Bede and the Beginnings of English Racism (Studia Traditionis Theologiae, 49) 9782503599267, 2503599265

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STUDIA TRADITIONIS THEOLOGIAE Explorations in Early and Medieval Theology Theology continually engages with its past: the people, experience, Scriptures, liturgy, learning and customs of Christians. The past is preserved, rejected, modified; but the legacy steadily evolves as Christians are never indifferent to history. Even when engaging the future, theology looks backwards: the next generation’s training includes inheriting a canon of Scripture, doctrine, and controversy; while adapting the past is central in every confrontation with a modernity. This is the dynamic realm of tradition, and this series’ focus. Whether examining people, texts, or periods, its volumes are concerned with how the past evolved in the past, and the interplay of theology, culture, and tradition.

STUDIA TRADITIONIS THEOLOGIAE Explorations in Early and Medieval Theology

49 Series Editor: Thomas O’Loughlin, Professor of Historical Theology in the University of Nottingham EDITORIAL BOARD Director Prof. Thomas O’Loughlin Board Members Dr Andreas Andreopoulos, Dr Nicholas Baker-Brian, Dr Augustine Casiday, Dr Mary B. Cunningham, Dr Juliette Day, Prof. Johannes Hoff, Prof. Paul Middleton, Prof. Simon Oliver, Prof. Andrew Prescott, Dr Patricia Rumsey, Prof. Jonathan Wooding, Dr Holger Zellentin

Bede and the Beginnings of English Racism

W. Trent Foley

F

Cover illustration: Tabula Peutingeriana © ÖNB Vienna Cod. 324, Segm. VIII + IX © 2022, Brepols Publishers n. v., Turnhout, Belgium. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher. D/2022/0095/45 ISBN 978-2-503-59926-7 eISBN 978-2-503-59927-4 DOI 10.1484/M.STT-EB.5.128220 ISSN 2294–3617 eISSN 2566–0160 Printed in the EU on acid-free paper.

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Table of Contents

Preface

9

Acknowledgments

11

Abbreviations

13

Prologue Raising the Question: Was Bede Racist? 1. Bede’s Historia and the Victorian Anglo-Saxonists 2. Was Bede Racist?

15 17 23

Chapter 1: Reading the Historia Racially and Religiously 1. Reading the Historia Racially 2. Reading the Historia Religiously

27 30 37

Chapter 2: The ‘Latin’ Race and the Church Universal 1. The Early Church as a Model for Establishing Deliberative Consent 2. Catholicity and the Christian Latin Tradition: Cyprian and Augustine 3. Obstacles to Catholic Unity in the Narrative World of the Historia

53 55 58 60

Chapter 3: Racing the Britons—Augustine’s Oak and its Aftermath 1. The Oak Meeting Episode: Augustine’s First Meeting with the British Bishops and Teachers 2. The Spurning Episode: Augustine’s Second Meeting with the British Bishops and Teachers  3. The Battle Episode: King Æthelfrith’s Slaughter of British Monks and Soldiers at the Battle of Chester 4. Excursus: A Remnant of Righteous Britons 5. The Oak Chapter as Aftermath and Prologue 6. Summary: The Embarrassed Narrator

69

Chapter 4: Racing the English—King Edwin’s Council 1. Peculiar Features of the Northumbrian Conversion Narrative 2. King Edwin the Footdragger 3. Interpreting the Northumbrians’ Conversion Story through its Narrative Inversions

73 79 86 93 98 101 105 107 109 115

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4. Reevaluating King Edwin 5. Reading Racially the Northumbrians’ Council and Conversion Story

135 139

Chapter 5: Racing the Ionan Irish—The Synod of Whitby 1. The Opening Frame: The Lindisfarne Church as Building 2. Conflicts that Occasioned the Synod of Whitby 3. King Oswiu’s Introduction of the Debate 4. Antiquity or Catholicity? 5. John or Peter? 6. Columba or Anatolius? 7. Heading for Home 8. The Closing Frame: Lindisfarne as a Holy Community 9. The Historia’s Depiction of the Irish as a Holy but Uninformed Race

147 149 150 155 156 157 160 169 171 176

Chapter 6: The Historia and its Legacy of Racist Discourse 1. The Final State of the Races 2. The Historia’s Understanding of Sin and Its Construction of Race: Faithfulness vs. Faithlessness 3. The Historia and the Darker Side of Christian Universalism 4. The Historia’s Racism: A Concluding Assessment

183 185 187 197 200

Bibliography Ancient and Medieval Authors Modern Authors

205 205 207

Indices Index of Scripture Index of Bede’s Works Index of Ancient and Medieval Names Index of Modern Authors

213 213 216 218 220

Preface

In this book I typically shorten the title of Bede’s Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum—usually translated into English as The Ecclesiastical History of the English People—to Historia. I chose the Latin Historia over the English History to avoid any ambiguity that might occur when the word ‘history’ is used in the same sentence. Bede’s Historia is divided into five books, each of which is itself divided into between 20 and 34 chapters. Unless the context makes clear into which book and/or chapter a citation falls, particular chapters will be referenced by their respective book and chapter numerals, separated by a comma. So, for example, ‘2,13’ will designate Book 2, ch. 13. Following the example of Putnam Fennell Jones’ A Concordance to the Historia Ecclesiastica of Bede (1929), I cite specific Latin words and phrases in the Historia according to the page- and line-numbering of Charles Plummer’s Latin edition (1896). So, if, for example, a specific word or phrase is cited in a note as occurring in 2,2—84,24–27, this designates Book 2, ch. 2 of the Historia, lines 24 through 27 on page 84 of Plummer’s edition. Although no longer widely available in book form, Plummer’s edition can be found online.1 Serious readers of the Historia more commonly use the Colgrave-Mynors edition (1969), which has the Latin text and English translation on facing pages. Colgrave-Mynors indicates where a Plummer page begins by giving Plummer’s page number in the margin of its own even-numbered, left-hand (i.e., verso) pages, which contain Bede’s Latin original. Colgrave-Mynors, however, does not preserve Plummer’s line numbering. As a result, the process of moving from the citation of a word or phrase given in Plummer to its corresponding location in Colgrave-Mynors can be clumsy. Perhaps the best way is to divide the beginning line number of a given citation by 30 (since a page of Plummer’s translation contains a rough average of 30 lines) and begin the search at the resulting fractional result on that page. So, for example, if my text cites a word or passage located on p. 184, line 10 of Plummer’s text, the reader who is using Colgrave-Mynors should leaf to the Colgrave-Mynors left-hand page that has ‘p. 184’ in its left margin and then begin looking for the passage or word one-third (10/30) of the way between the ‘p. 184’ and ‘p. 185’ marginal page numbers. Almost all English translations of passages from Bede’s Historia are my own, although other translations certainly inform my own translation decisions. I have tried to make these translations as literal as possible without their seeming wooden. I have tried to preserve in them and in my paraphrases of Bede one significant feature of Bede’s discourse, namely, his habit of linguistically foregrounding a people over the 1 Bede, HE (Plummer): https://archive.org/details/operahistorica00bedeuoft. Accessed 14 Jan, 2022.

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things that pertain or belong to that people. In particular, he designates geographical territories that the English mostly inhabit by the particular English people or ‘tribe’ that inhabits them and not by an adjective or abstract noun that derives from that people’s name. For example, the territory today called ‘Northumbria’ Bede consistently designates as the ‘province of the Northumbrians’ (prouinciam Nordanhymbrorum). Similarly, since Bede knows no adjective that corresponds to our ‘Northumbrian,’ I here have chosen to render designations like rex Nordanhymbrorum, episcopus Nordanhymbrorum, and ecclesiis Nordanhymbrorum, respectively, as ‘the Northumbrians’ king, ‘the Northumbrians’ bishop,’ and ‘the Northumbrians’ churches’ rather than the simpler ‘Northumbrian king,’ ‘Northumbrian bishop,’ and ‘Northumbrian churches.’ Even the word ‘English’ Bede uses only as a proper noun that designates the English as a people. He does not use it as an adjective. So, what we today would denominate as the ‘English people,’ he would denominate as the ‘people of the English.’ A stricter translation of his great work’s title is, in fact, The Ecclesiastical History of the Race (or People) of the English. His refusal to coin adjectives or territorial designations from the names of peoples, and especially English peoples, seems important.2 So, I have tried to enshrine that refusal in my translations and paraphrases. At times, I typographically emphasize—with bold, italics, or underlining—certain words or phrases from Bede’s Historia as well as other Latin sources. Clearly, this emphasis is mine and not that of the original authors. When citing a Psalm, I will first give the chapter-and-verse numbering as it appears in the Stuttgart fifth edition of the Latin Vulgate (which follows the Greek Septuagint’s numbering), immediately followed in parentheses by the numbering in most modern English translations (which follows that of the Hebrew Masoretic text). So, for example, Ps 12:4–5 (13:3–4) designates Psalm 12, vv. 4–5 in the Vulgate, which is Psalm 11, vv. 3–4 in the King James, NRSV, and NIV editions. If attention needs to be drawn specifically to either the Vulgate’s translation of the Psalms from the Hebrew (the Hebrew Psalter) or its translation from the Greek Septuagint (the Gallican Psalter), I will specify these respectively as Vg Ps(H) and Vg Ps(G).



2 While the Historia does not use the Latin Anglia to designate any territory inhabited by the English, it does use the word Scottia to designate land settled by the Scotti, or Irish (e.g., Bede, HE 3,25—181,1). Following naming conventions applied to the English, it knows of a people called the Franci (e.g., Bede, HE 1,6—17,14), but not of the territory Francia.

Acknowledgments

Because this book has been a long time in the making, I have amassed a list of benefactors almost too many to name. This project began many years ago with the help of a full-year sabbatical funded by Davidson College’s Boswell Family Faculty Fellowship, for which I remain deeply grateful. In this project, I had the generous support of two academic deans, Clark Ross and Wendy Raymond. The Davidson College Library staff has been unfailingly helpful in getting the materials I needed for this project. When unable to add needed materials to the Library’s collection, they worked hard to grant me access to them through Interlibrary Loan. Joe Gutekanst deserves special mention. It was not uncommon for him to get an Interlibrary Loan article into my hands within hours of my request. As a writer, I have always depended on the inspiration that comes from a hospitable environment. I wrote large portions of this book at Summit Coffee in Davidson, North Carolina. The Summit staff generously let me use their space as often as I needed it, and my friendly encounters with its baristas nicely punctuated the many days I wrote there. Among those who read and commented on this manuscript, Arthur Holder was especially helpful. As a Bede scholar and a critical reader who also has the pastor’s touch, Arthur offered generous chapter-by-chapter feedback, often bringing to my attention books and articles that had escaped my notice. He also usefully challenged my viewpoint and, in places, my terminology. I was especially happy to have his perspective since he also studies Bede from a theological and religious studies background. Other helpful readers of parts of the manuscript included Peter Corrigan, Andy Lustig, and Rizwan Zamir. Karl Plank gave a wonderfully thorough reading and commentary to Chs. 1 and 2. My conversations with him over the years, more than with anyone else, inspired me to undertake a more literary and theological reading of Bede than I had been inclined to do before. Gail Gibson read the manuscript in its entirety, offering suggestions relating to emphasis, organization, and sources. Keyne Cheshire generously fielded all my questions about Bede’s Latin, always offering a full account of which issues to consider when deciding upon a particular translation. All these readers gave much good feedback that I wished I might have incorporated into this final version. That in many cases I did not do so is owing solely to the limits of my own industry and patience. Having never been an avid attendee of academic conferences, I have missed out on fellowship with many important scholars of Bede and his era. I am grateful, however, for the generosity, goodwill, and counsel of those with whom I have been able to connect. They include, besides Arthur Holder, Nick Higham, Gillian Clark, Scott DeGregorio, Mark Laynesmith, George Hardin Brown, Benedicta Ward, and

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the late Gerald Bonner. I remain deeply grateful to John Wickstrom who introduced me to Bede’s Historia at Kalamazoo College in 1975. Reading Bede’s Historia through the lens of race would have never occurred to me had I not had the privilege of being helped to think about racism with the help of many colleagues and students. Included among these are Tae-Sun Kim, Amanda Martinez, and students in my courses and seminars on White Supremacy and Racism, Black and Womanist Theology, and Religion and Racism. Thanks also to all the teachers and learners in our ‘Dialogues on Race and Racism’ Intergroup-Dialogue course. To the extent that this book reads smoothly is owing to the skillful eyes of its proofreaders at various stages, chiefly, Ulrike Guthrie and Janet Summers. Of course, any errors that remain are all my own. Ulrike also offered critical feedback and encouragement when this book was in its proposal stage. Thanks also to Mary McKinney, whose encouragement and practical advice proved invaluable. At Brepols, Tom O’Loughlin and Bart Janssens stood ready to help at every stage. Deepest thanks also to Lal Dingluaia for doing the Indices and catching a number of errors at the last stages of proofing. Pam Kelley gave constant encouragement to me during this project. A seasoned journalist and author, she urged me to speak and write more plainly, in ways accessible to a less scholarly audience. I hope I succeeded. As importantly, she engaged me in many hours of dialogue on issues relating to race and racism as we were separately addressing these in our respective book projects. Without her loving encouragement, my inner voice of self-doubt could have sabotaged this project, especially at its early and middle stages. I dedicate this book to her.

Abbreviations

Biblical Materials Gen Genesis Ex Exodus Lev Leviticus Num Numbers Dt Deuteronomy Jds Judges 1 Sam 1 Samuel = I Regum 1 Kgs 1 Kings = III Regum 2 Kgs 2 Kings = IV Regum Ezra Ezra = I Esdras Tob Tobit Job Job Ps Psalms Prov Proverbs Qo Qoheleth = Ecclesiastes Song Song of Solomon = Canticum canticorum Sir Wisdom of Sirach = Ecclesiasticus Is Isaiah Jer Jeremiah

Ez Ezekiel Dan Daniel Mal Malachi Mt Matthew Mk Mark Lk Luke Jn John Act Acts of the Apostles Rom Romans 1 Cor 1 Corinthians 2 Cor 2 Corinthians Gal Galatians Eph Ephesians 1 Thes 1 Thessalonians 2 Thes 2 Thessalonians Heb Hebrews 2 Pet 2 Peter 1 Jn 1 John Apoc Apocalypse [Revelation of John the Divine]

Abbreviations of Bede’s Works De schem. Ep. Ecgbert. Exp. Act. Expl. Apoc. Hom. euang. HE In Cant. In Ezr. In Sam. In Tob.

De schematibus et tropis Epistola ad Ecgbertum episcopum Expositio Actuum apostolorum Explanatio Apocalypseos Homiliarum euangelii libri II Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum In Cantica Canticorum In Ezra et Neeemiam In primum partem Samuhelis In Tobiam

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Retract. In Act. Retractatio in actus apostolorum

Abbreviations of Modern Sources ACW BJRL CCCM CCSL CSEL CSS CWS JEH JTS LLT NPNF PL TTH TS WSA

Ancient Christian Writers Bulletin of the John Rylands University Library of Manchester Corpus Christianorum (Continuatio Medieualis) Corpus Christianorum (Series Latina) Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum Cistercian Studies Series Classics of Western Spirituality Journal of Ecclesiastical History Journal of Theological Studies Library of Latin Texts A Select Library of the Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers Patrologia Latina Translated Texts for Historians Theological Studies The Works of Saint Augustine

Prologue Raising the Question: Was Bede Racist?

At age six, perhaps earlier, I had begun to learn that my world was neatly ordered according to certain racial, religious, and gendered distinctions. As a first-grader beginning school in Jim-Crow era New Orleans, I participated in its state-sponsored program of segregating African Americans (or ‘Negroes,’ as I was taught to call them) from Euro-Americans, like me, who called themselves ‘white.’ This ensured that my education about race would come only from white people. On my first bus rides to school in 1960, I chanted with the other children—all white—‘Two-four-six-eight, we don’t want to integrate,’ a six-year-old ignorant of what ‘integrate’ meant.1 Although my parents were political progressives who would go on to wholeheartedly endorse the Civil Rights Movement in the later ’60s, they nevertheless taught me early on to see the world in terms of various social distinctions or hierarchies whose boundaries were clearly drawn: white vs. Black, Protestant vs. Catholic, Christian (i.e., not Catholic) vs. Jew. I learned these distinctions through casual stories told at the dinner table, during TV commercials, or while riding downtown. My mother, for example, who spent part of her childhood growing up in Coletown—a small, rural, mostly Black community on the outskirts of Lexington, Kentucky—thought she could tell when we were driving through an African-American neighborhood because, she was sure, black neighborhoods had a particular odor, not the odor of poverty, but of Blackness. My father, raised Baptist in Kentucky’s Appalachian foothills, taught me never to date a Catholic woman because, to his mind, if we decided to marry, she would require me to become Catholic and raise our children Catholic. And that was how the pope planned to take over America. My father also thought that the annual Miss America contest indubitably proved that Southern women were the most beautiful. This was because they were racially purer, being mostly of English or Scots-Irish stock, especially compared to the white women of the urban northeast, who were more likely the product of ethnic intermarriage. There was something comforting to me about this presentation of group difference, giving order to the chaos of feelings that characterized my youthful temperament. As a college student in the early 1970s, I was drawn to study the Middle Ages largely because of the familiar terms by which it was first presented to me. Like the neat and stereotypical categorizations of my childhood, the basic building blocks



1 I only learned a few years ago that this chant had been occasioned by a court order to integrate New Orleans’ public schools beginning on Nov. 14, 1960. Among the few children designated to break the ice of this new social experiment was Ruby Bridges, who gained fame for being the only Black child to break the color barrier at William Frantz Elementary School.

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of my European heritage, I was told, came from the amalgam of three very different religio-racial influences. One was Germanic barbarian; another was Roman imperial; and a third was Christian.2 This neat categorization, I thought, captured not just the essential truth of what made Europe uniquely Europe, but of what made me the Euro-American that I am. My fascination with this threefold distinction and the license it gave me to continue dividing people into types (yet with enough white liberal embarrassment that kept me from telling anyone why), drew me to Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People, an early eighth-century narrative about how the various English peoples came to be Christian. Although Bede’s Historia comprises just a small portion of his entire body of writing, in the modern age its importance has far eclipsed that of his other works and earned him the title, ‘Father of English History.’ To my young scholar’s mind, Bede’s Historia illustrated perfectly how those three elements combined to form that which was distinctively ‘Europe.’ As one of the early English, Bede was of Germanic stock and not very far removed from its heathen barbarian past; yet he was also Christian, and not casually so, but a monk who from the age of seven had been immersed in studying the Christian Bible and the Latin Church Fathers, among whom he has been accounted by some as the last. And finally, he was a robust representative of the Roman imperial past, writing as he did in a respectable Latin, the Roman Empire’s lingua franca, and cleaving tightly to the models of both saintliness and rhetoric bequeathed to him by late Roman imperial culture. Eventually, as I began doing scholarly research, choices had to be made. I could not become an expert in each of those three influences that made Europe what it is. So, I dropped the Germanic and focused exclusively on the Christian and Roman/ Latin influence. Once that was done, the hard-drawn outlines of those old racial and cultural stereotypes—those ‘influences,’ that I had seen as constituting the first Europeans—began to fade as I read more contemporary scholarship. Nevertheless, I was still drawn to the earlier historiography that traded in those stereotypes and suspected that this attraction was coming from something I thought I had let go of many years before, namely, my Jim-Crow initiation into white supremacy. In the end, my desire to explore the attraction I had with this historiography won out over the sense that it was hopelessly dated and steeped in stereotype. And so, I cultivated a keen interest in the racialized accounts that England’s late-Victorian historians gave of the first settlement of the English peoples in Britain—accounts that by today’s standards would be certainly and fairly called racist. These historians’ abiding admiration for the genius of what they termed the English or Anglo-Saxon ‘race,’ to which they all imagined themselves to belong, led them to be dubbed ‘Anglo-Saxonists.’ In them I recognized my own parents’ tendency to paint the world in the bold colors of ‘enduring essences’—especially those of race and of religion. I concluded that the views of



2 I believe that this characterization came from my first reading of Dawson (1932). Re-reading Dawson many years later, I now realize I mentally incorporated the influence of the classical tradition, which Dawson treated as a separate fourth influence, into the influences of Christianity and the Roman Empire.

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those late-nineteenth-century Oxford and Cambridge Anglo-Saxonist historians had managed to cross the Atlantic and, having been filtered through popular culture, became part of my parents’ mental furniture, which they then bequeathed to me. My historical research into the Anglo-Saxonists thus became a way to understand my own mental fashioning under my parents’ influence. Yet I undertook that research reluctantly because I doubted its suitability for publication. It seemed too rooted in my own idiosyncratic autobiography and not of much interest to a general audience of medievalists. So, I stayed with the scholarly tried and true, working on a translation project of Bede’s biblical commentaries and doing a theological as well as historical reading of Bede’s Prose Life of St Cuthbert, a work that celebrated the most famous early native English saint. Yet that work left me unsatisfied and, being able to resist no longer, I returned to the racism of those Victorian Anglo-Saxonists. Having grown fond of Bede, or the image I had formed of him, I was determined to eliminate any racist taint that Anglo-Saxonist readings of his work might have left on him. I wanted to make it clear that the genesis of racist Anglo-Saxonists’ readings of earliest English history—readings that drew sharp racial boundaries between Germanic English (or Anglo-Saxon) and Celtic and Welsh and Roman—was not Bede’s Historia. While I was prepared to concede that the Historia was perhaps the major narrative source upon which those modern racist readings of early English history drew, I was intent on showing that Bede’s monastic Christian viewpoint had in no way informed those modern Anglo-Saxonist interpretations. In short, I wanted to argue that Anglo-Saxonist racism grew out of a modern colonial and British imperial context about which Bede, over 1000 years earlier, had nothing to do. Or so I hypothesized.

1. Bede’s Historia and the Victorian Anglo-Saxonists With this as my aim, I travelled in 1997 with my family to Oxford, England, to do five weeks of research on how the Victorian and Edwardian English read the earliest history of the English church and people, known to them chiefly through Bede. Working in Oxford’s Bodleian Library for six weeks, I happened upon a lively historical debate that illustrated how some historians had sought to correlate religion with race. Its participants were all late-nineteenth-century English men and women who identified themselves as High Church Anglicans. All agreed that the Church of England ought to remain the established national church, and in this way opposed nonconformist Methodists, Baptists, and others who resented the state privileges accorded to a church that was not theirs and thus worked toward its disestablishment.3 While all in the High Church agreed that the Church of England ought to remain established,



3 Disestablishment is the severing of all ties between the Church of England and the political constitution of Great Britain. Under disestablishment, the Church of England would lose its privileged position as the national church and the political establishment would lose its power to legislate on Church-related matters.

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they disputed its myth of origin. At stake for each party was the extent to which the established Church of England owed to the church of Rome a debt for its very existence. The first High Church party, and the one to which the Anglo-Saxonists typically belonged, consisted of those who believed that the Church of England’s origins are rightly traced back to Pope Gregory’s mission to the English, which began in Kent in 597. This party was steeped in Anglo-Catholic sensibilities that tolerated and at times admired Roman Catholic habits and traditions. As such it happily viewed the Church of England’s birth as totally dependent upon the church of Rome that Pope Gregory had headed. Opposed to this Anglo-Saxonist party within the High Church was yet another High Church party, the Church Defence Institution, or C.D.I., which was established to defend the church against disestablishment. The C.D.I. argued that the Church of England was born long before 597—in the first century, in fact, among the ancient Britons. As such, the Church of England’s origin owed nothing to Roman—and hence to Roman Catholic—influence.4 In the course of the debate, each group marshalled historical arguments to justify political convictions that were moving them. As the Anglo-Saxonists were quick to point out, those in the C.D.I. hoped that by tracing the Church of England’s origins back to the Britons, they might mollify the Welsh, who were widely seen as the genealogical descendants of the ancient Britons yet largely unhappy with the establishment of Anglicanism in their country. Most Welsh at that time were nonconformists, which is to say, they did not conform to the rites, practices, and creed of the established church. As such, they resented paying rates to support a church they neither attended nor respected. They had no use for bishops in the English-dominated Church of Wales, most of whom were English and could neither speak nor understand the Welsh language. For these reasons many Welsh Methodists, Baptists, and others wished to disestablish the national church.5 Disestablishment in Wales as well as England, however, was precisely what the C.D.I. had been formed to oppose.6 One can imagine the C.D.I. hoping to temper Welsh zeal for disestablishment first by attributing the Church of England’s origins to the Welsh people’s forefathers and then by denying that the Church of England and Wales owed its founding to the church of Rome. Like most other Protestants, Welsh nonconformists associated the early medieval church of Rome with modern Roman Catholicism, which they despised, and preferred to believe that their ancestors had first become Christian under purer influences. Yet what the C.D.I. had calculated as appealing to Welsh patriotic pride disgusted the



4 On the general purposes and activities of the C.D.I., see Machin (1987), 3–4, 48–49, 142–45. 5 For a fuller account of the parties who worked for Welsh disestablishment, see Gainer (2020). 6 This Welsh ‘national church’ here refers to the Anglican Church in Wales, which had a practically seamless connection with the Church of England, both having come into legal existence during the Reformation, when Henry VIII successfully severed the ties of the both the English and Welsh churches from their historic connection to the church of Rome and its bishop, the pope. Governmentally and ecclesiastically, England and Wales during the modern period existed as one until the Church of Wales was disestablished in 1920. That is, the Church of Wales (which is now officially called the Church in Wales) ceased being a state-supported church, while its sister Church of England remained so.

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Anglo-Saxonists. Having high notions about the superiority of the Anglo-Saxon race, late Victorian Anglo-Saxonists could not countenance any notion of their national English church as having been founded by the Britons. Besides, they argued, there could have been no Church of England in Britain before the English arrived in the mid-fifth century. To them the very existence of an England and, by extension, a Church of England, logically required the presence of an English people. Oxford church historian William Bright (1824–1901), while not a strict Anglo-Saxonist himself, agreed on this point. He located the chief error of C.D.I. partisans in their ‘eager determination to treat the English Church as simply the British Church enlarged,’ which they want to do, as he says, ‘in order to minimize the obligations of English Christianity to Latin Christendom.’7 In other words, they want to deny the debt that the English church owes for its founding to the early medieval church of Rome and its pope. As I delved into this debate, I noticed—and will presently show—that the Anglo-Saxonists directed at the ancient Britons and their modern Welsh counterparts a racist animus, one not matched by their opponents’ views of them. It made their voice in the debate vehement, even strident. To be sure, some of the C.D.I. arguments exhibited a vehemence and animus of their own, which Anglo-Saxonist partisans rightly identified as arising from their reluctance to attribute to the Church of England any dependence upon the Roman Catholic tradition. The Anglo-Saxonist voice, however, was less doctrinal. It sounded racist. Its shrillest voice belonged to Edward Augustus Freeman, Regius Professor of Modern History at Oxford and an ardent Anglo-Saxonist. Freeman (1823–1892) believed fervently that all that is best about England and its British Empire derived from the special genius of the Anglo-Saxon race. He was especially adamant that the Church of England owed no debt whatsoever to the ancient Britons.8 A firm believer in, and promoter of, the racial theories of his time, Freeman insisted that Germanic folk, which included the English, ranked at the top of Britain’s racial hierarchy, and indeed, the world’s.9 Nonetheless, he was prepared to admit that the English might owe something to the ancient empire of the Romans and the Christian church that emerged from its ashes. But he would not concede that the modern Church of England owed anything at all to the ancient British or Welsh church. Editorializing about the origins of the church of the English in a letter to The Guardian, an important organ of Anglo-Catholic opinion in its day, Freeman troped the Apostle Paul with his own characteristic brusqueness, ‘The Roman planted, the Scot watered, the Briton did nothing.’10 He continues with



7 Bright (1903), 207. 8 On Freeman’s identification of the ancient Britons with the Welsh, see, for example, Freeman (1895), 2. 9 For more on late Victorian Anglo-Saxonism, and especially among English historians, see Curtis (1968), 2–11. 10 Freeman (1888), 195. Cf. 1 Cor 3:6. Although this letter was published in The Guardian with no authorial attribution, William Bright revealed in an 1893 letter that Freeman wrote it. See Bright (1903), 215. By the term ‘Scot’ Freeman here means the Irish, ‘scotti’ being Latin for the Irish.

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sarcasm, ‘Mind, it is no kind of blame to the Briton that he did nothing; but as a matter of fact, he did nothing.’ However much racism against the Welsh fueled their vehement rejection of any arguments for a British (i.e., Welsh) origin of the Church of England, Freeman and other Anglo-Saxonists in the High Church Party supported their claims with what was widely viewed as a perfectly respectable warrant: the authority of Bede. For Freeman, as for other High Church Anglo-Saxonists, Bede’s Historia served as the indisputable authority that refuted all anti-Romanist, pro-British arguments for the Church of England’s British or ‘Welsh’ origins.11 Bright expressed in respectable, scholarly terms the frustration that many High Church Anglo-Saxonists had with the C.D.I.’s position. He complained that the latter ‘speak and write about the [English church’s origins] without having read their Bede’ [emphasis added].12 Indeed, if Freeman had been asked to supply the historical source that justified his pithy ‘the-Briton-did-nothing’ quotation, cited above, his only possible answer could have been, ‘It was Bede’s Historia.’13 Both Freeman’s and Bright’s use of Bede’s Historia—and the racist cast of their rhetoric—disturbed me. I generally agreed with modern historians’ warm appraisals of Bede, which touted the extraordinary scholarly care that Bede took to identify and credit his sources. The High Church’s good opinion of Bede had led me to concur with their assessment that he was a humble, industrious, kindly, and peaceable monk. Although I had been raised a Baptist in America, about as far from High Church Anglicanism as one can be, I nevertheless had for some twenty years imbibed the High Church Anglo-Saxonism’s estimation of Bede through books and articles penned by well-respected late-nineteenth and twentieth-century scholars of the Middle Ages. Trained at Oxford, sometimes at Cambridge, these men were often High Church Anglo-Catholics whose work I considered the mainstream of Bede scholarship. Collectively, these scholars portrayed Bede as one who, having entered the monastery at age seven, had lived a sheltered life of comparative innocence, preoccupied as it was with extensive reading, writing, preaching—all within the confines of Monkwearmouth and Jarrow, the northern English locations of the monasteries in which Bede did his entire life’s work.14 Nor has this positive assessment of Bede always been limited to the High Church. Whatever their religious commitments, English nationalists and patriots of every stripe since the Reformation

11 Freeman, depending on the context, sometimes used the term ‘Welsh’ to denote not just the ancient Britons, but any people he imagined to be of Celtic blood, including the French (‘Gallic’) and Irish. By adopting this broad usage, he was following the Old English usage of the term ‘Welsh’ to mean generally ‘foreigner.’ See Parker (1981), esp. 833 n. 4 and 834. 12 Bright (1903), 208. 13 Near the Historia’s end, Bede justifies Freeman’s claim that ‘the Briton did nothing,’ famously accusing the Britons of being ‘unwilling to proclaim knowledge of Christian faith—which they had—to the English ([Brettones] nolebant Anglis eam quam habebant fidei Christianae notitiam pandere, in Bede, HE 5,22—347,10–11). 14 For an excellent account of the esteem in which English historians of the twentieth century held Bede, see the summary of Bede’s reception in England in Higham (2006), 20–40, esp. 36–38.

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have read Bede’s Historia as the great saga of English origins—of their origins. As such, the Historia has acquired a mythic status in England. Its stories have been told to English schoolchildren of every religious persuasion in the same way that Parson Weems’ stories of young George Washington were once told to young American schoolchildren and for the same purpose: to imbue a narrative of national origins with mythic meaning—meaning that could foster national affection, pride, and patriotism in its young hearers.15 With this saintly image of Bede in mind, I was troubled that these late Victorian Anglo-Saxonists would use Bede’s authority to support their generally racist, specifically anti-Welsh views. That Freeman, especially, could rely on Bede’s authority in this way particularly disturbed me. He had penned the most virulently racist rants against a whole host of peoples. Indeed, there is hardly a non-Germanic (or, ‘non-Teutonic,’ as Freeman might say it) people whom he did not disparage in the grossest terms. His rants against Black people are nothing short of toxic. For example, while touring the U.S. in 1881, Freeman muses in a letter to an American friend, The really queer thing [about the U.S.] is the niggers who swarm here: my Aryan prejudices go against them, specially when they rebuke one and order one about. And the women and children are yet stranger than the men. Are you sure that they are men? I find it hard to feel that they are men acting seriously: ’tis easier to believe that they are big monkeys dressed up for a game.16 And the Irish, in Freeman’s mind, were little better. His attitude toward them and Black people was nothing short of genocidal. Writing to another American friend in New Haven, he says of America, ‘This would be a grand land if only every Irishman would kill a negro and be hanged for it. I find this sentiment generally approved—sometimes with the qualification that they want Irish and negroes for servants, not being able to get any other.’17 Jews were also subject to Freeman’s scorn. He roundly castigated opponents who served in the Conservative government of British Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli, a Jew. When these had, in his mind, wrongly quoted him as saying ‘perish India’ during one of his pro-Russian, anti-Turkish tirades, he writes of them, ‘They need not lie, but I suppose with a Jew at their head, they really cannot help it.’18 Or countering in the early 1890s the public outcry against Russia for its expulsion of Jews, he asserts, ‘If any nation chooses to wallop its own jews [sic]’tis no business of any other nation.’ Observing that Russia threatens in equal measure Finland and Bulgaria, he asks rhetorically, ‘What can jews matter beside either of these?’19 Freeman’s biographer, William Stephens (1839–1902), a devout High Churchman

15 To get a glimpse of Bede’s significance to English as well as to British historical memory, see Higham (2006), 1–4, 31–40, and 49–52. 16 A Letter to Professor Dawkins of Newport, RI, Oct. 14, 1881, in Stephens (1895), 1:234. 17 A Letter to F. H. Dickinson, Esq., New Haven, CT, Dec. 4, 1881, in Stephens (1895), 2:242. 18 A Letter to Miss Edith Thompson, Somerleaze, Dec. 24, 1876, in Stephens (1895), 1:144. 19 Stephens, (1895) 2:428.

