undertaken in the mid‐fourteenth century, and consequently prior to Marquard's engagement with the work.236 It is no surprise to discover that Marquard knew the Stimulus amoris. Its manuscript transmission runs into the several hundreds of copies, with a very strong tradition in several European vernaculars in addition. There were five separate translations into German alone, represented by thirty‐three manuscripts of the complete text and a further twenty‐five containing excerpts.237 Though the Latin text was not very widely transmitted in Franciscan libraries (despite its Franciscan origin), there are several extant manuscripts from Franciscan libraries in the German‐speaking region,238 and the work was used by a number of German Franciscans in the fifteenth century.239 Ludolf's Vita Christi, which incorporates a significant body of excerpts from the Stimulus amoris, provides an early attestation of its presence and influence in (p.126) fourteenth‐century Germany,240 and a short ‘Adventsbetrachtung’ ascribed to Marquard himself draws on a part of the work that describes the ten stages of humility.241
Of Marquard's six ways in which an individual whose devotion is cold might inflame himself in the contemplation of Christ's Passion, three are adopted from the corresponding section of the Stimulus amoris, which section bears the much more general heading (in Klapper's edition from a later fourteenth‐century manuscript of Bohemian origin, at any rate) of ‘Meditacio vel qualiter debet compati Christo crucifixo’242 (‘Meditation, or in what way one should experience compassion with the crucified Christ’). Marquard's first two methods are his own. He begins by counselling the individual to consider the Passion with a sense of personal unworthiness and a humble heart, in light of the great humility manifest in the crucified Christ. Next, the individual should love his fellow men: as love is the cause of Christ's Passion, and only in love can the fruits of the Passion be felt, so the love of the head (i.e. of Christ) cannot be felt if the limbs of his mystical body (i.e. the rest of the faithful) are not loved.243 This strikes a horizontal note of the dilectio proximi bound to the vertical relationship of the dilectio Dei that is not present earlier in the sermon, and is strongly reminiscent, as is clear from the discussion above, of a more Bonaventuran conceptualization of the reciprocal love of Christ.
Marquard's third method is the first to be drawn from the Stimulus amoris. He instructs the individual to unify his mind with God in ardent love: the more God is loved, the more compassion the individual has with his suffering, and the more God is then loved in turn. God alone is to be held dear, so that ultimately the individual will be wounded and scorned as Christ was. Christ's unwillingness to curtail his suffering is to be recalled along with the fact that he prayed on the cross for the good thief before he spoke to his mother. He is to be asked to wound the individual's heart with his wounds, and to inflame the individual's (cold) desire, so that Christ may provide what the individual lacks. Where Marquard differs from the Stimulus amoris, aside from the (p.127)
Marquard von Lindau, Predigt 10, ll. 349–61 (pp. 96–7)
Stimulus amoris (ed. Klapper), lib. 1, c. 3 (pp. 20–2)244
Die dritt wis ist, daz der mensch sol sin gemuͤt verainen mit gott in hicziger liebi vnd ernst sines herczen, wan so dir got ie lieber ist, so du ie me mitlidens hǎst in sinem liden, vnd so du ie me mitlidens hǎst, so din liebi gen got ie me wachsend ist. Vnd also merret liebi daz mitliden, vnd ǒch daz mitliden die liebi.
Ad compaciendum domino Ihesu Christo crucifixo primo studeas, quantum potes, te illi unire per feruentem amorem. Nam quanto feruencius diligis eum, tanto plus compacieris sue passioni. Et quanto plus compacieris, tanto plus erga eum accendetur tuus affectus. Unde sic mutuo se augebunt dileccio et compassio, donec uenias ad perfectum, nisi hoc remanserit propter aliquam tuam miseriam. Et precipue studeas abicere omnem presumpcionem, diffidenciam et negligenciam. Debet enim homo tam nobile opus aggredi humiliter, confidenter, instanter et cum quanta potest mundicia cordis. Et quamuis homo uideatur sibi indignus et nequam, nichilo minus non desistat, quia ipse pro peccatoribus crucifixus est. Primo igitur sic uniaris amore sibi, ut cor tuum iam sibi, non tibi, uideatur coniunctum. Quomodo tunc non sencies eius vulnera aut quas passiones habebit, que non perfundant cor tuum? Studeas ergo, quantum potes, ut cor tuum intret in ipsum totaliter, et extra ipsum tanquam de nullo curabis. Tota cura tua uertatur in deum dominum tuum passum. Nam eius es, quidquid es, nec debes alteri aliqiud exhibere. Sic transformatus in ipsum non possum credere quin eius vulneribus vulnereris et perfundaris eius contumelijs, illusionibus et obprobrijs.
Hier vmb so fliss dich, daz din hercz in in gang, vnd daz du dich selber vsser im nihtes nit schaͤczest, mer all din sorg vnd fliss sigi vmb dinen gelitten gott, daz du mit sinen wunden verwundet werdest, vnd mit sinem spott vnd verschmaͤht begossen werdest.
Gedenk, daz sin fliss so grǒss waz vnd sin ernst, daz er nit wolt ain wort reden vor Pilatus, daz er ett sin liden lengerte, vnd daz er e batt fuͤr den suͤnder an dem cruͤcz, e daz er redoti mit siner můter. Vnd also bitt in, daz er mit sinen wunden din hercz verwundi vnd din begird enzuͤnd, wa dir gebrest, das daz durch in volbrǎht werd.
(The third method is that the individual should unite his mind with God in the fervent love and earnestness of his heart. For the more you love God, the more compassion you have in his suffering, and the more compassion you have, the more your love for God grows. In this way love increases compassion, and compassion increases love likewise. Therefore take care that your heart enters him, and that you consider yourself outside him to be nothing. All your care and effort should instead be for your God who suffered, so that you will be wounded with his wounds, and doused with his scorn and shame. Consider that his effort and his earnestness were so great that he did not want to speak a word in front of Pilate, so that he prolonged his suffering; and that he prayed for the sinner on the cross before he spoke with his mother. So pray to him that he might wound your heart with his wounds and inflame your desire where you are deficient in something, so that it may be perfected by him.)
A similar pattern of adaptation is then evident in Marquard's fourth point. The equivalent passage in the Stimulus amoris instructs the individual to receive the sweetness of divine mercy. The individual is to consider how far he would suffer if he were to experience the gravity of all the saints' sufferings, and then consider how much more Christ had suffered—and beyond that, had suffered innocently for him. In further contemplation of how Christ's love led him to suffer in this way, the individual's heart is afflicted by those sorrows; as if then actually sustaining those sorrows, the individual will weep bitter tears, and this will be converted into sweetness. The conclusion of this process is most significant:
Tunc ergo rumina in corde tuo, quantam sustinuit angustiam et affliccionem, et quantus amor ipsum ad hoc induxit. Et sic meditando afficiatur cor tuum illis doloribus, quantum potest. Et quasi illos sustineres, amarissime lacrimis perfunderis, nec dubium, quod in dulcedinem conuertentur.245
(Then consider in your heart how much distress and affliction he bore, and how great was the love that moved him to this. In meditating in this way, let your heart be affected by those sufferings, as far as it can. Should you bear them like this, you will weep most bitterly with tears; there is no doubt that they will be converted into sweetness.)
(p.129) Marquard's corresponding instruction adopts none of this complex process of engagement with Christ. Instead, the individual is simply instructed to consider how painful the sufferings of all the saints would be, and then to recognize how much greater Christ's sufferings were, innocently sustained out of love for sinful mankind. The consequence of this is purely that the individual have greater compassion with Christ and be inflamed therein: ‘So solt du billich mitliden mit im hǎn vnd davon enzuͤndet werden in aller hertkait dines herczen’246 (‘So you should rightfully experience compassion with him, and be inflamed by this in all the hardness of your heart’).
This same pattern is then adopted for Marquard's fifth method, introduced independently of the Stimulus amoris. The individual is told to consider how the death of a good friend would affect him, or how he would feel if a friend betrayed him. Christ was man's greatest and most faithful friend, and the individual must consider how he felt when his friends betrayed him; how Mary felt when she saw her son suffering; and how Christ felt when he saw his mother suffer. The purpose of this fifth element is again simply to melt the individual's hard heart.247 Marquard follows the pattern again in the sixth and final method of the set, adapted from the Stimulus amoris, in which the individual is to chastise himself with a whip and consider how much greater Christ's sufferings were than anything is that you might inflict upon yourself.248 Marquard omits—as we may by now expect—the portion of the Stimulus amoris text in which the individual is to pray to Christ that he might wound the individual's mind with his wounds, thus bringing about the transformatio. Less expected is Marquard's adoption of the method of self‐flagellation in the first place. Bodily chastisement is otherwise an exceptionally unfamiliar element in Marquard's oeuvre. The inclusion of this instruction in the sermon in question here does, however, suggest that it was not an unknown practice amongst the audience for whom Marquard intended the work.
Next Marquard presents an instruction for the individual who has remained unaffected by the six methods outlined thus far. This additional instruction is also adopted from the same section of the Stimulus amoris. Both texts formulate this instruction as a plaint, in which the individual expresses disgust at his own inability to be moved by the contemplation of (p.130) the crucified Christ. The plaint is very long, and—in Marquard's version—draws the individual to recognize his own insignificance; to call upon Christ to inflict him with his wounds, because he (and not Christ) was rightfully their cause; and ultimately to recognize that this hardness of heart may remain because he has previously received God's gifts thanklessly, which makes him into a feral and unworthy person.249 In this humility and cognizance of one's own unworthiness, God often then comes with his fiery water of life to irrigate the dry heart with grace, and enable it to weep inwardly:
So beschiht es dik, daz denn got des menschen demuͤtikait ansihet vnd in begnǎdet, als vͤnser frǒw sprach: >Respexit humilitatem ancille sue. Er hǎt angesehen die demuͤtikait siner dirnen.< [Lk. 1: 48] Alsus komet denn gott dikk mit sinen richen gǎben vnd mit sinem fuͤrin lebenden wasser, vnd machet daz dúrr hercz nass mit der gnǎd sines regens, vnd machet es dik zerfliessend mit innigen traͤhern.250
(Thus it often happens that God then looks upon the individual's humility and bestows grace upon him, just as our Lady said, ‘Respexit humilitatem ancille sue. He has looked upon the humility of his handmaiden.’ In this way God then often comes with his rich gifts and with his fiery, living water. He makes the dry heart moist with the grace of his rain, and often makes it flow forth with inner tears.)
Marquard leaves the main body of the plaint largely unaltered, though slightly abbreviated, and by omission toning down the focus of the Stimulus amoris text on achieving a state of mystical convulneratio. The conclusion is entirely different, though. Whereas the result in Marquard's sermon is that God will come and irrigate the dry heart with grace, the corresponding passage in the Stimulus amoris concludes with the divine gift of a new heart, so that the individual might know Christ crucified:
Si hec omnia non ualerint tibi, tam nobilissimo beneficio es indignus. Et de cetero non reputes te hominem, sed bestiam, et cum feris sit habitacio tua, quia indignus es consorcio angelorum. Forte, si multum te humiliaueris, ille, qui respexit humilitatem ancille sue, respiciet humilitatem anime tue et dabit tibi cor nouum, ut cognoscas eum passum.251
(If none of these things are effectual for you, you are unworthy for such an honour of the most noble kind. From now on you should not consider yourself a man, but a beast, and your dwelling place should be with the wild animals, because you are unworthy of the company of angels. Perhaps, if you humble yourself greatly, (p.131) then he, who looked upon the humility of his handmaiden, will look upon the humility of your soul and will give you a new heart, that you may know him who suffered.)
The Stimulus amoris then continues with a plaint that constitutes about half the total length of the chapter. This begins with an impatient desire for that promised new heart (a metaphor familiar from Ezekiel 36: 26–7).252 Delay is as death, and the speaker asks for liquefaction into Christ and stigmatization in this liquefied state. The plaint continues, exploring such themes as the speaker's spiritual drunkenness in divine love and the eventual entrance of the speaker through Christ's wounds into stigmatized union with the crucified Christ, a form of mystical death in which the speaker is finally brought to eternal life.253
None of this finds any place in Marquard's Good Friday sermon. The motif of the ‘duricia cordis’, hardness of heart, in contemplation of Christ's Passion provides the common feature between the set of instructions in Marquard's sermon and the related chapter in the Stimulus amoris. Individual instructions are adopted, but the emphasis that the Stimulus amoris places on convulneratio and union with Christ—not to mention the idea of actual transformatio into the crucified Christ—is either toned down, or entirely omitted, such that these emphases are no longer prominent, and certain particular features are no longer present at all. Instead the conclusion to Marquard's sermon is formed by a question that asks which kind of person thanks God most explicitly (‘aller aigenlichest’).254 The answer distinguishes between two kinds of person who have received the gift of inner tears in contemplation of the Passion. The first kind either have as yet failed to subdue their bodily desires, or are happy to participate in worldly frivolities. The second kind are those who approach the Passion with proper, bottomless passivity (‘mit rehter grundlǒser gelǎssenhait’). This passivity is expressed first in the recognition that Christ's suffering is loved by the individual to such an extent that he desires to suffer in honour of Christ's suffering, and second in the recognition that he would joyfully (p.132) give his soul to suffer for all souls until the end of time to honour Christ's suffering. This is the greatest possible thanks that may be given to Christ for his suffering, and those who have this attitude desire to suffer in an attempt to achieve conformity with the crucified Christ:
Vnd saͤmlichi menschen duͤrstet alle zit nǎch liden, vnd was si stuͤret zů dem durlitten sterbenden bild Jesu Cristi, das minnend si vnd sůchend, dar vmb daz si dem alle zit gelich funden werdent. Si trinkend lieber wasser denn win, sterben ist ir gewin [cf. Phil. 1: 21], er ist ir scham, si wellend verworfen sin vnd vnder den vnnuͤczen die aller vnnuͤczesten sin, vnd sůchend all ir froͤd in dem cruͤcz Jesu Christi, als sant Paulus sprach: >Michi absit gloriari nisi in cruce etc. Verr si von mir alli froͤd denn in dem cruͤcz vͤnsers herren Jesu Cristi.< [Gal. 6: 14]255
(All these people thirst continually for suffering. They love what guides them to the tormented, dying image of Jesus Christ; and they seek it out, so that they may always be found to be like that image. They prefer to drink water than wine. Death is their reward; honour is their shame. They wish to be cast aside and to be the most useless of all amongst the useless. They seek all their joy in the cross of Jesus Christ; as St Paul said, ‘Michi absit gloriari nisi in cruce, etc. Let all joy be far from me, save in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ.’)
It is conformity with the crucified Christ in the bearing of suffering, and in the manner of bearing that suffering, that constitutes the ultimate response to the Passion in Marquard's Good Friday sermon. This goal of conformity is very different to the goal of mystical union by transformation into the crucified Christ at which the comparable passage in the Stimulus amoris (and, in fact, the work as a whole) aims. This difference, and its significance, becomes more clear if we now turn to Marquard's other sermon on Christ's suffering, which also draws on the Stimulus amoris.
This sermon, for Quinquagesima, is the fourteenth in the collection and bears the rubric ‘Diss ist von dem liden vͤnsers herren’ (‘This is about the suffering of our Lord’). It is much shorter than the Good Friday sermon and we need not treat it in comparable length. As all the sermons, it is divided into three sections. The first outlines six characteristics of the divine light insofar as it illuminates the contemplative's mind, and thus presents important evidence by which to understand the function of divine illumination in Marquard's mystical theology.256 The second identifies six fruits of contemplation of the Passion: not ancillary benefits to the individual that derive from his diligence and assiduity in meditating on the Passion, but concrete effects upon the mind that are worked by the power of the Passion (p.133) itself.257 The third and final section then enumerates six ways in which the Passion is fruitfully contemplated, and it is here that Marquard draws on the Stimulus amoris: specifically, on the sixth chapter of the first book.258 This particular chapter of the Stimulus amoris represents the summation and the apex of the work's engagement with meditation on the Passion; it presents six points that are of particular significance in the contemplation of the Passion, arranged into a loosely hierarchical schema of ascent.259 On account of its systematic framework, mnemonic potential, and particular didactic approach it was widely transmitted in excerpt, and was further incorporated into subsequent works—for our purposes notably Ludolf's Vita Christi and, in German translation, the Extendit manum Passion narrative attributed to Heinrich von St Gallen.260
The chapter of the Stimulus amoris begins with a summary of the six points:
Circa passionem domini Ihesu sic potest homo se habere et ad sex eam considerare. Primo ad imitandum, secundo ad conpaciendum, tercio ad ammirandum, quarto ad exultandum, quinto ad resoluendum, sexto ad quiescendum.261
(Man can thus approach the Passion of the Lord Jesus, and consider it with respect to these six ways. First, imitation; second, the experience of compassion; third, admiration; fourth, rejoicing; fifth, dissolution; sixth, rest.)
In fact, it is not much more than this sequence that Marquard adopts to structure his own six points. Each point in the Stimulus amoris is accompanied by a long exposition, which Marquard either does not adopt at all, replacing it with a very short exposition of his own, or from which he only draws a particular phrase or two. After dealing briefly with imitation, understood as following Christ's model of patiently bearing suffering,262 and compassion, understood as feeling within oneself the pain that Christ felt,263 Marquard introduces a third point that is entirely his own. This (p.134) concerns contemplation in a state of aridity, in which the individual passively persists until he dies, considering himself to be unworthy of receiving any perceptible love or sweetness from God, and ‘presses’ himself in this parched state—a terminology familiar from De anima Christi—into the parched state of the crucified Christ:
Die dritt wis ist, so man es betrahtet mit grǒsser dúrri vnd lǎwekait dez herczen, vnd der mensch sich also dǎr inne gelǎssenlichen lidet vnd vollhertet, vnd sich vnwirdig dunket, daz im got kain bevintlich minn oder suͤssikait geb, vnd sich drukket in die duͤrri, in der vͤnser herr duͤrr vnd ersigen alles blůtes an dem cruͤcz hieng, vnd voll vss hertet bis in den tǒd.264
(The third way is when one contemplates it with a great aridity and tepidity of the heart. The individual passively suffers thus and persists in this state, and thinks himself unworthy that God should give him any perceptible love or sweetness. He presses himself into the aridity in which our Lord hung on the cross, dried out and exhausted of all his blood, and persists so even unto death.)
This, in essence, is the method of contemplating the Passion in Marquard's Good Friday sermon to which he directs the individual who has remained unmoved by Christ's suffering, despite having put into practice all the six ways that might engender such stimulation. Its presence in this sequence here in the Quinquagesima sermon is indicative of Marquard's systematic approach, not incorporating material from earlier works en bloc and unaltered, but rather modifying that existing material to accord with his own, original framework.
The fourth and fifth points in Marquard's sequence are then the third and fourth from the Stimulus amoris: contemplation in wonderment at the magnitude of the event, and consequently at the magnitude of God's love; and contemplation with great joy in view of the redemption of mankind in the outpouring of divine mercy.265 Marquard omits the fifth point of the Stimulus amoris sequence, which addresses the dissolution of the heart in the reformation (or transformation) of the individual into the crucified Christ. This is exactly the aspect of the mystical theology of the Stimulus amoris that Marquard omitted in his adaptation of the text in the Good Friday sermon:
Quinto eciam consideremus sanctissimam Christi passionem ad cordium nostrorum resolucionem in Christum, et hoc per perfectam reformacionem in ipsum. Quod fit, quando non solum imitatur, conpatitur, admiratur et exultatur, sed eciam totus conuertitur in eundem dominum nostrum Ihesum Christum crucifixum, ut quasi iam ubique et semper sibi crucifixus occurrat. Ymmo, tunc uere resoluitur, (p.135) quando ex se exiens homo et suprapositus vniuerso, ymmo, totus supra se abstractus ab omnibus totusque conuersus ad dominum suum passum, nec aliud uideat aut senciat intra semetipsum nisi Christum crucifixum, illusum, exprobatum et passum pro nobis.266
(Fifth, let us also consider Christ's most holy Passion with respect to the dissolution of our hearts in Christ, and this through perfect reformation into him. This happens when one does not just imitate, experience compassion, admire, and rejoice, but is also wholly transformed into our Lord Jesus Christ crucified, so that it is as if he, who has been crucified, is present to you now, always, and everywhere. Then, indeed, one is truly dissolved, when man, taking leave of himself and placed above everything else—indeed, wholly abstracted above himself from everything, and wholly transformed into his Lord, who suffered—neither sees nor feels anything else within himself except Christ crucified, scorned, convicted, and made to suffer for us.)
Both texts then share the final point: coming to rest (‘quies’) in loving union with Christ. The Stimulus amoris accentuates the liquefaction of the dissolved (‘resolutus’) individual in unindividuated union with the crucified Christ.267 Marquard instead proposes that the individual has first entered through Christ's wounds—a more common metaphor with Bernardine roots, that he explores more fully (and in direct dependence on Bernard) elsewhere.268 In this way—and not by transformatio—the individual has sought union with Christ. In this state, he gives up all that pertains to him as a person, by which we ought probably to understand his will, and offers himself passively into God's power. With this mystical death, he gives himself into Christ's death, and there remains at peace:
Die sechst wis ist, so man es betrahtet in ainer wis aines fridlichen bi belibens oder aines lustlichen suͤssen frides, als der mensch ist in gegangen durh die gebenedicten wunden, vnd sich in den verainet hett mit Cristo, vnd denn also naiget daz hǒbt aller siner aigenhait, vnd git sich mit ainem gelǎssnen gaist in dez ewigen vatters hand vnd gewalt, vnd lǎt sich mit sterben sin selbes in das sterben Jesu Cristi vnd in sinen tǒd, vnd belibet denn fridlich mit lust vnd mit suͤsser růwe in allem sinem tuͤnde. Diss menschen betrahtend wol vnd fruhtbaͤrlich daz wirdig liden vͤnsers herren.269(p.136)
(The third way is when one contemplates it in the manner of a peaceful residence together or a delightful, sweet peace. [This happens] when the individual has entered through the blessed wounds, has united himself with Christ in them, and has bowed the head of all his individuality; he gives himself with a passive spirit into the hands of the eternal Father and into his power, gives himself up through dying to himself into the dying Jesus Christ and into his death, and then resides there peacefully, with delight and sweet repose in whatever he does. These people contemplate the worthy suffering of our Lord well and fruitfully.)