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and Dean of Winchester, recorded approvingly and even affectionately Freeman’s racist rants: [Freeman] was essentially Teutonic in his whole personality, physical, as well as moral and mental; in his square, sturdy frame, his ruddy hair, his fair complexion, his plain and simple habits of life … For the pure Celt he entertained a kind of natural antipathy, mingled with something like contempt, which often manifested itself in odd and amusing ways.20 Although one of the most vocal and colorful of the Anglo-Saxonists, Freeman espoused notions of Germanic, and specifically English, racial superiority that were not uncommon among Victorian intellectuals, including some Anglo-Catholic High Churchmen. His predecessor in the Regius Chair of Modern History, Bishop William Stubbs (1825–1901), a pioneering scholar on medieval English constitutional history, shared Freeman’s highly racialized views, especially those that touted the superiority of Germanic law and custom found in purest form among the Anglo-Saxons, or so he thought. Compared with the early Germanic law codes from the continent, the Anglo-Saxon codes are ‘more entirely free of Roman influences.’ And that, to Stubbs, was a good thing because it allowed what was Germanic to predominate. ‘The German element,’ he writes, ‘is the paternal element in our [English] system, natural and political.’21 Like Freeman after him, Stubbs posited an essence and a ‘natural’ Germanic element to Englishness. Also a staunch admirer of Bede, Stubbs wrote the entry for Bede in The Dictionary of Christian Biography, published in 1877. In that brief biographical sketch, Stubbs begins by matter-of-factly relaying the details of Bede’s life and work, then concludes with a warm encomium. ‘It is impossible,’ he writes, ‘to read … [Bede’s] Ecclesiastical History, without seeing that the great knowledge of the scholar was coupled with the humility and simplicity of the purest type of monasticism.’ Noting that Bede was ‘loved and honoured by all alike,’ Stubbs describes another of Bede’s historical writings as breathing ‘the purest patriotism and the most sincere love of the souls of men.’22 When Stubbs died, one eulogist entitled his funeral sermon, ‘The Venerable Bede and Bishop Stubbs.’ Praising Stubbs for faithfully continuing the tradition of the English cleric-historian that Bede began, he presumes that the late bishop would have been pleased at the complimentary comparison with Bede.23 I wondered whether Stubbs’ love of Bede and his love for the ‘German’ paternal element of the English constitutional tradition somehow belonged to each other. Put another way, did Stubbs find in Bede’s Historia a source not only for his knowledge, but also for his love of what he deemed to be purely Anglo-Saxon, purely German? Perhaps the most ardent Anglo-Saxonist churchman of all was George Forrest Browne (1833–1930), bishop of Bristol, archeologist, and avid spelunker. Browne

20 21 22 23

Stephens (1895), 2:464. Stubbs (1903), 1:11. Stubbs (1877), 302. Gorton (1901), cited in Koch (2002), passim.

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articulated the connection between his own Anglo-Saxonism and Bede’s Historia more clearly than any other churchman of his time. In a series of three public lectures given at St Paul’s Cathedral, London, in 1893, he appeals to Bede’s Historia as itself a mark of English superiority over the French: Some might perhaps hold that Gregory of Tours, who died in 595, gave to his [French] countrymen, in his Ecclesiastical History of the Franks [sic], a gift as precious as that which Bede gave to us in his Ecclesiastical History of the English Race … But there is no real comparison between the books, either in the manner or in the matter; nor, I will venture to add, in the dignity and worth of the peoples whose story they respectively tell.24 This abiding concern for the superior ‘dignity and worth’ of the English race over the French—and indeed over all other ‘races’—drove Browne’s interest in these lectures on early English church history. It also drove his interest in Bede’s Historia. Eager to discern a link between the greatness of the English people in his own time and the latent capacities it had already possessed in Bede’s time and before, he introduces these lectures with a series of questions: Are the characteristics of the Angles and the Saxons, the Anglo-Saxon race, permanent? Have they come down to us? Or, are they lost in the many blendings of other blood? Are we less Anglo-Saxon than Celt and Norman and Dane? Is it of himself that the Englishman reads in the pages of Bede?25 Not surprisingly, Browne believes that the Anglo-Saxon character is not lost through the ‘blendings of other blood’ and that the modern English are reading precisely of themselves when they read Bede’s accounts of the ancient Angli and Saxones. He sees the British Empire’s facility in colonizing other races at the dawn of the twentieth century as simply the latest instance of an enduring Anglo-Saxon propensity to domination and good governance—a propensity that found its first attestation in Bede’s Historia. Like modern British imperialists, their Anglo-Saxon ancestors who colonized Britain were—as Browne describes them—‘a race marvellously soon at home where they settle.’26

2. Was Bede Racist? When I finished my study in Oxford in 1997, I grew determined to liberate Bede from the alliance into which these late Victorian Anglo-Saxonists had drawn him. Not that I was ignorant of those passages in Bede that might lead one to believe that he was given to what today we might call racist thinking. I knew that Bede’s Historia tended to describe the Britons in unflattering, even cruel ways. Yet I felt certain that

24 Browne (1893), 12. 25 Browne (1893), 12–13. 26 Browne (1893), 13–14.

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the apparent racism of these passages could be explained away by placing them in their proper context, specifically in the context of the Christian biblical tradition, whose narrative rhetoric commonly drew its characters somewhat stereotypically as conventional types. By contrast, Freeman and his fellow High Church AngloSaxonists were true racists. Their colonialist impulses, I reasoned, had led them to project assumptions about their own superiority to supposedly inferior races onto Bede’s Historia. Yet the harder I worked to show that they had fashioned Bede in their own image, the less convinced I became of my own arguments. Reluctantly, I allowed myself to think what at first was unthinkable: perhaps Bede’s Historia had done more to shape—or at least reinforce—the Anglo-Saxonists’ convictions than these latter had done to misconstrue Bede’s Historia. Upon looking at Bede’s treatment of the ancient Britons, for example, it became clear to me that he had consistently excoriated them not just as individuals, but as an entire race, including their church, for its lassitude, intransigence, and refusal to help evangelize the early English. And in doing so, he had painted the Britons with the broadest of brushstrokes and in accordance with the grossest of stereotypes. These stereotypes, moreover, were recognizable to me. In Bede’s two-dimensional portrayal of dimwitted, stubborn, and lazy Britons, for example, I saw an eighth-century construction of race that looked uncannily similar to what I had learned as a child to associate with African Americans in 1950s New Orleans. Yet I also noticed something in the Anglo-Saxonists’ construction of race that was lacking in Bede: an understanding of race rooted in the language of ‘blood.’ George Forrest Browne, for example, explains England’s natural penchant for colonizing as something to be explained, as he says, ‘almost entirely by our Anglo-Saxon blood.’27 For Browne, Anglo-Saxon blood was and is of such potency that the early medieval intermarriages between Anglo-Saxons and Celts issued in a people not ‘half-Celt, half Anglo-Saxon,’ but fully Anglo-Saxon!28 If the English are marked by good Anglo-Saxon blood, then by contrast, according to Browne, the Roman Briton ‘was a poor creature, a very bad blend’ of Celt and the ‘thin blood of Roman municipals.’29 Although, like Browne, Bede constructs a stark difference between the English on the one hand and the Britons and Irish on the other, unlike Browne he does not use ‘blood’ as a metaphor to signify genetically based, racial difference. Therefore, to call Bede a racist in the way that the Anglo-Saxonists were seemed inaccurate. Whereas the Anglo-Saxonists relied on Enlightenment science, such as it was, to give authority to their racist views, with perhaps a little bit of Darwinism thrown in, Bede—as I shall show in later chapters—saw racial identities as rooted more in perduring differences in character. For him a people is less readily characterized by its physical characteristics than by certain spiritual dispositions, which seem to owe as much to nature as to nurture, especially in the case of the Britons.

27 Browne (1893), 13. 28 Browne (1893), 14. 29 Browne (1893), 14.

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By the end of that summer, I had not yet decided whether Bede might be rightly termed a racist. I did know, however, that his famed Historia had been used by ardent Anglo-Saxonists to confirm their view that racial difference was real, that it signified crucial distinctions in human functioning and flourishing, and that these distinctions could be found not just intercontinentally between, for example, Europeans and Africans but also within the isle of Britain between Welsh and English, Celt and Saxon. It seemed worthwhile, therefore, to read deeply within Bede’s famed Historia to understand how its narrative constructs the races of Britain and their essential differences. I resolved to do this by trying to read and assess the Historia on its own terms, independently of the ends for which the Victorian Anglo-Saxonists had used it. Only after doing that could I rightly see whether the Anglo-Saxonists had projected fancifully their own racial fantasies upon Bede’s Historia or whether, conversely, they were heir to a racist legacy that it had helped to create. Before engaging in a close reading of Bede’s Historia, the first chapter will articulate some preliminary considerations to guide that reading. It explains why this book uses the terms ‘race’ and ‘racism’ to describe phenomena and practices that are normally associated with the modern period; identifies three of the Historia’s narratives around which this study of its race-making will center; announces its theological interest in Bede’s text and articulates how its approach to Bede’s narratives is congenial to the reading habits of medieval monastics, as well as to modern readers who attend carefully to the details of the text.30 Chapters 2–5 glean from the Historia’s text the essential outlines of its sketches, respectively, of the Latin, British, English, and Irish races, or gentes. Chapter 2 discusses Bede’s identification of Britain’s ‘Latin race’ with the church and offers up his vision of a universal church centered in Rome as the normative community to which the other races of Britain must conform. Chapters 3–5 each identify, respectively, the distinctive qualities ascribed to the British, English, and Irish races, paying special attention to the three episodes that narrate attempts to convert them to the ways of the universal church. The book’s closing chapter summarizes the racialized picture of Britain’s peoples that the Historia presents and addresses the extent to which Bede can be rightly charged with fomenting a racist vision of Britain’s peoples—a vision that has perhaps served as a precursor of later Euro-American racist discourses [Ch. 6]. I conclude that he can and should be, yet also detail how this charge of racism needs qualification.

30 The word ‘monastics’ will be used to refer to cloistered monks and nuns.

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Chapter 1

Reading the Historia Racially and Religiously

Before addressing scope and method of our larger study, this chapter begins by clarifying what this book means by the terms ‘race’ and ‘racism’ and then by justifying my decision to deploy such terms, which can be highly charged, to describe the Historia’s race-making. ‘Racism’ is an especially loaded term, one from which many recoil, thinking of it either as too incendiary for scholarly use or as anachronistic—and thus wrongly—applied to an eighth-century text like Bede’s Historia. Undergirding this latter view is the sense that racism is a distinctly modern phenomenon, closely associated both with classifying humans phenotypically according to skin color, and with viewing this phenotype as a sure sign of corresponding character traits. If defined in this way, then racism’s birth depended on a development occurring nearly three-quarters of a millennium after Bede’s death, namely, the advent of the transatlantic African slave trade in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Transatlantic slavery involved Europeans in buying and enchaining sub-Saharan Africans, and then forcibly transporting them to the newly established colonies of the Western hemisphere, the so-called ‘New World,’ and subjecting them to unremitting labor, typically on land violently taken from indigenous peoples. According to this view, racism is rooted in efforts to associate Africans’ dark skin with certain character traits that Europeans saw as justifying enslavement. The luminaries of the eighteenth-century Enlightenment—including David Hume, Thomas Jefferson, Voltaire, and Immanuel Kant—contributed to the rise of racism in the West by giving what seemed to be firm philosophical footing to Europeans’ newly crafted fictions concerning the essential differences between races.1 The simultaneously emerging disciplines of phrenology and physiognomy used empirical measurements of skull shapes and facial angles to render respectable those conclusions that were already serving the economic interest of European masters.2 If readers were to embrace this modern view of race and racism, which is based on the essentializing of phenotypical difference, they clearly would find scant evidence for it in Bede’s Historia. Perhaps the only evidence could be glimpsed at the end of Book 2, ch. 2, where Bede narrates the famous account of Gregory the Great—before he became pope—encountering enslaved English boys in the Roman marketplace at some unspecified time near the end of the sixth century. The reader learns there that upon beholding their ‘white body and comely aspect’ (candidi



1 West (1982), 61–63. For a more extended account of Kant’s racial theories, see Carter (2008), 82–96. 2 West (1982), 57–59.

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corporis, ac uenusti uultus), Gregory asks the name of these boys’ race (gentis). Upon being told that they are English (Angli), he replies that their name is fitting since they possess so angelic a countenance (angelicam faciem). The correlation that Gregory reportedly draws here between Englishness on the one hand and whiteness, beauty, and angelic mien on the other seems familiar to modern readers, habituated as we are to recognizing racism through its association of race with skin color. Yet readers’ fascination at discovering here what seems to be a decidedly modern conception of race must not obscure the Historia’s more typical racial calculus, which correlates racial difference less with skin pigmentation and more with deeply ingrained behaviors and dispositions, including religious and theological convictions. A much fuller discussion of how the Historia constructs race along these lines begins with the next chapter. For this study’s purposes racialized thinking has more to do with mentally constructing differences between human groupings than it does with the particular qualities it names as determining those differences. My view of race here closely aligns with that of medievalist Geraldine Heng who defines it as: one of the primary names we have … attached to a repeating tendency, of the gravest import, to demarcate human beings through differences among humans that are selectively essentialized as absolute and fundamental, in order to distribute positions and powers differentially to human groups … My understanding, thus, is that race is a structural relationship for the articulation and management of human differences, rather than a substantive content.3 Two elements of Heng’s definition merit elaboration. First, in calling race a ‘structural relationship for the articulation and management of human differences,’ Heng surely understands this relationship as grounded not in nature, but in the minds of those who stand to gain the most by thus distributing ‘positions and powers differentially.’ From this definition of race, it follows that ‘racism’ is the actual practice of differentially distributing positions and powers by those who—in accordance with that ‘structural relationship’—have the power and motivation to do so. Secondly, in saying that race is not a ‘substantive content,’ Heng here reinforces my primary point that race has more to do with demarcating human beings according to some criteria than it does with the particular criteria themselves. The upshot of this insight is to dethrone the criterion of skin color, or other phenotypical features, as a requisite feature of racism. What is crucial to race-making and racism is the naming of group differences that, as Heng puts it, are ‘selectively essentialized … as absolute and fundamental.’ According to this understanding, difference in religion, difference in skin color, or any other perceived difference—so long as it is marked as essential and absolute—is equally capable of grounding racial thinking and race-making. Heng further argues that since religion was one of the ‘paramount sources of authority in the Middle Ages,’ it logically functioned as a criterion by which those in

3 Heng (2018), 27.

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power could ‘biologize, define, and essentialize an entire community as fundamentally and absolutely different.’4 In particular, she shows how medieval Christians in the twelfth century and afterwards identified religion as the criterion that determines the essential racial difference between themselves and Jews.5 This book extends Heng’s insight by arguing that already in the eighth century one can see at least one seminal Christian writer, Bede, constructing an essential racial difference among the races of Britain largely according to what he takes to be their innate differences in religious temperament.6 To those who charge that racism is too incendiary a term for scholarly use, it must be conceded that its usage may alienate certain readers who believe just that. But not to use it runs risks as well. Here again, Heng argues forcefully for using terms like race and racism in modern historical discourse about the Middle Ages, maintaining that these terms attest to certain ‘strategic, epistemological and political commitments’—commitments, that is, of medieval Europeans—that are not expressed in historians’ typical use of more generalized terms like ‘otherness’ and ‘difference.’ Moreover, by not using race as a descriptive category, scholars and readers may well miss out on new and valuable insights that could never emerge so long as ‘difference’ remains the regnant category. As Heng puts it: The refusal of race destigmatizes the impacts and consequences of certain laws, acts, practices, and institutions in the medieval period, so that we cannot name them for what they are, and makes it impossible to bear adequate witness to the full meaning of the manifestations and phenomena they install. The unavailability of race thus often colludes in relegating such manifestations to an epiphenomenal status, enabling omissions that have, among other things, facilitated the entrenchment and reproduction of a certain kind of foundational historiography in the academy and beyond.7 Recent controversies among medieval-studies scholars generally, and among scholars of early England in particular, over what some of them take to be the discipline’s historical celebration of whiteness and its over-representation of white men have arisen precisely because of the entrenchment of this ‘foundational historiography,’ as Heng calls it, and because of the alienation it has engendered among younger scholars in the discipline, especially scholars of color.8 Although we cannot yet fully anticipate what reading medieval sources through the lens of race can help us better to see than the old categories did, there is no way to tell until that lens is used more broadly.



4 Heng (2018), 27. 5 Heng (2018), 27–31. 6 Bede was doing nothing novel here. Denise Kimber Buell discusses how, to use her words, ‘religious practices were already closely associated with ethnicity in the early Roman imperial period’ and how early Christians were doing the same by the early second century, in Buell (2005), 33 and ch. 1. 7 Heng (2018), 23. 8 Ruf (2020), 15–17.

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1. Reading the Historia Racially Among the first to apply the category of racism specifically to Bede’s age was a Cambridge scholar of early medieval England, Debby Banham. In an insufficiently-heralded article published in 1994, Banham concludes that ‘racism’ is precisely the word that rightly describes early English attitudes toward the native Britons before the Norman conquest (c. 450–1066). Besides examining such diverse secular sources as the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle and riddles from the Exeter Book, Banham attends to Bede’s unflattering portrayal of the Britons, which permeates his Historia.9 She notes precisely the problem that needs attention, but one that few scholars have addressed, namely, how Bede, ‘a believer in a loving and forgiving God’ gave English kings so powerful a pretext for destroying the Britons. She concludes that Bede’s Christian faith, paradoxically, made him more hostile toward the Britons than marauding English kings were. Kings, after all, needed no divine sanction for their expansionist impulses. A pious monk like Bede, by contrast, needed a divine warrant to justify the Britons’ destruction. According to Banham, Bede found that warrant in the fact that Britons were, to use her words, ‘very evil, perpetrators of terrible sins and devoid of moral scruple.’10 She implies, therefore, that Bede saw the Britons as so ‘very evil’ that they wore out the patience of ‘a loving and forgiving God.’ As compelling as Banham’s piece is, it fails to differentiate sufficiently the religious concern that animates Bede’s treatment of the Britons from the secular nature of the other sources she culls to find an early English anti-British racism. By the ‘religious concern’ of Bede’s work, I am referring here specifically to its targeting of Latin-literate monastics and clergy as its primary audience. Such religious men, and some women, had been steeped in rules of reading garnered through their study of the Christian Bible—rules that had been mediated to them by the writings of the Latin Fathers. Those special rules had something to do with the tendency of ancient religious readers and writers to think in typological terms—that is, to perceive the men and women of Scripture and other well-known stories less as unique individuals, born of a particular time and place, and more as representatives of a particular well-known type. Of course, modern racists do something similar, often perceiving individuals of the races they target not as individuals at all, but as mere incarnations of a more general racial stereotype. The difference between ancient types and modern stereotypes, however, may lie in the ancients’ recognition that their types are, in fact, conventional rhetorical tropes and thus not meant to describe realistically flesh-and-blood human beings. a. Racism, Types, and Typological Thinking

The recent resurgence of nativism and nationalism in Europe, as well as in Trump’s America, has led scholars to ask more urgent questions about the nature and origins of

9 For a discussion specifically of Bede’s racism, Banham (1994), 144–48. 10 Banham (1994), 147.

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white racism. This book hopes to shed light on some of those questions by suggesting that stereotypes so endemic to contemporary white-racist thinking and discourse derive from certain types that were employed in classical, biblical, and medieval tale-telling and literature. These ancient and medieval types resulted not only in stock or ‘typical’ characters, but also in typical scenes that appeared repeatedly and thus became quickly recognizable to pre-modern reading audiences. These conventional characters and scenes functioned as templates of sorts, into which pre-modern authors poured their creativity. Modern Western audiences tend to denigrate characters that are typical or stereotypical as uninteresting. For such readers, the mark of a good novelist is one who can capture the irreproducible uniqueness of a person or event. The ancients, however, did not value their own literature in that way. For them, good pedagogy required students to practice imitation.11 And what ancient students imitated were the best examples of what they had before them. Whereas a teacher of schoolchildren today might emphasize the importance of each one expressing in their work aspects of their own uniqueness, in the premodern world, teachers worked to enhance a student’s ability to imitate what was highest and best of that which was already known, and usually very well known—what was regarded as archetypical. And the works that students produced were seen as types, or imitations, of the archetypical. Far from stifling the creativity of ancient students, their imitation of types gave them forms for expressing what they wanted to communicate.12 Examples of such stock characters and scenes abound in classical and biblical literature.13 One example of a stock scene, found both in the Hebrew Bible and in the New Testament, is the call story. This genre exhibits a constellation of several common features, such as the summoning of a disciple or prophet to his or her divine vocation and the giving of some sign by the summoning agent to the disciple or prophet as a pledge that this call is backed by supernatural authority. One example of this genre is the prophet Elijah’s calling of Elisha (1 Kgs 19:19–21); others are in the various Gospel accounts of Jesus calling his disciples (e.g., Lk 9:57–62). As Greek writers who knew the Jewish Scripture’s type-scenes quite well, the New Testament Gospels’ authors used the pattern that those type-scenes established to pen their own stories of Jesus calling his various disciples.14 Another episode type was that of the woman at the well, which one finds in the Hebrew Bible (Gen 24, 29:1–14, and Ex 2:15–22) and in the New Testament ( Jn 4:17–19).15 These various type-scenes would be imitated, in turn, by the later writers of medieval saints’ lives, all the while also being adapted to the purposes of the author who is deploying these ancient types anew.

11 Quoting theologian David Tracy, Peter Brown has described Late Antique education as the attempt to ‘make persons into classics’ by encouraging them to imitate exemplary persons of the past who, in effect, functioned as human archetypes for thought, behavior, and deportment. Cf. Brown (1983), 1. 12 See Pitts (2016), 109–114. 13 For a pioneering article on biblical type-scenes, see Alter (1978). 14 See Droge (1983); Hubbard (1977), 103–26; and Achtemeier (1978). 15 Eslinger (1987).

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1. Characters as Types

Besides type-scenes, these stories also feature character types. In the New Testament’s Gospel of Luke and Acts of the Apostles, for example, the figures of the apostles are often portrayed as types of various Hebrew prophets, the likes of whom the ancient Jewish reader has seen before.16 Like Old Testament prophets, New Testament apostles and evangelists are portrayed as mouthpieces for the divine will, certify their divinely appointed status by performing miracles, and suffer persecution for their public witness.17 Though less a part of contemporary Western high culture, character types have always abounded in popular culture. For example, 1960s American television aired a host of situation comedies that featured the stock character-type of the unmarried father, or father surrogate, who must raise a child or children without the help of a wife or mother.18 This type’s ubiquity shows that for whatever reason it struck a nerve with its audience. Unlike this modern character type, which was novel for its time and place, ancient and medieval types derive from their ancient familiarity; that is, from the way they called to mind archetypes and other earlier types whose origins were not just years but centuries old. While scholars of antiquity typically speak in terms of ancient types rather than ancient stereotypes, nothing significant distinguishes the scholarly term ‘type’ from the more popular word ‘stereotype.’ Like modern stereotypes, ancient and medieval types often served to disenfranchise certain groups of people. Jews, for example, were typed by early Christians as legalistic, as carnally rather than spiritually minded, and as Christ-killers. Clearly this literary type has had dire material and psychological consequences for real Jews throughout the West’s history. One recognizes that type in modern Nazi depictions of the Jew, which echo Shakespeare’s infamous typological construction of the Jew in the character of Shylock. Shylock wants, quite literally, to extract a pound of flesh from the Christian debtor Antonio.19 His very desire for flesh, however, depends upon earlier Christian constructions of the Jewish type as one who is so obsessed with things of the flesh that he has no desire for the deeper spiritual realities hidden beneath the world’s fleshy veil. For early Christians, those deeper spiritual realities could and should be found through both Scripture and the rituals that God had instituted for God’s people there. Jews, however, were 16 Even Jesus connects the callings and experiences of the prophets with those of the apostles (Lk 11:49). 17 At the end of Acts, Paul the apostle quotes the prophet Isaiah, expressing their common experience of proclaiming God’s word to those among God’s people who have ‘shut their eyes’ (Act 28:25–27). On Acts’ portrayal of Stephen the protomartyr as typologically linked to prophets and apostles, see Tannehill (1986 & 1990), 2:83, 86–87. 18 Examples of this character-type included widower fathers—Sherriff Andy Taylor (The Andy Griffith Show), Congressman Glen Morley (The Farmer’s Daughter), aeronautical engineer Steve Douglas (My Three Sons), and magazine publisher Tom Corbett (The Courtship of Eddie’s Father)—as well as playboy-uncles-turned-fathers, such as attorney Bentley Gregg (Bachelor Father) and engineer Bill Davis (Family Affair). 19 The Merchant of Venice, Act 4, Scene 1, ll. 98–99 in Shakespeare (1993), 193: ‘The pound of flesh which I demand of him/ Is dearly bought: ’tis mine, and I will have it.’

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viewed as interpreting both Scripture and the rituals it enjoins too literally or, as the third-century Christian theologian Origen put it, with too much emphasis upon Scripture’s ‘fleshly’ sense.20 J. Kameron Carter has argued that some early Christians’ Gnostic-influenced construction of Jews—namely, as beings in whom the unruly flesh dominated the spirit—informed Europeans’ later typological constructions of other peoples, including that of the Black-African type during the so-called Age of Discovery and afterwards.21 If Carter is right, then any attempt to understand white racism must trace its history back further than the Enlightenment period, or even than the period of seventeenth-century colonization of the New World. In particular, the origins of that particular incarnation of white supremacy that justified American slavery must be sought outside America and inside its British and, more specifically, its English past. That past mediated to America these earlier types upon which the ideology of African enslavement would be established. Before 1776, America’s founders all identified themselves as British generally, and many as English specifically. As Jerald C. Brauer has argued, the American revolutionary impulse to break away from the British crown was itself inspired by myths, ideals, and understandings of English history that colonial patriots and their Puritan forbears had brought with them from England.22 Although the myths that interest Brauer were of comparatively recent vintage, other myths that English colonists imported were very old. These include, as we will later see, myths about their earliest English forbears—myths that derive from Bede. 2. Bede’s Construction of Britain’s Races

Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum, the title Bede gave to his monumental account of Britain and its races, has usually been translated into English as the Ecclesiastical History of the English People. More specifically, the Latin title’s gentis, which is the 20 Railing against the interpretations of Christ and God put forth by Jews and Gnostic heretics, Origen explains, ‘The reason for [their] false opinions, the impious attitudes, and the amateurish talk about God … seems to be no other than that Scripture is not understood in its spiritual sense, but is interpreted according to the mere letter [i.e., only literally].’ Origen, De principiis 4,2,2; Froehlich (trans), 56; cf. Rufinus’ Latin translation of Origen’s Greek original in GCS 22,308, ll. 26–28: Horum autem omnium falsae intellegentiae causa his quibus supra diximus non alia extitit, nisi quod sancta scriptura ab his non secundum spiritalem sensum, sed secundum litterae sonum intellegitur. Origen’s equation of reading according to the letter with reading according to the flesh derives from Paul, who opposes both the letter and flesh to the Spirit (Rom 2:27–29 and 2 Cor 3:6–7 [spirit vs. letter]; Rom 8:4–13 and Gal 4:21–31 [spirit vs. flesh]). For an analysis of how Bede’s De templo associates Jewishness with a non-spiritual, literal-minded, and stony-hearted approach to God’s law, see Lavezzo (2016), 28–63. 21 Carter introduces his explication of Irenaeus’ anti-Gnostic project and its relevance for a modern theology of anti-racism by saying, ‘My interest here is guided by my contemporary concern: namely, the extent to which his [i.e., Irenaeus’] intellectual vision can assist me in reimagining Christian theological discourse as disrupting strong narratives of identity such as the proto-‘racial’ one the ‘Christian’ Gnostics of old proposed, as well as the neo-Gnostic one of modern racial practice and discourse.’ See Carter (2008), 14. 22 Brauer (1976), 1–27.

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genitive singular form of the Latin noun gens, is usually translated as ‘people’ or as ‘nation.’ Gens, however, can also be rendered as ‘race.’ Perhaps because that word is so fraught with negative meanings associated with Western colonialism and capitalism, translators have usually shied away from that rendering. M. R. James, however, in his 1907 contribution to The Cambridge History of English Literature actually translates the gentis of Bede’s title as ‘race.’23 Sixty years later, however, translating the title’s gens Anglorum as ‘English Race’ was no longer acceptable. Bertram Colgrave therefore translated gentis in Bede’s title as ‘people’ on the cover of the Historia’s 1969 edition, which he produced with Roger Mynors for the Oxford Medieval Texts series. Yet while Colgrave shies away from translating gens as ‘race’ in the book’s title, he translates it many times as ‘race’ in the Historia’s actual text.24 Perhaps Colgrave’s translation choice for the title was his own; or perhaps Oxford University Press, influenced by the zeitgeist of the late ’60s, decided that the words ‘English race’ were unacceptable on the book’s cover, although acceptable in the text itself. The English word ‘race’ derives from the Italian razza. Although razza’s etymological origins are not conclusively known, some speculate that it derives from the three final syllables of the Latin generatio, which shares with gens the same Latin root verb, gigno, which means ‘to beget.’25 If Bede had followed the example set forth by Bishop Gregory of Tours, whose early history of the Franks—the Historia Francorum—leaves out gens from its title, he likewise would have omitted it from his own title as a redundancy, but he does not. This shortened title (i.e., Historia ecclesiastica Anglorum instead of Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum) would have been perfectly comprehensible: The Ecclesiastical History of the English. The addition of the gentis seems calculated to stress the common begetting—the common race—of the various English-speaking kingdoms that inhabited Britain. Because Bede’s Latin has no adjectival form equivalent to our ‘English,’ Bede must use the possessive form of the plural noun ‘English’ (i.e. Anglorum) so that the gentis Anglorum of his title, which translators usually render as ‘English people,’ is more literally translated as ‘the race of the English.’26 Therefore, a more exact but less elegant translation of Bede’s entire title would thus be The Ecclesiastical History of the Race of the English. Bede at times gives a lively sense of the difference between various races (gentes), and that difference seems to involve what he takes to be a difference of enduring and even intractable dispositions among them. Very conscious that Britain is home to

23 James (1907), 80–81. The ardent Anglo-Saxonist bishop of Bristol George Forrest Browne, cited in the Prologue, also translated the gentis of Bede’s title as ‘race’ in Browne (1920), xxix and elsewhere. 24 For example, nostrae gentis, referring to the English (in Bede HE 2,1—79,28), is translated by Colgrave as ‘our race’ (Colgrave and Mynors edn, 133). 25 S.v. ‘race, n. 6,’ The Oxford English Dictionary, 3rd edn, 2008 (online version). Liberman (2009) believes that the Italian razza probably derived instead from the Latin ratio. He notes, however, that two factors helped shape modern usage of the word ‘race’: (1) the fact that ratio can also mean ‘species’ and (2) the homonymic association of ratio/‘race’ with the Latin generatio. For a fuller discussion of the English word ‘race’ and its origins, see Smedley (2012), 35–39. 26 The word ‘English’ can function as an adjective (e.g., the English language) or as a proper noun (e.g., as in, ‘The English are an island people’). Bede’s Latin only has the noun form.

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various gentes, he first describes their difference in terms of their languages, noting that Britain is home to five language groupings: English, British, Irish, Pictish, and Latin.27 But as the Historia proceeds he at times conveys the sense that the peoples who speak these different languages can be distinguished by other qualities. The Britons are cast as stubborn, the English as angelic. The Irish are humble, though at times—like the Britons—maddeningly intransigent, parochial, and resistant to salutary change. Latin speakers are never singled out for collective mention, but they tend to be associated with the cluster of symbols surrounding the name ‘Rome,’ including perhaps the Roman Empire and quite certainly the Roman church, both of which call forth associations with universal peace and order—the former of an earthly sort, the latter heavenly.28 One could rightly say that the main narrative arcs that the Historia traces are those of the British, English, and Irish races’ movements—or lack thereof—away from their respective and peculiarly native forms of religious practice toward a specifically Rome-centered catholic Christianity. This particular form of Christianity, according to the Historia’s own inner logic and conviction, is coterminous with the universal church and, as such, is destined to extend its embrace to every corner of the globe before Christ eventually returns to summon the faithful at the end of the age. The fact that Christianity had at last found its way into English hearts during the seventh century, and had done so after Britain’s English (and pagan) conquerors had seemed little impressed by it when they encountered it among the Britons in the fifth century, seemed at least to some a sign that Christianity’s advent and embrace in this extreme northwestern corner of the then-known world had set the conditions for God finally to bring human history to its end.29 The chapters that follow aim to describe in some detail how, chiefly through the literary artistry of its narrative, the Historia constructs durable and recognizable racial types—types that Anglo-Saxonists like Freeman would find serviceable for their own much later ideological ends.30 Articulating and analyzing that construction will require reading relevant episodes from the Historia to see the myriad techniques it employs to describe not only the races concerned, but also individual representatives that serve to typify them. Skillful use of these techniques gives the Historia its considerable narrative power and makes evident its literary artistry. These techniques include its masterful sketching of plotlines, construction of character, setting up of narrative oppositions (i.e., letting the reader know which actions are good and which are evil), its word choice, imagery, and use of biblical allusions. Together these literary tools deftly fashion a picture of each of Britain’s major races—the British, Irish, and especially the English, about whose destiny the Historia most concerns itself. Bede judges each of these races according to the standard set by the fourth ‘race’ of concern,

27 Bede, HE 1,1—11,11–17. With this characterization of races in terms of their different languages, Bede echoes Isidore of Seville, who claims that races arise from languages. Cf. Isidore, Etymologiae 9,1,14 (Lindsey [ed.], vol. 1, 345): quia ex linguis gentes, non ex gentibus linguae exortae sunt. 28 For a discussion of what Rome and the Romans meant to Bede, see Hilliard (2018), 33–48. 29 For more on Bede’s eschatological views, see Darby (2016) and Davidse (1982). 30 On Freeman, see Ch. 1.