The pertinent chapter of the Stimulus amoris concludes with a summary of the sequence, which accentuates its nature as a cumulative progression in ascent towards the goal of union with the crucified Christ in mystical rest:
Sic circa passionem domini debet esse imitacio ad purgacionem et direccionem, conpassio ad vnionem et amorem, admiracio ad mentis eleuacionem, gaudium et exultacio ad cordis dilatacionem, resolucio ad perfectam conformacionem, quies et pausacio ad deuocionis consumacionem.270
(Thus in respect of the Passion of the Lord, imitation should pertain to purgation and redirection, compassion to union and love, admiration to the elevation of the mind, delight and rejoicing to the expansion of the heart, dissolution to perfect conformity, and rest and calm to the consummation of devotion.)
By contrast Marquard's sequence of six points is not structured as an ascent at all. The different ways of contemplating Christ's suffering are not ordered into a hierarchy, even if the sixth way is adjudged to be the most fruitful, and it is certainly not necessary to pass through each stage to progress to the next. This is most clear from the presence of the third point, the only one that is Marquard's own: it is clearly not possible for someone who remains spiritually arid in the contemplation of the Passion, and persists patiently in this aridity until his death, to progress to the subsequent level—let alone to contemplate Christ's suffering in the sixth, and most fruitful way.
The significance of Marquard's reformation of a progressive ascent into a static set of six different options, alongside his removal of any hint of the transformatio into the crucified Christ—the distinctive feature of the mystical Passion theology of the Stimulus amoris—in the section of the work he adopted in the Good Friday sermon, goes beyond the simple rejection of a particular variety of mystical theology. What is most striking about both of Marquard's sermons on the contemplation of the Passion (not to mention De anima Christi) is the lack of a mystical dimension, and (p.137) this in a sermon collection that is distinguished by its particular focus on the elaboration of a complex pseudo‐Dionysian mystical theology. This is important because the path to mystical union through the contemplation of the crucified Christ—‘per Christum hominem ad Christum Deum’, where ‘per Christum hominem’ is understood as ‘per Christum passum’—underpins a very substantial mystical tradition indeed, of which the Stimulus amoris is only a small part. Bonaventura represents a much more substantial part of this tradition, and is responsible for an insistence on the crucified Christ as the sole means of access to God in mystical union; a mystery revealed to, and literally incorporated in, Francis of Assisi in his stigmatization.271 A similar insistence underlies Seuse's Büchlein der ewigen Weisheit, though with a rather different understanding of the precise mechanism of the eventual union itself, and set within the distinctive framework of obtaining what Seuse terms ‘philosophia spiritualis’.272 Bonaventura and Seuse (and the Stimulus amoris) together form a very substantial intellectual community on this issue. This is not to deny the complexity of the mystical theology of either, nor the substantial differences between them; rather, it is to note that both accord a central position to compassion (understood as com‐passio) with the crucified Christ in the process of becoming one with Christ in mystical union, and that both insist on the inescapable necessity of this to the mystical ascent. The ‘locus classicus’ with regard to this insistence in Seuse's Büchlein der ewigen Weisheit, for example, comes in the second chapter. The servant seeks access to God's divinity, but is presented with the crucified humanity of Christ instead. The Eternal Wisdom then responds to this paradox:
Der diener: Owe herr, der anvang ist gar bitter, wie sol es ein ende nemen? […] Aber herre, daz ist ein groz wunder in minem herzen: minneklicher herr, ich sůch alles din gotheit, so bútest du mir din menscheit; ich sůch din suͤzigkeit, so hebest du vúr din bitterkeit; ich wolt alles sugen, so lerest du mich striten. Ach herr, waz meinest du hie mitte?(p.138)
Entwúrt der Ewigen Wisheit: Es mag nieman komen ze goͤtlicher hocheit noch ze ungewonlicher suͤzekeit, er werde denn vor gezogen dur daz bilde miner menschlichen bitterkeit. So man ane daz durchgan miner menscheit ie hoͤher uf klimmet, so man ie tieffer vellet. Min menscheit ist der weg, den man gat, min liden ist daz tor, durch daz man gan můz, der zů dem wil komen, daz du da sůchest.273
(The servant: Alas, Lord, the beginning is so bitter—how shall it come to an end? […] But Lord, this is a great source of wonder in my heart: lovable Lord, always I seek your divinity, and you offer me your humanity; I seek your sweetness, and you extend to me your bitterness; always I wanted to suckle, but you teach me to do battle. Well, Lord, what do you mean by this?
The Eternal Wisdom's answer: No one can attain the divine majesty, nor uncommon sweetness, unless he is first drawn through the image of my human bitterness. The higher anyone climbs without passing through my humanity, the further he falls. My humanity is the path that one takes; my suffering is the gate through which he who wants to attain what you seek there has to pass.)
It is precisely this insistent accentuation that we do not find in Marquard's sermons on Christ's sufferings; the idea of access to the mystical union through Christ's suffering humanity is only present as a weak echo. For all that Marquard may insist on the necessity of reciprocal love in an exclusive relationship with Christ, this is not functionalized—in these two sermons, at least—as a path by which to come to loving union with Christ, as it is for Bonaventura. This raises a very important final question, namely the relationship between the contemplation of the Passion and literal com‐passion with the suffering Christ, and Marquard's mystical theology as expressed in his German sermon collection.
The answer to this is neither clear nor evident. Rüdiger Blumrich refers to the conceptualization of the access to God through Christ's suffering humanity in Seuse's Büchlein der ewigen Weisheit as a direct parallel to the third, and highest, of three different paths to God that Marquard sets out in a question within the seventh sermon, on the prodigal son:
Die frǎg: Was weges sol der mensch gǎn, daz er wider zů dem himelschen vatter kome? Die antwuͤrt: Es ist ain weg durch die creatur, als so der mensch sich in goͤtlich minn keret, vnd vnderwirfet allen creaturen durch gottes willen, vnd der weg ist gar lang vnd krum vnd vol stain vnd dornen. Der ander weg ist, so der mensch ab leit alle creatur, vnd mit abgeschaidner luter wis got sůchet ǎn sich selb vnd ǎn all creatur. Der dritt weg der ist der naͤhst, da der mensch mit ainem frien vrlǒb sin (p.139) selbes vnd aller geschaffner ding sich wirfet in das sterbend bild vͤnsers herren Jesu Cristi vnd durch sin blǒss armen durlittnen menschait in gǎt in die lutren gothait des ewigen vatters. Vnd das ist der kuͤrczest sichrest weg, als Cristus selber gesprochen hǎt: >Ego sum via etc. Ich bin der weg, die wǎrhait vnd daz leben.< [John 14: 6]274
(Question: What path ought the individual take so that he may return to the heavenly Father? Answer: One path is through creation, when the individual turns to divine love, and conquers all the created for God's sake. This path is very long, crooked, and full of stones and thorns. The second path is when the individual casts aside all the created, and seeks God in a pure and detached way, outwith himself and outwith all the created. The third path brings us the closest. This is when the individual takes unfettered leave of himself and of all created things, casts himself into the dying image of our Lord Jesus Christ, and through his naked, poor, and tormented humanity enters into the pure divinity of the eternal Father. This is the shortest and most secure path, as Christ himself said; ‘Ego sum via, etc. I am the way, the truth, and the life.’)
Marquard distinguishes here between three different philosophical‐theological models of the mystical ascent to God, without defining those models so precisely that they can be associated with individual works or intellectuals. The third model is presented essentially as an augmented version of the second: the search for God not just having detached the mind from the created self and all other creation, but then having impelled the mind into the image of the crucified Christ to access God's divinity through his suffering humanity. Perhaps the most striking feature of this passage, though, is not the distinction between three different paths itself, but the fact that no one path is established exclusively as the sole possible way to God. All three, in fact, lead to God; the third is only to be preferred to the others as it is the shortest and securest path. This is quite different, in fact, to Seuse: the first two chapters of the Büchlein der ewigen Weisheit in general, and the quotation above from the second chapter in particular, make quite clear that there is only one possible path to God, namely through Christ's suffering humanity.
Blumrich discusses the first section of the thirtieth sermon, on Whitsun, in which Marquard presents six schools of wisdom.275 The fourth of these is the school of Christ, with the focus very much on the crucified Christ. It is not just moral virtues that are learned from Christ's example, but also the abnegation of the world, and the cross and Passion of Christ as the sole focus of desire: (p.140)
In diser schůl Jesu Cristi lernet man sich selber hassen, die welt verschmǎhen, vss gǎn allen geschaffnen dingen, senftmútikait vnd demútikait, vnd wie allain ains notdurftig ist in allen dingen. Man lernet in der schůl, wie man mit sterben lebend wirt, mit armůt rich, mit verschmaͤht erwirdig, mit vndergǎn erhoͤht, vnd wie man allen lust vindet in dem cruͤcz vnd in dem liden vͤnsers herren Jesu Christi.276
(In this school of Jesus Christ one learns to hate oneself, to reject the world, and to leave all created things; one learns gentleness and humility, and how one thing alone is necessary in everything. In this school one learns how one becomes alive through dying, rich through poverty, honoured through shame, elevated through submission, and how one is to find all delight in the cross and the Passion of our Lord Jesus Christ.)
The sixth school, by contrast, is the school of the Holy Spirit.277 Or rather, it is the state of the highest possible purification of the mind, in which the individual achieves union with God. This passage provides one of the most detailed and important expositions of Marquard's pseudo‐Dionysian mystical theology, notably in the following passage, in which the precise mechanics of the union in the ‘apex affectionis’ are described:
Du merkest hie bi wol, wie gar geluͤtret edel menschen es můssend sin, die in disi schůl hoͤrend, wan in der schůl ist weder lieht noch vernunft, noch gedank, noch red, noch wirt gesůchet weder gnǎd noch glory. Wan vernunft vnd all kreft sind dǎ berǒbet irs werkes vnd in ainer stilli aines vnwissends vmb sich vnd vmb aͤllú ding, als sant Dyonisius sprichet, mer allain der spicz der minnenden kraft sůchet ainikait mit got. Vnd in dem spicz der minnenden kraft wirt got gelobt vͤber wesenlich mit der vͤber wallenden minn, die da besoͤffet wúrken aller ander kreft vnd blǒsslich in got gekeret ist, als Vercellensis der abt sprichet.278
(In this you can clearly see what highly purified, noble people it must be who belong to this school, because in this school there is neither light nor reason, thought or speech, and neither grace nor glory is sought. For reason and all the powers [of the soul] are robbed of their effect there, and in the silence of an unknowing of itself and everything, as St Dionysius says, it is just the apex of the affectionate power that seeks union with God. In the apex of the affectionate power God is praised superessentially by that overflowing love which drowns out the effects of all the other powers and has turned nakedly to God, as the abbot of Vercelli says.)