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namely, those Latin-literate Christians who to him represent the best and highest of the Rome-centered catholic Christianity. In articulating the Historia’s construction of race, we will be concerned to notice its consistency. Does, for example, the narrative as a whole consistently express the conviction that the English are ‘angelic,’ as the famous episode at the beginning of Book 2 suggests? Or alternately, does it believe that God’s power, which ‘has utterly opposed the Britons’ throughout the Historia, might be disposed at some future time to redeem them?31 In other words, did Bede’s Historia display a consistent and racial typing of Britain’s peoples that might have lent itself to a racist reading in its own time as well as in subsequent times? And if it did, what perceived racial distinctions did it—and does it—commend to its readers? Answering all these questions will require close attention to particular narratives most relevant to this task. b. The Historia’s Council Type-Scenes as Sites of Racial Construction

The following chapters focus on three extended episodes that modern readers, and perhaps medieval ones, took as providing some of the Historia’s most emblematic characterizations of the British, the Irish, and the English races. All three involve a council-scene in which participants from at least two of the four races (gentes) meet to decide whether one of them will dispense with their former religious practices, or at least some of them, and to adopt instead Rome-centered, catholic ones. All three, therefore, deal with the issue of a race’s religious conversion. The first council-scene episode concerns the Britons. Related in 2,2, it describes a meeting of British Christian bishops and teachers who have been summoned to consider replacing their idiosyncratic ritual practices and missionary concerns with those that were endorsed by the Rome-centered, ‘universal’ church. The Roman, Latin-speaking bishop Augustine (who must not be confused with the more famous fifth-century African theologian and bishop, Augustine of Hippo) issued that summons. Pope Gregory I, honored as ‘the Great,’ had dispatched Augustine from Rome in 597 to convert the English to Christianity, a project that was begun among the English people of Kent. Augustine subsequently served in Canterbury as the first bishop of any English-speaking people. The second council-scene episode concerns the English. Also occurring in Book 2, it relates how Edwin, king over the English Northumbrians, came to call a meeting of his chief counselors at the instigation of another Roman and Latin-speaking bishop, Paulinus of York. Its purpose was to determine whether the English Northumbrians should abandon their native Germanic pagan religion for the catholic Roman Christianity that Paulinus had brought to them from Rome, via Canterbury. The third council-scene concerns the Irish. Narrated in 3,25, it relates how a later king of the English Northumbrians, Oswiu, convokes a synod at Whitby in the presence of both Roman- and Irish-taught Christians. At this meeting, Oswiu hopes to determine whether he and his Irish Christian mentors, who had been schooled in the tradition of the Irish-founded monastery of Iona, 31 Bede, HE 5,23—351,13–14: diuina sibi [i.e., Brettonibus] … prorsus resistente uirtute.

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should abandon their Ionan-Christian discipline for the Rome-centered discipline practiced by Edwin’s wife, Queen Eanflæd. A granddaughter of the Kentish king who first greeted Archbishop Augustine upon his arrival from Rome, Eanflæd had received her catechetical instruction in York under the auspices of its bishop, the catholic Roman-styled Paulinus, mentioned above. Each of these episodes may be seen as an instance of what we will call a council type-scene. This particular class of type-scenes has as its earliest precedent portrayals of the gods meeting together in Homer’s Iliad, or of Yahweh’s convening of a heavenly council described at various places in the Hebrew Bible.32 Variations of these earliest examples can be found in the New Testament where, in the book of Acts, a council of church leaders rather than an assembly of gods meets four separate times to settle various issues of importance to the earliest church. Bede himself catalogues each of these four in his Retractatio on Acts, written not long before the Historia, probably between 725 and 731.33 Eusebius of Caesarea’s well-known Ecclesiastical History—a fourth-century work whose title Bede likely adapted to his own—also contains a famous account of the second-century quarrel over the observance of Easter.34 Although this quarrel is represented as a lively epistolary debate, Eusebius recounts it in a way that makes it seem like a highly animated council scene. By examining in detail each of these three council type-scenes in the Historia and by comparing them to each other, the reader gains a nuanced picture of what each narrative wants to convey about the typical features of the peoples or races that it foregrounds. To complete this picture, I will at times draw upon other episodes in the Historia—episodes that will help to give context to the characters and events in one of the three featured council type-scenes and thus fill out the author’s sketch both of the race in question and its typical representatives.

2. Reading the Historia Religiously To read the Historia racially invites it also to be read religiously. As we have already seen, only a fine line may distinguish a religious type from a racial stereotype. So, rightly seeing this text’s construction of the racial order requires the reader to rightly apprehend its religious world view. To read the Historia religiously does not mean that one must read it with religious devotion, although many monastic readers likely did. It means rather to read it as the product of religious, and specifically monastic, devotion. The reading of the Historia given in the following chapters exhibits three

32 For a brief introduction to the biblical type-scene and its ancient parallels in Homeric literature, see Johnson (2010), 269. 33 Bede, Retract. in Act. [Act 21:25]—CCSL 121,157, ll. 21–29. The four councils Bede lists are, as he describes them, (1) the council to elect Judas’ replacement as an apostle [Act 1:13–26], (2) the council concerning the election of seven deacons [Act 6:2–6], (3) the council to determine whether Gentile believers should be circumcised [Act 15:6–29], and (4) the council of Jewish Christians, held to determine whether they could still observe Judaism’s ceremonial laws [Act 21:17–25]. 34 Eusebius, Ecclesiastica historica 5, 23–24; Lake (trans), LCL 153, 502–13.

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qualities that a religious text like it requires. The first is what I call its formalist quality. The second is its sensitivity to how the Historia alludes to other classic works, especially Christian Scripture. The presence of allusion calls for a reading that is, at least in part, figurative and metaphorical. The third quality of a religious reading is that it takes seriously a chief aim of much religious literature, namely, to morally edify the reader. Each of these qualities will now be taken up in order. a. Reading the Historia as Story

By the formalist quality of a religious reading, I mean the concern to read the text closely, with an eye to reconstructing the narrative world that its author imaginatively creates by skillfully deploying the rhetorical tools at his or her disposal. What I am here calling a formalist approach contrasts with the more usual historicist readings of Bede’s text, which aim to reconstruct the real historical world that Bede inhabited, the kind of world one might actually witness if time travel to eighth-century Britain were possible.35 The formalist turn characterized much biblical scholarship in the last quarter of the twentieth century. Following on the heels of historical criticism’s attempts to sift out of Scripture’s sometimes fantastic narrative the most reliable historical information it could about Jesus and the early Christian movement, the pioneers of this formalist approach recognized that most Christians readers had read the Bible for 1900 years without the benefit of such sifting. And yet, the ordinary Christians’ lack of concern to distill historical truth from pious legend did not prevent them from drawing theological and moral lessons from the story that Scripture told, nor from applying those lessons to their lives. In this way most Christian readers have shown themselves to be good formalists. To be sure, their readings have been informed both by their own peculiar reading contexts, which are many and various, but they are also informed by scrutinizing the text itself, which remains constant. Like these more traditional readers, formalist scholars of Scripture have turned their attention to this constant of the text, and often are informed by the methods of New or Structuralist criticism. In doing so, they conjecture that amidst the din of historically conditioned contextual voices that induce readers to interpret a biblical text in a way conditioned by their own times and places, the text retains at least some power to speak in its own still-audible and distinctive voice.36 Although these insights and assumptions were applied mostly to biblical texts, there is no reason why they cannot be fruitfully applied to any religious text that, like the Christian Bible, has circulated broadly over the course of many centuries. I apply it here to Bede’s Historia. A religious reading’s greater interest in the story itself—than in the historical information that the story imparts—entails its lack of interest in the story’s author, 35 What we here call the formalist approach closely approximates the way a medieval monastic reader would approach the text. In his masterful account of medieval grammatical culture, Martin Irvine observes, ‘A major mark of grammatical culture is this general drift toward textual anonymity: the text itself was the focus of the reader’s activity, not the historical circumstances or personalities of authors.’ Irvine (2006), 277. 36 For an account of this formalist or literary turn in New Testament criticism, see Moore (1989).

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except what the author communicates about himself in the telling of the story. A formalist reading focuses therefore on the image of an author that can be inferred merely from reading the text. Such an image, of course, is just that: an image—specifically, a self-image that the author has created. As readers, we know of any author, including Bede, chiefly what he wants us to know. Like any author, Bede presents the reader with an authorial persona that he has adapted as being most suitable for conveying his message in this or that particular writing. In order to distinguish historical ‘fleshand-blood’ authors from the personas that they present of themselves in the text, literary scholars have come up with the term implied author to designate the latter.37 It can be important to maintain this distinction between the implied author—the author-as-he-wants-the-reader-to-know-him—and the historical author as he might otherwise be known from other sources. If that distinction is lost, our reading may begin with certain assumptions about what we know—or think we know—about what an author intended by writing a particular work. We may bring, for example, a knowledge gleaned perhaps either from that author’s other writings or from other information we have about him from other authors. Such assumptions may in turn keep us from discerning the distinctive vision that is manifest in reading this or that particular work. Keeping this distinction between the real author and the implied author in mind, we can better glimpse how general readers might have interpreted the Historia, especially those who knew nothing of Bede apart from what his persona in that text—the implied author—has chosen to tell them. To make this distinction is to acknowledge that every reader of the Historia draws from it her own sense both of what the text means and what its author is like. And every reader does so in accordance with the peculiar mental equipment and dispositions that she has brought to the reading. This is not to say that the author is helpless to shape that meaning and image in her mind. It is merely to acknowledge the dialectical process by which meaning is made in the reading of any text: the author tries to shape the meaning that the reader receives and the reader constructs his or her own meaning, which is shaped both by the author’s input and the reader’s own predilections.38 By the same token, as the Historia’s author Bede implicitly presents a persona. He begins the Historia by directly addressing a king—his king. One can easily imagine him wanting to adopt here an authorial persona that crafts carefully not only its message but also his own self-presentation. After all, who does not consider carefully beforehand what

37 First coined by literary theorist Wayne Booth, implied author addressed Booth’s need for a term that encompassed all those qualities of narrative that earlier critics variously named as its ‘theme,’ ‘meaning,’ ‘symbolic significance,’ even ‘theology.’ Such terms expressed, as Booth put it, ‘the reader’s need to know where, in the world of values, he stands—that is, to know where the author wants him to stand.’ Additionally, Booth’s sense of an implied author, as he puts it, ‘includes not only the extractable meanings but also the moral and emotional content of each bit of action and suffering of all of the characters. It includes, in short the intuitive apprehension of a completed artistic whole; the chief value to which this implied author is committed, regardless of what party his creator belongs to in real life, is that which is expressed by the total form.’ Booth (1961), 73–74. 38 The concern here on the author’s image that the reader mentally fashions while reading the text may well lead one also to usefully think also of an ‘inferred author.’ See Kindt and Müller (2006), 103–04.

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to say to one’s king? This is not to presume that Bede is dissembling. It does assume, however, that an author who wishes to be taken seriously takes careful stock of his or her audience and deploys the rhetorical strategies most likely to have the desired effect on it. This includes offering an implicit authorial self-presentation that, in the author’s judgment, will pack the most effective rhetorical punch so as to achieve the desired aim. To underscore this book’s greater concern for the Historia’s implied rather than its historical author, I will often use terms like ‘the author’ and ‘the narrator’ instead of the simpler ‘Bede,’ which connotes the flesh-and-blood author. I do so to help the reader approach the Historia with a fresh mind—one less apt to import into its reading what it knows about the historical Bede. Modern scholarship on Bede, for example, has taken very seriously Alan Thacker’s now classic argument, which has been further elaborated by Scott DeGregorio, that late in his life, Bede had as his paramount concern the reform of the church in his native Northumbria.39 One can witness that concern most famously in Bede’s Letter to Egbert, in which he writes of his alarm at the bishops’ and clergy’s moral and pastoral neglect of their flocks and recommends reforms. Taking to heart Thacker’s thesis, readers of the Historia, which Bede wrote late in his life, are now likely to approach it expecting to find evidence there of Bede’s reformist impulse. Some have found it.40 I do not wish to argue that there is anything wrong in finding it.41 Indeed, reading the Historia through this lens may illuminate our historical understanding of it. It will not, however, illuminate the understanding of readers who lived more distantly from Bede’s time and place—and thus had no access to Bede’s Letter to Egbert or his other late writings. More importantly, it will not illuminate our understanding of what those readers took religiously from their formalist reading of the Historia. Since my interest in fact includes those distant readers, I resist importing this knowledge about Bede-the-reformist into my readings of his text. What I will let myself know about him is only what the Historia tells me (which, actually, is considerable).42 b. Reading the Historia with Scripture

At the Historia’s end, its author describes himself as one who has, from the age of seven, spent all his life (cunctum tempus uitae) giving all his attention (omnem operam) to studying Scripture.43 He goes on to list all the commentaries and works of biblical scholarship he has written. To read this text religiously takes this claim into account. If one takes it literally, then one must conclude that even the Historia attends somehow to the author’s study of Scripture, if not directly—as his many biblical commentaries do—then at least indirectly. To read this text religiously, therefore, means to let one’s 39 Thacker (1983), 130–53. 40 DeGregorio (2010), 673–87. 41 Higham (2013), 481 rejects the notion that Book 4 of the Historia evidences Bede’s so-called reformist agenda. 42 See especially the mini-autobiography that Bede offers the reader in HE 5,24—357,7–360,2. 43 Bede, HE 5,24—357,10–12.

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understanding of Scripture inform it; and perhaps to let one’s understanding of this text illuminate somehow Scripture’s meaning. Christian Scripture surely provided for Bede the primary model for composing historical narrative. The Old Testament’s first five books, its narrative books of 1 and 2 Samuel and 1 and 2 Kings, the New Testament Gospels, and its Acts of the Apostles all contain lively and powerful examples of narrative artistry.44 More than that, all of Scripture, its non-narrative as well as its narrative portions, is highly intertextual. That is, it makes frequent either explicit or oblique allusions to other texts. The New Testament Gospels often state that this or that aspect of an episode it narrates happened in accordance with—or in the fulfillment of—Scripture.45 Such statements prompt serious readers to search the Gospel writers’ Scriptures—that is, the books of the Old Testament—to find the precise scriptural passage to which that Gospel’s author links this or that episode in Jesus’ life. Besides wanting the reader to find that passage, the Gospel author also wants her to somehow use it so as to ponder more deeply the episode’s meaning. Modern readers who want to find the referenced Old Testament passage can resort to a Bible replete with a critical apparatus that identifies it precisely in a footnote. Pre-modern readers, however, who did not have the benefit of concordances or annotated editions of Scripture either had to pore laboriously over the books of Scripture to find the reference or had already pored so laboriously over it through years of reading and study that the reference sprang immediately to mind. Like the New Testament Gospels and Acts, later non-canonical Christian narratives likewise featured intertextual references to Scripture: the New Testament as well as the Old. These narratives included martyrs’ Acta and early saints’ Lives. In the same way that effectively interpreting New Testament narratives required deep familiarity with Old Testament Scripture, so too did interpreting works belonging to these new Christian genres require knowing the whole of Scripture, Old Testament and New. Like other early Christian narrative, Bede’s Historia rewards readers who have more than just a passing knowledge of Christian Scripture. Although its less religious readers—such as members of the royalty, nobility, and secular clergy—would have been able to understand and enjoy the Historia’s lively narrative, they likely missed—much as we moderns do—many of the Scriptural allusions and cadences that an educated monastic reader could have been expected to recognize. The advantages that a learned monk would have brought to a reading of the Historia, however, included more than mere knowledge of Scripture. It also included superior insight into how a text should be read. As Bede knew well, and as even a cursory reading of his biblical commentaries makes clear, the text of Scripture at least, could and should be read on multiple levels. At its most basic level, Scripture can be read literally or historically. The characters of the biblical story and the unfolding of its plot, with its often surprising twists and turns, have the power to delight and to edify anyone, even the simplest, who loves a good story. Yet as an

44 For a viewpoint that emphasizes the special role that Acts played in influencing Bede’s HE, see Merrills (2005), 240–49. 45 Cf. Mt 26:54–56; Mk 12:10 and 14:49; Lk 4:21, 22:37, 24:27, and 24:32; Jn 7:42, 13:18, and 19:28.

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expert in the Christian exegetical tradition, Bede knew that Scripture has other levels of interpretation besides the literal or historical. As he himself observed about the biblical book of Tobit in the opening to his commentary on it, ‘Anyone who knows how to interpret the Book of Tobit not just historically, but allegorically, sees that just as [a plant’s] fruits surpass [its] leaves, so this book’s inner sense surpasses its literal simplicity. For if understood spiritually, it is seen to contain in itself the great mysteries of Christ and the Church.’46 Bede took it as a matter of course, therefore, that the Bible’s allegorical meaning surpassed its literal, and that each kind of meaning could edify different kinds of readers. On the one hand, a minimally competent reader could profit by reading and interpreting Tobit historically or literally, deriving sound moral lessons by reading it at this level. Someone, however, ‘who knows how to interpret it not just historically, but also allegorically’ can see a more excellent sense than the literal, one that points literal to deeper spiritual realities. It is worth asking whether Bede intended his own great history to be interpreted, in places at least, as Scripture should be: figuratively, that is. At this point, some might object that Bede never would have dared impute to his Historia the divinely inspired depth of meaning that Scripture possesses, and that it is that singular depth of meaning that warrants Scripture’s being read allegorically. No other text, they would argue, should be read in this way.47 Perhaps not. But such an objection does not mean that Bede intended the Historia only to be read at the literal or historical level.48 It is hard to believe that Bede, who spent most of his life reading and interpreting the biblical history—and doing so figuratively as well as literally—could have assumed that religious readers, who had read that biblical history just as Bede had, would now approach his Historia with utterly different reading habits. To accommodate them, he had to write a narrative that was not only compelling, but allusive. He clearly seems to have imparted that allusive quality to another of his historical works, the Prose Life of St Cuthbert. As Walter Berschin has argued, Bede likely divided that work into 46 chapters to suggest figuratively that Cuthbert was a type of Christ, the new Adam. That suggestion draws upon the number 46’s numerological significance, which Scripture’s conscientious readers could garner from Jn 2:20 and which Latin Fathers before Bede, including Augustine, had discussed.49 If Bede had cared only for the historical or literal sense of his text, he would have given no thought to the precise number of chapters this work

46 Bede, In Tob.—CCSL 119B,3, ll. 3–7; Foley and Holder (trans), 57. 47 This position is argued in Holder (1989), 129: ‘In Bede’s view, the words of Scripture were to receive allegorical exposition, for they contained figures of mysteries. Other sources of information, however ancient and reliable they may be, provided insight into the historia only … It is true that ancient illustrators, and ancient historians like Josephus, were for Bede reliable interpreters of the literal sense, and could even at times suggest a suitable spiritual interpretation, but they were not in his view so authoritative that spiritual meaning could be derived from information provided by them alone.’ 48 A fuller account of this view, which closely approximates my own, can be found in Tolley (2018), 1–12. 49 In Greek, the numbers represented by the letter in the name ‘Adam,’ when summed, total 46: αʹ+δʹ+αʹ+μʹ = 1+4+1+40, which is also the number of years it took to build the Jerusalem Temple ( Jn 2:20). See Berschin (1989).

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should contain. The proper number would have been dictated by the amount and nature of material to be included and not by any deeper significance that a number might convey. Berschin suggests, however, that Bede’s structuring of his Cuthbert Life into 46 chapters was no coincidence and that Bede wanted to juxtapose in his reader’s mind his own 46-chapter narrative of Cuthbert’s life—which he described as ‘complete’ (perfecto)—with the 46 days it took to achieve the ‘completion of the Lord’s body’ (perfectio dominici corporis) in Mary’s womb.50 Whenever Bede deploys biblical allusion, he signals clearly that he wants his work, like any other Christian narrative, to be read for its resonances with Scripture, and not simply for its plain literal sense. When, for example, the Historia likens the pagan King Æthelfrith at the end of Book I to Old Testament King Saul, it clearly invites the reader to consider Æthelfrith’s actions in a broader context than Æthelfrith’s own time and place of early seventh-century Northumbria.51 By paralleling Æthelfrith with Saul in this way, Bede nudges readers to interpret Æthelfrith’s story in light of Saul’s. The Æthelfrith story in turn may provide a new lens through which readers may go back and reinterpret Saul’s story. Or, to take yet another example, consider Bede’s famous account of Pope Gregory I meeting some English slave boys in the Roman market. In that brief episode, Bede attributes to Gregory a pun that plays upon the verbal similarity between the words angeli (‘angels’) and Angli (‘the English’). Surely Bede’s intent in relaying this story has less to do with accurately reporting a literal, historical event that occurred in late sixth-century Rome than it does with forging in the reader’s imagination an analogical connection between a real historical people, the English, and celestial supernatural beings, God’s holy angels, as they are known from Scripture. In short, in order to read Bede’s text as he expected it to be read, one has to read it with something other than a modern historian’s critical eye. One has to search out its analogies, allusions, and metaphors—and not merely evaluate the veracity of its historical claims. Bede uses a full complement of rhetorical conventions—conventions that he himself described in his early treatise On Schemes and Tropes—to give his Historia its literary power and to suggest analogues between its episodes and characters, on the one hand, and those of other ancient texts and narratives, most especially,

50 Perfectio dominici corporis (Bede Hom. euang. 2,1—CCSL 122,189, ll. 191–92; Martin and Hurst [trans] [1991], 8). Berschin (1989), 99–101 presumes that Bede here is relying on earlier Latin patristic musings on the numerological significance of the number 46. In this Lenten homily on Jn 2:12–22, Bede himself claims that just as it took 46 years for the Jerusalem Temple to be rebuilt after its destruction, so did it take 46 days in the womb for the Lord’s physical body to be perfected or completed, where by ‘completed’ (perfici) he means the articulation of its separate members, which then only grow larger during the remaining seven months of gestation (Hom. euang. 2,1—CCSL 122,189, ll. 192–203; Martin and Hurst [trans] [1991], 8). The 46 years of rebuilding the temple thus express typologically the 46 days during which the Lord’s physical body was completed or perfected. Both these in turn are types of the perfected and completed life of St Cuthbert—where ‘life’ here designates not only the span of time during which Cuthbert lived, but also the 46-chapter Vita (or Saint’s Life) that Bede wrote about him and that Bede himself described as a ‘perfected’ work (perfecto operi), in Bede, Vita sancti Cuthberti [prosa] Prologus (Colgrave edn, 144). 51 Bede, HE 1,34—71,9–14.

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the Christian Bible, on the other.52 His structuring of larger narratives, however, required the use of other literary techniques that went beyond the deployment of particular tropes. The tropes he identifies in his little treatise—which include metaphor, metonymy, and synecdoche—are all examples of embellishments, each of which typically exhibits its effect only in the scope of a single sentence. When looking at larger chunks of prose such as an entire episodic unit one must look for other techniques that Bede used not only to structure the narrative, but to give it rhetorical power. Over the course of the following analysis of the three council-scene episodes, we will have the occasion to notice a number of these features, which include—among others—the repetition of words and themes, the chiastic arrangement of larger sections of text, the roles and speaking parts that Bede assigns—or does not assign—to an episode’s major characters, and finally, the construction of narrative oppositions that directly contrast good actions and their agents with evil actions and theirs.53 Instead of abstractly discussing all of these here, each will be handled inductively, that is, on those occasions where the consideration of a particular episode or passage calls for it. Authors may knowingly write for more than one audience. They cannot expect that every reader will bring to the text the skill of discerning its schemes, tropes, biblical allusions, and structuring techniques. Although Bede addresses this work to his king in the Preface, as has been noted, he cannot have imagined that a king could have or would have done the kind of close, religious reading that I have been describing. Besides the king, Bede was writing more generally for a predominantly English-speaking yet Latin-literate audience. Most would have been devoted men and women of the church. This audience would have included some English bishops, to whom Bede had already dedicated many of his biblical commentaries. It also would have included monks and nuns and perhaps a few Latin-literate secular clergy of his native Northumbria. Perhaps Bede also envisioned an audience outside of Britain that would have included learned higher clergy and monastics on the European continent. He may even have envisioned as readers future generations of monastics and clergy. While he may never have imagined a modern audience that would include Anglo-Saxonists like Freeman, scores of English schoolchildren, and secular historians world-wide, he may have conceived of his work as useful for the Christian monk of any era, including one centuries ahead of his own. He knew, for example, that the monasteries of Western Europe were great centers of learning and that, in accordance with the most famous monastic rule, the Rule of St Benedict, many monastics—irrespective of their particular times and places—spent a good portion of their day in the study of sacred Scripture as well as the works of the Church Fathers, many of which had been written hundreds of years before. As one who had written biblical commentaries that often recapitulated what these earlier Fathers had said, he knew that monastics read the works of the Church Fathers to be edified

52 Bede, De schem.; Kendall (trans). 53 Books that do similar kinds of analyses of New Testament narratives include, to name just a few examples, Tolbert (1989); Patte (1987); and Tannehill (1986 & 1990), vol. 1.

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and to complement their lives of prayer and manual labor. It is difficult to imagine him not conceiving of the Historia as yet another text whose writing might help to inform the monk’s contemplation of Scripture and cultivation of humility. As such, he presumably wanted to fashion a work useful to a more universal audience of faithful Christians, especially monastics, whose background knowledge of the historical particulars of seventh- and eighth-century Britain would have been comparatively scant, of course, apart from what they would be able to glean from the Historia itself. Whether he willed it or not, the Historia did in fact reach a much larger audience of monastics and clergy, many of whom lived in continental Europe.54 As one writing largely for a Latin-literate and monastic audience, Bede presupposes his reader’s intimate familiarity with the Bible’s Latin translation, which had been made available to English Christians through various Old Latin versions and through Jerome’s late-fourth-century Vulgate translation. Besides the presence of Scriptural allusions, what marks out the Historia as a text intended chiefly for monastics is the often indirect and elliptical way it refers to a particular Scriptural passage or cluster of passages.55 Recognizing these subtle allusions to Scripture requires the sort of intimacy with the Latin Bible that the laity neither had nor could have. Occasionally, though infrequently, Bede alludes to a specific Scriptural person or passage, such as when—as noted above—he compares the Northumbrians’ King Æthelfrith to King Saul. More usually, however, Bede employs a phrase or even just a couple of words that have an artificiality about them in their context, just enough to suggest a Scriptural echo to one who knows Scripture well, but not enough to cause one less familiar any sense of confusion or discontinuity. For example, when Bede puts on the lips of King Edwin’s unnamed counsellor the famous story of the sparrow flying through the royal hall (2,13), he designates the sparrow (passer) by the curious phrase unus passerum, which translated literally means ‘one of the sparrows.’ Yet all English translators of Bede, from Stapleton to Colgrave and Mynors, have chosen to translate this simply as ‘a sparrow.’ Had Bede simply wanted to say ‘sparrow’ he would have written passer or quidam passer (‘a certain sparrow’). The phrase unus passerum (‘one of the sparrows’), which only a reader of the Latin Bible would recognize as a biblical echo, comes either from Mt 10:29, Lk 6:6 (unus ex illis [passeribus]), or Lev 14:5 (unum e passeribus). Or again, in 5,22 Bede sums up the condition of the Christian Britons saying that they are still ‘inveterate and stumble on their paths’ (inueterati et claudicantes a semitis suis). This is an almost identical paraphrase to Vg Ps(G) 17:46 (inueterati sunt et claudicauerunt a semitis suis), but the text does not identify it as such. One who is unaware of the paraphrase will miss this passage’s resonance with this Psalm. I cannot even find any critical editions or translations of Bede that have noticed the allusion here to Vg Ps(G) 17:46.56

54 Westgard (2010). See also Wormald (1992), 218 for a summary of the Historia’s widespread publication in both pre-Conquest and post-Conquest England. 55 My discussion of monastic reading of the Bible is heavily indebted to Leclercq (1974), 91–93. 56 The corresponding verse in the Hebrew Psalter (Ps 18:46) bears little resemblance in wording to this verse in the Gallican Psalter.

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That modern editors and translators overlook such allusions reveals that they are not the kind of audience that Bede intended. Even modern, devout Christians who read the Bible regularly in English translation will never recognize these allusions. On the other hand, a monk like Bede would spot them instantly, if he recited the whole Psalter weekly as monastics typically did.57 More than that, he would have encountered the Psalms and their images in sermons, study, private prayer, and elsewhere in the liturgy. As it was for the Psalms so would it be for the rest of Scripture, though to a lesser degree. Monks and nuns continually read Scripture and had it read to them. Hearing Scripture read aloud in the Divine Office throughout the liturgical year, hearing select passages recited on particular saints’ and feast days, reading and studying Scripture on one’s own, and hearing Scripture explicated in sermons and homilies surely meant that the mind and thought processes of learned monks and nuns were saturated with Scripture’s language, images and metaphors. These latter indeed functioned as a kind of alphabet through which all ideas were clothed and expressed and through which, in turn, all contemporary life experience was filtered and interpreted. As monastic historian Jean Leclercq puts it, the monks’ memory, ‘fashioned wholly by the Bible and nurtured entirely by biblical words and the images they evoke, causes them [i.e., monks] to express themselves spontaneously in a biblical vocabulary.’58 Reciting the words of Scripture so frequently, or hearing them read aloud, would have given such religious men and women what Jesus might have called ‘ears to hear,’ or, to use a more modern metaphor, antennae to pick up Scripture’s cadences, however slight they might be, even in a work like the Historia.59 One cannot always know what to make of such cadences. Sometimes a meaning, when examined in its context in the Historia, bears little resemblance to its meaning in its original Scriptural context. For example, the adjective intempestus (‘stormy,’ ‘unhealthful’) occurs only once in any form in the Historia: in the episode of young Edwin’s anguished existence as a fugitive at the court of Rædwald, king of the East Anglians.60 It occurs just after the reader learns that Rædwald, who has been harboring this young Northumbrian noble as a refugee, is about to betray him into the hands of the Northumbrians’ murderous King Æthelfrith. Having resolved not to flee, yet anguishing over his fate, Edwin is said to have seen ‘a human of unknown face and appearance approaching him silently in the dead of night’ (intempesta nocte silentio).61 The italicized phrase—given here both in English translation and in the Latin original—appears also in the Vulgate version of 1 Kgs 3:20, which narrates the wise King Solomon’s adjudicating the case of two women, both claiming to be the same baby’s mother. In that episode, one woman presents her case to Solomon and

57 That the entire Psalter should recited each week in the Divine Office is stipulated, for example, in Benedict, Regula 18,22–25; T. Fry (trans), 214–15. Assuming that a similar requirement was instituted and Wearmouth/Jarrow, one can estimate that Bede, who entered the monastery at age seven and died at about age 62, recited the entire Psalter in the Divine Office at least 2860 times. 58 Leclercq (1974), 93. 59 Mt 11:15. 60 Bede, HE 2,12—108,21. 61 Bede, HE 2,12—108,21: Uidit subito intempesta nocte silentio adpropinquantem sibi hominem uultus habitusque incogniti.

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accuses the other of rising up ‘silently in the dead of night’ (intempesta nocte silentio) to steal her own healthy baby from her arms as the two slept together and then substituting the latter’s own already deceased baby for the former’s healthy one.62 Perhaps the Historia’s use of this three-word phrase was not influenced at all by its use in 1 Kgs 3:20. While that is possible, it is unlikely. The fact that the Historia’s only use of intempesta occurs in exactly the same case (ablative) as in the Vulgate, that intempesta appears just this once in the Vulgate, and that in both the Historia and the Vulgate, intempesta modifies the noun nocte (‘night’), which is immediately followed by silentio (‘silently,’ literally ‘in silence’), indicates compellingly that the Historia’s use of this phrase is a borrowing, and not a coincidence. That is not to say it must be a conscious borrowing.63 Nor is it to suggest that Bede had some deeper metaphorical purpose for including this biblical phrase in his narrative. Why, indeed, should Bede want to compare this mysterious figure of his story—a figure whom he clearly views as akin to an angel—to the nefarious woman of the biblical story who allegedly kidnapped an infant from the arms of its sleeping mother? Clearly, he would not. The first point to be made about this brief phrase is to observe that Bede, as a lifelong monk, was so steeped in the language, phrases, and cadences of Scripture that he is capable, perhaps without thinking, of dissociating their meaning from their original contexts and then adapting and appropriating them into his own prose and its attendant meaning. This is not to say that all such biblical allusions were unconscious or lacked purpose. Their incorporation sometimes seems intended to convey to the savvy reader or listener a message either absent or only hinted at on the text’s surface. The second and perhaps more noteworthy point to bear in mind is that Bede shared not just symbols, but the rich syntax of biblical discourse with readers of his Historia who not only understood Latin, but whose imaginations and aural memories had likewise been filled by an entire lifetime of reading, reciting, studying, and hearing Scripture. c. Reading the Historia as Moral Instruction

Of the several dimensions of human activity with which religion concerns itself, none is more evident than moral behavior. Religious literature, therefore, often aims at moral instruction. The Historia’s Preface envisions as its ideal reader someone who can draw general moral lessons from it. There, Bede writes, For if history should report the good deeds of good people, then the skillful listener should be incited to imitate the good; or if it should recall the evil deeds 62 Vg: et consurgens intempesta nocte silentio tulit filium meum de latere meo (‘And getting out of bed, she took my son from my side silently in the dead of night.’) Jerome’s Vulgate Latin translation of the Hebrew itself may have been influenced either by the various forms of intempesta nox found in Vergil’s poetry, including especially intempesta silet Nox (Vergil, Georgics 1,247), or in the works of Cicero, Tacitus, Sallust, and others. 63 As Leclercq observes of the monk in general, so might it be said of Bede’s allusion here: ‘Reminiscences are not quotations, elements of phrases borrowed from another. They are the words of the person using them; they belong to him. Perhaps he is not even conscious of owing them to a source.’ See Leclercq (1974), 94.