These six schools do not constitute separate stages through which the individual must pass to reach the highest level, but they are arranged in a loosely hierarchical manner, with each school representing a more advanced level of the spiritual life. The relative superiority of the sixth school over the (p.141) third in this way leads Blumrich to conclude that ‘Höhepunkt und Ziel seiner praedicatio ist also nicht die imitatio und compassio Christi, sondern eine ›Theologia mystica‹ im Anschluß an Dionysius.’279
We may broadly affirm this conclusion if we consider that neither of Marquard's two sermons that deal exclusively with the response to Christ's suffering explore a pronounced mystical aspect. But nor does Marquard exclude the possibility of mystical union through compassion with the crucified Christ at least in some way, as the three paths elaborated in the seventh sermon demonstrate. It is evident that much more work is required on the interrelationship of different approaches to the mystical union in Marquard's sermon collection. A provisional conclusion, however, can still be reached. For in the thirty‐ninth sermon, on St Lawrence, Marquard deals with both principal approaches together. The second section of the sermon concerns six ways in which the divine fire operates in the individual (we will recall that Lawrence is said to have died by roasting on a gridiron). The exposition of the sixth incorporates the mystical union. The divine fire, says Marquard, becomes so strong in the individual that he turns against everything that is not pure God. He dies to all that is created. Then the love of the Holy Spirit penetrates his entire body and inflames it with fiery love. This fiery love burns away all dissimilitude to God, drives out every image and form of the created, and renders the mind naked of every mediate instance between it and God. Then a sweet fiery love is awakened in the individual, in which he experiences God's presence in a state of rest.280 Here the soul is drawn into a union of love with God. At this point the fire of the Holy Spirit overcomes the individual's will, so that he becomes prepared to suffer anything that he may face, in order to repay Christ for his suffering. The true joy and worthiness of all people, Marquard continues, is the suffering and oppression represented by Christ's cross, because true divine love desires conformity only to the one who is beloved. It is the preparedness to live in conformity to Christ in humility, suffering, and oppression that is the sign of true love of the divine:
Vnd denn ist die sel in ainem schwigen vnd in dringen in gott, vnd gott zuͤhet si mit im selber in sich selber vnd machet die sel ain minn mit im, als der clǎren sunnen schin den morgen rǒt in sich zuͤhet vnd in mit siner clǎrhait v́ber glestet. Vnd beschihet denn, das (p.142) daz fúr des hailgen gaistes den willen des menschen vͤberwindet, daz der alles das wil liden, daz im ieman an getůn mag, vmb daz, daz er sinem minner vergelte sines lidens. Vnd dǎr vmb so tůt er alles daz, das er vermag, daz im liden vnd versmaͤht begegni. Vnd saͤmlicher menschen wirdikeit vnd froͤd ist daz cruͤcz Jhesu Cristi, daz ist liden vnd verschmaͤht, wan goͤttlichi minn wil nieman gelich sinn denn dem, den si minnet. Vnd wer si von der gelichait zuͤhet, daz ist ir pinlich, vnd wer si stúret ze gelichait irs geminten, daz ist ir froͤd. Vnd da bi sol man bekennen reht goͤttlich minn, wan si allwend gelich wil sin irem geminten Cristo in aller demůt, liden vnd verschmaͤht.281
(Then the soul is in a state of silence and of penetration into God. God draws the soul with himself into himself and makes the soul to be one love with him, as the bright sunshine draws the roseate dawn into itself and outshines it with its brightness. At this point the fire of the Holy Spirit overcomes the individual's will, so that he wants to suffer everything that anyone may do to him, in order that he might repay his lover for his suffering. Therefore he does everything that he can so that suffering and shame may befall him. The honour and delight of all such people is the cross of Jesus Christ, which is suffering and shame, because godly love will be similar to no one, except to someone whom it loves. Someone who draws it [i.e. godly love] away from this similitude causes it pain; someone who guides it to similitude with its beloved causes it joy. From this one should recognize true godly love, for it constantly wants to be similar to its beloved Christ in all humility, suffering, and shame.)
Evidently the individual becomes more prepared to become like Christ as a result of the action of the fire of the Holy Spirit in the mystical union. But that becoming like Christ is also a general feature of the religious (‘saͤmlicher menschen wirdikeit vnd froͤd’; ‘the honour and delight of all such people’), as the question that follows makes clear:
Die frǎg: Wǎ bi bekennet ain mensch, wie vil er goͤttlicher minn hab? Die antwúrt: Als vil sich der mensch gelichet Cristo, als vil het er rehter goͤttlicher minn, wan Cristus leben ist die reht regel goͤttlicher minn vnd die brinnend guldin port, wer anderswa wil in gǎn, der ist ain diep vnd ain morder [cf. John 10: 1].282
(Question: By what can an individual identify how much godly love he has? Answer: The more he is similar to Christ, the more true godly love he has, because Christ's life is the true rule of godly love and the burning, golden gate. Anyone who wishes to enter in a different way is a thief and a murderer.)
Bernard McGinn regards this section of sermon 39 as a resolution to the problem posed by the thirtieth, in which the school of Christ is located subordinate to the school of the Holy Spirit: ‘the school of Christ and the school of the Holy Spirit are really the outer and inner dimensions of the (p.143) same supreme love, as a discussion of the “divine fire” in Sermon 39 indicates.’283 This is a reasonable assertion, but it is only a partial resolution to the overall issue. Marquard is faced with the difficulty of resolving different models of the mystical union. He rejects the purely intellective model associated with Eckhart at one end of the spectrum, and the especially ‘bodily’ accentuation of transformation into the crucified Christ of the Stimulus amoris at the other. He prioritizes a particular kind of pseudo‐Dionysian union achieved through the ‘apex affectionis’, but at the same time does not exclude the possibility of achieving union through the crucified Christ. In this he is much less exclusive and dogmatic about the possible paths to union than his predecessors (especially Seuse), and this is probably the most significant conclusion that we can reach here regarding the mystical theology of his sermon collection. Insofar as he does consider union achieved through the crucified Christ, it does not have the character of a ‘breakthrough’ from the contemplation of Christ's suffering humanity into his divinity, as it does for Seuse. Instead, as the section above from sermon 39 makes clear, the love of Christ and the progress in achieving conformity to him, especially in his crucified condition, is a necessary response on the part of every individual. Achieving the mystical union does not diminish the necessity of that response; rather, it augments the individual's desire towards it.
(1) Kieckhefer, Unquiet Souls, pp. 91–8.
(2) Ludolf von Sachsen, Vita Christi, pars 2, c. 51 (ed. 1865, p. 571a; ed. 1870, vol. 3, pp. 375b–376a). References to Ludolf's Vita Christi are given first to the 1865 folio edition, and then to the 1870 4‐vol. octavo reprint. A reduced‐size facsimile of the 1865 edition, with unchanged pagination, is now available, published as Ludolphus the Carthusian, Vita Christi, 5 vols, Analecta Cartusiana 241 (Salzburg, 2006–7).
(3) Constable, Three Studies, pp. 169–93.
(4) Fulton, From Judgment to Passion, pp. 9–192.
(5) Saak, High Way to Heaven, p. 469.
(6) Hamm, ‘Normative Zentrierung’, pp. 191–9; id., ‘Das Gewicht von Religion’, pp. 169–70.
(7) The central developments are surveyed by Bestul, Texts of the Passion, pp. 34–68. A comprehensive handbook of the medieval Passion narratives in Latin and German is provided by Kemper, Die Kreuzigung Christi, pp. 52–169.
(8) Kemper, Die Kreuzigung Christi, pp. 4–8 and 12–37. For a convenient summary of the earlier studies in English see Bestul, Texts of the Passion, pp. 26–33.
(9) Kemper, Die Kreuzigung Christi, pp. 44–51.
(10) Saak, High Way to Heaven, pp. 544–58.
(11) Kemper, Die Kreuzigung Christi, pp. 37–44.
(13) Marrow, Passion Iconography, pp. 18–19.
(14) Pickering (ed.), Christi Leiden, p. 4.
(15) Saak, High Way to Heaven, p. 518.
(16) Christi Leiden, 62. 20–7.
(17) Christi Leiden, 62. 32–3.
(18) The preface compiled from Seuse's Vita that is added to the second recension refers to a Dominican friar who sought to suffer and be crucified with Christ, and introduces the motif that considering the Passion by reading the work provided consolation; see Christi Leiden, 60. 12–14. Further elements that direct the reader to meditate on the subject matter are found in the body of the common text at 65. 25–30, and in one of the lengthy interpolations in the third recension, edited pp. 38–41, ll. 59–68.
(19) On these issues see, with all further references, Kemper, Die Kreuzigung Christi, pp. 154–6. For a full discussion of Heinrich von St Gallen and the works attributed to him see Hilg (ed.), Das >Marienleben<, pp. 373–88.
(20) Heinrich von St Gallen, Passionstraktat Extendit manum, 61. 17–29.
(22) For this ‘early’ dating of the Meditationes vitae Christi see Geith, ‘Lateinische und deutschsprachige Leben Jesu‐Texte’, pp. 274–80, and Kemper, Die Kreuzigung Christi, pp. 98–107.
(23) See Kemper, Die Kreuzigung Christi, pp. 124–33 and 136–40; on Ludolf's sources see further Baier, Untersuchungen zu den Passionsbetrachtungen, pp. 197–389.
(24) Kemper, Die Kreuzigung Christi, pp. 136–40, with all further references.
(25) Baier, Untersuchungen zu den Passionsbetrachtungen, p. 135.
(26) Predigt 10, ll. 2–15 (p. 87).
(27) See Eucharistietraktat, 292. 15–293. 5; for a discussion of eucharistic prayers on the Passion see Schuppisser, ‘Schauen mit den Augen des Herzens’, pp. 171–2 n. 14.
(28) On De anima Christi, see Palmer, ‘Marquard von Lindau’, cols. 96–7. To the manuscripts listed there can be added Einsiedeln, Stiftsbibliothek, cod. 283 (1105), 491–7 (section IV; c.1483); New York, Jewish Theological Seminary of America, MS NH 108, 70r–80r (section I, incomplete; second half of 15th cent.); and Trier, Stadtbibliothek, Hs 627/1525 oct., 13r–23r (sections I–III; c.1500). The additional sections IV–VII, which are transmitted after the treatise proper in certain manuscripts, are unrelated to the theme of the core treatise of sections I–III. Marquard's authorship of texts IV–V is probable, as indicated by Blumrich (ed.), Marquard von Lindau. Deutsche Predigten, pp. 43*–44*, on the basis of textual comparisons with the sermon collection; his authorship is similarly probable for section VI, a eucharistic tract in four parts, on account of its very close relationship to the authentic De corpore Christi. The authorship of section VII, a short text on the discretion of spirits, remains doubtful. A close comparison of the German and Latin versions of section III reveals that the Latin text (Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Cgm 661, 269v–272v) is a secondary translation and that De anima Christi is, in correction to Nigel Palmer's earlier statement, an original composition in German.
(29) De anima Christi, 201. 14–37. This passage is cited in the original Latin in the same context in De reparatione hominis, a. 23 (120. 29–121. 1); the source is not identified there by the editor. In fact, the entire passage is taken from Bonaventura's Soliloquium, c. 1, §4, 33 (vol. 8, pp. 28–67), here pp. 39b–40a. The initial section ‘Vnßer herre … creucigeten’ is from Bonaventura's own pen; the subsequent section, ‘Daz heubt … beuelhen’ is then introduced in the Soliloquium as a quotation attributed to Bernard of Clairvaux. This quotation is not found in Bernard's authentic works, but it can be identified in the Manipulus florum of Thomas of Ireland, a florilegium written at Paris in or shortly before 1306. There it is attributed to ‘Bernardus, in quodam sermone’; see Manipulus florum, q3rb–va (‘Passio’, entry z); and for a conspectus of Bernard quotations in the Manipulus florum see Rouse and Rouse, Preachers, Florilegia and Sermons, pp. 420–1. The switch in the character of the corresponding section in Marquard's works, from the narration of the Passion to the description of Christ crucified, is thus explained. The whole passage is excerpted from the Soliloquium, but the distinction between Bonaventura's initial words on the Passion and the embedded quotation from a pseudo‐Bernardine text has been erased.
(30) De anima Christi, 202. 5–16. The same discussion is found in De reparatione hominis, a. 23 (121. 21–122. 9); with the flagellation considered at 121. 23–5. The chancellor is not further specified; Marquard simply begins ‘nam ait quidem cancellarius in suis sermonibus’ (‘for a certain chancellor said in his sermons’) (121. 23–4). On the narrative elaboration of the flagellation see Marrow, Passion Iconography, pp. 134–41; see further p. 80 and n. 329 for the use of Ps. 128: 3 in this context. For parallels, see Johannes de Caulibus, Meditationes vitae Christi, c. 76, ll. 36–50 (p. 265); Michael de Massa, Vita Ihesu Christi, p. 46rb; Ludolf von Sachsen, Vita Christi, pars 2, c. 62 (ed. 1865, pp. 638a–b; ed. 1870, vol. 4, pp. 536b–538a); and Heinrich von St Gallen, Passionstraktat Extendit manum, 50. 15–26.
(31) De anima Christi, 202. 16–23; cf. De reparatione hominis, a. 23 (121. 35–41), with a long exposition, and attribution of the statement on the piercing of the brain to Bernard. On the crown of thorns in medieval texts see Kemper, Die Kreuzigung Christi, pp. 199–207; on the typological association with the blinding of Samson, see Marrow, Passion Iconography, pp. 141–2. Marquard's quotation from Bernard in De reparatione appears in the same context in Ubertino da Casale, Arbor vitae crucifixae, lib. 4, c. 11 (p. 313b). For further parallels, see Johannes de Caulibus, Meditationes vitae Christi, c. 76, ll. 63–74 (p. 266); Michael de Massa, Vita Ihesu Christi, p. 46va–b; Ludolf von Sachsen, pars 2, c. 62 (ed. 1865, p. 640a–b; ed. 1870, vol. 4, pp. 540b–1a), with a discussion of the thorns' sharpness but not the piercing of the brain; and Heinrich von St Gallen, Passionstraktat Extendit manum, 52. 19–22.
(32) De anima Christi, 202. 23–34 (no parallel in De reparatione hominis). On the typological association with the martyrdom of Hur, together with a parallel from a 15th‐cent. Dutch life of Christ for the statement that Christ required divine assistance to avoid suffocation by spitting, see Marrow, Passion Iconography, pp. 132–4. For further parallels, see Johannes de Caulibus, Meditationes vitae Christi, c. 75, ll. 163–8 (p. 262); Michael de Massa, Vita Ihesu Christi, p. 46vb; Ludolf von Sachsen, Vita Christi, pars 2, c. 60 (ed. 1865, p. 621b; ed. 1870, vol. 4, p. 502a–b), with the idea that such spitting was a standard Jewish custom, occasionally resulting in suffocation; and Heinrich von St Gallen, Passionstraktat Extendit manum, 57. 10–21, with further instances of spitting at 42. 27–43. 6 and 44. 13–18.
(33) De anima Christi, 202. 35–203. 21; cf. De reparatione hominis, a. 23 (121. 41–122. 9), with ascription of the physiological justification to Bonaventura.
(34) See Kemper, Die Kreuzigung Christi, pp. 179–88; on the Old Testament parallels, see Ruh, ‘Zur Theologie des mittelalterlichen Passionstraktats’, p. 24. For parallels in the contemporary literature, see Johannes de Caulibus, Meditationes vitae Christi, c. 78, ll. 10–12 (p. 270); Michael de Massa, Vita Ihesu Christi, pp. 47vb–48ra; Ludolf von Sachsen, Vita Christi, pars 2, c. 63 (ed. 1865, p. 652a–b; ed. 1870, vol. 4, p. 565b–566b); and Heinrich von St Gallen, Passionstraktat Extendit manum, 58. 5–22, with a second such painful unclothing at 61. 30–62. 11.
(35) See Kemper, Die Kreuzigung Christi, pp. 151–3.
(36) Johannes von Zazenhausen, Deutscher Passionstraktat, cited from Nuremberg, Stadtbibliothek, Cent. VI, 54, fols. 211r–302v, at fols. 257v–258r. My thanks to Tobias A. Kemper for access to copies of this work.
(37) Predigt 10, ll. 115–24 (p. 90). The context of the question within the sermon removes any suspicion that the Dionysius quotation might continue to pertain to its original context of the hidden aspects of God. Marquard uses it as a suitably authoritative statement on the general principle of not inventing things about God that cannot be supported by Scripture.
(38) Johannes‐Auslegung, art. 8, §3, cited from Konstanz, Heinrich‐Suso‐Gymnasium, cod. 36, 8r–42v, at fol. 31r (Ko), collated with Manchester, John Rylands University Library, cod. lat. 70, 141r–184v, at fol. 170r (Ma). Variant readings, with the preferred reading first: de passione Domini (Ko)] de passione Christi (Ma); falso (Ma)] ecclesiam (Ko); in De angelica ierarchia (Ko)] De angelica ierarchia (Ma); nisi quod (Ko)] nisi quam (Ma). On the relationship of these two manuscripts, see Sturlese, ‘Über Marquard von Lindau’, pp. 280–1.
(39) Köpf, ‘Passionsfrömmigkeit’, pp. 745–6.
(40) Köpf, ‘Produktive Christusfrömmigkeit’, esp. pp. 832–8, 850–1, 856–61, and 868–73, with comprehensive art historical references; on the iconographical and literary tradition in the modern period (to at least 1989) see in addition Moser, ‘Die fünfzehn geheimen Leiden’.
(41) Zoepfl, ‘Das unbekannte Leiden’, pp. 320–9, augmented by Schmidt, ‘Das geheime Leiden’; on Margareta von Freiburg in this context see now Köpf, ‘Produktive Christusfrömmigkeit’, pp. 862–8, and on Margareta in general Dinzelbacher and Ruh, ‘Magdalena von Freiburg’.
(42) Marrow, Passion Iconography, pp. 196–8; on the spikeblock see pp. 170–89.
(43) See Ruh, ‘De Heimelike Passie’; the version bearing De heimelike passie as its title edited by Stracke, ‘Een brokstuk’, at pp. 136–88; further Marrow, Passion Iconography, p. 218.
(44) Stracke, ‘Een brokstuk’, pp. 188–90.
(45) Marrow, Passion Iconography, p. 259 n. 100.
(46) Kemper, Die Kreuzigung Christi, p. 37.
(47) Marrow, Passion Iconography, pp. 183–4.
(48) Kemper, Die Kreuzigung Christi, pp. 37–8; cf. Johannes von Paltz, Coelifodina, 9. 1–6.
(49) Marrow, Passion Iconography, pp. 184–6, with a discussion of what ‘die verholen passie’ might be at n. 786; on the treatise itself see pp. 207–8. It is known in just two manuscripts, both of which are more recently described: Brussels, Koninklijke Bibliotheek van België, Hs. 2694, on which see Deschamps and Mulder, Inventaris van de Middelnederlandse handschriften, vol. 8, pp. 10–11; and Ghent, Bibliotheek der Rijksuniversiteit, Hs. 1016, on which see Reynaert, Catalogus van de Middelnederlandse handschriften, pp. 86–9.
(50) Marrow, Passion Iconography, p. 185.
(51) See Bestul, Texts of the Passion, pp. 17–18; cf. Johannes de Caulibus, Meditationes vitae Christi, prologus, 90–103 (p. 10).
(52) Ludolf von Sachsen, Vita Christi, prooemium (ed. 1865, p. 4b; ed. 1870, vol. 1, pp. 8b–9a).
(53) De anima Christi, 203. 22–31, here ll. 30–1.
(54) The background to this statement on the perception of pain by Christ's soul is Bonaventura's discussion on the same subject: see Bonaventura, In II Sent., d. 16, a. 2, ‘De passibilitate et dolore animae Christi specialiter’ (vol. 3, pp. 352a–359b): notably q. 3, in corp., ‘Dolor vero compassionis primo erat in ratione et ex ratione redundabat in sensualitatem’ (‘The pain of compassion was in fact first in the faculty of reason, and from reason resonated into the part of the mind that received sensory stimuli’) (p. 358b); see further Strack, ‘Das Leiden Christi’, pp. 135–6.
(55) De anima Christi, 203. 31–204. 14, here 204. 12–14; cf. De reparatione hominis, a. 23 (122. 10–27), with a slightly different argumentation.
(56) Eucharistietraktat, 274. 29–31.
(57) De anima Christi, 204. 16–38, here ll. 35–8.
(58) See De reparatione hominis, a. 23 (122. 28–123. 3).
(59) Christi Leiden, 63. 34–64. 17. Bonaventura makes a similar statement in his Lignum Vitae, c. 5, §18 (vol. 8, pp. 68–87), here pp. 75b–76a. In his commentary on Luke, he explores the significance of the sweating of blood, not its causes. It demonstrated the intensity of Christ's prayer to his father, and his desire to shed his blood for mankind: ‘Ideo autem sanguis decurrebat in terram, ad ostendendum, quod pro Ecclesia orabat et pro illa effundere sanguinem suum cupiebat’ (‘Thus however blood flowed onto the earth, to demonstrate that he was praying for the church, and that he desired to pour out his blood for the church’); see Bonaventura, Commentarius in Evangelium Lucam, c. 22, §51–8 [vv. 39–46] (vol. 7, pp. 555b–558b), here p. 557b; see further Poppi, ‘La passione di Gesù’, pp. 77–80.
(60) See Heinrich von St Gallen, Passionstraktat Extendit manum, 35. 19–36. 2; and Ludolf von Sachsen, Vita Christi, pars 2, c. 59 (ed. 1865, p. 609b; ed. 1870, vol. 4, p. 476b).
(61) Knuuttila, Emotions, pp. 179–80, with all further references.
(62) For a full discussion of the Christological issues associated with Gethsemane, see Madigan, The Passions of Christ, pp. 63–6.
(63) Knuuttila, Emotions, pp. 193–5.