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of depraved people, still the religious and pious listener or reader is himself incited—by avoiding what is noxious and perverse—to pursue those things that he or she knows are good and worthy of God.64 Here he shows that he envisions the ideal reader as a ‘skillful hearer’ (auditor sollicitus) and—what surely is meant to be the same—a ‘religious and pious hearer or reader’ (religiosus ac pius auditor siue lector).65 The skillful hearer is described as one who imitates the good of those good people that history remembers, and its religious and pious hearer or reader as one who avoids the evil deeds of history’s evil people.66 Clearly, the imitator of good deeds and the avoider of evil deeds here connote one and the same person. The word sollicitus, translated here as ‘skillful,’ is often translated as ‘careful,’ but also has the connotation of ‘painstaking,’ ‘punctilious,’ and ‘anxious.’ This word choice signals that the author does not intend the narrative that follows this Preface for casual readers, those merely in search of a story that entertains. Although the Historia in fact contains many entertaining episodes, if they are to be read as the author wants, they need to be scrutinized, sifted, pondered, and analyzed for Scriptural echoes, to be sure, but also for moral instruction. The adjectives religiosus and pius indicate that the ideal hearer or reader will be God-fearing, earnest, and devoted. Such a reader would have approached a historical work like the Historia precisely for the moral instruction that it provided. Bede writes these words even before offering his historian’s credentials, indicating that his skill will accomplish nothing significant unless the reader brings a proper disposition to the text. Peter the Venerable, a Benedictine abbot who lived some 400 years after Bede, articulates why the historical genre should form an essential part of the medieval monk’s reading repertoire. He writes, The inspired Psalmist said to God: ‘Let all Thy works praise Thee, O Lord,’ which is to say, may Thou be praised in all Thy works; but how can God be praised by works that remain unknown? … All the good or bad works performed in the world by the will or the permission of God ought to serve for the glory and edification of the Church; but if men are ignorant of them, how can they contribute to glorify God or to edify the Church?67

64 My translation of Bede, HE Praefatio—5,12–17: Siue enim historia de bonis bona referat, ad imitandum bonum auditor sollicitus instigatur; seu mala commemoret de prauis, nihilominus religiosus ac pius auditor siue lector deuitando quod noxium est ac peruersum, ipse sollertius ad exsequenda ea, quae bona ac Deo digna esse cognouerit, accenditur. 65 Bede, HE Praefatio—5,13–15. Its concern for a ‘skillful hearer’ rather than a skillful reader may reflect its author’s expectation that its reader would either read it aloud to himself or to others. On the ancient and medieval preference of reading aloud to silent reading, see Jean Leclercq, The Love of Learning and the Desire for God: A Study of Monastic Culture, trans. Catharine Misrahi, 2nd rev. (New York: Fordham University Press, 1974), 18–20. 66 Bede, HE Praefatio—5,12–17. 67 Peter the Venerable, De miraculis 2, Prologus; translated in Leclercq (1974), 192–93; original in CCCM 83, 93 [ll. 18–21 and 23–26]–94 [line 1].

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A recounting of the good and bad works done in the world, says Peter, should lead its hearers to praise God. Yet, he adds, it should also edify the church, whose members they are. Peter echoes Bede’s Preface when he notes that to hear history’s testimony of good and evil deeds done edifies readers. It sets them morally straight. The writing and reading of history, therefore, greatly helps religious men and women to cultivate Christian character and piety. Yet this moral end for writing the Historia is not the final one. Its final end, as Bede makes clear, is to promote the ‘general salvation’ (generalis salutis).68 Bede praises King Ceolwulf, to whom he dedicates the work, for knowing of this connection between encouraging moral behavior and promoting human salvation. In thus articulating this connection, Bede follows the thought of the Christian Latin writers who preceded him. These include, for example, Augustine of Hippo, who writes, in On the Trinity, ‘To abstain from evil things, however, which Job called knowledge,69 is without doubt a matter of temporal things, because it is in terms of time that we are in the midst of evils, which we should abstain from in order to arrive at those eternal good things.’70 So, abstaining within historical time from the evil deeds of evil people—and practicing good deeds of good people—has implications for the individual’s eternal destiny as well as for the ‘general salvation,’ as Bede calls it. Such ‘general salvation’ (generalis salutis) might be interpreted not simply as the salvation of all, but rather more specifically as the salvation of the race—the Latin word for ‘general’ (generalis) here sharing the same root as the word ‘race’ (gens). After reading Bede’s stated goal of morally edifying the reader, one might expect his Historia to be a series of Aesop-like fables, each ending with a clear moral lesson. And at times, the Historia’s episodes do just that. After reading stories that clearly highlight the saintly deeds of Pope Gregory, St Aidan, and St Cuthbert, for example, the reader can discern clear models of Christlike humility that are intended to inspire imitation. At other times, however, the Historia reads more like the way most of us experience history—as offering only murky or ambiguous moral lessons. Take, for example, Bede’s account of the episode at Augustine’s Oak, where the British churchmen reject Augustine of Canterbury’s invitation to cooperate with him in converting the English to Christianity. As I shall argue in Ch. 3, this story makes it difficult for the reader to know whose behaviors should be imitated, or whose avoided. In Bede’s telling of the story, Augustine’s desire to recruit the Britons to help him 68 Bede, HE Praefatio—5,17–21: ‘You also, discerning most attentively that very fact [i.e., that bringing good and evil moral exemplars to the reader’s attention helps reinforce that reader’s good behavior], desire that … the aforementioned history be published more broadly out of a concern for the general salvation.’ (Quod ipsum tu quoque uigilantissime deprehendens, historiam memoratam … ob generalis curam salutis latius propalari desideras). 69 Job 28:28: ‘Behold piety is wisdom, while to abstain from evil things is knowledge.’ (Ecce timor Domini, ipsa est sapientia, et recedere a malo, intelligentia). 70 Augustine, De Trinitate 12,4,22 (Hill, 334; orig. in CCSL 50,376, ll. 34–37). Reading Augustine’s next sentence shows just how closely Bede here is following him in spirit. Augustine writes, ‘Thus anything that we do sagaciously, courageously, moderately, and justly belongs to this knowledge or discipline with which our activity sets about avoiding evil and seeking good; and so does whatever historical knowledge we gather for the sake of examples to be avoided or imitated’ (cf. CCSL 50,376, ll. 37–43).

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evangelize the English seems to have divine support, but the Britons later accuse Augustine of being arrogant and thus unworthy of their cooperation. Their charge, moreover, does not seem baseless. Although the Britons finally reject Augustine’s proposed alliance, they had earlier seemed genuinely open to it until they witnessed Augustine remaining seated as they arrived at their second meeting with him, which they took as a sure sign of his pride. Or, to take another example, how does Bede expect a morally sensitive reader to interpret Augustine’s angry prophecy against the Britons, which predicts—and even seems vindictively to long for—the slaughter of British monks at the battle of Chester; or to assess Æthelfrith, the king who slaughters them? As we have seen, Bede explicitly likens Æthelfrith to the victorious King Saul in the Old Testament. Any reader who knows about Saul’s auspicious beginnings as God’s first-chosen king of Israel, and also of his terrifying end, has to wonder whether such a comparison meant to be flattering to Æthelfrith or damning.71 What would a skillful reader make of this comparison? Is Æthelfrith held up as a good king for other kings to imitate, or as an evil king unworthy of imitation? I will postpone answering questions like these until we have puzzled over these narratives in some detail. Important to note at this point, however, is that the author gives readers or listeners no easy, straightforward way to discern the moral lesson—or the moral exemplars to be imitated—from every episode. In many cases, discernment will have to come from skillful reading as well as sober, extended rumination. In the chapters that follow, I implicitly ask whether a careful reading of this text by medieval monastics might have encouraged them to imagine the races Bede describes, and especially the Britons, in the highly stereotypical ways that Edward Freeman did when he said, ‘The Roman planted, the Scot watered, the Briton did nothing.’ I will argue that while such a skillful reading certainly encouraged a racism of sorts, it was a racism tempered by the implied author’s suggestion—faint though it is—that human beings receive their redemption from a God who is a respecter neither of persons nor of races.72 Unlike conventional treatments of the Historia, which see Bede variously portraying his English race as God’s new Israel, the Irish race as well-meaning but misguided, and the British or Welsh race as utterly reprobate, the following chapters argue that a skillful reading of three of the Historia’s major interracial, council type-scenes—each of which is concerned with matters relating to a race’s conversion—greatly complicates the neatness of these conventional treatments.73 It argues that for all the aspersions that the Historia casts upon the

71 Compare Saul’s promising beginnings (1 Sam 9:1–10) with the narrative of his murder-suicide (31:1–13). Both serve to bracket the larger narrative of Saul’s rejection by God and subsequent descent into madness. 72 Although in another of his works, Bede cites approvingly that the Apostle Peter’s claim that ‘God is not a respecter of persons’ (Act 10:34), he does not do so explicitly in the Historia. See Bede, Exp. Act. 10,36—CCSL 121,53, ll. 145–50; Martin (trans) (1989), 101. 73 On the view that Bede presents the English, or Saxons, as God’s New Israel, see Hanning (1966), 70. This view is later developed first by Howe (1989), 33–71, esp. 46, 51–52, 59–61, and 70; and then by Wormald (1992), 18–27 and Wormald (1994), 14. Against these views, George Molyneaux has recently argued that the Historia exhibits no sense that the English are God’s latter-day special elect or God’s

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British race, it leaves hope for the Britons’ belated return to the fold of the universal church. Similarly, it shows that the Historia implies that the Irish race is the holiest of all Britain’s races, even as it often portrays them as spiritually stuck in their own ways. Finally, it maintains that the Historia significantly qualifies its alleged celebration of the English as God’s chosen faithful when it variously portrays them—either as an entire race or through its paradigmatic leaders—as dilatory, opportunistic, and even treacherous. The Historia, however, never censures such bad English behavior as scandalous but often lets it pass without remark, as though normal. Much as whiteness today functions as the invisible norm by which all other races are seen as particular and peculiar—in short, as ‘races’—so too does Englishness emerge in the Historia as the non-race, or as the invisible norm. For this reason, the Historia’s readers more readily notice its stereotyping of Britain’s Britons and Irish than of its English. Like modern whiteness, Englishness is represented as morally complex and richly textured, not easily reducible to stereotype. As such, it is a fitting precursor to modern discourses of whiteness. The failure of most modern scholarship to read the Historia’s racism aright arises from not paying enough attention to the particulars of the text and its biblical echoes. Indeed, perhaps its author intended at least some readers to miss them. To put it another way, Bede’s Historia sometimes exhibits a double-meaning: one intended for the discerning mind of skillful monastic readers; the other for readers less skilled and less familiar with the themes, characters and tropes of Christian Scripture in its Latin translation.74 I will argue that the more esoteric meaning absorbed by a skillful monastic reading was less racist, while the exoteric meaning read perhaps by kings and other less skilled religious readers (including modern ones) certainly appeared to promote a racist view that today can be seen as an early English corollary of modern white supremacy. How conscious Bede was of this double layer of meaning and, if he was, his motives for writing the Historia in this way, will be addressed in the final chapter. In the meantime, we turn our attention in successive chapters to the Historia’s construction of the Latin, British, English, and Irish races.

New Israel. For Molyneaux, Bede sees the gospel as reaching the ends of the earth in accordance with God’s plan. Although the English, who dwell at the ends of the earth, are now included as one of many nations which God has elected, they have no special status in God’s eyes, as Israel of old did. See Molyneaux (2014), 728–29. Even before Molyneaux, first O’Reilly and then Merrills recognized that Bede’s English are wrongly compared with Israel as God’s chosen people in Exodus. O’Reilly correctly observes, ‘The new people of God in the HE are not the Anglo-Saxon race but all members of the universal church of which the Anglo-Saxons form but a tiny part at the ends of the earth.’ Merrills suggests that the more apt comparison is with Israel’s Babylonian captors. See O’Reilly (1995), xxviii and Merrills (2005), 294. I agree with O’Reilly, Merrills, and Molyneaux against the view that the Historia envisions the English as God’s new, specially chosen race. 74 For most medieval readers, Jerome’s Vulgate was their Latin translation of choice. Bede, however, sometimes draws from Old Latin translations, which were available to him through the commentaries of the Latin Fathers who preceded him as well as through Latin versions of the Bible available to him that still contained some Old Latin renderings. As Bogaert remarks, Bede ‘quoted sometimes a competing variant of Jerome and sometimes one from the Old Latin—and not only when he cited a father of the church or a biblical canticle.’ See Bogaert (2012), 77.

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Chapter 2

The ‘Latin’ Race and the Church Universal

We do not know whether the medieval monastic audiences took special delight in the three council scenes that will be the respective foci of the three chapters following this one, but we know that modern audiences have. When writing my dissertation in London on the early English church in the early 1980s, I was trying without success to give an English friend some sense of my subject matter, but to no avail. At last, when I mentioned the name ‘Bede,’ his face lit up. ‘Ah! The sparrow flying through King Edwin’s royal hall!’ Evidently he knew the story of the conversion of the Northumbrian English to Christianity. However dimly aware the English are of their origins, they yet retain in their national mythology some memory of certain emblematic episodes from Bede’s Historia. That memory also lives on in the names of contemporary churches, schools, and even university colleges that bear the names of English saints known to us chiefly, and sometimes exclusively, through Bede’s Historia.1 I suggest that the Historia’s stories remain important to the English, as well as to those living in nations that trace their origin to England, partly because those stories model an ideal of collective deliberation that is so central to how citizens of these nations understand their democratic way of life. Take the case of the United States. While the spirit of Bede’s text is a long way from the Enlightenment-inspired, democratic spirit of 1776, the three council-scene stories that we are about to treat nonetheless reflect the importance that America’s founders placed upon the ideal of calling together a non-coerced, deliberative assembly and trying to resolve party differences so that two or more peoples might be forged into one—e pluribus unum! Certain episodes from Bede’s Historia helped plant the seed for early American hopes that old English traditions might be drawn upon to foster a new American system of self-government, suitable for America’s diversity of peoples. We know for certain that Bede’s myth of the English settlement of Britain resonated with at least one of America’s chief founders. Just one month after issuing the Declaration of Independence, Thomas Jefferson set out with his friends, John Adams and Benjamin Franklin, to design a Great Seal for the United States. According to Adams, Jefferson’s

1 Bertram Colgrave’s understanding that Bede continues to influence the popular self-understanding of the English corroborates the anecdote about my friend. He writes, ‘Many of Bede’s stories are familiar to almost every child: the sparrow flying through Edwin’s hall, the attack by the assassin, the profaning of the temples by the high priest: [sic] the story of Wilfrid teaching the pagans of Sussex to fish, of Cædmon the poet cowherd of Whitby, or the other great Whitby scene when Oswiu at the Council of 664 made his famous remark about St Peter as he chose the Roman way.’ See Colgrave and Mynors (1969), xviii.

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design consisted of ‘the children of Israel in the wilderness, led by a cloud by day, and a pillar of fire by night—and on the other side, Hengist and Horsa, the Saxon chiefs, from whom we claim the honor of being descended, and whose political principles and form of government we have assumed.’ Adams goes on to explain what Hengist and Horsa signify. First, America’s colonists are descended from them, or so Jefferson believed.2 They were the progenitors of the English people, among whom Jefferson clearly counts himself, even after declaring American independence. More importantly though, Jefferson identified Hengist and Horsa as those ‘whose political principles and form of government we have assumed.’ Thus, in Jefferson’s mind, modern Englishmen have inherited from Hengist and Horsa that system of common law and representative government that will enable and inspire the American experiment of democratic government. The first recorded mention of these two Saxon chieftains is in Bede’s Historia, which Jefferson’s library included in Wheelocke’s dual-language Latin/Old English edition.3 When Jefferson sold that volume along with his entire library to the United States—in order to replace the Library of Congress’ holdings that had been burned by the British during the War of 1812—he subsequently acquired another copy of that same edition for his newly formed library.4 Clearly, Bede’s Historia was just too important a work for Jefferson—or his newly formed nation—to be without. Its importance had nothing to do with any spiritual affinity Jefferson had for Bede. After all, as an Enlightenment Deist, Jefferson would have found naïve and even contemptible Bede’s wholesale embrace of Christian revelation and the supernatural miracles that go with it. Jefferson valued Bede for only one reason: the original record Bede kept of the early English peoples. As an ardent Anglo-Saxonist who lived a century before Edward Augustus Freeman, Jefferson tended to romanticize the early English—or ‘Anglo-Saxons,’ as he called them—for sharing with other Germanic peoples an allegedly natural affinity for non-autocratic deliberative government. The Anglo-Saxons embodied for him the spirit of the modern Whigs, who had managed to emerge victorious over an absolutist and Catholicizing monarch, King James II, in 1688 and then to secure a stronger voice for the English Parliament.5 One can imagine Jefferson reading certain portions of Bede with great pleasure, including the famous story of King Edwin’s council, which had been convened to decide whether the Northumbrian English should embrace Christian faith. He doubtless would have read that assembly as characteristic of the innately democratic Germanic spirit of the early English, although he might have taken a dim view of that assembly’s eventual decision to embrace a miracle-laden and superstitious form of Christianity.



2 Adams (1841), 1:152. 3 Bede, HE (Wheelocke edn). 4 Hauer (1983), 881. 5 For a more detailed treatment of Jefferson’s Anglo-Saxonism, see Frantzen (1990), 15–19 and 203–07.

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1. The Early Church as a Model for Establishing Deliberative Consent Although Bede tells his readers about the kinship that the English had with their Germanic neighbors on the continent, he never mentions what was most important to Jefferson—that native English love of democratic assemblies.6 Moreoever, it’s doubtful that Bede would have seen the model for Edwin’s council in the Germanic folkmoot or village assembly, as Jefferson did. Bede obviously knew nothing of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century race theories, nor of any reputation for self-government that post-Enlightenment race theorists ascribed to the Germanic peoples. What he did know was the rich Christian tradition of famous councils, including those at Nicaea (325) and Chalcedon (451), the first Lateran Council (649), and the first ecclesiastical council at Jerusalem, recorded in Acts 15 (c. 49 ce). Surely these councils provide the model for Bede’s own ideal of an island-wide church that grows in unanimity and concord by hosting local latter-day conferences aimed at mediating differences in doctrine, ritual, and custom. In so far as Bede knows anything about representative and deliberative assemblies, he saw himself as having learned these not from English pagans like Hengist and Horsa, but from the traditions of the early church. Because of the circumstances surrounding its birth, the English Whig tradition in Jefferson’s time rejected both Bede’s thoroughgoing devotion to a universal church centered in Rome as well as his tendency to see that church as the guiding star from which the English church and nation should properly take its bearings. Yet in dismissing Bede on this front, the Whigs failed to distinguish between their Rome and his. Their Rome was represented chiefly by the post-Reformation papacy. When they thought of the papacy, they had in mind a much more robust and hegemonic institution than anything that Bede and his contemporaries ever knew. For the Whigs, Rome was the papacy, and the papacy was the institution that—largely for political reasons—had denied Henry VIII his divorce and that allied itself with the Catholic Stuart monarchs, including James II, who tried unsuccessfully to restore England to its status as a Catholic nation. Of course, Bede knew nothing of this Rome or of this papacy. The popes he knew and idealized were not corrupt Renaissance popes nor Victorian-era popes whose ex cathedra pronouncements Roman Catholic Christendom declared to be infallible after the first Vatican council. The pope whom Bede knew best, loved most, and who served as the standard against which he judged all others was Gregory the Great, the iconic monastic pope who eschewed pomp and the trappings of power that the Victorian English typically associated with papal pretension. The Rome that Bede knew was the Rome in which consensus and unanimity had been forged between Christians of every race, as the Irish monk Cummian’s letter on the Irish



6 On the English concern for their Germanic kin on the content, see the story of Egbert, in Bede, HE 5,9, esp. 296,6–22.

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Easter Controversy had attested 100 years before Bede’s Historia.7 That Rome was the guarantor of the Christian Latin tradition which, following the lead of the early African saints Cyprian of Carthage and Augustine of Hippo, saw universal consensus within the church as its characterizing mark. That mark of consensus served as a strong bulwark against those twin perennial threats to church unity: schism and heresy. For ancient and early medieval Christians in the western half of the Empire, Rome represented rather than forged this concord. It thus had a symbolic hold on the early European imagination. To say this is not to diminish Rome’s authority and power. A symbol can command great respect, even reverence. Anyone who reads the early English saints’ lives, especially the Life of Bishop Wilfrid, for example, knows just how potent a symbol the apostolic see of Rome could be to the early English.8 Time and again, the reader of that Life sees Wilfrid appealing to Rome against what he judges to be the use of capricious local authority against him, even going so far as to make the long journey to Rome himself—and more than once. Both times in which Wilfrid is represented in that Life as having had an audience with the pope, the pope is shown as conferring in council with other bishops.9 What the pope decides concerning Wilfrid’s appeal is also their decision. Although Bede’s Historia does not consistently emphasize, as the Life of Wilfrid does, the Roman bishop as one who primarily acts in concert with other bishops, both works share the general view that the power of Rome’s church and bishop resides in the worldwide ecclesiastical concord which these two collectively symbolize. It is precisely this sense of worldwide concord that is captured in the word ‘catholic.’ To speak of a church catholic, or catholic church, in the context of Bede’s Historia, the Life of St Wilfrid, or Cummian’s De controversia Paschali is to connote nothing else than a church characterized by this universal concord. Because this close connection between Rome and universal peace is so central to the Historia, it is worth exploring in greater detail just how the Historia forges that connection and how a monastic reader would have understood that bond as expressing the Latin patristic tradition’s antipathy for schism and heresy.

7 Cummian Epistola ad Segienum Hiensem abbatem de controversia paschali, ll. 277–85; M. Walsh and D. Ó. Cróinín (trans), 92–95. Written in 632/33 to the abbot of Iona, Cummian’s De controversia paschali describes a delegation sent to Rome by the southern Irish to determine the correct Easter observance. Of the experience of its members and what they related upon returning home, Cummian writes—in the words of Walsh’s and Ó. Cróinín’s translation—‘They were in one lodging in the church of St Peter with a Greek, a Hebrew, a Scythian and an Egyptian at the same time, at Easter, in which we differed by a whole month. And so they testified to us before the holy relics, saying: “As far as we know, this Easter is celebrated throughout the whole world.”’ 8 What I am referring to here as the symbolic power of Rome accords with Nicholas Howe’s notion of a ‘textual’ Rome, the importance of which to the early English was found in its textual representations more than in any actual contact they had with the city: ‘One might still say … for this reason, that Rome figures more as a textual than an actual city, or perhaps it figures mainly as an intertextual city in works such as … Bede’s History.’ See Howe (2004), 159. 9 Vita s. Wilfrithi 29 and 50; Colgrave (trans), 57–61 and 103–05. On the symbolic associations of Rome in the Life of Bishop Wilfrid, see Foley (1992), 49–51 and 93–100.

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The Church as the Latin ‘Race’

In one sense, the Historia’s church catholic functions as stand-in for a specific race. At the opening of Book 1, when the Historia describes the languages spoken in Britain, it establishes a strong association between language and racial identity. Bede writes: In accordance with the number of books in which divine law has been written, [Britain] presently discerns and confesses one and the same knowledge of the highest truth and of true sublimity in the tongues of five races, namely, the English, the Britons, the Irish, the Picts, and the Latins, which [tongue] has become common to all the others through [their] meditation on the Scriptures.10 Bede here draws a one-to-one correspondence between language and race. He identifies five races (quinque gentium) as each having its own distinctive tongue, which shares its name with the race. Of these, he identifies Latin as the language of the Latin race. In the most popular current critical edition and translation of the Historia, Bertram Colgrave corrects in a footnote what he believes to be Bede’s erroneous reference to a Latin race. He writes, ‘Latin of course refers to the language of the Church, not to that of any particular people.’11 Bede, however, here refers unmistakably to the language of a particular people. Colgrave’s point, though, is well-taken. As an historian, Colgrave does not want the modern reader to be misled into thinking that a ‘Latin race,’ one descended from Latin-speaking Romans in Gaul or Italy, perhaps, was present in Bede’s Britain.12 Yet since Bede used the appellation ‘Latin race,’ it must have meant something to him. But what? He notes that the Latin language has now been adopted by the other races of Britain so that each may meditate on the Scriptures. In a sense then, Latin functions as a universal language among the other four languages of Britain. A reader might infer from this that just as Latin is Britain’s universal language, so is the Latin race in some sense a universal people. Paradoxically, it is the race that is made distinct by its conventional racelessness. The Historia narrates no council typescene attached specifically to it. That is because it is the indispensable and constant interlocutor with Britain’s three native races—the Britons, English, and Irish—in their respective type-scenes. A spiritual rather than a fleshly race, the Latin race is characterized by its concern for Scripture and by its ability to draw Britain’s other races out of their parochialism and into the habits, customs, and Latin language of the universal church, the church catholic. Bede exhibits an instance of the universality and racelessness of this people, this church, when he cites Pope Honorius’ letter to

10 My translation of Bede, HE 1,1—11,11–17: Haec in praesenti, iuxta numerum librorum, quibus lex diuina scripta est, quinque gentium linguis, unam eandemque summae ueritatis et uerae sublimitatis scientiam scrutatur, et confitetur, Anglorum uidelicet, Brettonum, Scottorum, Pictorum et Latinorum, quae meditatione scripturarum ceteris omnibus est facta communis. 11 Colgrave and Mynors (1969), 16, n. 1. 12 Harris (2003), 12–13: ‘Latin could be historically accommodated as a native language since it was both the language of the Catholic Church, configured racially as the gens Christianorum (the Christian people) and because speakers of Latin had, since the Roman invasion, been native to Britain.’

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the Irish, which exhorts them not to consider their church’s ‘smallness’ wiser than that of ‘the churches ancient and modern that are throughout the world.’13 Because this trope of catholicity is so central to Bede’s Historia, because medieval monastic readers would have been familiar with its presentation in the Latin Fathers of the church, and because assimilation into this catholicity is the central concern of each of the three council-type scenes to be discussed in Chs 3–5, a more thorough examination of its history and its particular representation in the Historia is warranted, including a discussion of the schism and heresy that constitute its antitheses.

2. Catholicity and the Christian Latin Tradition: Cyprian and Augustine Although the Fathers argue that this vision of one unified catholic church derives ultimately from Scripture, its distinctive articulation—especially as it came to be heard in the Latin West stems—from the Christian tradition in Roman Africa. This early African Christian vision of the church as a people united together in bonds of peace, concord, harmony, and fellowship is a compelling one. The church so conceived is global in reach; or, to use the more traditional descriptor, catholic. As a community characterized by peace and concord, it nevertheless knows discord and dissent. Yet that dissent is not seen as necessarily bringing about the community’s dissolution. It may even contribute to its edification. When dissent occurs at the local level, it can be addressed through prayer, fasting, penance, humility, forbearance, and rites of reconciliation. All these activities are overseen by the bishop, who is an agent of the love that the Spirit has shed abroad in human hearts. When that dissent occurs at a global level, that is, when two or more local churches—each enjoying unanimity among its individual members—disagree among themselves, it can be addressed through bishops meeting in local, regional, or even global councils in which the dissenting bishops, convening together, discuss their differences under the guidance of the Holy Spirit, find their way to agreement, and so perpetuate the concord that is the hallmark of the church catholic. Under less ideal circumstances, the churches and their bishops cannot be brought to unanimity, and schism ensues. This vision of a worldwide church of peace and concord, of a church whose differences are worked out by its bishops meeting together in council, was perhaps most poignantly expressed in the Latin West by Bishop Cyprian of Carthage, who lived, ruled, and wrote in the middle years of the third century, amidst the empire-wide persecution of Christians instigated by the Emperor Decius.14 In Cyprian’s time, the issue that required the bishops to meet in council was how the church should deal with lapsed Christians, namely, those who in times of persecution—fearing prison,

13 Bede, HE 2,19—122,12–18. 14 For a good summary of the issues that Cyprian and the African church faced, see Burns, (2002), esp. 152 for a discussion of the African churches consulting with each other, and with the church in Rome.

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torture, and even death—had capitulated to Roman imperial authorities by venerating idols through animal sacrifice or the offering of libations. The Church considered any persons who did such things to have renounced their exclusive allegiance to Christ. As bishop, Cyprian demanded that they be denied communion. Yet after persecution had ended, and sometimes even before, many of the lapsed petitioned the church to readmit them into its fold, fearing that what Bishop Cyprian had written was, in fact, true: that ‘there is no salvation outside the church’ (extra ecclesiam nulla salus).15 When the bishops assembled, they first had to decide whether the lapsed should be readmitted at all; and second, if so, what kinds of penance they should do. So concerned was Cyprian that all the churches agree on how to address these questions that he became an inveterate writer of letters to his fellow bishops. Through these letters, he tried to ensure that, until such time as they and he could meet in council or otherwise confer, they all be on the same page in their treatment of the lapsed.16 Unity of discipline in such matters was for Cyprian a hallmark of catholic unity. Some 150 years after Cyprian’s death, Augustine, the bishop of Hippo—a city less than 200 miles from Cyprian’s Carthage—appealed again to Cyprian’s vision of a global church whose catholicity is preserved through the unanimity of its bishops meeting in council. At issue in his time—the turn of the fifth century ce—were the disturbances that the schismatic Donatist churches in Numidia were visiting on the Catholic churches there. The Donatists insisted that, as far back as the persecution of the Emperor Diocletian (302–311 ce), the Catholic church had not only become tainted, but had ceased to be a true church.17 Its illegitimate status stemmed from its supposed associations with traitorous bishops and clergy (traditores) who, fearing persecution from pagan civil authorities, had committed acts of treachery, if not outright apostasy, to mollify local pagan Roman imperial authorities. The sins that the Donatists alleged against these bishops ranged from making pagan sacrifices to handing over Christian Scriptures and church property to persecuting authorities. From Augustine’s perspective, the Donatists cared appropriately about the church’s purity which, as they believed, the traditores had compromised. But Augustine also believed that the Donatists erred in valuing the church’s purity more than its unity. The Donatists also accused certain Catholic bishops—falsely, in Augustine’s view—of being traditores, submitting only to the authority of those bishops who could trace their episcopal lineage back through those bishopswho, by their lights, had remained free of taint. More than that, wishing to safeguard the purity of their own community, they abjured communion with those churches that they judged to be led by traditores, which included the Catholic church in adjacent provinces of Africa and Numidia. Since few besides the Donatists chose to sever their ties with

15 Cyprian Ep. 73,21—CSEL 3, pt. 2,795, ll. 3–4; Clarke (trans), 66. 16 After Decius’ persecution had abated, Cyprian and his fellow African bishops met several times between the spring of 251 and the summer of 253 to devise, refine, and implement a well-formulated policy for readmitting the lapsed into the Church. See Burns (2002), 34. 17 For a summary of the Donatist controversy and Augustine’s role in it, see Frend (1984), 652–73.

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the Catholic churches in Africa, the Donatist church became an isolated, largely local church, confined chiefly to the province of Numidia. In Augustine’s mind, such a church could not be a true church since it had severed itself from that larger communion that Christ had commanded the disciples to establish in ‘all the nations’ (per omnes gentes; Lk 24:46–47).18

3. Obstacles to Catholic Unity in the Narrative World of the Historia The Venerable Bede fully shares Cyprian’s and Augustine of Hippo’s vision of a church unified through its leaders, hammering out local differences in synods and councils so as to preserve its peace and concord. From Bede’s perspective, after the church catholic established its foothold in Kent in 597, when the missionary contingent sent by Pope Gregory had arrived there from Rome, the chief impediments to extending catholic unity to all the peoples of Britain were three: (1) the British church’s peculiar traditions and customs as well as its refusal to evangelize the English who had conquered, subdued, and displaced them; (2) the paganism of the English; (3) and the Irish church’s peculiar traditions, some of which resembled those of the British church. For each of these three impediments, Bede’s Historia narrates a council type-scene in which the differences between the position of the church catholic and the opposing view are rehearsed and debated. In the first of these councils, with bishops of the British race, catholic attempts to assimilate them not only fail, but inflame the enmity of both sides; in the second, with an English king and his counselors, unanimous agreement is reached and catholicity established; in the third, with the Irish of the Ionan tradition, some of the opposing Irish tradition are won over to catholic ways, while others are not. Taken together, these three councils represent the range of possible outcomes that conciliar attempts at unity can achieve: total failure, total success, and partial success or failure. Interestingly, of all the obstacles that these three peoples posed to catholic unity, the paganism of the English proved to be the least vexing, at least in Bede’s narrative. In fact, during the council scene in which English nobles reject their native paganism in favor of catholic Christianity, not a single catholic Christian voice contributes to the deliberation. Nor is such a voice portrayed as being needed. The reader infers from the narrative that the pagan English mind is fully capable of discerning paganism’s error and of embracing the Christian alternative once it is known. By contrast, the twin dangers of Christian heresy and schism pose the greatest threat to the church catholic. British Pelagian heretics and Irish schismatics, both of whose wrong calculation of Easter’s dating leads to their untimely celebration of its festival, prove not only incapable of self-correction, but even impervious to corrections proposed by their catholic brethren.

18 Ep. 185,1,3 (CSEL 57,3, ll. 10–13; Teske [trans], WSA 2/3, 181).

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Although Bede knows of the kinds of evils that Donatism engenders, and even rails against them throughout the Historia, he never mentions Donatism by name there, though he does so in other writings. He rails instead against Pelagianism. Named for the fifth-century British monk Pelagius, Pelagianism teaches that the strength and goodness of human free will is such that it needs no help, above and beyond what God conferred upon it in the creation, to choose the good that God requires of it.19 Pelagius’ detractors asserted that such teaching implied that sinners do not need Christ’s supernatural grace to liberate their wills from sin’s power, although Pelagius shrunk from saying this directly. Pelagianism’s first great foe was Pelagius’ early fifth-century contemporary, St Augustine of Hippo, who had been contending fiercely with the Donatists when he first encountered Pelagius’ teachings. In both Donatists and Pelagians Augustine recognized the same fault: the sin of pride.20 Whereas the Donatists’ pride grew out of a well-developed sense of their own church’s comparative goodness and purity, the Pelagians’ pride fed on their strong conviction that, even if they currently lacked moral perfection, they and everyone else had the power to realize it merely by exercising rightly, and habitually, their God-given capacity for free choice. The Historia’s most complete description of Pelagianism occurs in its citation of a letter addressed to the Irish church by pope-elect John IV (640–642). In it John indirectly summarizes Pelagians as those ‘who say that a person can exist without sin from his or her own will and not from God’s grace.’21 In the same sentence, John defames the Pelagians’ moral character. Their effort to minimize the role that God’s grace plays in reforming the sinner, says John, is ‘proud and impious’ (superbum … et impium). The Historia excoriates loudly and consistently these and the Pelagians’ other moral defects. It notes that, although the heresy is worldwide in scope, its founder Pelagius was a Briton. Quoting a verse from Prosper of Aquitaine, Augustine’s younger contemporary, it informs its reader that a ‘gluttonous envy’ emboldened Pelagius to counter Augustine of Hippo’s teaching on God’s grace, and even suggests that Pelagius’ envy was fed by the particular legumes that grow in Britain’s soil!22 The Historia, however, is interested less in how Pelagianism errs theologically than in how it disrupts the catholic unity of the churches of Britain. In this way it is more concerned with what had vexed Augustine about Donatism than with Pelagianism per se, even though it never mentions Donatism or the Donatists by name. Like

19 Pelagius’ own brief statement of his position is found in his Letter to Demetrias (PL 30, 15–45; Burns (trans), 39–55. 20 On how Augustine’s arguments against the Donatists helped shape his anti-Pelagian theology, see Kaufman (1990), 115–26. 21 Bede, HE 2,19—123,33–123,3: Nam quis non execretur superbum eorum conamen et impium, dicentium posse sine peccato hominem existere ex propria uoluntate, et non ex gratia Dei. 22 Bede, HE 1,10—24,12–15: Quis caput obscuris contectum utcumque cauernis / Tollere humo miserum propulit anguiculum? / Aut hunc fruge sua aequorei pauere Britanni / aut hic Campano gramine corda tumet. My translation: ‘Who urged in any way this wretched serpent to lift from the dust its head, concealed in obscure caves? Either the sea-girt Britons fed him from their pulse or he grew fat on Campania’s late-season grass.’

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Augustine, Bede views the schismatic Donatists and the heretical Pelagians as cut from the same cloth. One can infer this from noticing how the Historia links Pelagian views with exclusivist Donatist-like understandings of Christian communion, as will be shown shortly. Some 30 years before writing the Historia, however, Bede explicitly forged a connection between the sins of the Pelagians and those of the Donatists in his treatise on the Apocalypse. There, he mentions both in his comments upon the Christian Bible’s very last verse, Apoc 22:21, ‘May the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all. Amen.’23 Believing these words to have been written by John the Apostle, Bede interprets their concern for the grace of Christ, as anticipating and trying to correct Donatist as well as Pelagian error.24 He writes, Let the Pelagians go on and, trusting even in their own virtue, deprive themselves of the Lord’s grace. When Paul the Apostle seeks help and says, ‘Who will free me from the body of this death?’ may John, mindful of his own name, respond and also say, ‘The grace of God through Jesus Christ our Lord.’ And lest the Donatists flatter themselves concerning [their] singular favor of God, let them hear what he adds, when he commends the grace of God as a final farewell, ‘With you all. Amen.’25 Bede first reminds the Pelagians that John is here answering Paul’s question, ‘Who will save me from this body of death?’ (Rom 7:24) with his reply: ‘the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ.’26 Bede thus enlists John’s authority to argue against the Pelagians that the power to save humans ‘from the body of this death’ resides not in human effort but in Christ’s grace. In exhorting John to be mindful of his own name, Bede is almost certainly alluding to Jerome’s claim that the Hebrew name upon which the Latin name for ‘John’ is based means ‘grace,’ or ‘the grace of the Lord.’27 John’s very name, therefore, meaning ‘grace of the Lord’ is a rebuke to Pelagian insinuations that Christ’s grace is not necessary. In the next sentence, aimed at the Donatists, Bede emphasizes the importance of John’s praying for this grace to be ‘with you all.’28 John’s use of the phrase ‘with you all’ lets the Donatists know that they are not a church unto themselves. Bede shows here the close link he sees between Pelagianism and Donatism. Moreoever, the very fact that he addresses these ancient errors, which had

23 From what can be inferred from this commentary’s critical edition, Bede’s text adds a uobis not included in the Vg text of this verse (Bede, Expl. Apoc. [Apoc 22:21]—CCSL 121A,577: Gratia Domini nostri Iesu Christi cum omnibus uobis, Amen). 24 See Bede’s commentary on the word testimonium in Apoc 1:2. In it he identifies the author of the Apocalpyse with the John who wrote the Gospel of John (Bede, Expl. Apoc. 1 [Apoc 1:2]—CCSL 121A,237, ll. 16,19). 25 My emphasis and translation of Bede, Expl. Apoc. 38 [Apoc 22:21]—CCSL 121A,577, ll. 93–100: Eant pelagiani, et sua virtute fidentes, domini se gratia privent. Apostolo Paulo praesidium quaerente ac dicente: ‘Quis me liberauit de corpore mortis huius,’ respondeat Joannes nominis sui memor et dicat: Gratia dei per Iesum Christum dominum nostrum. Et ne sibi donatistae de singulari Dei munere blandiantur, audiant quod cum gratiam dei quasi uale ultimum commendaret, adjecit, ‘cum omnibus vobis. Amen.’ 26 Cf. Rom 7:25 and Apoc 22:21. 27 Cf. Jerome, De nom. Hebr. [De euangelio Matthaei]—CCSL 72,136: Iohannan cui est gratia uel domini gratia. 28 Bede’s text of Apoc 22:21 apparently has cum omnibus vobis; the Vulgate simply has cum omnibus.

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first sprung up some 300 years earlier, reveals his sense that they still pose dangers to churches of his own time and place. One might infer these would include specifically the churches of the Britons and the Irish. Any reader of the Historia who has even a passing familiarity with Augustine of Hippo’s anti-Donatist writings will notice just how closely Bede’s tirades against the churches of Britain, and their Pelagianism, parrot Augustine’s favorite anti-Donatist tropes. These tropes include characteristic words and phrases that identify the church catholic as one that – is ‘scattered’ or ‘spread out’ (diffusa est), and – is ‘throughout the whole world’ (per omnem orbem; per orbem; per totum orbem). By contrast, the schismatic church is characterized by a different set of tropes, which show it to be – small in extent (pauca), – very remote (ultima, or in extremis finibus), and – located in a ‘single corner’ (uno angulo) of the world. The schismatic church, therefore, is portrayed not only as being small, but also as existing only in one place—and an isolated one at that. So, for example, Augustine contrasts the true Church with the church of the Donatists, which was largely confined to the remote Roman province of Numidia, by asserting that the catholic church ‘is not built in one corner of the world (uno angulo), but throughout the whole world (per omnem terram).’29 Similarly, Bede writes of the British churchmen—who had rejected Augustine of Canterbury’s invitation for them to embrace catholic unity—exactly what Augustine of Hippo might have written of the Donatists: ‘They preferred their own traditions to the universal churches which agree in Christ among themselves throughout the world (per orbem).’30 Clearly, ‘their own traditions’ here is meant to point to the singularity of the British church’s traditions in contrast to widespread traditions of the ‘universal churches.’ A little later, Bede again uses a similar anti-Donatist rhetorical trope, but this time applies it to ‘the race of the Irish’ (genti Scottorum). As he paraphrases the gist of a letter that Pope Honorius I (625–638) sent the Irish, Bede depicts Honorius as exhorting the Irish to reconsider their erroneous calculation and schismatic observance of Easter, lest, to quote Bede’s paraphrase of this pope, ‘they consider that their own smallness (paucitatem), established at the earth’s outermost boundaries (in extremis terram finibus) to be wiser than the churches ancient and modern that are throughout the world (per orbem).’31 Such language, which sounds as though it could have been written against the Donatists, reappears later in Bede’s narrative of the Synod of 29 Sed haec domus non orbis terrae uno angulo aedificatur, sed per omnem terram. Augustine, Ep. 142,2 (CSEL 44,248, ll. 3–4; Teske [trans], 2003, WSA 2/2, 299). 30 Bede, HE 2,2—81,25–27. 31 Bede, HE 2,19—122,15. Compare this use of paucitas, with Augustine’s use of it in a letter to the Donatist Vincentius, asking whether Vincentius is not afraid that Jews might point to the smallness (paucitas) of the Donatist church as contradicting what Paul prophesied of the church in Gal 4:27, namely, that its number would far surpass that of the Jews (Augustine, Ep. 93,26—CSEL 34/2,472,

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Whitby, where he puts words on Wilfrid’s lips that, again, might have been uttered by Augustine of Hippo against the Donatists. Arguing against Colman, the Irish bishop of Lindisfarne, over his Easter observance, Wilfrid says, The Easter that we observe, we have seen celebrated by all in Rome … We have seen the same thing done in Italy and … in Gaul, places through which we travelled in our pursuit of learning and prayer; and we have learned that the same thing is practiced at one and no different a time in Africa, Asia, Egypt, Greece, and throughout the whole world [omnem orbem], wherever Christ’s church has spread [diffusa est] through diverse nations and tongues; excepting only these [Irish] and their accomplices in stubbornness—I mean the Picts and the Britons—with whom in stupid exertion they do battle against the whole world [contra totum orbem] from the two remotest islands [ultimis insulis] of the ocean, and not from their entire extent.32 Wilfrid goes on to remind Colman that the ‘small’ and ‘remote’ tradition of St Columba and Iona have determined Colman’s own practice. While acknowledging the holiness of Columba and other monks of that tradition, Wilfrid asks whether ‘their fewness (paucitas) from one corner of a remote island (uno de angulo extremae angulae) should be preferred to Christ’s universal church, which is throughout the world (per orbem).’33 A final example of Bede’s appropriating Augustine’s anti-Donatist rhetoric appears in an episode of Historia’s fifth and final book. It narrates how Iona’s abbot Adamnan had been dispatched to the court of Northumbria’s King Aldfrith in order to observe the ‘canonical rites of the church’ practiced there. Bede writes, ‘[Adamnan] was earnestly advised by many who were better instructed than himself that he—in company with a very small band of followers [cum suis paucissimis], living in the remotest corner of the world [in extremo mundi angulo]—should not presume to go against the church’s universal custom [uniuersalem ecclesiae morem] in the matter of keeping Easter and in various other ordinances.’34 In all these examples, Bede contrasts the worldwide character of the catholic church with the smallness, remoteness, and provincialism of some church that dissents from the catholic church’s customs. In addition to these passages, the Historia features others that highlight either the worldwide harmony of the universal church35 or the remote, isolated, and schismatic quality of a local church in question.36

line 3; Teske (trans), WSA 2/1, 393). Augustine again compares Donatist ‘scantiness’ (paucitas) with the Church’s worldwide scope in Contra litteras Petiliani 2,45,106 (CSEL 52,81, line 25; NPNF Ser. 1, 4, 558). 32 Bede, HE 3,25—184,25–31. 33 Bede, HE 3,25—188,13. 34 Bede, HE 5,15—315,20–24. 35 Bede, HE 2,4—87,21: ea, quae toto orbe diffusa est, ecclesia Christi; 3,25—186,10: omnis per orbem ecclesiam; 4,17—239,1: omniumque unianimam in fide catholica … consensum. 36 Bede, HE 1,8—22,16: hanc etiam insulam extra orbem tam longe remotam; 2,10—101,24: in extremitate terrae [here quoting Pope Boniface V’s letter to Edwin, king of the Northumbrians].

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In his commentary on the Song of Solomon, Bede echoes these themes more broadly and enlarges upon this concern for the church’s catholicity in ways that help us understand more fully his concerns in the Historia. For example, commenting upon the verse ‘Where has your beloved gone, O fairest among women?’ (Song 6:1), he interprets the church universal as the ‘fairest among women,’ saying, Because it is obvious that while the churches of Christ throughout the world may be as fair as the spiritual flower of fertile women, fairer still is the whole catholic church, which includes all of them within its own members. For it would be unsuitable for us to take the women in this passage as referring to the synagogues of errant heretics or schismatics, whether Gentiles or Jews. For it [i.e., Song 6:1] cannot be saying that the bride of Christ is the fairest among those women who prove not to have been fair at all, but rather among those women who are the fair churches of Ephesus, Smyrna, Pergamum, Thyatira, Saris, Philadelphia, Laodicea, and innumerable others throughout the world such as are completely dedicated to God, for it is truly right to say that the fairest of these is she in whom all of them are made into one.37 This long passage contains several points that are consonant with the larger theological vision that informs the Historia. First, the church that is the ‘fairest among women’ is not just one particular church, but the ‘whole catholic church’ that consists of the communion of all particular churches. And that whole catholic church is comprised not of ugly women—namely, ‘the synagogue of errant heretics or schismatics’—but of very fair women indeed, namely the local churches that follow in the train of the ‘fairest of women.’ In the world of Bede’s Historia, any particularity that the Roman church might display is eclipsed by its status as the symbol par excellence of the larger universal church, ‘the fairest among women,’ which includes the new churches of the English that are in communion with her. By contrast, the schismatic churches of the Britons and the Irish correspond to the ugly women—‘the synagogue of errant heretics or schismatics.’ Here again the terms ‘errant heretics’ and ‘schismatics’ are practically interchangeable. And in another important move, Bede here associates both with synagogues, thereby tying both to a Judaism that, like the schism of Donatism, stubbornly clings to its own traditions and, like the heresy of Pelagianism, denies its need of a grace mediated through Christ. The link that Bede forges in his Historia between recalcitrant Jews and the Britons has been established elsewhere.38 It takes no leap of the imagination to see that link with Judaism being extended here to Pelagianism—to which the Britons fell victim—and to the Britons’ Donatist-like refusal to have anything to do with a latter-day Augustine (i.e., Augustine of Canterbury) and with the worldwide catholic church associated with him. A little later in the Song of Solomon commentary, remarking on the words ‘My dove, my perfect one is only one; she is her mother’s only one, the chosen of her that

37 Bede, In Cant. 4,5,17; Holder (trans), 173; original in CCSL 119B,298, ll. 1015–26. 38 See Foley and Higham (2009), esp. 159–71 and Holder (2005), 91–103.

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bore her’ (6:8–9), Bede predictably interprets the dove as the universal church, the bride of Christ, which ‘admits no schismatic division’ and abides ‘in every place on earth and in every epoch of time.’39 She is called ‘perfect,’ he says, partly ‘because she is made perfectly one out of the just from all peoples.’40 Her mother is the heavenly Jerusalem who has specially chosen her because she alone has been serving God in this unity of her mother’s own faith and love. That is, the true church on earth sighs for the heavenly Jerusalem, her mother, and manifests her unity of concord. Bede then adds, ‘But as for the Donatists or any others who separate themselves from the catholic unity, either by open profession or profane action, these she puts out of the ranks of the elect, separating them off to the left side at the judgment because they refuse to possess the perfection of dovelike innocence.’41 In consigning them to ‘the left side,’ Bede aligns the Donatists with the goats of Mt 25:31–46 which, having been separated from the sheep at the Lord’s right hand, figure as those people who show no mercy to the poor and are therefore consigned to everlasting fire. Bede thus implies that, like these merciless ones, the Donatists withhold charity from those whom they consider to be ‘poor’ in righteousness, namely the church catholic. Why does Bede spend so much energy here railing against a centuries-old heresy that had never made any headway beyond Africa and that, by Bede’s time, was yielding to a victorious Islam? Any answer to this question can only be speculative, but I suggest that Bede rails here against Donatism because he sees in it a family resemblance to a church faction he knows well in his own time. In the Historia, the skillful monastic reader will recognize the implicit typological connection that Bede is forging between the Donatists of fifth-century Africa and the British and Irish schismatics of early eighth-century Britain. In refusing to conform to the church catholic, these schismatics in Britain show themselves to be just like the Donatists ‘who separate themselves from catholic unity.’42 The British especially, in refusing to join in the church catholic’s mission to the English, show themselves not only as violating the concord of the universal church but also as lacking in mercy toward the poor in spirit, which the pagan English especially are.43 Bede thereby shows in his exegetical writings that he knows perfectly well who the original African Donatists were. Moreover, he gives readers of his commentaries reason to suspect that he viewed Donatism as having its analogues in his own time 39 Bede, In Cant. 4,6,8; Holder (trans), 187; original in CCSL 119B,309, ll. 396–402. 40 Bede, In Cant. 4,6,8; Holder (trans), 188; original in CCSL 119B,309, ll. 412–16. 41 Bede, In Cant. 4,6,8; Holder (trans), 188; original in CCSL 119B,310, ll. 430–33. 42 Bede, In Cant. 4,6,8; Holder (trans), 188; original in CCSL 119B,310, ll. 430–33. 43 Perhaps Bede best shows his knowledge of Donatism in his commentary on 1 Jn 2:2, which says, ‘And he [i.e., Christ Jesus] is the propitiation of our sins; and not for our sins only, but also for those of the whole world (pro [peccatis] totius mundi).’ After quoting this passage, Bede observes that the church is universal in terms of both geographical extent—‘it is spread abroad throughout the whole breadth of the world’ (quae per totam mundi latitudinem diffusa est)—and temporal extent—it ‘extends from the first elect, undoubtedly, to the last person to be born at the end of time.’ He then adds, ‘By these words he [i.e., John] condemns the schism of the Donatists who said that the Church of Christ was enclosed within the boundaries of Africa alone’ (Bede, In epistulas VI catholicas 4,2—CCSL 121,290, ll. 39–52; Hurst (trans) (1985), 167).

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and place, namely, early eighth-century Britain and Ireland. If that is so, then why did he not identify Donatism by name in his Historia? He clearly adopted anti-Donatist rhetoric that he had received from Augustine of Hippo, although perhaps in mediated form. And he clearly knew that anti-Donatist writings were the source of that rhetoric. So why did he not say so? Two reasons seem plausible. First, perhaps he thought the mention of a 300-year-old schism, begun in faraway Africa, was too arcane a reference for an early eighth-century audience that included kings and princes who may have found such a reference merely pedantic and not illuminating. Second, and more compellingly, Bede perhaps conflated in his rhetoric the twin evils of Donatism and Pelagianism, and used the term ‘Pelagian’—at least in his Historia—to name the spirit common to both. The fact that he saw a family resemblance between the two movements probably has some justification. As noted earlier, Augustine of Hippo likely responded so irritably to Pelagius’ teaching because he recognized certain Donatist features within it, specifically its pride. How, he had asked the Donatists, can you view your communion as the only pure, the only righteous church within Christendom, especially when so many passages in Scripture assert that Christ’s church, by definition is one and worldwide?44 Clearly the Donatists’ pride had blinded them to these scriptural testimonies and had hardened their hearts against the catholic churches, he concluded. Like the Donatists, Pelagius and his disciples displayed the same prideful arrogance, except that the pride of Pelagianism revealed itself less in the collectivity of the church and more in the single individual who believed that, quite apart from God’s gift of Christ’s grace, his or her good works were sufficient for salvation. And if good works sufficed, then one might justly claim credit for being among God’s elect, looking down contemptuously or patronizingly at those who, at least in the Pelagian’s eyes, had not achieved it. Although one could technically identify the Donatist movement as a schism and the Pelagian movement as a heresy, Bede seems to see the differences as academic, since heretics and schismatics, whatever their differences, work toward the same end: to sever the harmony of Church as the body of Christ. Throughout the Historia Bede insists that unity is the hallmark of the true Church. That unity radiates out from its symbolic center, namely the apostolic see of Rome, and comprehends as being within its grasp even the far-flung churches in the world’s remotest corners. Concretely, this means that even the northernmost stretches of the northernmost isles, namely Britain and Ireland, will be drawn into the church’s orbit of peace and charity, while those heretics and schismatics who stubbornly refuse to embrace history’s providential movement will retreat to the correspondingly cold places in the heart where Christ’s light shines dimly, its warmth scarcely felt.

44 He cites a sampling of those passages early in his letter to Boniface, tribune of Africa, later known more popularly as On the Correction of the Donatists (Augustine, Ep. 185,1,3, CSEL 57,2–3; NPNF Ser. 1, 4, 634). Those passages include Vg Ps(G) 21:28–29 (22:27–28) (CSEL 57,2 [line 24]–3 [line 2]); Ps 2:7–8 (CSEL 57,3, ll. 3–7), and Lk 24:46–47 (CSEL 57,3, ll. 8–13). Augustine’s other favorite Scripture passages showing that the church is properly regarded as a worldwide communion include Ps 71(72):8 and Gen 22:18.

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In the Historia’s imaginative world, the church of Rome becomes the particular that symbolizes the universal. But in doing so, it loses any particularity apart from its being the unique symbol for the church universal. The task of the other churches, says Bede, is likewise to lose their local particularity, to be subsumed within the universal, and to become one with it. In the parlance of Bede’s racialized discourse, Rome, its church, and their Latin language mark out the Latin race as the race universal, shorn of the ugliness and error of particularity. Its status in relation to the other racialized churches—especially those of the Britons and the Irish—is analogous to what some scholars observe about the status of whiteness in the contemporary world. Whiteness is the status to which all other racial identities aspire.45 It represents the pinnacle of racial aspiration as well as the norm to which all other races should want to conform. The other races aspire to become white in the way that, in Bede’s mind, the racialized churches of Britain ought to aspire to become Roman, which is to say catholic. In the American context, European immigrants became white by shedding Old World particularity—be it Irish, English, Polish or Italian—and adopting whiteness, which, when gazing at itself, cultivated a blissful ignorance concerning what it meant to be particular, to be ‘raced’ in a New World context. As a result, and as studies show, white people are shown to think rarely about their race, or to even think of themselves as raced, while people of color think about their racial particularity daily, even hourly. To be white is not to be anything in particular. It is to be the non-raced race. To the white American, Black people have a particular culture as do Latinos and East Asians. Whites can crudely identify features of those cultures, and even envy people of color for having them, yet remain unable to comprehend anything in their own culture as being particular, as being characteristically white.46 Though like modern whiteness in many ways, Bede’s version of belonging to the Roman, ‘Latin race’—of belonging to the universal—betrays only dimly, if at all, any hint of envy it has toward the particularity of other races and their corresponding churches. In the imaginative world of the Historia, being Roman, which is to be universal, is portrayed overwhelmingly as a blessing. Being non-Roman, non-catholic, being a non-Latin race is something that can and should be transcended. Having thus explicated the Historia’s vision of catholic unity, I have tried to lay a firmer foundation for understanding this one side of each of the three debates that occur in the council-type scenes under consideration. We are now ready to examine each of those scenes in detail, beginning in the next chapter with Bishop Augustine of Canterbury’s meeting with the British bishops and leaders at Augustine’s Oak.

45 For a philosopher’s take on the discourse on whiteness as holding whiteness up as a paragon to which all those designated as non-white should aspire, see Sullivan (2006), 191. For a social anthropologist’s perspective, see Wemyss (2016), 13. 46 As Richard Dyer observes of whiteness’ inability to see itself, ‘As long as race is something only applied to non-white peoples, as long as white people are not racially seen and named, they/we function as a human norm. Other people are raced, we are just people.’ See Dyer (1997), 1.

Chapter 3

Racing the Britons Augustine’s Oak and its Aftermath

The first major council type-scene narrated in the Historia focuses upon the race of the Britons, the native people of Britain. Located in Book 2, chapter 2 (hereafter abbreviated as 2,2), the scene comprises three episodes, each of which is considered in some detail later in this chapter.1 I name them here as: 1. The Oak Meeting Episode (2,2—81,10–82,18) 2. The Spurning Episode (2,2—82,19–83,33) 3. The Battle Episode (2,2—83,34–85,2) The rationale for naming the first and third episodes should be self-evident. The name of the second episode derives from the British church leaders’ and Augustine’s spurning of each other during their second meeting; a form of the word sperno is uttered twice in this episode by a nameless hermit whose advice the British leaders seek. The word’s utterance proves prophetic. Each of the first two episodes narrates a separate meeting between British church leaders and Bishop Augustine of Canterbury to determine whether the British church will conform to the Roman Easter observance and join Augustine’s mission to convert the heathen English to Christianity. Taken together, these episodes portray the second missionary initiative that the Historia attributes to Augustine, the first being the mission to King Æthelberht and his Kentish people.2 As the reader approaches the narrative of 2,2, she knows from the narratives of Book 1 that Augustine wants to convert the English race to Christianity and that the church of Rome—specifically, Pope Gregory—has commissioned him to do so. Although the first meeting between Augustine and the Britons concludes hopefully, the second ends in abject failure. At the end of the second episode, the British churchmen decisively and unequivocally rebuff Augustine’s entreaties, which leads Augustine to utter a dire prophecy against the Britons. That prophecy is fulfilled some years later at the battle of Chester, narrated as this chapter’s third episode, the Battle Episode. In it, the pagan English King Æthelfrith’s army slaughters a contingent of British monks and soldiers. From this point on, the British church recedes from the Historia’s larger narrative. Its fate having been decided, the narrative after 2,2 refocuses its interest upon the progress of Britain’s English and Irish races towards the catholic Christianity promoted and symbolized by the church of Rome.



1 A more historical reading of this council-scene that discerns this tripartite structure is Stancliffe (1999), 107–51, esp. 124–25. 2 Bede, HE 1,25–26.

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Each of the three council type-scenes treated in this and the next two chapters features one major spokesperson for the catholic position: (1) Augustine of Canterbury in this council with the British church leaders, (2) the Northumbrians’ Bishop Paulinus in the council with King Edwin’s chief men, and (3) the young English priest Wilfrid at the Synod of Whitby. Of these, Augustine’s efforts are the least successful. The most vexing question that 2,2 poses for readers is whether Augustine’s failure to win over the British church’s leaders should be attributed to him or to the Britons. If Bede had wanted this narrative to send a clear message to less skilled readers about whose good actions to imitate, and whose wicked actions to avoid, then he failed miserably. The Historia’s readers have disagreed vigorously over which party is most to blame. After the Reformation, Protestant apologists from the Elizabethan era forward blamed Augustine, seeing his attempts to win over the Britons as an early example of Rome’s arrogant tendency to undermine the independence of various national churches. On the other side, Roman Catholic apologists at first, and Anglo-Catholic ones later, read the slaughter of British monks in the Battle Episode as God’s clear and wholly just indictment of the so-called British church and as a vindication of Augustine’s behavior at his meetings with the Britons.3 Although each of these modern parties had theological and political agendas that medieval readers could not have known and therefore did not share, each of the very different conclusions to which latter-day Protestants and Catholics came can claim justification from one or more elements of the narrative. The reader is thus given considerable latitude in construing the story’s moral to his liking. During the second episode, the narrator’s omniscient voice resolutely refuses to comment as to which side is most in the right, even as the story’s central adversaries—Augustine and the British bishops and church leaders—blame each other. Augustine offers the harshest judgment when he prophesies the Britons’ doom, proclaiming that if they refuse to preach the Gospel to the English, they will suffer the ‘vengeance of death’ (ultionem mortis) at English hands. Although 2,2. reports this dire prophecy to have been fulfilled some years later, the text claims only that ‘Augustine is reported to have said’ these sharp words of warning, as though it is either uneasy about attributing so harsh a pronouncement directly to him, or not confident that he actually said them. Yet once Augustine’s alleged prophecy was fulfilled, the narrator at last takes a stand, asserting that the gruesome events they forecast had indeed been God’s doing.4 What prevents the reader from embracing wholeheartedly Augustine’s harsh condemnation of the Britons as the final moral of the story as well as the narrator’s final pronouncement against them? Most modern, theologically liberal Christian readers recoil from the thought that God would wreak such vengeance upon the British monks in a battle that followed so many years later and in which they prayed



3 Heal (2005), 124–28. For a typical later Protestant screed against Augustine’s and Rome’s arrogance, see Inett (1704), 30–35. For distinctly more laudatory assessments of Augustine’s encounters with the Britons from Victorian Roman Catholic and Anglo-Catholic perspectives, respectively, see Lingard (1854), 40–43 and Oakeley (1901), 422. 4 Bede, HE 2,2—83,31–33: Quod ita per omnia, ut praedixerat, diuino agente iudicio patratum est.

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but did not fight. If these readers also imbibed a classic interpretation of early English history that emphasizes the oppression that the Britons experienced at the hand of the English, then they believe that for the one and a half centuries preceding this meeting at Augustine’s Oak, the Britons had been suffering untold indignities from their English oppressors, including death, enslavement, and expulsion from their homelands in those areas that would come to be known as Angle-land, or England.5 Knowing this story, such readers can see why the Britons respond to Augustine as they do, even though they might wish that the Britons had been ideal Christians who—being able to overlook a 150-year experience of subjugation and forced emigration—might have responded to their tyrannical English overlords by a loving desire to convert them. If Christian love of one’s enemy must really know no limits, then the narrative condemns the Britons—one might argue—for imposing a limit on their love for their long-time oppressors. According to this view, the Britons’ gruesome punishment is entirely fitting. Yet most theologically liberal readers see such allegedly divine punishment of the Britons as extreme and out of keeping with the divine mercy. In addition, they hold that Augustine’s refusal to stand when the British bishops approached reveals his unwillingness to meet and negotiate with them on equal terms, and is therefore a clear sign of his arrogance. Nor is the reader’s sense of Augustine’s arrogance diminished when, instead of apologizing to the British bishops for his unintended slight, he instead prophesies their destruction. By contrast, more theologically conservative Christians are less bothered by God’s judgment upon the Britons, harsh though it may seem to theological liberals. God is, after all, a God of order and unity, and so must punish those who, lacking charity, withhold their consent to that unity. To such readers, the narrative clearly identifies Augustine as God’s chosen agent in this conflict. In the Oak Meeting Episode Augustine approaches the Britons with a spirit of equanimity and good faith, then proves that his mission has divine approval when he performs a healing miracle that the British bishops cannot. In a spirit of patience, Augustine agrees to let the Britons confer among themselves to decide whether they should accept his proposal. Mirroring his God, who is mercifully patient yet unfailingly just, Augustine puts up with the Britons’ obduracy and delaying tactics, but that patience is not infinite. When, in the Spurning Episode, the Britons freely choose not only to reject Augustine’s invitation but also to insult him by accusing him of arrogance, they provoke his just condemnation and prediction of their future slaughter. The fact that this slaughter, narrated in the Battle Episode, unfolds just as Augustine had foretold confirms his veracity as a prophet and proves clearly that God supports Augustine’s mission—and condemns the Britons’ obstinacy—unequivocally. Or so theological conservatives would argue.



5 This view, largely based on literary evidence of Gildas and Bede, can be seen in Stenton (1971), 30–31 and James (2002), 30. More recent studies have called this view into question. See, for example, Oosthuizen (2019), 25, which characterizes the enmity described in the Historia between the English and the Britons as Bede’s ‘rhetorical construct.’

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Scholarly opinion is sharply divided upon the moral of this story as well. Some, like Nick Higham, have endorsed the conservative reading, arguing that the narrative portrays Augustine as the story’s hero and the British bishops as the villains. For Higham, Augustine’s success at miraculously curing a young English man of blindness shows that, from the narrator’s perspective, God is clearly on Augustine’s side.6 And so, presumably, should the audience be. Implicitly Higham assumes that this lone observation trumps the story’s other details that dispose readers more favorably to the British bishops. The moral of the story is thus that miracle-working bishops from Rome must be heeded. By contrast, Henry Mayr-Harting acknowledges the apparent ambiguity in the narrator’s viewpoint.7 On the one hand, agreeing with Higham, he believes Bede’s ‘whole purpose in reciting this lengthy story about the British bishops was to show how stiff-necked they were when confronted with the Roman order.’8 ‘Yet,’ as he hastens to add when discussing Augustine’s decision to remain seated as British bishops approached for their second conference, [Bede] must have been sensitive enough to realize that he had now brought every reader or listener to the point of feeling that any man in Augustine’s position, even one with right on his side …, was bound to stand up [when the British delegation appeared]. Unfortunately, Augustine remained seated. And from his chair he proceeded to lay down his terms for co-operation, employing a rather high and mighty tone.9 So, the second moral of the story is that even miracle-working bishops from Rome should be humble. Mayr-Harting highlights well the conflict of the story’s moral stances, but gives no clear explanation of how Bede meant for the reader to resolve it. On the one hand, he lays responsibility for the conflict at Bede’s feet, noting that Bede’s peculiar telling of the story leads the reader to feel at one and the same time that Augustine should have stood when the Britons approached and that, for their part, the Britons fully deserve their dire punishment for being so ‘pig-headed’ toward Augustine.10 On the other hand, Mayr-Harting also seems to suggest that the story’s ambiguity originates not with Bede, but with the contradictory sources upon which he is drawing for this episode—one of which is Mercian, and thus hostile to the British, the other of which may be British, and thus hostile to Augustine.11 While Mayr-Harting relies only partly on the theory that the story’s ambiguity arises from the conflicting viewpoints of Bede’s sources, Martin Grimmer throws the entire weight of his argument behind this different-source theory. For Grimmer, each source

6 7 8 9 10 11

Higham (1997), 175. Mayr-Harting (1991), 71–73. Mayr-Harting (1991), 71. Mayr-Harting (1991), 71–72. Mayr-Harting (1991), 71–72. The Mercians, who dwelt approximately in what is now the Midlands, were one of seven subgroupings into which the Historia divides the race of the English. The others are the Kentish people, the East Saxons, the South Saxons, the West Saxons, the East Anglians, and the Northumbrians.