(64) Jerome, Commentarius in Matheum, lib. 4, ll. 1213–24 (pp. 253–4).
(65) Madigan, The Passions of Christ, pp. 66–71.
(66) See Knuuttila, Emotions, pp. 180 n. 5 and 194 n. 47.
(67) Glossa ordinaria, to Matt. 26: 37–8 (vol. 4, p. 81a).
(68) Köpf, ‘Produktive Christusfrömmigkeit’, p. 825.
(69) See Madigan, The Passions of Christ, pp. 73–90.
(70) Olivi's Lectura super Matthaeum is unedited. I quote from Oxford, New College Library, MS 49, fols. 147ra–148vb; on this manuscript see Douie, ‘Olivi's “Postilla super Matthaeum”’, pp. 67–8.
(71) Compare De reparatione hominis, a. 23 (122. 21–7) with Olivi, Lectura super Matthaeum, fol. 148rb–va.
(72) De anima Christi, 205. 1–32.
(73) Ibid. 6–9. The point on the formation of Christ's body from the purest blood in Mary recurs frequently in Marquard's oeuvre: see Predigt 5, ll. 97–101 (p. 44); Predigt 21, ll. 109–12 (p. 140); De reparatione hominis, a. 23 (123. 14–16); and De perfectione humanitatis Christi, 156. 27–9.
(74) See Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption, pp. 98–101.
(75) Bonaventura, De perfectione vitae, c. 6, §5 (vol. 8, pp. 107–27), at pp. 121b–122a. The same idea on the tenderness of Christ's body, without the explanation of Christ's flesh deriving wholly from Mary, is in the Sermo de dominica in Quinquagesima (p. 203b); see further Strack, ‘Das Leiden Christi’, pp. 134–5.
(76) De anima Christi, 205. 9–14; cf. De reparatione hominis, a. 23 (123. 17–21).
(77) De anima Christi, 205. 12–14; cf. De reparatione hominis, a. 23 (123. 22–5), which offers a slightly different point: that Christ suffered particularly in the most sensitive parts of his body. See Bonaventura, In III Sent., d. 16, a. 1, q. 2, fund. 4 (vol. 3, p. 348a): ‘Item, quanto sensus tactus est vivacior, tanto dolor, qui est secundum sensum, est acutior, unde in illis membris, in quibus viget sensus tactus, est dolor acutissimus; sed in Christo fuit sensus tactus vivacissimus; «prudentissimum enim animalium est homo», ut dicit Philosophus, et inter omnes Christus, cum fuerit optime dispositus: ergo dolor, quem sensit, super omnes dolores fuit acutissimus’ (‘The livelier the sense of touch is, the more acute the pain felt by that sense is. Thus the most acute pain is in those limbs in which the sense of touch is strong. But Christ had the liveliest sense of touch of all; “for man is the most knowledgeable of the animals”, as the philosopher says, and Christ above all, since he had been made in the finest order. Therefore the pain that he felt was the acutest of all pain’).
(78) De anima Christi, 205. 14–24, here ll. 23–4; cf. De perfectione humanitatis Christi, 156. 30–3.
(79) Predigt 18, ll. 18–20 (p. 126).
(80) De anima Christi, 200. 4–5.
(82) De reparatione hominis, a. 23 (124. 10–11).
(84) Constable, Three Studies, pp. 188–90, and Köpf, ‘Die Passion Christi’, pp. 27–31.
(85) Ludolf von Sachsen, Vita Christi, pars 1, c. 9 (ed. 1865, p. 40b; ed. 1870, vol. 1, p. 82b).
(87) Ludolf von Sachsen, Vita Christi, pars 2, c. 51 (ed. 1865, p. 570b; ed. 1870, vol. 3, p. 375a); see further Baier, Untersuchungen zu den Passionsbetrachtungen, pp. 534–7, with identification of the (pseudo‐)Augustine quotation at p. 537 n. 36. This quotation derives (see p. 233 and n. 5) from a sermon compiled from various patristic sources, possibly put together by Ambrosius Autpertus (d. 784), and commonly attributed in the Middle Ages to Augustine. For the original text see Augustine, Sermo 207 [In natali sancti Laurentii 2], in J.‐P. Migne (ed.), Patrologia latina, vol. 39 (Paris, 1865), 2128–9.
(88) Ludolf von Sachsen, Vita Christi, pars 1, c. 10 (ed. 1865, p. 47a; ed. 1870, vol. 1, p. 96b).
(89) Ludolf von Sachsen Vita Christi, pars 1 c. 10 (ed. 1865, p. 47a–b; ed. 1870, vol. 1, pp. 96b–97a).
(90) Swanson, ‘Passion and Practice’, p. 17.
(91) Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption, p. 87.
(92) On the seven bloodlettings in Bonaventura's oeuvre, see Strack, ‘Das Leiden Christi’, p. 146.
(93) Bonaventura, Vitis mystica, c. 18 (vol. 8, pp. 159–229), here p. 183a.
(95) Bonaventura, In III Sent., d. 18, a. 1, q. 1 and q. 2 (vol. 3, pp. 380a–384b).
(96) Bonaventura, Breviloquium, c. 4, §7 (vol. 5, pp. 199–291), here pp. 247a–248b.
(97) Ibid. (vol. 5, pp. 247b–248a); on the nature of Christ's merit ‘ab instanti conceptionis’ (reliant on the presence of habitual (as distinct from actual) merit in him from this point, a consequence of his possession of the plenitude of grace) ), see Gonzalez, ‘The Work of Christ’, p. 377.
(98) De perfectione humanitatis Christi, 160. 30–9.
(99) Strack, ‘Das Leiden Christi’, pp. 133–4.
(100) Bonaventura, Vitis mystica, c. 23 (vol. 8, p. 187b); cf. c. 17 (pp. 182b–183a).
(101) Id., De perfectione vitae, c. 6, §5 (vol. 8, pp. 121b–122a).
(102) Id., Sermo I de sabbato sancto (vol. 9, pp. 267a–270a), here p. 267a.
(103) See id., In III Sent., d. 16, a. 2 (vol. 3, pp. 352a–359b); and Strack, ‘Das Leiden Christi’, pp. 135–6.
(104) Strack, ‘Das Leiden Christi’, pp. 136–7, with the quotation p. 136.
(106) See De reparatione hominis, a. 23 (121. 5–20).
(107) Strack, ‘Das Leiden Christi’, p. 139; id., Christusleid im Christenleben, pp. 40–6.
(108) Bonaventura, In II Sent., d. 40, a. 2, q. 1, fund. 3 (vol. 2, p. 926a–b).
(109) De anima Christi, 206. 37–207. 21; cf. Eucharistietraktat, 273. 32–274. 3.
(110) De reparatione hominis, a. 23 (124. 9–35). De reparatione gives six, not five points, dividing the final point of the sequence in De anima into two without any material alteration.
(111) De anima Christi, 207. 24–8; cf. De reparatione hominis, a. 23 (124. 36–9). In his sermon on Mary's sorrow under the cross, he says the same of her greatest spiritual suffering: see Predigt 21, ll. 89–97 (pp. 139–40).
(112) De anima Christi, 207. 30–208. 32.
(113) De reparatione hominis, a. 23 (124. 40–125. 4).
(114) De anima Christi, 208. 33–209. 6; cf. De reparatione hominis, a. 23 (125. 8–12), which offers a shorter, but more technical explanation.
(115) De anima Christi, 209. 7–29.
(117) On Olivi's understanding of the Passion in general in the Lectura super Matthaeum see Madigan, Olivi and the Interpretation of Matthew, pp. 122–3, and Douie, ‘Olivi's “Postilla super Matthaeum”’, pp. 82–7.
(118) Olivi, Lectura in Matthaeum, fol. 148rb, which gives ‘adictas causas’, corrected here to ‘advertas causas’.
(119) De reparatione hominis, a. 23 (124. 9–39); De anima Christi, 206. 32–207. 29.
(120) Olivi, Lectura super Matthaeum, fol. 148rb.
(122) Olivi, Lectura super Matthaeum, fol. 148rb.
(123) De reparatione hominis, a. 23 (124. 9–13).
(125) Olivi, Lectura super Matthaeum, fol. 148rb.
(126) De reparatione hominis, a. 23 (124. 23–7).
(127) Madigan, Olivi and the Interpretation of Matthew, pp. 130–2; d'Alverny, ‘Un adversaire de Saint Thomas’, pp. 186–92.
(128) D'Alverny, ‘Un adversaire de Saint Thomas’, pp. 192–206, here pp. 203–4. Ciceri's more recent conspectus counts a total of 21 manuscripts of the complete text; 5 more with miscellaneous extracts; 19 with just the commentary on ch. 18; and 10 with just the commentary on the Lord's Prayer: see Ciceri, Petri Iohannis Olivi, pp. 41–9. Aside from the Klosterneuburg copy noted above, no other manuscript of the complete work is securely of German provenance, although all but 2 of the 19 manuscripts containing the commentary to ch. 18 are from Germany.
(129) Douie, ‘Olivi's “Postilla super Matthaeum” ’, pp. 91–2, here p. 91.
(130) On the date of the Lectura in Matthaeum see Madigan, Olivi and the Interpretation of Matthew, pp. 72–3; Burr, Olivi and Franciscan Poverty, pp. 47–8 and 54–5 n. 36.
(131) See Martínez Ruiz, De la dramatizacion, pp. 31–63 and 233–7; note that pp. 40–5 correct and replace the earlier account in id., ‘Il processo redazionale’.
(132) See Martínez Ruiz, De la dramatizacion, pp. 63–75, 271–7, and 310–18; and id., ‘Ubertino da Casale’.
(133) Burr, The Spiritual Franciscans, pp. 47–8, and Martínez Ruiz, De la dramatizacion, pp. 171–7.
(134) Ubertino da Casale, Arbor vitae crucifixae, prol. 1, p. 4b.
(135) The incunable text here offers ‘primum’, which I correct to ‘illum’, as Martínez Ruiz has shown ‘primum’ to be an error in a subarchetype to which the incunable text is related: see Martínez Ruiz, De la dramatizacion, p. 43.
(136) Ubertino da Casale, Arbor vitae crucifixae, prol. 1, p. 6a.
(137) Martínez Ruiz, De la dramatizacion, pp. 69–71 and 347.
(138) Ubertino da Casale, Arbor vitae crucifixae, lib. 4, c. 9, pp. 307b–308a.
(142) The full implications of the reciprocity of amor and dolor in this passage are discussed by Martínez Ruiz, De la dramatizacion, p. 346; see pp. 520–30 on this dichotomy in the Arbor vitae as a whole.
(143) Ubertino da Casale, Arbor vitae crucifixae, lib. 4, c. 9, p. 309b.
(147) Martínez Ruiz, De la dramatizacion, pp. 342–7, here pp. 344–5 n. 44.
(148) Angela da Foligno, Liber, Instructio 3 (pp. 442–83).
(149) Angela da Foligno, Liber, Instructio 3, 7–75 (pp. 442–9).
(153) Angela da Foligno, Liber, Instructio 28 (pp. 638–49), here 62–71 (p. 644).