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has its own voice and in trying to weave them together Bede fails to reconcile their mutual opposition.12 Each of these modern assessments of the story’s viewpoint poses its own difficulty. Higham’s interpretation sees the one viewpoint in the Augustine’s Oak Episode as trumping the other viewpoint in the Spurning Episode. For him, the fact that Augustine possesses the power to do what the British churchmen cannot—namely, heal the blind English man—clearly signals to the reader what the narrative fails to state explicitly, namely, that God favors Augustine and opposes the Britons, and does so despite Augustine’s later display of what Mayr-Harting calls Augustine’s ‘high and mighty tone.’ Higham fails to explain why the reader should, after that ‘high and mighty’ display, continue to see Augustine as God’s undisputed champion in this story. While Mayr-Harting and Grimmer concede that this is one viewpoint the story puts forth, they also recognize a second one, namely, that Augustine’s lack of humility rightly shakes the reader’s confidence in the veracity of the first viewpoint. They account for these conflicting viewpoints by assuming that Bede was so faithful and literal a recorder of historical sources that he somehow let their plurality here mute his own authorial voice. Yet as a master storyteller, surely Bede was skillful enough to put his own spin on the sources he used. We see him do this with his use of Gildas’ De excidio in Book I of the Historia, and with his use of the Anonymous Life of St Cuthbert in his own Prose Life of St Cuthbert. In both cases, Bede deftly recasts these sources to tell his own story from his own point of view.13 Mayr-Harting’s and Grimmer’s viewpoints wrongly assume that Bede either forgot or was too unskilled to execute his own stated purpose for writing his Historia, namely, to hold up the good deeds of good people so that religious and pious readers might imitate them, and to expose as something to be shunned the evil deeds of wicked people. In Mayr-Harting’s and Grimmer’s eyes the narrator failed to achieve his purpose here, having been distracted by the cacophony of voices he heard in his different sources. Our task in this chapter is to dive deeply into this passage, examining its structure and literary artistry to see whether we can discern, if not a clear moral message of this story, then at least an interpretation that leaves the skillful reader something more than just confused.

1. The Oak Meeting Episode: Augustine’s First Meeting with the British Bishops and Teachers In the preceding chapter I discussed the catholic church’s worldwide unity and concord as one of the Historia’s most important themes. The Historia’s narrator crafts the Oak Meeting Episode of 2,2 to underscore that theme. He does so in part by word choice, preferring continually to use words prefixed by con- (or its

12 Grimmer (2006). 13 For Bede’s adaptation of the Anonymous Life of St Cuthbert to suit his own very different purposes, see Foley (1999).

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equivalents, col- and com-): conuocauit, colloquium, communem [laborem], concordant, and consensu.14 Collectively these words emphasize the importance of cooperation, mutuality, and agreement, especially in catholic ecclesiastical life. In that spirit, this episode takes pains to portray Augustine as one who presents himself in a relationship of parity with—rather than authority over—the British bishops and teachers present. He is said to urge them with brotherly (fraterna) rather than fatherly admonition;15 he invites them to the common labor of evangelizing the English. Like his namesake Augustine of Hippo, this Augustine likewise appeals in good anti-Donatist fashion to the importance of concluding a ‘catholic peace’ (pace catholica) with the Britons and, before performing a healing miracle upon a blind English man, he prays to a God who ‘has made those of one mind (unianimes) to dwell in His house,’ echoing here the Psalmist’s several praises of unanimity among God’s people.16 By contrast, the British bishops and teachers are portrayed, if not as obstreperous, then at least as wrong-headed, incompetent, and unwilling participants in their meeting with Augustine. The narrator points out that they observe Easter at the wrong time and do many other things ‘contrary to ecclesiastical unity.’17 They fall short not just in their ritual observances, but also in their charity because they ‘prefer their own traditions (suas traditiones) to the universal churches.’18 The wording here is subtle, but it hints at an important conviction. It avoids the expected grammatical parallelism, which would say that they prefer their own traditions to the traditions of the universal churches, but says instead that they prefer their own traditions to the churches themselves. Thus, the conflict here is set up not as one between competing traditions, but between an outworn tradition on the one hand and a living people of God, the church, on the other. From the author’s perspective, the Britons thus value tradition more than people. As such they resemble the early Christian stereotype of recalcitrant, tradition-bound Jews, typified in Mark’s gospel by Scribes and Pharisees, to whom Jesus says, ‘Well do you make void God’s command so as to keep your own tradition (vestram traditionem).’19 In his commentary on 1 Samuel, Bede uses a similar turn of phrase to describe the wicked sons of Eli, who ‘prefer their own traditions (suas traditiones) and wicked deeds to the Law and grace alike.’20 As Lawrence Martin notes, Bede at times uses this word traditio to connote ‘betrayal’—the quality associated with being a ‘traitor’ (cf. Lat. traditor)—rather than English’s more neutral meaning

14 Bede, HE 2,2: conuocauit and colloquium (81,11), communem [laborem] (81,16), concordant (81,26), and consensu (82,16). 15 Bede, HE 2,2—81,15–16: coepitque eis fraterna admonitione suadere. 16 Bede, HE 2,2—81,30–31. Cf. Vg Ps(G) 67:7 (68:6): Deus inhabitare[eos] facit unius moris in domo; Vg Ps(G) 132(133):1: ecce quam bonum et quam iucundum habitare fratres in unum. 17 Bede, HE 2,2—81,22–23: unitati ecclesiasticae contraria. 18 Bede, HE 2,2—81,26–28. 19 Mk 7:9. Cf. Mk 7:13 and Mt 15:2, 3, and 6. 20 My translation of Bede, In Sam. 2,8,2–3, ll. 138–42, CCSL 119,71: suas traditiones et scelera legi pariter et gratiae praetulerunt.

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of the word ‘tradition.’21 Thus in preferring traditiones to the universal churches, the British bishops and teachers, like the wicked Jewish leaders of Jesus’ time, prefer their humanly constructed observances and so betray the divine will. Even when they do what from the narrative’s viewpoint is the right thing, they do it so reluctantly that the reader imputes no virtue to them. They do not want to accede to Augustine’s request that they conform to catholic norms and, when finally they agree to his suggestion that each party try to perform a healing miracle so as to determine God’s will in the matter, they are said to do so ‘unwillingly’ (inuiti).22 Augustine’s miraculous healing of the blind English man stands at the center of the Oak Meeting Episode. Perhaps the scene’s dynamic, in which a lone holy man is able to do what many unholy priests cannot, recalls the story of Elijah successfully invoking the Lord to consume his holocaust offering after 850 priests prove unable to move Baal to consume theirs.23 Indeed, even a cursory reading of these two narratives in tandem clearly leads to the conclusion that Augustine functions here as Elijah’s latter-day antitype, and the British bishops as the antitype of the priests of Baal.24 But it is not just what the narrator says about the Britons nor his implicit comparison of them to priests of Baal that damns them in the readers’ eyes. It is also how he positions them grammatically as passive agents in this episode. Although the Britons collectively constitute one of its two main characters (Augustine being the other), their actions and attitudes are contained in two cum clauses and in a sentence that is parenthetical to the main action.25 More specifically, in the six sentences that move the main narrative along, Augustine is the main grammatical subject in four; the blind English man is the subject in two (one of which is a compound sentence in which Augustine is the other grammatical subject); but the Britons are the grammatical subject only in this section’s last sentence, in which they at last concede that Augustine is proclaiming the ‘true path of righteousness’ and they agree to confer on the matter with a larger party of British churchmen. Thus, only in conceding defeat are they given—grammatically and syntactically—center stage. Indeed, as if to humiliate the Britons in the eyes of his audience, the narrator does not rest content merely to say that they failed to heal the blind English man whom Augustine had brought

21 Martin (1989), 133–34, n. 3. 22 Bede, HE 2,2—82,3. 23 1 Kgs 18:21–39. 24 An antitype is that which the type foreshadows, as for example, Christ’s church—which contains saints and sinners—is the antitype of Noah’s Ark, which contains both clean and unclean animals. Cf. Augustine, Contra Faustum Manichaeum 12,15 (CSEL 25,345, ll. 5–24; NPNF 1st Ser. 4:188–89). What I here call ‘antitype,’ Tolley usefully designates by the special term ‘metatype,’ by which he means an after-type. According to this distinction, types and antitypes exclusively designate events occurring within the history that Scripture narrates, while metatypes designate later events that have been interpreted in conjunction with the types of Scripture. In this instance, Tolley would designate the slaughtered British bishops as metatypes of the 850 priests of Baal. See Tolley (2018), 7–8. 25 Bede, HE 2,2—81,10–82,14. The first cum clause: 81,22–27 (cum neque … adsensum praebere uoluissent, sed suas potius traditiones … praeferrent); the second: 82,3 (cum aduersarii, inuiti licet, concederent). The parenthetical sentence: 81,18–22 (non enim paschae diem dominicum suo tempore … obseruabant … sed et alia plurima unitati ecclesiasticae contraria faciebant).

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forward. He says instead that the blind man ‘perceived that their ministrations had no healing power.’26 Showing ironically that the blind English pagan can ‘see’ what the sighted British Christians cannot—namely, their own impotence—the narrator presents to his audience a picture of the Britons as woefully dimwitted, spiritually obtuse, and utterly incompetent. To borrow from the language of the Apostle Paul, Gentile foolishness, personified here by the blind English man, appears as far wiser than the wisdom of the Britons, these carnally minded, latter-day ‘Jews.’ In one sense, the narrator here is implicitly drawing upon Paul’s conviction, expressed in 1 Cor 1:25–27, that the foolishness of God is greater than human wisdom and strength. Yet he departs from Paul’s pattern here by narrowly equating, on the one hand, human wisdom and strength with the impotent ministrations of the British and, on the other, divine foolishness with the rustic wisdom of the Gentile English. He thus pits God and the pagan English as allies against the Judaizing Britons. By contrast, Paul aligns divine foolishness with neither racial group, opposing it both to Jewish sign-seeking and to Gentile wisdom (1 Cor 1:21–23). This narrator thus valorizes one racial group, the English, at the expense of another, the Britons, which Paul never does in his juxtaposition of Jews and Gentiles. Yet one must not be too quick to ascribe to this episode a univocal viewpoint. However much it works to skewer the Britons, it also leaves behind traces that lead a skillful reader to question the status of Augustine, who is—superficially at least—this first episode’s central hero. Continuing to think about this narrative in light of 1 Corinthians 1, one notes that for Paul, Jews wrongly view their own seeking and obtaining signs from God as a mark of their ‘strength’ (1 Cor 1:22). But in this narrative, it is not the Judaizing Britons who first suggest that a sign should be sought. It is Bishop Augustine who proposes a test, the outcome of which will supposedly signify which path God wills the British church to follow. Augustine thus uses the miracle that he performs with God’s help to overpower intransigent Britons. The reader might not have given Augustine’s strategy here a second thought had the narrative not, just a few chapters before, prompted the reader to cast a wary eye on Augustine’s miracle working. There, in a letter of advice from Pope Gregory, Augustine is warned not to become too elated at the miracles he finds himself able to perform. Gregory reminds Augustine that the miracles he now finds himself able to work in Britain are intended for the eyes, and hence the salvation, of the pagan English there,27 but that in working them, Augustine is in danger of succumbing to cockiness (praesumtione) and vainglory (inanem gloriam).28 The presence of this excerpt in Gregory’s letter ought to lead the alert reader to suspect that Gregory had been prompted to write this warning by actual

26 Bede, HE 2,2—82,5–6: nil curationis uel sanationis horum ministerio perciperet. 27 Bede, HE 1,31: omnipotens Deus … in gentem quam eligi uoluit magna miracula ostendit (66,15); Gaudeas … quia Anglorum animae per exteriora miracula ad interiorem gratiam pertrahuntur (66,18); haec non tibi, sed illis deputes donata, pro quorum tibi salute collata sunt (67,16). 28 Bede, HE 1,31—66,20 and 66,22.

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reports he had received concerning Augustine’s miracle-working prowess and the arrogance it was nurturing.29 Very few of the miracles narrated in the Historia occur through self-conscious human agency. That is, humans do not self-consciously set out to perform them as Augustine does here. Instead, God and the angels typically work miracles to assist or guide human beings. This occurs when, for example, a saint’s corpse is found to be incorrupt, or when a marvelous light reveals where holy nuns, stricken by the plague, are to be buried.30 In at least one other place later in the Historia, a sainted wonder-worker is called into question when his venerators set too much store by his miracles, namely, in Wilfrid’s reply to Colman at the Synod of Whitby (3,25). There, after Colman defends the Irish dating of Easter by appealing to the authority of St Columba and his successors—an authority he sees as grounded in their miracle-working powers—Wilfrid cites Jesus’ warning that on judgment day, the Lord will cast out even those who worked miracles in his name.31 Wilfrid’s message here is not that working miracles is bad, but that the ability to do so offers no sure evidence about their worker’s character, disposition, or divine calling. In reading 2,2, therefore, one needs to distinguish between how its narrative wants readers to interpret Augustine’s healing of the blind boy, and how it portrays the Britons as actually interpreting that healing. The Britons apparently have a wrong view of signs and miracles, believing that miracles clearly indicate the divine will and divine support for the miracle worker. Because the Britons believe this—and believe it strongly—they are led to agree ‘unwillingly’ to the test that Augustine proposes. True to their convictions, when the test is over—and even though they find themselves on the losing side—their minds are changed. Believing that God seems to be behind Augustine, they confess that they now understand his proposal to be the ‘true way of righteousness.’32 Yet as the ensuing Spurning Episode will show, the Britons’ confidence in signs will cut both ways for Augustine. In the Oak Meeting Episode, it granted him a reprieve that keeps alive his conference with the British Christians. In the Spurning Episode, it will doom his mission, as the British Christians see his not rising when they approach as a divine and sure sign that he is not worthy to guide them to another way. Yet the very fact that the Britons interpret Augustine’s healing as a possible sign 29 I am chiefly interested here in Gregory and Augustine as characters in the story and not as historical figures. As such, I have only a secondary interest in whether the historical figure of Gregory actually had these concerns. Apparently, though, he did, as a reading the entirety of Gregory’s letter confirms. As a whole, it shows more clearly than Bede’s excerpt of it that Gregory is really concerned to take Augustine down a peg, all but calling him one of his mission’s ‘weak preachers’ (praedicatores … infirmos) and reminding him that if Moses, perhaps the greatest miracle worker in the Old Testament, was nevertheless denied entrance to Canaan because of his comparatively light sin, then Augustine should be concerned that his vainglory, a far weightier sin, might prevent him from receiving his eternal reward (Gregory I, Ep. 11,36—CCSL 140A,925, ll. 17–20 [‘weak preachers’] and 927–28, ll. 52–82 [for Moses comparison]; Martyn [trans], 780–81). 30 Bede, HE 3,19—168,21–30 and 4,7—219,11–220,20. 31 Bede, HE 3,25—187,24–31. 32 Bede, HE 2,2—82,15.

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of his mission’s divine authorization should lead the skillful reader here to call it into question, already knowing that the Britons have shown themselves so far in the Historia to be inept at discerning God’s will for them. And remembering Gregory’s warning to Augustine against putting too much confidence in miracles, the reader should be doubly wary. Gregory told Augustine in that letter—not once, but twice—that he was granted the power to work miracles for one reason only: to convert the pagan English.33 While one might argue that the healing miracle performed for the Britons was indirectly done to convert the pagan English, inasmuch as Augustine was trying to persuade the Christian Britons to join him in his missionary task, someone else might counter that this healing miracle was aimed less at converting the English than at converting the Britons. That is, at its most basic level the story shows one Christian, Augustine, performing a miracle to persuade his fellow Christians, the Britons, to do something that they were initially loath to do. Most immediately he wants to change their hearts, not those of the pagan English. More than that, Augustine’s miracle serves to violate the spirit of comity and consensual conversation that Augustine had tried to promote at the conference’s beginning and that, as we have argued in the previous chapter, the Historia promotes over all. In short, Augustine’s miracle is a power move. He uses the blind Englishman, who represents the pagan English generally, as a tool to win over the Christian Britons. This action calls into question who exactly is being enlisted to help whom. Contrary to his own design, Augustine uses the pagan English, represented here by the blind man, to help win over the Christian Britons to catholic Christianity. He thus is seen to forget Pope Gregory’s reminder that God has given him his miracle-working power to convert the English and not to enhance his own standing and status. Inasmuch as this is the only miracle in the entire Historia that Augustine is shown to work, readers are led even more certainly to suspect that Gregory’s letter in 1,31 functions as a caution for them to scrutinize carefully any miracle that Augustine might work later in the narrative. Since Augustine’s power move in working the miracle runs counter to the earlier rhetorical work he did to emphasize his status as brother and co-equal with his fellow British bishops and since he is described as having been ‘compelled’ to do it ‘by justifiable necessity,’ a reader might conclude that the working of this miracle is born of desperation.34 The narrative thus lets the skillful reader see clearly that 33 Bede, HE 1,31—67,8–11: ‘May you always judge yourself inwardly and know yourself discerningly— both who you are and how much grace is in that people for whose conversion you have received the gifts of doing miracles.’ (semper te interius subtiliter iudices ac subtiliter intellegas et temet ipsum quis sis, et quanta sit in eadem gente gratia, pro cuius conuersione etiam faciendorum signorum dona percepisti); and (67,15–16): ‘Consider these things as having been given not to you, but to them for whose salvation they were given.’ (haec non tibi, sed illis deputes donata, pro quorum tibi salute collata sunt). 34 Bede, HE 2,2—82,7: iusta necessitate conpulsus. The Historia uses the passive phrase ‘compelled by necessity’ or its active equivalent ‘necessity compels’ in two other places to signify a less than ideal action. One is in Gregory’s response to Augustine’s ninth question, in which Gregory says that a priest whose humours are overburdened by immoderate eating can still celebrate mass if necessity compels (necessitas conpellit), that is, if no other priest is available (1,27—60,15). Similarly, St Aidan is said to have travelled everywhere on foot unless necessity compelled (necessitas conpulisset) him to go on horseback (3,5—136,1).

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Augustine originally planned to cultivate a relationship of equals among his British brethren, that he failed to do so either because of his own lack of skill or their gross intransigence, and that in a desperate move to win them over, he performs the healing miracle on the blind English man. If the British Christians do anything right in this episode, at least from the viewpoint of the larger narrative, it is their very last action: they announce that although they are convinced by Augustine’s healing miracle, they cannot abandon their ancient customs ‘without the consent and permission of their own [people]’ (absque suorum consensu ac licentia).35 As the episode’s next sentence makes clear, ‘their own’ refers not to British clergy generally, but to a larger group of ecclesiastical elites: bishops—seven to be exact—and ‘many learned men’ (plures uiri doctissimi). Had the Britons agreed without consulting their brethren, in effect they would have imposed a new tradition upon those brethren in a way that would have run counter to what has been described as this text’s concern for unanimity and consent. It will not do for the few British church leaders seen here to coerce other absent leaders into the catholic fold. The absent must be won over. For the British leaders to have forced their brethren to be catholic would have been a very uncatholic move. In wanting to consult their own, the British leaders are imitating the good impulses that St Augustine displayed at the beginning of this episode. They prefer agreement won by consensus to one imposed by authority. Moreover, they want not merely to poll their brethren and then report the results to Augustine, but rather to gather them together so that they might all attend the second meeting with Augustine. The Britons thus seem to be on the right path, one inspired by a catholic impulse. Having been prompted to action by Augustine’s healing miracle, they now move a step beyond seeking signs and show the beginnings of a willingness to seek consensus and unity instead—both with their absent brethren and with Augustine and his party as well. For one brief moment, the Britons here clearly make the right choice and, at least in principle, seem open to living in a spirit of catholic unity with St Augustine and the churches he is planting in Britain.

2. The Spurning Episode: Augustine’s Second Meeting with the British Bishops and Teachers But the moment is just that: brief. As they are about to depart for a second conference with Augustine—including now in their number that larger contingent of their brethren that they had left the initial meeting to assemble—they succumb to their old proclivity to seek signs rather than to confer among themselves. They visit a holy hermit living among them and in the course of their conversation ask him three questions. The first is: Should they abandon their own traditions for the teaching of Augustine? The hermit replies, ‘If he is a person of God, then follow him.’ Wanting

35 Bede, HE 2,2—82,16–17.

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him to be more specific, they ask him a second question, ‘But how can we verify this?’ Offering only slightly more detail, the hermit answers, The Lord said: ‘Take my yoke on you and learn from me, for I am meek and humble of heart.’ If, therefore, Augustine is meek and humble of heart, it is believable that even he himself bears the yoke of Christ and offers it to you to be borne; but if he is haughty and prideful, it is agreed that he is not from God, and his preaching should not be heeded by us.36 Still not having the specificity they seek, they come back a third time (rursus), asking, ‘But how are we able to know even this?’ This third question finally yields them a satisfying answer: ‘Arrange it,’ he [i.e., the hermit] said, ‘so that he arrives at the place of the synod with his own earlier [than you], and if he arises when you all approach, knowing that he is a servant of Christ, hear him obediently; but if he spurns you and does not want to rise before you, even though you are greater in number, then let him be spurned by you.’37 The progression of these three questions and answers exhibits the quality of a folktale and merits careful consideration. With each new question, the British bishops and learned men press the nameless hermit for more details, more specificity. Each new question deepens the reader’s sense that however learned these British church leaders may be, they have no spiritual discernment. If they had, the hermit’s first answer—‘If he is a person of God, then follow him’—should have sufficed. The Britons’ apparent dissatisfaction with this answer reveals that they do not have the requisite spiritual acumen to recognize someone as a ‘person of God’ (homo dei). So, asking the hermit a second time, the Britons hear from him a more concrete answer. The hermit prefaces his response with a saying of Jesus from Matthew’s Gospel, saying, ‘The Lord said: “Take my yoke on you and learn from me, for I am meek and humble of heart.”’38 The hermit then applies this Scripture’s lesson to the situation and says that if Augustine is ‘meek and humble of heart’ (mitis est et humilis corde), then it is believable that even he himself bears the yoke of Christ and offers it to you to be borne.’ This somewhat unusual answer merits two important points. First, here the hermit implicitly conveys why the Britons did not find the hermit’s answer to their first question at all helpful: they did not know to identify a ‘person of God’ with someone who is ‘meek and humble of heart.’ Second, the hermit does not offer them the advice that the reader perhaps expects. He does not say, ‘If he is meek, then follow him, or listen to him.’ He says instead, and rather elliptically, that if Augustine is meek, ‘then it is believable that even he himself bears the yoke of Christ and offers (offerat) it to you to be borne.’ By saying that it is ‘believable’ (credibile est) that Augustine might be trusted, the hermit avoids offering an easy criterion by which his hearers might

36 Bede, HE 2,2—82,30–83,3. 37 Bede, HE 2,2—83,4–9. 38 Mt 11:29.

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make a definitive judgment about Augustine. He thus requires of the British bishops and leaders what they do not seem to have: discretionary judgment. Significantly, the hermit sees the yoke of Christ here not as a burden to be avoided, but as a gift to be received and shared. If Christ has offered this yoke to Augustine, then Augustine will share it, in turn, offering it to the Britons. The reader’s knowledge that this yoke is not a burden, as most yokes are, depends upon his or her knowing what a monastic reader surely would know: that in the passage from Matthew immediately following the one that the hermit just quoted, Jesus says that taking up his yoke causes the person who does so to find rest for her soul because, as he says in a curious paradox, ‘My yoke is easy and my burden is light.’39 It is easy and light because Jesus, the one who offers it, is ‘meek and humble of heart.’ Indeed, Christ’s yoke is nothing other than humility itself. It stands in contrast with the burdensome yoke of the Jewish Law, or Torah.40 Unlike the vainglorious, who carry the heavy burden of Law, working as they do to enhance their worldly reputation and status by performing the works that the Law prescribes, the humble carry no such burden. As such, their yoke—the one they take from Jesus—is easy and light. The reader who has attended carefully to the entire narrative up until this point might remember that Jesus’ saying about the light easy yoke was referenced earlier, in 1,14, a chapter that like this one features British leaders and hermit-like Christians who have withdrawn to remote places.41 The text of 1,14 narrates the Britons’ response to the depredations of Irish pirates, reporting that some Britons submitted to them, while others, ‘trusting in divine rather than human help,’ offered resistance from ‘mountains, caves and forests.’ The correlation of these Britons who trust in God by doing battle from remote places seems to offer a type for the hermit of our story. In 1,14, these secluded Britons successfully resist the pirate attacks. As a result, thanks to this faithful few, not only do these attacks cease, but all the Britons enjoy their most abundant corn harvest ever. This abundance, however, is reported to have vitiated the Britons, including the ‘Lord’s pastors,’ who ‘submitted their necks to drunkenness, enmity, litigiousness, contentiousness, envy and to other crimes of this sort, having cast off Christ’s light yoke.’42 And so, besides referring to ‘Christ’s light yoke’ (Mt 11:30), this sentence offers another scriptural echo in reciting that list of vices to which the British clergy and people fell prey—‘drunkenness, enmity, litigiousness, contentiousness, envy.’43 The vice list closely resembles the list that the

39 Mt 11:29b–30. 40 Cf. Mt 23:4, Jer 5:5. See also Act 15:10 and Bede’s comment upon it in Exp. Act. 15,11—CCSL 121,66–67, ll. 123–29; Martin (trans) (1989), 130. 41 Bede, HE 1,14—30,6–8. 42 Bede, HE 1,14—30,6–8. Bede draws much of this narrative from Gildas, but the reference to Christ’s light yoke is his own original addition. Cf. Gildas, De excidio 20,1–3; Winterbottom (trans), 23–24. 43 Bede, HE 1,14—30,6–7: ebrietati, animositati, litigio, contentioni, inuidiae. Cf. Gal 5:19: ‘inimicitiae, contentiones, aemulationes, irae, rixae, dissensiones, sectae, invidiae, homicidia, ebrietates’ [underlinings are mine and denote the common terms to each passage]. Besides these common terms, our texts’s animositati and litigio are rough synonyms for the vices that Paul here names as aemulationes, irae, rixae, and dissensiones. It is important to note that Bede draws this list of vices largely from Gildas,

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Apostle Paul offers in Gal 5:19–21 as comprising the ‘works of the flesh,’ which Paul opposes to the works of the spirit.44 The Britons of 1,14, in doing these works of the flesh, extract their due penalty when a plague ensues. Those whom the plague does not kill, as the narrative relates, remain dead in their souls, unable to be aroused, presumably to repentance, either by the recent death of their kin or by fear of their own death. Lingering anxiety, however, prompts a ‘calling the Saxons to their aid from across the seas’ so as to repel future invations from ‘northern nations.’45 And the Saxons—as anyone who has read the Historia up through 2,2. knows—will be the Britons’ final undoing. The importance of 1,14 for interpreting 2,2 lies in its allusion to the ‘yoke of Christ’ and to its indication of the stance that British church leaders take towards that yoke. Once chapter 1,14 establishes that the ‘Lord’s pastors’ among the Britons have ‘cast off the light yoke of Christ,’ nothing in the subsequent narrative up to 2,2 prompts the reader to believe that they have taken on that yoke again. In 1,17 they are portrayed as, at best, ineffectual during the Pelagian controversy, being totally unable to refute Pelagian teaching and thus requiring the aid of the continental bishops, Germanus of Auxerre and Lupus of Troyes.46 And at worst, they are charged with the ‘unspeakable crime’ of having ‘never through their preaching transmitted the word of faith either to the Saxons or to the Angles, who were inhabiting Britain with them.’47 So, having cast off ‘Christ’s light yoke’ in 1,14—which the medieval monastic reader knows to be the yoke of Christ’s meekness and humility of heart—the ‘Lord’s pastors’ prove themselves to be proud and arrogant. The skillful reader will have remembered this when reading the story of their behavior in the Spurning Episode. More than that, from the hermit’s prediction that Augustine will, if he is ‘meek and lowly of heart,’ ‘offer Christ’s yoke’ for the British church leaders to bear, the reader ought to infer that these leaders are already in the hermit’s mind what they fear Augustine will be: ‘harsh and proud.’ For why else would the hermit imagine a humble Augustine offering Christ’s light yoke of humility to them unless they were themselves still worn down by the heavier yoke of pride and arrogance? Clearly, the hermit thinks that the British bishops and leaders would appropriately receive this light yoke from Augustine and thus deftly implies that they badly need the humility which that yoke confers. The British bishops and leaders of 2,2, however, dimwitted to the end, do not perceive the insult that the hermit has just levelled at them. Instead they press him a third time for an even more tangible sign of whether to follow Augustine. This time,

but greatly abbreviates Gildas’ prolix expression of them (cf. Gildas, De excidio 21,6; Winterbottom [trans], 25). In so doing, he makes them sound more biblical, that is, in the manner of Paul’s several vice lists in Gal 5:19, 2 Cor 12:20, and Rom 13:13. 44 Gal 5:19–23. 45 Bede, HE 1,14—30.20–21. The threat from northern nations suggests an allusion to Israel’s dreaded ‘foe from the north.’ See, for example, Jer. 1:13–15, 4:6, 6:22, and 10:22. 46 Bede, HE 1,17. 47 Bede, HE 1,22—42,2–6: Qui inter alia inenarrabilium scelerum facta, quae historicus eorum Gildus flebili sermone describit, et hoc addebant, ut numquam genti Saxonum siue Anglorum, secum Brittaniam incolenti, uerbum fidei praedicando committerent.

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the hermit offers a sure sign for determining Augustine’s humility—one that requires no spiritual discernment, but only an accurate perceiving by fleshly eyes: ‘If he rises when you approach, then, knowing that he is Christ’s servant, hear him obediently; but if he spurns you and is not willing to rise in your presence, even though you are greater in number, then may he be spurned by you.’48 It is difficult to know how to interpret the hermit’s motivation for giving this advice. His first two pieces of advice seem from the text’s perspective to make good spiritual sense, even though their effective implementation requires more spiritual discernment than his petitioners possess. This third piece of advice seems to acquiesce to his petitioners’ obtuseness in so far as it prompts them to look for a sign that even a child could recognize. On the one hand, insofar as it descends to the level of a literal seeing, which can discern the difference between Augustine’s standing and his sitting, it seems to represent a surrender on the hermit’s part. Clearly, the hermit seems to be trying to accommodate his advice to his hearers’ spiritual intelligence. The British church leaders in our narrative, having no gift of discernment, are moved to their major decisions only by heavy-handed signs: Augustine’s heavenly sign of healing the blind man has already moved them to consider seriously his proposal of cooperation and now the sign for which the hermit tells them to watch—Augustine’s standing or sitting—leads them finally and decisively to reject Augustine’s overtures. While the text’s attitude toward the British leaders is clear, its stance concerning soundness of the hermit’s advice seems less so. How are readers to judge it? On the one hand, readers might understand it as bad advice since it sets in motion a chain of events that led to the British monks’ and clergy’s slaughter at the Battle of Chester. On the other hand, it seems to have fulfilled its purpose of revealing Augustine’s true character as haughty and arrogant, as Augustine’s response to the Britons’ rejection of him shows. At the beginning of 2,2, Augustine asked the Britons to ‘conclude a catholic peace’ with Augustine’s party and to embrace the ‘traditions of the universal churches.’49 Now, however, Augustine more candidly describes what is required of them as submission to him personally (mihi obtemperare).50 And insisting that they conform to his demands in three things—celebrating Easter at the proper time, baptizing in accordance with the custom of the Roman and apostolic church, and preaching the gospel to the heathen English—he self-righteously proclaims that he and his associates ‘will calmly tolerate’ (aequanimiter … tollerabimus) other British church customs that are contrary to theirs. Such calm toleration is a far cry from the kind of mutual concord that Augustine himself calls for at the beginning of 2,2. Indeed, Augustine’s word choice suggests that even if the British church had been willing to meet Augustine’s three demands, it would only remain tolerable—not valuable—in his eyes. Earlier, in 1,27, the narrator reports that in a response to the second of nine questions that Augustine poses concerning how to

48 Bede, HE 2,2—83,5–9. 49 Bede, HE 2,2—81,16–17 and 81,25–27. 50 Augustine’s exhortation to the British bishops here to ‘obey me’ (mihi obtemperare—Bede, HE 2,2—83,16) contrasts with his exhortation in 1,25 to the Kentish heathen to ‘obey [the gospel]’ (sibi obtemperantibus—45,15).

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proceed with the English mission—this one concerning whether different churches can legitimately have different traditions—Pope Gregory replies that, yes, they can. He goes on to suggest that Augustine introduce to the nascent church of the English the most excellent ecclesiastical customs he has encountered, be they from Rome, Gaul, or somewhere else. ‘For,’ as Gregory wisely noted, ‘things must not be loved for the sake of places, but places for the sake of the good things [practiced there].’51 For Augustine, however, there seems no possibility of finding ‘good things’ (bonis rebus) in the church of the Britons—that is, practices or customs. There are only things to be tolerated. Surely this sense that only the practices that he prescribes have any value exposes the harshness and pride that the hermit had warned against, and these confirm that Augustine is not ‘meek and humble of heart’ and thus does not bear the ‘yoke of Christ.’ Augustine, ironically, who is initially sent to counter the Britons’ Jewish and legalistic narrowness through catholic peace, becomes in fact their harshest and most merciless lawgiver. He assures them that if they accept the terms of the covenant he proposes, then they will be blessed through his willingness to tolerate their idiosyncratic ways. If, however, they reject those terms, they will be cursed with death at the hands of the English. The conditional form of his utterance resembles the law that God sets forth, for example in Deuteronomy 11:26–28. As such, it runs counter to the easy yoke of Christ to which the hermit refers. Yet from the perspective of the narrative, the British bishops’ success in getting Augustine to reveal his arrogance has in no way improved their own lot. This story thus has no heroes—certainly not Augustine, nor the Britons either. Both sides have been exposed as arrogant and unwilling to listen to or be moved by the other. Yet the Britons experience direr consequences than Augustine, who foretells their coming doom. In the words of the text, Warning them, Augustine, the Lord’s man, is said to have predicted that if they did not want to receive they would receive

peace with brethren, war from enemies,

and that if they had not wanted to preach to the nation of the English they would suffer at their hands

the way of [eternal] life, the vengeance of death.52

51 Bede, HE 1,27—49,28–22): Non enim pro locis res, sed pro bonis rebus loca amanda sunt. To Augustine’s seventh question, which asks how he should relate to Gallic and to British bishops, Gregory gives what seems to be a less catholic reply. While he commands Augustine to exercise no authority over the Gallic bishops, since their metropolitan has received the pallium from the pope, he gives him authority over the British bishops, suggesting that the ignorant, weak, and perverse among them need Augustine’s steadying hand. This advice, however, need not be interpreted as dismissing the possibility that Augustine might find some customs or practices in the British churches adjudged to be worthy of adopting for use in the churches of the English. 52 Quibus uir Domini Augustinus fertur minitans praedixisse quia, si pacem cum fratribus accipere nollent, bellum ab hostibus forent accepturi, et si nationi Anglorum noluissent uiam uitae praedicare,

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As if squeamish to attribute such harsh words to Augustine with too much certainty, the narrator offers up this pronouncement as something that Augustine only reportedly said: Augustinus fertur … praedixisse. As the formatting above makes clear, Augustine’s utterance takes the form of two conditional sentences, parallel in form. Each protasis (i.e., ‘if ’ clause) has as its verb a form of the Latin nolo, ‘to be unwilling’ or ‘not want.’ Moreover, the good thing that the Britons foolishly do ‘not want’ in the protasis is opposed in the apodosis (i.e., the result clause) to what they will justly reap: ‘war from enemies’ vs. ‘peace with brethren,’ and ‘way of life’ vs. ‘vengeance of death.’ Curious here is Augustine’s focus on the Britons’ willingness to receive peace with brethren or to preach eternal life to the English instead of upon their actually doing these things. That is, the author might have simply put on Augustine’s lips these words instead: ‘if they did not receive peace with brethren’ and ‘if they did not preach to the English.’ One way to understand this emphasis upon willing rather than doing is to recall Augustine of Hippo’s understanding of sin as originating not in evil action, but in a defective will. Nowhere does this Augustine make this point clearer than in his anti-Pelagian writings, where he repeatedly emphasizes that good and holy action arises never through fearing the law, but always through an intrinsic love of goodness and holiness that is established through receiving freely Christ’s grace in the will.53 It is almost as if Augustine of Canterbury is made here to appeal tacitly to his namesake so that the Historia’s readers will be reminded not only that the Britons are Pelagian heretics, but also that their failure to do what is right arises from their defect of heart. However right Augustine of Canterbury’s words seem in the abstract, the reader cannot help but wonder at the hypocrisy behind them. Indeed, for the Britons to ‘accept peace with brethren’ (pacem cum fratribus accipere) would be a good thing, yet the narrative has done nothing at all to establish any sense that Augustine views the Britons as brothers. By moving to assert authority over them—either through miracle-working or by making threats like the one seen here—he undermines any attempts he might have made to attain brotherly parity with them. Having treated them as children to be commanded, he disingenuously asks them to regard him as brother. And so, what rhetorically appears to be a stark choice for the Britons—to choose peace with brothers or war with enemies—turns out not to be much of a choice at all. Similarly, the ‘way of life’ that Augustine condemns them for not embracing is surely the way of catholic unity. Yet here too the choice between the ‘vengeance of death’ and the ‘way of life’ as Augustine lives it seems hollow. Earlier in the narrative, after Augustine heals the blind Englishman, the Britons are said to be convinced that Augustine is indeed proclaiming the true ‘way.’ Specified there as the ‘true way of righteousness’ (ueram uiam iustitiae) but in this episode as the ‘way of life’ (uiam uitae), this ‘way’ is certainly a manner of life that, by fostering catholic unity, leads to eternal life. Yet however well Augustine explicated this ‘way’

per horum manus ultionem essent mortis passuri. 53 See, for example, Augustine, Contra duas epistulas Pelagianorum 4,5,11 (CSEL 60,532–33); Holmes and Wallis (trans), 421.

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to the Britons, he embodied it poorly in his actions towards them. Perhaps willing to take upon themselves the light yoke of catholic unity, the Britons worry that, were Augustine to impose it, it would become one of heavy servitude and consign them to submission. To them, the choice that Augustine offers is between a ‘way of life’ that requires submission to Augustine the bishop and a ‘vengeance of death’ that may come at the hands of a pagan English king. Perhaps they believe naively that the death with which Augustine tries to frighten them is a mere threat. Or perhaps they see it as a real possibility, yet would rather expose themselves to its danger than submit to Augustine and lose their freedom. From their perspective, the option to submit to Augustine’s yoke seems the worse of two bad choices.

3. The Battle Episode: King Æthelfrith’s Slaughter of British Monks and Soldiers at the Battle of Chester The third episode of 2,2 begins with a fast forward ‘after these events’ (post haec) to the scene at the battle of Chester, where, as the narrative relates, the pagan English king Æthelfrith ‘made a very great slaughter of a perfidious race (maximam gentis perfidae stragem dedit).’54 In fact, the narrative time of this Battle Episode occurs long after the Spurning Episode, after Augustine has died—a detail that the narrator discloses in 2,2’s very last sentence. Colgrave’s translation of this passage—‘made a great slaughter of that nation of heretics’55— renders gentis perfidae as ‘nation of heretics.’ Yet if Bede had wanted to say ‘nation of heretics,’ he would have written gentis perfidorum, converting the adjective perfidae into the nominal substantive form perfidorum. Gentis perfidae should instead be rendered more literally as ‘perfidious race.’ The English ‘perfidious,’ which means ‘guilty of breaking faith’ or ‘treacherous,’56 does not capture Christian Latin’s full range of meanings for perfidae and its cognates. Those meanings range from ‘perfidious,’ as we translate it here; to ‘heretical,’ as Colgrave renders it; and even to ‘pagan.’ Apart from its usage twice in this chapter, the Historia uses it four times simply to mean ‘pagan’—that is, to describe someone who was not yet, and had not previously been Christian—and once to mean ‘apostate,’ describing two English kings who had betrayed a Christian faith they had once embraced.57 The cognate noun form, perfidia, also has a similar range of meanings: perfidy, treachery, faithlessness, heresy.58

54 Bede, HE 2,2—84,4. 55 Colgrave and Mynors (1969), 141. 56 OED, s.v. ‘perfidious.’ 57 ‘Pagan’ (perfidorum principum: 1,7—18,12; perfido regi: 2,5—90,33–34; capite perfido: 3,24—179,19 and rex perfidus: 3,24—177,20); ‘apostate/perfidious/traitorous’ (regum perfidorum: 3,1—128,15). 58 ‘Deceit’ (perfidia confutatur: 1,17—35,32; simoniacam perfidiam: 5,21—344,21); ‘[pagan] unbelief ’ (perfida regno pulerit: 3,7—141,15; in perfidiae sordibus: 3,30—200,6); the Arian heresy’s ‘apostasy/ unbelief/treachery’ (exitiabile perfidiae suae uirus: 1,8—22,29); ‘falsehood/treachery/unfaith’ (uenena suae perfidiae: 1,10—23,28); ‘[Muslim] unbelief ’ (dignas suae perfidiae poenas: 5,23—349,16).

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When the Historia uses perfidus and perfidia to describe Christians rather than pagans, these words typically connote not heresy per se, but rather a vice that heresy embodies, namely, faithlessness, deceit, treachery, and guile.59 And this vice is epitomized by the traitor Judas, whose very name conjured the image of the quintessential Jew to early and medieval Christians.60 The Battle Episode of 2,2, which is nine sentences long, uses a form of perfidus twice: once in its opening sentence to describe the Britons as a ‘treacherous race’ (gentis perfidae—84,4) and again 29 lines later in its closing sentence where it means ‘treacherous ones’ (perfidi—85,1).61 This latter instance lumps together those who had spurned Augustine in the previous episode and those taken to be their spiritual heirs years later at the battle of Chester. Here, gentis perfidae and perfidi serve as the bracketing words and phrases that enclose the narrative of the Britons’ slaughter at the battle of Chester. Called an inclusio, this bracketing construction is an ancient literary device whereby the text between the two appearances of a similar word or phrase is marked off for the reader’s consideration in relation to the instances of that word or phrase enclosing it. This particular inclusio thus invites the reader to examine the passage that gentis perfidae/perfidi enclose to determine which of its characters can be construed as ‘perfidious’ or ‘treacherous’ in some way. This episode identifies only two individual characters by name: the pagan English King Æthelfrith and the British commander Brocmail. Additionally, it identifies three group actors: Æthelfrith’s ‘huge army,’ the British monk-priests who came to pray for the fighting soldiers, and Brocmail’s soldiers. A superficial reading of this story might lead some readers to conclude that the treacherous ones in this story are the British monk-priests, who because of their status as religious figures should be read as the latter-day heirs of those British bishops and teachers that rejected Augustine’s overtures in the Spurning Episode. After all, Augustine prophesied to the British bishops and learned men that if they did not wish to receive peace with brethren, they would receive war from enemies and would suffer the vengeance of death at English hands. Yet since it does not say that bishops and learned men, but rather that priests and monks were present at the battle of Chester, we readers should wonder whether we can rightly identify these priests and monks as the proper recipients of Augustine’s curse. I argue that we cannot. Assuming that the bishops and learned men whom Augustine cursed in the Spurning Episode are linked to those identified as ‘faithless’/‘treacherous’ (perfidi) in the Battle Episode, we need to be able to identify the qualities that, in the reader’s mind, might justify describing them in this way. If one carefully considers the Battle Episode and asks who acts faithlessly and treacherously there, the most obvious candidate is the British commander Brocmail, who broke faith with the monks he was supposed to protect and thus surrendered them to slaughter. In its one sentence about Brocmail, the Battle Episode offers its

59 When the Historia wants to speak unambiguously about heresy, it uses the term heresis, which it uses 14 times. See s.v. ‘heresis’ in Jones (1929), 238. 60 Compare the Latin Iudas ( Judas) and Iudaeus ( Jew). 61 The line count used here is based on Charles Plummer’s Latin edition.

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only explicit narrative opposition, which gives a key clue as to the implied author’s ethical stance here. That opposition is contained in the sentence: ‘Brocmail, turning tail with his soldiers at the enemy’s first appearance, left those whom he ought to have defended unarmed and exposed to the sword.’62 The narrative contrasts an idealized, hypothetical Brocmail, who would have defended the harmless British monk-priests, with the real Brocmail, who ‘left them unarmed and exposed to the sword.’ According to New Testament scholar Daniel Patte, who uses the insights of structuralism to interpret biblical texts, a religious author makes use of explicit oppositions in a narrative to communicate to the reader the author’s faith, which includes the author’s most central religious convictions—convictions about which he wants the reading audience to be in no doubt.63 In this passage, for example, the author might simply have said of Brocmail that ‘turning tail with his soldiers … he left [the praying monks] exposed to the sword’ and then let the reader infer that Brocmail’s doing so was a cowardly, perfidious, and wicked act. Indeed, the reader likely would have concluded that anyway since the author had already specified, four sentences earlier, the mission to which Brocmail had been assigned: to ‘protect from the barbarians’ swords those intent upon prayers.’64 But because the author wants to make sure that the reader understands unequivocally what he believes to be good and what evil, he contrasts within this single brief sentence the action Brocmail took—leaving these monks exposed to the sword—with the action Brocmail should have taken, namely, defending them. That the narrator should single out by name such a minor figure in the story, who might have gone unnoticed, and offer a harsh judgment about his behavior—something it does not do for the praying British monks or any other single character in the Battle Episode—signals a desire not only to underscore Brocmail’s treachery, but also to highlight the virtue of faithfulness, which should have led a figure in Brocmail’s position to have defended, even unto death, the monks under his care. Additionally, as will be shown, it links Brocmail’s betrayal in this episode to all the Historia’s previous accounts of the treachery of the Britons’ political, military, and religious leaders. Before detailing how these leaders have already proven treacherous (perfidi), it is important first to demonstrate that the Battle Episode in no way impugns the motives or actions of the British monk-priests slaughtered at Chester and that they are thus in no way deserving, as an unskillful reading might suppose, of the unflattering epithet perfidi. First, they are said to be set apart ‘in a safer place’ (in tutiore loco) from the field of battle, and so have no way to interfere in the fighting. Second, they are said to have 62 Bede, HE 2,2—84,27–29: Brocmail ad primum hostium aduentum cum suis terga uertens, eos quos defendere debuerat inermes ac nudos ferientibus gladiis reliquit. 63 Patte (1987), 5–8. Specifically, Patte observes, ‘Since faith as a system of convictions imposes a specific pattern or overall organization on the believer’s behavior, including his or her verbal and cognitive behavior (what he or she says or writes), and since narrative oppositions provide such a pattern or overall organization, it appears that narrative oppositions directly reflect the author’s faith.’ 64 Bede, HE 2,2—84,17–18: qui eos intentos precibus a barbarorum gladiis protegeret.

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met together for the purposes of praying ‘for the soldiery’ (pro milite). The narrative does not specify that they met to pray only for the lives of the British soldiery—or to destroy those of the English army—and so the reader might reasonably suppose that their prayers were intended for all the soldiers, English as well as British, to the end that all their lives might be preserved. More than that, the narrative’s third and fourth sentences, which are parenthetical and thus do nothing to advance the plot, underscore the sanctity of the monk-priests who have gathered to pray. They relate that most of the praying monks were from the British monastery at Bangor, which had more than 2100 monks resident there, all of whom were accustomed to ‘live by the labor of their hands’ (de labore manuum suarum uiuere).65 This quite remarkable claim underscores for the reader their exceptional piety. The Rule of St Benedict says, ‘when [monks] live by the labor of their hands, as our fathers and the apostles did, then they are really monks.’66 Working by the labor of one’s hands recalls the humiliation and humility that characterized the Apostle Paul’s tenuous existence (cf. 1 Cor 4:12), as well as his unwillingness to be accused of living the pseudo-evangelist’s easy life—one that feeds off the hard labor of those whom he evangelizes.67 For Paul, a false apostle is a lazy apostle. Like Paul, these British monks do not try to profit from their status as a professional religious caste, nor do they exhibit the laziness (segnitia) that the Historia puts forward in Book I as a chief racial characteristic of their fellow Britons.68 As ones who live by the work of their own hands, they are put in the company of other spiritual heroes of the Historia: the Irish monk and visionary Fursa, the Lastingham monk Owine, the English monks who settled with Colman at Mayo in Ireland, and holy Cuthbert, who is said to have worked with his own hands during his period as a hermit on the isle of Farne.69 Since the Historia’s narrator offers nothing but unqualified praise for the sanctity of individuals he mentions as ones who work by the labor of their hands, the skillful reader will reasonably conclude that these praying British monks should be seen as exceptionally holy. The narrator offers another significant clue for how readers should esteem these praying monks. He relates that before their

65 Bede, HE 2,2—84,9–14. 66 Benedict, Regula 48,8; T. Fry (trans), 248–51. 67 Cf. Act 20:33–34, 1 Cor 9:3–18, and 1 Thes 2:9. Although many modern scholars regard 2 Thessalonians as pseudonymous, it nevertheless presents a consistent view of Paul as one who is loath to live as an apostle off the labor of others. Of course, the medieval reader of 2 Thes 3:10–12 almost certainly would have regarded these words as Paul’s own: ‘For even when we were with you, we commanded this of you: that if anyone were unwilling to work, then he or she should not eat. For we have heard that some among you walk about in idleness, not working at all but putting your nose into everyone’s business. Now to those of this sort we command and beseech in the Lord Jesus the Christ that, working in silence, they eat their own bread’ (author’s translation from the Vulgate). 68 On the Britons as segnes, see Bede, HE 1,12—27,25 and 28,1; on their segnitia: 1,15—31,6. The only time that the Historia’s narrator charges a non-British people with laziness occurs when he contrasts the laziness (segnitia) of the English churchmen in his own time with the industry and holy discipline of St Aidan (3,5—136,8). 69 Fursa: Bede, HE 3,19—168,7; Owine: 4,3—208,12; the English monks that Colman brought to Mayo: 4,4—214,8; Cuthbert on Farne: 4,28—271,4 [= chapter title] and 271,13.

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arrival at the scene of battle, they had undergone a three-day fast.70 This statement is significant. Nowhere does the Historia’s narrator express anything but the highest esteem for anyone who fasts. No character who fasts is ever portrayed as doing so insincerely, or crassly, as though to gain some earthly advantage such as victory over enemies in battle. Rather, those who fast do so to atone for either their own sin or those of others. In Book 4, for example, the priest Eappa and the monks of Selsey are said to have observed a three-day fast—just as the British monks here do—to implore God’s mercy for those whom a virulent plague threatened with instant death as well as for the souls of those who had already succumbed to it.71 Similarly, in Book 5, Dryhthelm, who experiences a vision of hell and heaven, learns from his mysterious guide that still-living Christians who fast and pray will help to liberate, even before the Day of Judgment, those sinners, now departed, who only confessed their sins as they lay dying. These parallels suggest that the British monks, having already fasted for three days and now assembling for prayer, see the soldiers who are about to fight—and perhaps themselves too—as being in dire spiritual and temporal danger. As such, they are not praying for the defeat of the English at the hands of the British—as the English King Æthelfrith assumes—but rather are at once confessing and mourning the sin of all involved and praying for God’s mercy upon them. As a pagan, however, the English king Æthelfrith wrongly interprets their praying (exorandum/orandi causa) to God as a raining down of curses (inprecationibus) upon them.72 He concludes that these British monks and priests are enemy combatants, even though they bear no arms. The skillful reader should infer that the narrator here in no way confirms Æthelfrith’s reasoning. Although the narrator does not explicitly say that the monks are holy men, assembled at the battle for the holy purpose of sparing life, he does portray them as hardworking, fasting, and praying, which suggests that the reader should see them as God’s humble servants. In any event, there seems no reasonable way of reading these monks as representing those perfidious Britons mentioned in the narrative frame that encloses this story. As we noted, Brocmail’s abandonment of the monks whom he was supposed to protect is an act of supreme betrayal and treachery—a concern that is central to Germanic literature generally and Old English literature specifically.73 In identifying Brocmail as the personification of British perfidy, the careful reader may recognize other Britons in the narrative of whom he is a type. For example, its labeling of Brocmail’s entire British army as ‘execrable’ (nefanda) indicates that we should also

70 The monks of Selsey, in response to a virulent plague that had attacked many of the kingdoms of Britain, are said to have observed a three-day fast and humbly sought God’s clemency so that He might deign to bestow mercy upon them, either by delivering those threatened by this disease from instant death or by preserving the souls who died from everlasting damnation (4,14—233,15); Adamnan wants to do a weeklong fast to atone for his sin, which horrified him, but a priest advised him to fast only for two or three days (4,25—263,30). 71 Bede, HE 4,14—233,15. 72 Bede, HE 2,2—84,18–22; exorandum (84,5); orandi causa (84,16); inprecationibus (84,22). 73 Magennis (1995), 1–19.

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see it as sharing in his treachery.74 Yet in so far as this narrative is meant to be read in the context of Augustine’s curse of the British bishops and teachers who spurned his proposals, it wants the reader to reflect more generally on the identity of the perfidious Britons. Who exactly are they and in what way are we to see them as perfidious? Clearly, they include those bishops and teachers who spurned Augustine in the Battle Episode, but there are reasons for thinking that they include more generally the Britons as they have been described in the entire Historia up to this point. After all, the narrator might have specified that the slaughter of those monks at the battle of Chester amounted to a judgment of the British church, but he does not. He states that it is a judgment upon the race (gentis) of the Britons and ascribes the quality of perfidy to that race as a whole. However shocking such a wholesale condemnation of an entire people may seem to modern sensibilities, it accords with the logic of the narrative, which until this point has done its best to hide the names of individual Britons in order that it may portray the Britons collectively as a race. Up until the Oak meeting, the Britons—as a race—played the role of a major character in this narrative. After the close of the Battle Episode, however, they will disappear almost entirely from the narrative until the Historia’s very end, where they are described as still nursing their inbred hatred (domestico odio) against the English.75 I suggest that when the Historia mentions the Britons’ ‘perfidy,’ it is pointing to a generalized faithlessness that characterizes secular as well as religious life. Most prominently on display in Book 1, this perfidy refers to no specific Christian heretical impulse, such as the Britons’ flirtation with Pelagianism; nor to any schismatic tendency, such as their refusal to cooperate with Augustine in converting the English, although neither of these things cannot be excluded from the ‘perfidy’ designation. Nor is the Britons’ faithlessness portrayed as being specifically Christian at all. That is, the Britons’ root problem is not simply that they lack vital Christian faith, but that they lack a capacity for faithfulness or loyalty of any kind—be it to God, Christ, church, each other, or even their own spiritual welfare. Their spiritless desire for comfort, ease, and security trumps any devotion they might develop to something higher. As such, their faithlessness or lack of devotion is closely connected with their other chief vice: laziness or torpor (segnitia). This torpor keeps them from being roused to anything higher. As such they tend to take the path of least resistance, pursuing optimal short-term pleasure instead. The Historia’s Britons are assigned these personality traits when they are first introduced as a people in Book 1: in battle, Julius Caesar ‘put them to flight’76 and the Emperor Claudius won their surrender within a very few days without any fighting or bloodshed.77 Because of their torpor, they have no fighting spirit. Even in matters of Christian faith they have no firm resolve. In narrating the Arian heresy’s arrival in 74 Bede, HE 2,2—84,23. 75 Bede, HE 5,23—351,11. 76 Bede, HE 1,2—14,10: Brittanos in fugam uertit. Citation from Orosius, Historiarum aduersum paganos 6,9,5 (CSEL 5,378). 77 Bede, HE 1,3—15,11: sine ullo proelio ac sanguine. Citation from Orosius, Historiarum aduersum paganos 7,6,10 (CSEL 5,449–50).

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Britain, the narrator comments that the island—which surely here personifies the Britons who live there—was especially vulnerable to heresy because it ‘holds fast to nothing of certainty.’78 Only two brief chapters later, the narrator identifies Pelagius, author of the Pelagian heresy, as a Briton who spread the ‘poisons of his perfidy far and wide’ and whose denial that humans need heaven’s grace was an idea nourished by the legumes that the sea-girt Britons had fed him.79 In Britain, perfidy infests its natives even from its beanfields. Such a portrait of the Britons continues through the narration of the Romans’ departure from Britain, which occasions the Irish and Picts to reduce the Britons to ‘a state of terror and misery.’ Utterly incompetent to defend themselves, the Britons call upon the Romans to rescue them. After receiving Roman aid one last time, the Britons deploy their ‘dispirited ranks’ who ‘mope with dazed and trembling hearts’ upon a strong wall that the Romans had to build for them.80 But to no avail. Unable to rally together when they are again attacked by the Irish and Picts, they become like lambs in the mouths of wild beasts and—in a wholly faithless and perfidious fashion—are reduced to plundering and robbing one another, engaging in domestic quarrels instead of fighting their true enemy.81 Their perfidy renders them unable to remain true even to each other. Even when they finally receive some respite from enemy assault and enjoy an unusually good harvest of legumes, their spiritual condition worsens. Their good fortune issues in luxury, cruelty, love of lying, and hating the truth. And these vices, in turn, are rewarded with a deadly plague. Yet so great were the sins of the survivors—who were so few that they were unable to bury all the dead—that they are said to have been stuck in a death of the soul (morte animae) so complete that not even fear of their own death (timore mortis) could rouse them from it.82 And so the individual Briton’s faithlessness or perfidy extends beyond an inability to care for one’s own people and includes being unable to care even for one’s own soul. In such a state, even one’s own spiritual welfare cannot become an object of serious concern. This final form of perfidy leads to even greater catastrophe in as much as it prompts the Britons to call upon the nation of the Saxons to help them from across the seas. Although the mercenary Saxons successfully resist the Britons’ Irish and Pictish foes, their stay on the island gives them time to notice both its fertility as well as their paymasters’ listlessness (segnitia).83 Despite a short-lived victory over the Saxons, on the one hand, and over Pelagian heretics, on the other—both of which 78 Bede, HE 1,8—22,19–20: insulae noui semper aliquid audire gaudenti, et nil certi firmiter obtinenti. The author adapted these words from Gildas, De excidio 12,3 (ed. Winterbottom, p. 93): patriae noui semper aliquid audire uolenti et nihil certe stabiliter optinenti. 79 Bede, HE 1,10—24:14–15: Aut hunc fruge sua aequorei pauere Brittani. The author cites this verse, as he mentions, from Prosper of Aquitaine, Epigramma (PL 51,151A). 80 Bede, HE 1,12—28,1–2: Statuitur ad haec in edito arcis acies segnis, ubi trementi corde stupida die noctuque marcebat. The narrator adapted these words from Gildas De excid. Brit. 19,2 (ed. Winterbottom, p. 95): Statuitur ad haec in edito arcis acies segnis ad pugnam, … trementibus praecordiis inepta, quae diebus ac noctibus stupido sedili marcebat. 81 Bede, HE 1,12—28,7–13. 82 Bede, HE 1,14—30,11–14. 83 Bede, HE 1,15—31,5–6.

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were achieved only with significant outside help84—the Britons soon fall back into their old ways: fighting with each other (pugnabant contra inuicem) and abandoning all commitments to truth and justice. The narrator singles out for special mention one last vice that he counts as the worst of all their ‘indescribable sins’ (inenarrabilium scelerum): that ‘they never entrusted the word of faith by preaching to the race of the Saxons, or the English, that inhabited Britain with them.’85 Considered in the context of the preceding narrative, the nature of this sin perplexes a skillful reader. Having shown with skill and repetition just how incapable the faithless Britons are at coming together to save themselves, the narrator now excoriates them for failing to come together to proclaim salvation to the English—as though anything in the preceding narrative had indicated their competency to do that. Equally strange here is his description of the Saxons and English—who until this point have been portrayed as relentlessly aggressive toward the Britons—as merely fellow inhabitants of Britain with the Britons (secum Britanniam incolenti), as if Briton and Saxon were dwelling together as neighbors, even though the only example the narrative has so far given of Britons living with Saxons is that of those who, in exchange for food, are willing to enslave themselves to them.86

4. Excursus: A Remnant of Righteous Britons The Britons’ perfidy is portrayed as so complete that even a skillful reader might overlook the narrative’s claim, repeated several times, that a faithful remnant yet exists among them. That remnant is portrayed as few and set apart and its adherents always remain nameless. It is personified in the figure of the hermit whose counsel the British bishops and learned men seek before their second meeting with Augustine, in the Spurning Episode. Though a major figure in the narrative, this hermit remains unnamed and associated with no place, while the British churchmen who question him are identified as being from the monastery at Banconaburg, whose abbot, we are told, was named Dinoot. In seeing this lone hermit set apart—certainly from his high-status interlocutors and indeed from the world at large—the reader may be reminded of those few Britons in Book 1 who amidst calamity and in contrast to their many peers had refused to capitulate to enemies and endured amidst great hardship. This small remnant of faithful Britons surfaces four times in Book 1’s narrative until the story of the Britons’ demise ends (ch. 22), giving way to the story of Pope Gregory’s dispatching his mission to the English (ch. 23). This remnant appears first at the beginning of ch. 14, where it is reported that as Irish and Pictish marauders had ravaged the Britons and many had surrendered to them, a faithful few, ‘trusting in God’s help when human help ceased,’ hid in mountains, caves, and

84 The Roman Ambrosius Aurelianus (Bede, HE 1,16) and St Germanus of Auxerre (Bede, HE 1,17–21). 85 Bede, HE 1,22—42,2. 86 Bede, HE 1,15—32,30–33: alii [de Brettonibus] fame confecti procedentes manus histibus dabant, pro accipiendis alimentorum subsidiis aeternum subituri seruitium …

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forests.87 Dwelling in such remote places and placing their trust in God, these few survivors are the functional equivalents of the hermit in 2,2. To trust (confidentes) in God’s help when human aid is exhausted highlights the difference between this tiny remnant and their perfidious (perfidi) neighbors, whose courage and strength dissipate at the merest hint of danger. Hints of this remnant appear a second time, after the Britons’ fortunes turn and the land enjoys a bumper crop. It is said that this bounty prompted the Britons to return to their profligate ways, indulging in luxury, cruelty, hatred of the truth, and love of lying. They are so attached to these vices, we are told, that they rise up and ‘cast arrows and hatreds’ at anyone who ‘appeared to be milder than the rest and somewhat more inclined to truth.’88 Again, the narrative says frustratingly little about who these few ‘anyones’ are. Like their earlier counterparts, they remain nameless and utterly unidentifiable. This remnant surfaces a third time in ch. 15, as the Britons begin to feel the full ferocity of the Germanic invaders: English, Saxon, and Jutish. There, we are told, the hapless Britons are butchered indiscriminately, forced into perpetual slavery, or driven sorrowfully to lands beyond the sea. Yet amidst this doleful backdrop, the narrative speaks of certain nondescript ‘others’ (alii) who remained in Britain and who, suffering hardship like their predecessors in the previous chapter, led a wretched existence ‘in the mountains, woods, and steep rocks.’89 Moreover, when the English and Saxons retreated for a time to the continent after despoiling Britain, this faithful remnant emerged from hiding and ‘by unanimous consent’ (unanimo consensu) prayed that God would prevent its utter destruction.90 The phrase—unanimo consensu—is signficant. For although this small band of Britons cannot be said to be catholic in a conventional Rome-centered sense, the narrative nevertheless here takes pains to point out that its members conform to the catholic ideal of fostering consent among each other. Moreover, the narrator here thinks the addition of unanimo consensu important since he added these two words to an account he is borrowing from the British monk Gildas’ De excidio.91 Their addition underscores our narrator’s emphasis on distinguishing between those few who rely upon God and work together, just as those in the church catholic do, and those who, as individuals, are quick to forget God’s goodness and care only for their personal welfare. Finally, this tiny remnant of Britons is mentioned a fourth time in ch. 22. Set in the dire context of St Germanus’ death, the murder of the Emperor Valentinian, and the fall of the Western Empire, the story here shows a new generation of Britons reaching another low point, as they descend from wars against the Saxons into wars against each other.92 The following generation, having been born just after the horror

87 Bede, 1,14—29,15–21. 88 Bede, 1,14—30,2–4: siquis eorum mitior et ueritati aliquatenus propior uideretur, in hunc quasi Brittaniae subuersorem omnium odia telaque sine respectu contorquerentur. 89 Cf. the haunts of each remnant group: montibus speluncis ac saltibus (Bede, HE 1,14—29,20) and montibus siluis uel rupibus arduis (1,15—33,2). 90 Bede, HE 1,16—33,9. 91 Bede, HE 1,16—33,9. For more on this ideal see above, Ch. 2. 92 Bede, HE 1,22—41,24–25: pugnabant contra inuicem, qui hostem euaserant, ciues.

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of these times and thus unbowed by memory of them, once again descends into depravity and throws off ‘all restraints of truth and righteousness’ so that not even a vestige of these virtues remain—except, that is, ‘in a few, but only in a very few.’93 Who are these few, these very few? Yet again, the narrative leaves them nameless. This is the last time in Book 1 that a righteous remnant of Britons is mentioned. Along with the wicked majority, this remnant goes underground until 2,2. In that chapter’s Spurning Episode, it reappears in the person of the hermit from whom the bishops and teachers obtain their famous test for determining Augustine’s character; and again in the Batttle Episode in the form of the monk-priests from Bangor who had assembled to pray for the soldiers before the battle of Chester and were unceremoniously slaughtered by the pagan English under Æthelfrith’s command. Yet those who belong to the remnant at Chester represent a much larger contingent of at least 2100 monks who dwell at the monastery in Bangor.94 Unlike the other instances of an elect British remnant that the reader meets in Book I, this remnant is very large. More than that, it is not without anonymity: the reader knows at least that most of them are from the Bangor monastery. Their number and lack of anonymity pose a grave problem for the interpretation we have thus far been pursuing. We argued earlier that these monk-priests are, in the logic of this narrative, possessed of great sanctity and innocent of any malice toward the enemy English warriors. Yet their large number and lack of anonymity suggest that they do not perfectly conform to the established pattern seen so far of a righteous remnant that is small in number and with no identifying markers. I propose that their large number is required by the parallelism that the narrative wants to establish between the chapter’s Spurning and Battle Episodes. Common to each of these latter two episodes is the theme of confrontation between the one and the many. In the Spurning Episode, the one—represented first by the hermit and later by Augustine—is confronted by the many, namely, in both instances, by the assembly of British bishops and teachers. In the Battle Episode, the one is represented by Æthelfrith and the many by the 1250 British monk-priests who have come to pray.95 In the second episode, the British monks become especially incensed when Augustine refuses to rise when they approach him. The hermit’s words, however, had set them up for this rage, when he had said to them: ‘But if [Augustine] shall have spurned you and does not want to rise before you, even though you are greater in number, let him be spurned by you’ (emphasis added). As with the rest of this episode, this statement poses great problems for its would-be interpreter. Should we as readers endorse the hermit’s implicit claim that no truly humble man would remain seated at the approach of a large delegation coming to meet him? Or, from the narrative’s other viewpoint, does 93 Bede, HE 1,22—41,31–42,2: ut earum non dicam uestigium, sed ne memoria quidem, praeter in paucis et ualde paucis ulla appareret. 94 Bede, HE 2,2—84,9–13: in quo [= monasterio] tantus fertur fuisse numerus monachorum, ut cum in septem portiones esset cum praepositis sibi rectoribus monasterium diuisum, nulla harum portio minus quam trecentos homines haberet … 95 This number is inferred from the narrative’s statement that of all the monks who had come to pray, 1200 were killed and only 50 escaped by fleeing.