(154) For a recent survey of Angela's life and extant works, see Ruh, Geschichte der abendländischen Mystik, vol. 2, pp. 509–15.
(155) See Marini, ‘Ubertino e Angela’, pp. 319–25; possible parallels between the works are discussed pp. 325–33, with some examples for comparison pp. 334–44; on Ubertino's relationship with Angela see additionally Burr, The Spiritual Franciscans, pp. 334–44, and Martínez Ruiz, De la dramatizacion, pp. 208–10.
(156) Ludolf von Sachsen, Vita Christi, pars 2, c. 67 (ed. 1865, p. 687a; ed. 1870, vol. 4, p. 639a).
(158) For the Gethsemane scene see Johannes de Caulibus, Meditationes vitae Christi, c. 75, ll. 13–140 (pp. 256–61); Michael de Massa, Vita Ihesu Christi, pp. 42va–43vb; Ludolf von Sachsen, Vita Christi, pars 2, c. 59 (ed. 1865, pp. 605a–611a; ed. 1870, vol. 4, pp. 468a–480a).
(159) Heinrich von St Gallen, Passionstraktat Extendit manum, 66. 12–21.
(160) Johannes von Zazenhausen, Deutscher Passionstraktat, fol. 225r–v. All quotations from this text are given from the Nuremberg manuscript, checked against the copy in Mainz; from which, as here, the portion omitted (by homoteleuton) in the Nuremberg manuscript is given from fol. 111rb.
(161) See Johannes von Zazenhausen, Deutscher Passionstraktat, fols. 225v–227v.
(162) Hugh of St Victor, De quatuor voluntatibus, cols. 844–5.
(163) On this work in the medieval understanding of Christ's prayer see Madigan, The Passions of Christ, p. 79.
(164) See Strack, ‘Das Leiden Christi’, pp. 138–40, and id., Christusleid im Christenleben, pp. 46–8.
(165) The Latin prologue is edited by Oliger, ‘Die deutsche Passion’, pp. 245–8, with the list of authors at p. 246.
(167) Johannes von Zazenhausen, Deutscher Passionstraktat, fols. 271v–272r.
(168) Kemper, ‘Die Kreuzigung Christi’, pp. 152–3.
(169) For all the following, see Mossman, ‘Ubertino da Casale and the Devotio Moderna’ [in press].
(170) Jan van Ruusbroec, Geestelijke brulocht, I: 289–301 (ed. Eichler, pp. 93–4); 305–18 (ed. Alaerts, pp. 187–9). All references to Ruusbroec's Brulocht are given first to Wolfgang Eichler's edition of the 14th‐cent. German translation, and then to the corresponding passages in J. Alaerts's edition of the original Dutch. On Marquard's use of the Brulocht see Eichler (ed.), Jan van Ruusbroecs ‘Brulocht’, pp. 41–7.
(171) Uden, Museum voor Religieuze Kunst, no shelfmark (formerly 's‐Hertogenbosch, Bisschoppelijk Archief, no shelfmark); see Lievens, ‘Alijt Bake’, pp. 147–8, and Scheepsma, Deemoed en devotie, pp. 254–5.
(172) Mossman, ‘Ubertino da Casale and the Devotio Moderna’; for the text see The Hague, Koninklijke Bibliotheek, 135 F 12, fols. 185v–187v.
(173) See Ubbink, De receptie van Meister Eckhart, pp. 215–16.
(174) Völker, Die deutschen Schriften, pp. 174–8.
(175) See Kemper, Die Kreuzigung Christi, pp. 159–60.
(176) See Phil. 2: 7–8: ‘sed semet ipsum exinanivit, formam servi accipiens; in similitudinem hominum factus, et habitu inventus ut homo. Humiliavit semet ipsum factus oboediens usque ad mortem, mortem autem crucis’ (‘but he emptied himself, taking the form of a servant; he was made in the likeness of man and found as a man in habit. He humbled himself, and became obedient unto death; death, even, on the cross’). On the term humilis, divested of its pejorative import, as the most important adjective used in the early church to express the nature of Christ's life and Passion see Auerbach, Literatursprache und Publikum, pp. 35–6.
(177) See Damiata, Pietà e storia nell' Arbor vitae, pp. 87–9.
(178) Ubertino da Casale, Arbor vitae crucifixae, lib. 1, c. 11 (p. 63a); cf. lib. 1, c. 9 (pp. 33b–46b, at p. 43b).
(179) See Groebner, Ungestalten, pp. 94–136.
(180) See Saak, High Way to Heaven, pp. 536–7; for further information on Pinder's Speculum passionis see Kemper, Die Kreuzigung Christi, pp. 164–5.
(181) See Saak, High Way to Heaven, pp. 555–8.
(182) The text (the seventeenth of the 65 meditationes in Jordan's treatise) is edited by Saak, High Way to Heaven, pp. 829–30; on the work see now Kemper, Die Kreuzigung Christi, pp. 141–2.
(183) De anima Christi, 180. 3–12.
(186) De anima Christi, 209. 30–211. 8; cf. De reparatione hominis, a. 22 (118. 15–33), in which Marquard establishes a series of parallels between Adam's sin ex fructo ligni and Christ's wish to die in ligno crucis. This parallel of woods was a common idea; see e.g. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, pars 3, q. 46, a. 4, r. 2 (vol. 3, p. 287a); further Heinrich von St Gallen, Passionstraktat Extendit manum, 15. 7–16. 11. The sacramental, and specifically eucharistic, significance of the crucified Christ and the blood and water flowing from the wound in his side, an image that Marquard deploys here, is presented variously elsewhere in his oeuvre: see Predigt 23, ll. 175–9 (p. 156); De fide, 543–51 (pp. 312–13); De reparatione hominis, a. 25 (131. 27–31). On the particular Franciscan devotion to Christ's wounds and the blood flowing from his side see Seegets, Passionstheologie und Passionsfrömmigkeit, p. 234; on the iconographical tradition see Satzinger and Ziegeler, ‘Marienklagen und Pieta’, p. 271, both with all further references. A long discussion of the origin of the sacraments in Christ's side wound is given by Ludolf von Sachsen, Vita Christi, pars 2, c. 64 (ed. 1865, p. 675a–b; ed. 1870, vol. 4, p. 614a–b). Other texts trace the origin of this blood and water through Christ's wound to his heart; see e.g. Christi Leiden, 78. 30–7, or the second prayerbook on the Passion for Elisabeth Ebran, written 1429 by the Augustinian Johannes von Indersdorf (d. 1470), for which see Weiske, ‘Bilder und Gebete vom Leben und Leiden Christi’, pp. 131 and 162.
(187) De anima Christi, 211. 8–28.
(189) Shaffern, ‘The Medieval Theology of Indulgences’, p. 21.
(190) Corpus iuris canonici, Extravag. commun. lib. 5, titulus 9, c. 2 (vol. 2, cols. 1304–6); here col. 1304; see Shaffern, ‘The Medieval Theology of Indulgences’, pp. 25–8.
(191) De anima Christi, 200. 22–32.
(192) Predigt 10, ll. 265–88 (pp. 94–5); Eucharistietraktat 271. 4–26; on the related idea of the purification of interior and exterior works in Christ's blood, accessed by contemplation of the Passion, see Predigt 14, ll. 58–62, and Dekalogerklärung, fols. 140v–141r (cf. ed. 1516, p. 19a–b; ed. 1483, 20. 26–42) and fol. 200r–v (cf. ed. 1516, pp. 84b–85b; ed. 1483, 103. 4–30).
(193) See Angenendt, ‘Seuses Lehre’, pp. 145–52; and Haas, ‘Sinn und Tragweite’, pp. 98–101; see further now McGinn, The Harvest of Mysticism, pp. 215–16, and Ulrich, Imitatio et configuratio, p. 45, identifying potential scriptural foundations.
(194) Seuse, Büchlein der ewigen Weisheit (ed. Bihlmeyer, pp. 196–325), c. 14 (258. 3–13).
(197) Seuse, Horologium sapientiae, pars 1, c. 14 (495. 25–498. 29); on the dating of Seuse's works see Ruh, Die Mystik des deutschen Predigerordens, p. 435. Ludolf von Sachsen, Vita Christi, pars 2, c. 58 (ed. 1865, pp. 601b–602b; ed. 1870, pp. 460a–462a); cf. Baier, Untersuchungen zu den Passionsbetrachtungen, vol. 2, p. 302.
(198) See Baier, Untersuchungen zu den Passionsbetrachtungen, pp. 314–25. The common source that links Jordan's Meditationes and Ludolf's Vita Christi, which Baier postulates here and terms the Articulus‐Quelle, has never been found. Kemper thus indicates that the two works were most likely directly related, with Jordan's Meditationes probably the later of the two: see Die Kreuzigung Christi, p. 141.
(199) van Maren, ‘Zitate deutscher Mystiker’, pp. 74–5.
(200) Angenendt, ‘Seuses Lehre’, pp. 152–4; Haas, ‘Sinn und Tragweite’, pp. 100–1.
(201) Baier, Untersuchungen zu den Passionsbetrachtungen, pp. 449–50.
(202) Predigt 10, ll. 22–40 (pp. 87–8).
(204) Predigt 10, ll. 92–102 (p. 89).
(205) See Ruh, Bonaventura deutsch, esp. pp. 63–78.
(206) Ruh, ‘Zur Theologie des mittelalterlichen Passionstraktats’, pp. 33–4. Ruh notes that the doctrine of Christ's superabundant satisfaction is ‘vor allem thomistisch[ ]’ (p. 34). Aquinas does hold this position (see the Summa theologiae, pars 3, q. 46, a. 5, ad 3 (vol. 3, p. 289a)), but Anselm is its original proponent. Anselm transformed the old doxology that God had more marvellously redeemed what he had marvellously created into the idea that Christ's death far exceeded that which mankind owed, because Christ's life deserved to be loved more than sin deserved to be hated: see Pelikan, The Growth of Medieval Theology, pp. 142–3. The doctrine is common in 14th‐cent. texts: see e.g. Ludolf von Sachsen, Vita Christi, pars 1, c. 10 (ed. 1865, p. 47b; ed. 1870, p. 97a); and in Marquard's oeuvre, De reparatione hominis, a. 24 (128. 26–36). An odd exception is presented by Heinrich von St Gallen, Passionstraktat Extendit manum, 13. 9–14. 5: Christ insists to Mary that his death is necessary, as one drop of blood would be insufficient. But the standard doctrine is upheld in Heinrich's Magnifikat‐Auslegung, ll. 442–51 (pp. 42–3). On the wider issue of God's freedom to save mankind other than by Christ's death, and thus whether Christ's will could really ever be free if the Father desired the salvation of mankind, see Hamm, Promissio, pactum, ordinatio, esp. pp. 473–8.
(207) Bonaventura, De perfectione vitae, c. 6, §6 (vol. 8, p. 122b).
(208) Strack, ‘Das Leiden Christi’, pp. 138–40; id., Christusleid im Christenleben, pp. 40–51; see further Ennis, ‘The Place of Love’, pp. 137–40.
(209) Useful outlines are provided by Pelikan, The Growth of Medieval Theology, pp. 129–44, and Bynum, Wonderful Blood, pp. 196–201; on Bonaventura's debt to Anselm on this issue see Cullen, Bonaventure, pp. 146–8, and Gonzalez, ‘The Work of Christ’, pp. 374–9.
(210) Bonaventura, Commentarius in Evangelium Ioannem (vol. 6, pp. 237–532), c. 3, §26 [v. 16], here p. 282b.
(211) Id., Sermones dominicales (ed. Bougerol), sermo 31 (pp. 349–54), here §8 (p. 354).
(212) Id., In III Sent., d. 20, a. u., q. 2, ad 1 (vol. 3, p. 421a).
(213) Strack, Christusleid im Christenleben, pp. 45–6 and 114–20; Gonzalez, ‘The Work of Christ’, pp. 379–80.
(214) Bonaventura, Sermo 2 de Dominica 2 post Pascha (vol. 9, pp. 296a–301a), here §2, p. 298a.
(215) See principally Delhaye, ‘La Charité’, pp. 505–15, and Schlosser, Cognitio et amor, pp. 147–65; further Ennis, ‘The Place of Love’, pp. 134–5 and 140–3, and Cullen, Bonaventure, pp. 149 and 163–4.
(216) See Langer, ‘Passio und compassio’, pp. 49–50, 54–5, and esp. 58–62.
(217) Predigt 10, ll. 52–82 (pp. 88–9).
(219) Predigt 10, ll. 103–15 (p. 90); cf. De reparatione hominis, a. 25 (130. 28–31), where Christ's Passion is described as a book in which to read the virtues, and which thereby opens the path to salvation.
(220) Rauch, Das Buch Gottes, pp. 9–10.
(221) Zinn, ‘Book and Word’, esp. pp. 152–4 and 163–4 on the ‘liber vitae’.
(222) Rauch, Das Buch Gottes, pp. 181–7; for a conspectus of references to God and Christ as book in Bonaventura's oeuvre see pp. 5–12.
(223) Oliger, ‘Die deutsche Passion’, pp. 246–8.
(224) Seuse, Horologium sapientiae, pars 1, c. 14 (494. 13–21); Ludolf von Sachsen, Vita Christi, pars 2, c. 58 (ed. 1865, p. 601a; ed. 1870, vol. 4, p. 459b); cf. Baier, Untersuchungen zu den Passionsbetrachtungen, p. 302.
(225) McGinn, The Harvest of Mysticism, p. 212; see further Haas, ‘Sinn und Tragweite’, pp. 97–8, and Jaspert, ‘Leid und Trost’, pp. 177–8.
(226) Seuse, Büchlein der ewigen Weisheit, c. 3 (208. 31–209. 4).
(227) Seuse, Büchlein der ewigen Weisheit, c. 3 (209. 5–12); cf. c. 14 (256. 15–23).
(228) See Kemper, Die Kreuzigung Christi, pp. 336–51.
(229) Palmer, Bibelübersetzung und Heilsgeschichte, p. 56; on the seven words in German texts prior to 1400 (without Marquard) see Kemper, Die Kreuzigung Christi, pp. 356–8.
(230) Predigt 10, ll. 125–219 (pp. 90–3).
(233) This aspect of Seuse's writing is treated extensively in modern scholarship. See representatively McGinn, The Harvest of Mysticism, pp. 203 and 213–15; Langer, ‘Memoria passionis’, pp. 69–73; Ulrich, Imitatio et configuratio, pp. 87–8 and 147–54; id., ‘Zur Bedeutung des Leidens’, pp. 126–9, and pp. 131–8 on the ‘positive’ function of ascetic suffering within a systematized version of Seuse's conception of the contemplative life.
(234) Predigt 10, ll. 265–75 (p. 94).
(236) See Eisermann, >Stimulus amoris<, pp. 4–5, 10–12, and 229–50.
(237) A systematic examination of the texts in German is offered by Eisermann, ibid. 359–498; on the translations into the other European vernaculars (Dutch, English, French, Italian, Spanish, Danish, Swedish, Gaelic, and Polish) see summarily pp. 3–4, with all further references.
(240) Eisermann, >Stimulus amoris<, pp. 526–7.
(242) Stimulus amoris (ed. Klapper), lib. 1, c. 3 (pp. 20–36); (ed. Peltier) lib. 1, c. 2 (pp. 635b–638a). All references to the Stimulus amoris will be given first to Klapper's edition of 1939, and then to A. C. Peltier's edition of 1868 (a reprint of the Vatican edition of 1596). On Klapper's edition and the manuscript used (Wrocław, Biblioteka uniwersytecka, Cod. I F 569, fols. 113va–162ra), see Eisermann, >Stimulus amoris<, pp. 18–19 and 204.
(243) Predigt 10, ll. 331–48 (p. 96).
(244) Cf. Stimulus amoris (ed. Peltier), lib. 1, c. 2 (p. 635a).
(245) Stimulus amoris (ed. Klapper), lib. 1, c. 3 (p. 23); (ed. Peltier) lib. 1, c. 2 (p. 636a).
(246) Predigt 10, ll. 362–76 (p. 97), here ll. 374–6.
(249) Predigt 10, ll. 399–434 (pp. 98–9); cf. Stimulus amoris (ed. Klapper), lib. 1, c. 3 (pp. 25–30); (ed. Peltier), lib. 1, c. 2 (pp. 636a–637a).
(250) Predigt 10, ll. 434–40 (p. 99).
(251) Stimulus amoris (ed. Klapper), lib. 1, c. 3 (pp. 29–30); (ed. Peltier) lib. 1, c. 2 (pp. 636b–637a).
(252) Ez. 36: 26–7: ‘et dabo vobis cor novum, et spiritum novam ponam in medio vestri; et auferam cor lapideum de carne vestra, et dabo vobis cor carneum; et spiritum meum ponam in medio vestri, et faciam ut in praeceptis meis ambuletis et iudicia mea custodiatis et operemini’ (‘and I will give you a new heart, and will put a new spirit into you; I will take away the heart of stone out of your flesh, and will give you a heart of flesh; I will put my spirit into you, and I will cause you to walk in my rules and to keep my judgements, and you will labour [in them]’).
(253) Stimulus amoris (ed. Klapper), lib. 1, c. 3 (pp. 30–6); (ed. Peltier) lib. 1, c. 2 (pp. 637a–638a). For an outline of the whole of this chapter see Eisermann, >Stimulus amoris>, pp. 24–6.
(254) Predigt 10, ll. 441–60 (p. 99).
(256) Predigt 14, ll. 9–36 (pp. 112–13).
(258) Stimulus amoris (ed. Klapper), lib. 1, c. 6 (pp. 45–58); (ed. Peltier) lib. 1, c. 4 (pp. 639b–641a).
(259) See Eisermann, >Stimulus amoris<, pp. 27–9, with an outline of the content.
(260) Ibid. 526–33. Note that whilst Eisermann refers here to lib. 1, c. 4, he uses the chapter numeration of Adolphe Peltier's 1868 edition; in fact, this is lib. 1, c. 6 according to the numeration in Joseph Klapper's edition, which we follow here, and which Eisermann himself prefers in the summary of the Stimulus amoris that he offers at pp. 18–58.
(261) Stimulus amoris (ed. Klapper), lib. 1, c. 6 (p. 45); (ed. Peltier) lib. 1, c. 4 (p. 639a).
(262) Predigt 14, ll. 70–5 (p. 114).
(266) Stimulus amoris (ed. Klapper), lib. 1, c. 6 (pp. 55–6); (ed. Peltier) lib. 1, c. 4 (p. 641a). Peltier has ‘transformatio’ where Klapper gives ‘resolucio’, but it is not clear which is to be preferred (see Eisermann, >Stimulus amoris<, p. 28 n. 105).
(267) Stimulus amoris (ed. Klapper), lib. 1, c. 6 (pp. 56–7); (ed. Peltier) lib. 1, c. 4 (p. 641a–b).
(268) See Predigt 23, ll. 190–232 (pp. 156–8).
(269) Predigt 14, ll. 99–107 (pp. 114–15). The mystical death of the self to achieve a state of rest, albeit in analogy to Christ's death and entombment (and not in Christ himself, as here), is alternatively explored in De fide, pars 4, a. 4, ll. 355–68 (p. 306).
(270) Stimulus amoris (ed. Klapper), lib. 1, c. 6 (pp. 57–8); (ed. Peltier) lib. 1, c. 4 (p. 641b).
(271) See McGinn, The Flowering of Mysticism, pp. 99–112; Schlosser, Cognitio et amor, pp. 240–6; and Strack, Christusleid im Christenleben, pp. 114–16.
(272) There is a substantial recent literature on the centrality of the crucified Christ in Seuse's mystical theology: see McGinn, The Harvest of Mysticism pp. 204–13; Ruh, Die Mystik des deutschen Predigerordens, pp. 437–41; Ulrich, Imitatio et configuratio, pp. 32–8, 56–62, 87–90, and 138–46; id., ‘Zur Bedeutung des Leidens’, pp. 129–31; Kaiser, ‘Die Christozentrik der philosophia spiritualis’; Blumrich, ‘Die gemeinú ler’, pp. 53–5; Jaspert, ‘Leid und Trost’, pp. 173 and 176–86; and Haas, ‘»Trage Leiden geduldiglich«’, pp. 146–51. How far Seuse was dependent on Bonaventura's theology is a controversial question: see most recently Ruh, Die Mystik des deutschen Predigerordens, pp. 454–60, esp. pp. 459–60 on the position of the crucified Christ in their mystical theologies; and Ulrich, Imitatio et configuratio, pp. 62–76. Mückshoff, ‘Der Einfluss des hl. Bonaventura’, presents an extreme position in favour of Seuse's near‐slavish dependence on Bonaventura, which Ruh and Ulrich reject, but see pp. 251–6 on the matter at issue here.
(273) Seuse, Büchlein der ewigen Weisheit, c. 2 (204. 23–205. 7).
(274) Predigt 7, ll. 150–61 (p. 62); see Blumrich, ‘Feuer der Liebe’, p. 48.
(275) Blumrich (ed.), Marquard von Lindau. Deutsche Predigten, pp. 61*–64*; cf. Predigt 30, ll. 14–132 (pp. 202–6).
(276) Predigt 30, ll. 74–9 (p. 204).
(279) Blumrich (ed.), Marquard von Lindau. Deutsche Predigten, pp. 63*–64*.
(280) Predigt 39, ll. 215–24 (p. 298); on the fire of divine love cf. i.a. Predigten 2, ll. 249–60 (p. 20); 5, ll. 204–7 (p. 46); 14, ll. 23–7 (p. 112); 16, ll. 83–6 (p. 121); 31, ll. 161–74 (p. 217); 38, ll. 184–94 (p. 285); 40, ll. 44–67 (pp. 302–3); and 41, ll. 107–9 (p. 313); see further Blumrich, ‘Feuer der Liebe’, pp. 49–53, and McGinn, The Harvest of Mysticism, pp. 334 and 337.
(281) Predigt 39, ll. 224–37 (pp. 298–9).
(283) McGinn, The Harvest of Mysticism, p. 335.