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Augustine’s superior moral position as one who represents the worldwide church and its divine authority permit—or perhaps even require—him to remain seated? These are difficult questions.96 As we saw much earlier in this chapter, those who maintain that Augustine had the high moral ground here might appeal to the Oak Meeting episodes’s parallels with the story of the prophet Elijah’s contest with the prophets of Baal.97 In the latter story, Elijah represents the one; the 850 prophets—450 of Baal and 400 of the grove (1 Kgs 18:19)—represent the many. In this narrative, the numbers of the many prove no match for the single prophet of the Lord. We examined briefly the resonances of this Elijah story with the healing story in the Oak Meeting episode, noting that both Elijah and Augustine demonstrated their divine validation by performing miracles that many other priests, working collectively, could not replicate. Yet, as we have observed, the entirety of ch. 2—that is, its three constituent episodes taken together—displays at the same time a deep undercurrent of suspicion concerning Augustine. And one notices this by examining more closely the parallels and resonances between the Elijah story and ch. 2’s subsequent Spurning and Battle Episodes. In the Elijah story, the contrast between manyness of the priests of Baal and the solitariness of the Lord’s prophet is clearly emphasized: when the contest begins, Elijah invites the priests of Baal to go first ‘because,’ as he says, ‘you are many’ (quia vos plures estis).98 In the Spurning Episode, the hermit follows Elijah’s logic in judging that Augustine should rise when the Britons approach ‘since’ as he says, ‘you are greater in number’ (cum sitis numero plures).99 In both instances—the Elijah story and the Spurning Episode—a solitary holy man affirms the principle that one who is solitary should exhibit a respectful deference to the many. And so, when the solitary Augustine arrives first at the place of meeting and then fails to rise when the many Britons later approach, he departs from this principle that the hermit, imitating Elijah, articulates. Either unaware or in defiance of this rule of etiquette, Augustine thinks of himself as clearly in the right and so proceeds first to berate the Britons for their obstinacy and then to prophesy their doom at English hands. Similarly, in the subsequent Battle Episode, a solitary figure is pitted against the many British monk-priests at two points in the story. At the first point, Æthelfrith is the solitary figure who espies the British monk-priests praying. Undaunted either by their exceptional sanctity or their numbers, he, like the solitary Augustine, does not give them their due, refusing to let them do their prayerful work. Before the battle has even engaged,100 he preempts any good effects the prayers of the British monk-priests might have had by ordering his armies to slaughter them before Æthelfrith’s army engages the British soldiery.101 At the second

96 Alan Thacker offers evidence from literature roughly contemporaneous to Bede that Augustine’s decision to remain seated would have been read by Bede’s contemporaries most certainly as an insult to the Britons. See Thacker (2009), 133, esp. n. 23. 97 1 Kgs 18:16–40. 98 1 Kgs 18:25. 99 Bede, HE 2,2—83,8–9. 100 This action occurs as Æthelfrith is ‘about to do battle’ (bellum acturus). 101 Bede, HE 2,2—84,22–23: itaque in hos primum arma uerti iubet.

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point, Brocmail is the solitary figure. Although he has been charged with keeping the monk-priests safe, he likewise preempts the effects of their prayerful activity by sacrificing their lives to Æthelfrith’s forces in hopes of saving his own and those of his soldiers. Whereas the Oak Meeting episode first deploys the Elijah story in a fairly straightforward way to highlight Augustine’s status as a latter-day Elijah and the British clergy as latter-day priests of Baal, the subsequent Spurning and Battle episodes continue to exploit those parallels—especially as they contrast the theme of the one against the many—in such a way as to undermine a simple-minded reading of ch. 2 as offering either a complete vindication of St Augustine or a complete condemnation of the British church. It is important to note that between the Spurning Episode and the Battle Episode, the narrative has undergone a complete reversal in terms of its understanding of the one and the many. In the Battle Episode, the solitary one can no longer be identified as the Lord’s man, as Elijah is in 1 Kgs 18; nor can the many be identified as the perfidious priests of Baal. Instead, in the Battle Episode the many monk-priests of the British are the true disciples of Christ, whereas the pagan King Æthelfrith and the traitor Brocmail are, each in his own way, faithless men, men of perfidy. And in this way, they resemble, and Brocmail personifies, the mass of faithless, spiritually bankrupt Britons whose vices are catalogued so fully in Book 1. Against these stand the many fasting, praying monk-priests, who live by the labor of their own hands. The Battle Episode, however, subverts the readers’ understanding of them as well. Up until this episode, the narrative has encouraged us always to look at the many with suspicion. The good and the holy among the Britons have been portrayed as isolated, alone, and few. The reader has encountered them, in Book 1, as a remnant people dwelling nameless in scattered and remote places and, in the Spurning Episode, as an unnamed British hermit. Yet in the Battle Episode they become many. One way to read this change of position in the status of the one vs. the many is to note that the principle established in the first two episodes—that the one ought to defer to or show respect to the many—applies only in contexts involving specifically religious figures. The Elijah story involves only religious figures, the priests of Baal and the solitary prophet Elijah; as do both the Oak meeting miracle story and the Spurning Episode, both of which involve only the British bishops/leaders and the solitary Augustine. The third episode, however, pits religious figures not just against each other, but against kings and military commanders. A more apt biblical parallel to this Battle Episode would be the story of King Saul slaughtering the priests of Nob, narrated in 1 Sam 22. In the biblical story, Saul wrongly suspects that the priests of Nob have conspired with David to overthrow Saul as king. He therefore orders them to be slaughtered. The parallels with 2,2’s Battle Episode are obvious: the English King Æthelfrith functions as the antitype of Saul and the praying British monk-priests as antitypes of the priests of Nob. In both stories, a vengeful king wrongly thinks that a community of priests is in league with his rival or rivals so as to about his downfall. A medieval monastic who knows Scripture’s stories well would notice this parallel, but most modern secular readers do not. As if to nudge the reader to consider Æthelfrith

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in comparison with Saul, only two chapters before this one in 1,34 the narrator had made their similarity explicit: In these times, Æthelfrith, more than all the chief leaders of the English … laid waste to the race of the Britons—so much so that he was seen as comparable to Saul, once the king of the Israelite race, except that he was ignorant of divine religion. For none of the tribal chiefs or kings had caused more of [the Britons’] lands either to be subject to tribute or inhabited by the race of the English—once their natives had been exterminated or subjugated.102 Though a pagan, unlike Saul, Æthelfrith nevertheless resembles young Saul in his military prowess. The narrator here presumes that the reader knows Saul’s story and specifically that—as the text of 1 Samuel states—‘wherever Saul turned himself, he overcame.’103 What the narrator leaves unsaid, but what a person steeped in Scripture knows, is that this comparison to Saul has the potential to be deeply ambiguous. Indeed, Saul is known for his military prowess, which the narrator explicitly highlights here. Yet he is better known for being rejected by God, growing ever more paranoid, descending into madness, and, in the end, killing himself with his own sword. Since it is the paranoid Saul who orders the priests of Nob to be slaughtered, the reader of 2,2’s Battle Episode should infer that Æthelfrith, who orders the same fate for the British monk-priests, is likewise a crazed and rabid persecutor of innocents.104 As importantly, he must read the slaughtered British monks as martyrs, which is precisely how Bede had portrayed the priests of Nob in his commentary on 1 Samuel, written some years before the Historia.105

5. The Oak Chapter as Aftermath and Prologue The interpretation offered here of the Oak chapter is, admittedly, novel. It departs from most other interpretations in affirming that this narrative, far from endorsing the actions of either St Augustine or the British party, is deeply conflicted about these two characters and so, in a sense, is at odds with itself. While traditional scholarship has generally acknowledged the text’s ambiguous presentation of Augustine, it has typically seen its presentation of the Britons as unambiguously negative and even harsh. As a 102 Bede, HE 1,34—71,9–17. 103 1 Sam 14:47 (Vg): et [Saul] quocumque se verterat superabat. 104 This darker interpretation of the connection that the Historia forges between Æthelfrith and Saul contrasts with more conventional ones that read the reference to Saul here as referring to Saul’s and, by extension, King Æthelfrith’s more positive qualities. See, for example, Thacker (2016), 11. 105 Of the priests of Nob, said to be clothed in linen ephods (1 Sam 22:18), Bede writes, ‘These men are rightly said to be clad in a linen ephod, that is a superumerale, in that they demonstrate that prior to martyrdom’s glory, all their works (for “works” is usually signified by “shoulders” [= umeri]) have been both approved and more perfectly adorned through fleshly mortification.’ (My translation of Bede’s In Sam. 3,22,18—CCSL 119,209, ll. 3084–87: Qui recte etiam uestiti ephod, id est superumerali, lineo narrantur ut cuncta sua opera, umeri enim solent pro operibus accipi, et ante gloriam martyrii mortificatione carnis commendata et perfectius adornata demonstrent).

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result, St Augustine is seen as the hero of the narrative, his flaws notwithstanding. The argument here is that Augustine is no hero and that the presentation of the Britons is more complicated than most interpreters acknowledge. As we have shown, from their first appearance on the scene in Book 1, the Britons have generally been shown to be an incompetent, lazy, faithless race—lacking loyalty both to God and to each other, each one individually failing even to attend to his or her own highest welfare. Most readers of this narrative correctly perceive this and thus rightly see the British teachers and bishops in the Oak Meeting and Spurning episodes of 2,2 as an incarnation of this type. They err, however, in seeing this portrayal of the Britons as the Historia’s only portrayal of them. It is not. As I have argued, the narrative regularly indicates that alongside the generally faithless mass of Britons, there exists a remnant that, even in the midst of national calamity, maintains its moral compass and preserves itself, often in the remotest and least accessible corners of the landscape, to rally the nation again. We see this remnant first in the Spurning Episode’s hermit and later in the Battle Episode’s monk-priests coming to pray at the battle of Chester. It will not do, therefore, to speak about how the Britons are portrayed in general—either in 2,2 or in the Historia as a whole. To do so almost always betrays a refusal to recognize the continuous existence of a righteous and faithful remnant within the church of the Britons. That faithful remnant goes back, as the Historia sees it, to the first British Christian, St Alban, whose martyrdom, narrated in Book 1, was sparked by his faithful devotion to a Christian cleric being persecuted by ‘perfidious’ Romano-British rulers (perfidorum principorum).106 While still a pagan, Alban first gave the cleric sanctuary in his home and then, when compelled to give him up, surrendered himself instead in martyrdom. As Briton’s protomartyr, Alban is the type for the tiny remnant of faithful Christian Britons whose capacity for loyal devotion to their countrymen—and even Æthelfrith’s murderous soldiers—shows them to embody the antithesis of perfidia, faithlessness, in every sense of that word. In addition to the passages already cited, two others confirm this remnant’s ongoing existence even amidst the woes that the mass of Britons continue to experience. The first passage, found in 1,22, presages Augustine’s failure in the Oak chapter to recruit the British bishops and teachers as fellow evangelizers of the English. It is Book 1’s very famous last comment on the Britons: To the other deeds of unspeakable evils, which [the Britons’] historian Gildas writes out with lamentable speech, they added this one: that they never did, by means of preaching, entrust the word of faith to the race of the Saxons or the English inhabiting Britain with them. Yet the divine piety did not desert its people whom It foreknew, but It destined much worthier heralds for the race mentioned so that through them it would believe.107

106 Bede, HE 1,7—18,12–13. 107 Bede, HE 1,22—42,2–9: Qui inter alia inenarrabilium scelerum facta, quae historicus eorum Gildus flebili sermone describit, et hoc addebant, ut numquam genti Saxonum siue Anglorum, secum Brittaniam incolenti, uerbum fidei praedicando committerent. Sed non tamen diuina pietas plebem suam, quam praesciuit, deseruit, quin multo digniores genti memoratae praecones ueritatis, per quos crederet, destinauit.

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A cursory reading of this last sentence in light of the larger context of 1,22 leads most readers to conclude that the English are that people (plebs) that ‘the divine piety has not deserted.’108 As logical as such a reading seems, it is almost certainly incorrect. As Charles Plummer, Benedicta Ward, and others have noticed, the text here closely paraphrases the Apostle Paul’s words in Rom 11:2: ‘God has not rejected his own people, which he foreknew.’109 For Paul, the ‘people, which God foreknew,’ are the Jews. Here Paul wanted to declare that Christ-believing Gentiles have no reason to boast their elect status. For though God may appear to have rejected Jews in favor of Gentiles, that rejection is not final. God will bring the Jews, whom God elected of old, back into the fold of redemption. Drawing upon Paul’s lesson, our quoted text seems to suggest that the English, who are about to undergo Christian conversion, are like the Gentiles of Romans 11, in that they have only recently been included in God’s covenant. At the same time, the Britons, who received the promises of salvation long before the English, are like Jews of Paul’s time, who as God’s ancient and covenanted people have nevertheless been excluded for a time from that covenant.110 The narrator, relying upon the Apostle Paul’s logic, which he is content to hint at rather than emphasize, thus implies that God has only rejected the Britons for the time being, their perfidy and misplaced zeal for wrongheaded traditions notwithstanding.111 While this sympathetic reading of the Britons seems difficult in the larger context of ch. 22’s otherwise harsh summary of their recent behavior, the text’s use here of two distinct words—plebs to designate the Britons in the first clause and gens to designate the Anglo-Saxons in the second—confirms its correctness.112 Given that plebs and gens are not used synonymously in this work, it seems unlikely that in this single sentence Bede would have used both words to denote the English.113 This passage poses immense difficulties for those who would argue that the Historia’s portrayal of the Britons is consistently negative. More than that, the passage

108 See, for example, Stancliffe (2007), 5. 109 Compare Rom 11:2 (Vg)—non reppulit Deus plebem suam quam praesciit—with Bede’s paraphrase here: sed non tamen diuina pietas plebem suam, quam praesciuit, deseruit, quin multo digniores genti memoratae praecones ueritatis, per quos crederet, destinauit. Plummer identifies the paraphrase of Romans 11:2 (in his text’s marginalia for HE 1,22—42,6) as does Ward (1990), 117. 110 Drawing on evidence from Bede’s biblical commentaries, Scully (1997), 27–37 speculates on how Bede correlated his own understanding of Irish-British-English relations to Paul’s understanding of Jew-Gentile relations. 111 For other scholars who agree that Bede sees the Britons in this passage as those whom God foreknew, see Ward (1990), 117 and Smith (1998), 42. I first expressed my agreement with Smith’s and Ward’s reading in Foley and Higham (2009), 169–71. 112 Plebs occurs fourteen times in the Historia, twelve times in passages original to Bede. Some of these instances refer to the Britons, as in the previous chapter (1,21—41,3); others refer to the countryfolk of Northumbria, as converted under Edwin (2,14—115,5) or preached to in the mountains by Cuthbert (4,27—270,12). These instances may imply Bede’s recognition of a continuing British presence, predominantly of low status, among his own people. I am grateful to Nick Higham for tallying these instances of how each word is used in the Historia. 113 Where gens and plebs do occur together, Bede’s purpose was to distinguish the elite classes—in his terminology nobiles, optimes, duces, and milites, who collectively form the gens, and the rest of society—from the countryfolk (e.g., Bede, HE 4,13—230,23). Otherwise, plebs is used for recent

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draws this parallel so subtly, mutedly, and even confusedly that it seems almost to hope its readers will miss the comparison that puts the Britons’ final redemption in a more hopeful light. And yet, the existence of the hermit and monk-priests at Chester shows that ‘the Divine Piety’ did not wholly abandon the British people, ‘whom It foreknew.’ The British church lives on still in its remnant. And lest one think that it has vanished completely with the slaughter of those monks at Chester, one should recall that the narrative tells us that fifty there managed to flee.114 Although we hear nothing of their fate, nor of the Britons’ generally from this point on, the narrator confirms obliquely, near the Historia’s end, that a faithful remnant has continued to exist up until his own time. He writes, Although for the most part the Britons fight against both the nation of the English with an inbred hatred and against the state of the whole catholic Church by their less than correct Easter and impious customs, nevertheless because both a divine and human power oppose them they cannot obtain their desired end in either respect. [italics mine]115 The text says, ‘for the most part’ (maxima ex parte). For the most part, the Britons still do battle against the English and the whole catholic church. For the most part, but not completely. It is as if the narrator has included the words maxima ex parte to let the skillful reader know that the British church can no more be identified with the mass of its lazy and perfidious members now than it could be during its darkest times in the fifth and sixth centuries. Just as a faithful remnant existed then, so does a faithful remnant continue to exist even now. It has survived the depredations of the Irish and Picts, its own countrymen’s penchant for civil discord, King Æthelfrith’s cruel slaughter, and the gradual expansion of the English hegemony into British territory.

6. Summary: The Embarrassed Narrator After offering so novel an interpretation of the literary portrayal of the Britons in our text, I am perhaps obliged to give some accounting of why so ambiguous an interpretation of the Britons, and of Augustine, would have been presented to the skillful reader of the Historia. That ambiguity works at a subtle level, almost as if it is trying to conceal itself. On the one hand, at its surface level, the narrative shows itself to be deeply critical of the Britons in every respect. By turns, the Britons are portrayed as dimwitted, lazy, and incapable of loyal devotion to God, the church’s teaching, their community, and even to their own private spiritual welfare. In addition, converts, as among the Middle Angles and Mercians (3,21—107,7), the Frisians (5,19—326,19), and, most tellingly, those in the new diocese of Whithorn, many of whom probably had British origins (5,23—351,3). 114 Bede, HE 2,2—84,24–27. 115 Bede, HE 5,23—351,10–15: Brettones, quamuis et maxima ex parte domestico sibi odio gentem anglorum, et totius catholicae ecclesiae statum pascha minus recto moribusque inprobis inpugnent, tamen et diuina sibi et humana prorsus resistente uirtute in neutro cupitum possunt obtinere propositum …

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as Christians they have shirked the duty of charity, which requires them to preach the Gospel to their English neighbors, who inhabit the isle of Britain with them. Because of their long-standing vices, their refusal to repent and, most especially, their refusal to aid St Augustine in converting the pagan English, the Britons—their race and their church—have been punished throughout history, and that punishment culminates in the English King Æthelfrith’s wholesale slaughter of Brocmail’s army and innocent monk-priests at the battle of Chester. Yet at a deeper level, the narrative of the Britons drops a hint here or there that destabilizes the usual interpretation, just given above. Yes, the Britons in general are the miscreants they are portrayed to be. Yet at every moment of their history a righteous remnant is to be found among them—a remnant that does not deserve the censure heaped upon the nation as a whole. Yes, God has humiliated the Christian Britons by working to bring their pagan English oppressors into the blessings of God’s new covenant in Christ. Yet God has not deserted completely this people whom he foreknew before the coming of the English and, indeed, before the beginning of the world. This brief summary of the the narrative’s ambiguous portrayal of the Britons would be misleading if it gave no indication of just how muted, subtle, and scattered are the Historia’s references to the Christian remnant and to God’s ongoing concern for the British people. It is almost as if the author recognizes that many of his readers will want to read a scathing account of the Britons and, at the superficial level, he wants to give them precisely what they want. Yet he also seems aware that his audience may include skillful readers too. Their skillful reading will rightly place this narrative into the wider narrative of Christian redemption, the broad outlines of which are discerned through a skillful reading of Scripture. The narrator knows that a skillful reading of Scripture, and especially of Paul’s schema of salvation history, requires God’s covenant with the Britons, first forged in the time of St Alban, to endure. Less skillful readers of Scripture, particularly those who have no love for the Britons, will not like that fact. Our narrator, it seems, has enough integrity not to abandon what he knows to be the catholic interpretation of Paul here. He rightly reads Paul’s understanding of Jewish redemption as a redemption that will indeed be restored to the Jews after the Gentiles have been included within God’s covenant promises. And knowing that this scriptural pattern of redemption must apply to his own time and place, he concludes likewise that God’s mercies still belong to the Britons. The reading of 2,2 offered in this chapter raises important and difficult questions. One wonders, for example, why the narrator does not display this pattern more boldly so that even his unskillful readers might be confounded and scandalized by it. Along the same lines, why did Bede not identify more clearly in 2,2 as a whole which actions were—to use the language of his Praefatio—‘the good deeds of good people’ and which the ‘evil deeds of depraved people’?116 Finally, if, as I have argued, the narrator writes the narrative in such a way that the skillful reader can see that the Britons include a righteous and faithful remnant, who show a loyalty and devotion to their faithless countrymen as well as to God, then does that exempt the author from any charge of 116 Bede, HE Praefatio—5,12: de bonis bona; 5,13–14: mala … de prauis.

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racism that might be levelled against his text? After all, the ongoing existence of this remnant shows that he does not believe that all Britons are lazy, spiritually dim-witted, and perfidious. As important as these questions are, they will be answered in the book’s final chapter, after we have a fuller understanding of the Historia’s portrayal of the two remaining races—the English and the Irish—and, specifically, of their portrayal in their respective council type-scenes. So we turn next to consider the Historia’s portrayal of the English race—the English gens—in the famous account of King Edwin’s and the Northumbrians’ conversion and the role that his council of chief men played in helping lead him to that decision.

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Chapter 4

Racing the English King Edwin’s Council

Of all the charming narratives in Bede’s Historia, perhaps none is more widely known than the story of the Northumbrians’ conversion under King Edwin. It has something for everyone: for story lovers, a gripping narrative; for Christians, a triumph over Satanic heathenism; for historians of religion, a glimpse of a Germanic paganism we know so little about; and for the English patriot, a story about how an underdog prince overcomes all odds to become the Christian king of Northumbria, which became for a time the greatest of the earliest English kingdoms. When the reader encounters Edwin in utter isolation outside the court of King Rædwald, Edwin becomes a metaphor for the insularity of the English Northumbrians, who by the episode’s end emerge from obscurity to become, through divine providence, knit into the world of catholic Christendom, centered in Rome. As one of the longer multi-chapter narratives in the entire Historia—extending from ch. 9 to 14 in Book 2—it merits a more detailed treatment than it has received until now. As with the other two narratives treated in this book, my interest in the Northumbrians’ conversion story and the council scene embedded inside it has little to do with its value as a historical source for early English history and more to do with its literary artistry and theological vision. As a self-contained episode woven into the larger narrative of English conversion, it is crafted so as to highlight certain dominant themes that permeate the entire Historia, including the moral value of catholicity and fidelity—values that issue in good actions that in turn are done by good people. A story rich in detail and emotional power, it has invited several recent scholarly treatments. In one, Julia Barrow offers a literary reading that helpfully suggests ways to read this text less as history and more as what she describes as Bede’s ‘meditation on the Redemption’ achieved through Jesus’ crucifixion.1 Along similar lines, though paying somewhat more attention to the story’s structure and narrative arc, Calvin Kendall has expertly argued that the conversion narrative’s chief interest lies in what distinguishes it from other more typical early medieval conversion narratives, namely, its anti-Constantinian viewpoint. That is, this narrative opposes the view that a ruler’s faith should ‘depend on a bargain struck between the ruler and God’ whereby the ruler offers up ‘conversion in exchange for success in battle.’2 As incisive as Barrow’s and Kendall’s readings are, they do not exhaust what can be said about this fascinating and richly textured narrative. Following both, I try to take seriously this story’s major themes. Unlike them, however, I read this story



1 Barrow (2011), 706. 2 Kendall, (1979), 138.

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with an eye to comparing it with the two other major group-conversion narratives that we have identified: Augustine’s meetings with the Britons (2,2) and Wilfrid’s famous face-off with Bishop Colman over the dating of Easter at the Synod of Whitby (3,25–26). The Northumbrians’ conversion narrative is nearly five times as long as the Augustine’s Oak narrative (2,2) and over 60 percent longer than the Synod of Whitby narrative.3 Its sheer length ought to signify its centrality to the entire Historia’s aims and purposes. The episode of Edwin’s council is contained in just one of these six chapters (2,13), but that chapter is so clearly part of the much longer story of Edwin’s conversion that we must consider it within this larger multi-chapter context. Like the other two council narratives, this one also shows an abiding concern for incorporating an errant people into a new community—one that comes into being based on its ability to find consent through persuasion rather than on either human or divine coercion. As noted in the previous chapter, this project of forming a new consensual community was completely frustrated at Augustine’s Oak, partially accomplished at the Synod of Whitby, and fulfilled completely at King Edwin’s council. At first glance, King Edwin’s council seems to differ from these other two council-type scenes in that it features no dissenting voices. The two major English speakers at the council are the pagan English priest Coifi and the unnamed noble who offers up the famous analogy of the sparrow flying through the king’s hall. Not only do neither of these show any resistance to Edwin’s introduction of this new Christian religion into his kingdom, they both enthusiastically encourage him to do so. The Britons in the Augustine’s Oak episode and the Irish party in the Synod of Whitby episode resist the respective invitations to enter into the peace of the universal church because, for whatever reason, they still hold dear their own native Christian traditions and practices. In this way, they offer a stark contrast to the Edwin story’s pagan English, who only have negative things to say about the heathenism in which they have been reared. In their dissatisfaction with heathenism they all agree. They are thus ironically portrayed as having a catholic spirit of unanimity before they have even been converted to the catholic, Rome-centered Christianity that Paulinus proclaims to them! And after the council, all the named participants agree that paganism should be abolished, and Christian faith and practice embraced. Closer examination of the chapters preceding the council proper, however, reveals that there is an obstacle to the Northumbrians’ conversion. It is not the old pagan religion, but rather King Edwin himself, whose delaying tactics both defer conversion and greatly prolong the narrative. By the story’s end, however, he and his people will have been initiated through baptism into the universal church. Edwin’s stalling behavior poses a significant problem for the Historia’s skillful reader. In the same way that, in the Augustine’s Oak episode, one is left wondering how to evaluate

3 Two chapters inside the Northumbrians’ conversion narrative—2,10 and 2,11—consist of letters written to King Edwin and Queen Æthelburh, respectively. Even if they are taken out of consideration, the strictly narrative portion that remains is still 10 percent longer than the Whitby narrative. But the Whitby narrative itself is composed of long non-narrative discourses by Bishop Wilfrid, which, if removed from consideration would make the narrative proper of the Northumbrian conversion story much longer than the narrative proper of the Whitby story.

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morally the character of Augustine, the unnamed hermit, and the praying monks at the battle of Chester, the reader here is challenged to make moral sense of Edwin’s delays. Edwin actually breaks promises, more than once, made to Paulinus explicitly and to God implicitly, that he would embrace Christian teaching if God would only vouchsafe this or that benefit for him. Yet once one of those benefits is conferred, he fails to do what he promises. Nor does he play an active role in the council of nobles that he assembles, offering no opinion of his own. Had he done so, the skillful reader might have been given a direct glimpse of—in the words of the Praefatio—the good deeds of a good man, and one thus worthy of the reader’s or hearer’s imitation. This chapter will first try to expose the pains that this narrative takes to encourage the reader to cast a doubtful eye on Edwin’s character. It will then ask why it does so and whether the skillful reader is, in the end, able to discern some virtue that counters, or at least transcends, Edwin’s unreliability—a virtue that, Edwin’s vices notwithstanding, is indeed worthy of the reader’s imitation. This chapter also raises the thorny question of whether the Northumbrians’ conversion story contributes anything of value to this book’s central concern, namely, the Historia’s construction of race. As we saw in the previous chapter, the Historia is not reluctant to paint the race of the Britons in very broad strokes. In the Augustine’s Oak narrative (2,2), the British bishops and teachers who finally reject Augustine’s calls for cooperation with the Rome-centered church catholic are made to represent the Britons’ character more generally—their stubbornness, lassitude, and faithlessness or perfidy. Indeed, the very fact that the monks and soldiers at the battle of Chester are portrayed as having justly received the punishments for the earlier misdeeds of those British bishops and teachers underscores the narrative’s view that culpability belongs more generally to the Britons as a race rather than to just a few of its bad actors. By contrast, the multi-chapter narrative of Edwin’s conversion has little to say about the English, or about the English Northumbrians, as a race. It focuses more narrowly upon English individuals, their thoughts, feelings, and actions—including those of Edwin, Rædwald, Coifi, and the unnamed noble who relates the parable of the sparrow, to name just a few examples. In light of these facts, it is fair to wonder whether the narrative of Edwin and the Northumbrians’ conversion offers the skillful reader any knowledge at all about what distinguishes the English race from, say, the British. I address this question at this chapter’s conclusion, since adequately doing so first requires a deeper consideration of the Edwin narrative.

1. Peculiar Features of the Northumbrian Conversion Narrative Before proceeding with a fine-grained analysis, I need to establish context by making a few general remarks about this conversion narrative as a whole. First, this narrative focuses comparatively little attention on the English Northumbrians’ actual conversion. Both Bishop Paulinus’ initial desire for and final accomplishment of the Northumbrian English race’s conversion serve as bookends to

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the more central story of Edwin’s conversion. In a sense, Edwin functions rhetorically as a cipher or placeholder—a synecdoche, if you will—for the Northumbrians as a whole. His conversion struggle is theirs. Therefore, our interest in how the author portrays the Northumbrians as a race necessarily turns into a focus upon King Edwin as the Northumbrians’ personification. Second, this story has a number of odd features that run counter to what the reader would expect of a religious conversion narrative. For starters, the story of Edwin’s conversion has almost no interest in describing the religion, Christianity, to which Edwin and the Northumbrians are converting. The chief force behind that conversion is Bishop Paulinus who, we are told, came to the kingdom of the Northumbrians as a chaplain to Edwin’s new Kentish Christian bride, Queen Æthelburh.4 As one of the story’s few Christians and as one whose stated desire to convert the Northumbrians drives the larger narrative, Paulinus has surprisingly little to say—especially at the council meeting of Edwin’s chief men.5 Since Paulinus offers the only major Christian voice in the narrative, a reader might expect his efforts at persuasion and his presentation of the Christian gospel to be crucial, much as Wilfrid’s will be seen to be in the Whitby narrative. They are not. In fact, as the council episode unfolds the reader learns almost nothing from Paulinus—or anyone else—about the particulars of Christian doctrine or ritual. Instead, the speeches of the priest Coifi and the unnamed teller of the sparrow fable—both pagans—figure prominently. Concerning Paulinus’s role at the council, the reader knows only that he spoke ‘about the God whom he proclaimed’ in response to Coifi’s request and Edwin’s subsequent command. Yet concerning any specifics he said about that God, the story reports nothing. The Christian voice given the most prominence in the story is the epistolary voice of Pope Boniface, whose letters to King Edwin and Queen Æthelburh comprise chs 10 and 11, respectively. Yet these letters are addressed privately to the King and Queen and pose significant problems for the reader. They interrupt the story’s flow as well as its style. Formal and stiff when read in English translation, these letters are even more so when read in Latin, and at times are practically impenetrable. Most commentators of the conversion narrative have glossed over their contents, treating them as almost parenthetical interruptions to the story. By contrast, I will honor the narrator’s decision to include them where he does, showing later that some of their contents provide important cues for guiding the reader’s interpretation of the larger Northumbrians’ conversion narrative. Another of the story’s odd features is the narrator’s decision to suppress the direct voice of Edwin, the main protagonist. We hear the direct speech of Edwin only once in the entire narrative; all other instances of his speaking are reported speech (i.e., indirect discourse). Of the six characters who have direct speeches (Pope Boniface’s letters excluded), Edwin’s character speaks the least: uttering just 63 words in only one

4 Bede, HE 2,9—98,11–16. 5 The voice of the other named Christian, Edwin’s Queen Æthelburh, is not heard at all.

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speech.6 By contrast, Edwin’s pagan priest Coifi utters 183 words in three speeches.7 Especially curious is the narrator’s report of Edwin’s midnight conversation at King Rædwald’s court with the mysterious ‘human’ who is later identified as a ‘spirit.’ In that exchange, Edwin’s part of the conversation is reported completely in indirect discourse, while the ‘human’s’ part consists completely of direct quotations. This construction is so strange that the narrator must have chosen it quite deliberately, but why he did so is not easy to fathom. Finally, the narrator does as little as possible to guide the reader’s interpretation of the story. He offers in his own voice almost no commentary on the characters. With few exceptions, he leaves the characters’ actions and words to speak for themselves or comments on them through the voices of the story’s other characters. Exceptions include his commentary on Edwin’s character, telling the audience that he was ‘very wise by nature’ (natura sagacissmus), and his two interruptions of the narrative flow to interject—in his own voice—‘What more [can I say]?’ (quid plura?)—though what he intends by these interruptions is difficult to say.8

2. King Edwin the Footdragger As already noted, one of the most confounding aspects of this conversion narrative is its concern first to identify King Edwin as one extremely slow to fulfill the promises he has made to convert and then, by contrast, to identify various others as quickly doing what they should. Edwin’s slowness is so central to discussions later in the chapter that how the story describes it deserves attention now. According to the narrative, Edwin’s first interest in Christian faith—although ‘interest’ is perhaps too strong a word—comes when he dispatches ambassadors to the Kentish King Eadbald to request Eadbald’s sister Æthelburh’s hand in marriage. Æthelburh was King Æthelberht’s daughter and had converted with her family to Christianity under the influence of St Augustine’s mission to the Kentish people. Upon returning, the ambassadors relay to Edwin what they learned in Kent: that it is unlawful for a Christian to marry a pagan. Still eager for the union, Edwin promises that if allowed to marry Æthelburh, he will not only provide a hospitable environment in which she and her court can practice Christianity, but will even submit Christianity to the serious consideration of his ‘prudent men’ (prudentibus).9 Despite the Apostle Paul’s censure of marriages between Christians and pagans (1 Cor 7:39), which our text now conveniently ignores, the union between Æthelburh and Edwin is finally

6 Bede, HE 2,12—108,7–15. 7 Bede, HE 2,13—111,21–112,2; 112,26–34; and 113,6–9. 8 The first of these occurs after the speech of Edwin’s unnamed friend, in which he tells Edwin that Rædwald has thought better of the evil he had intended to do to the exiled prince, and before the narrator describes how Rædwald went on to assist in Edwin’s rise to power over Æthelfrith (2,12—110,11). The second occurs after Coifi’s speech recommending to Edwin that the old pagan shrines be immediately destroyed, and before the narration of Coifi’s plundering them (2,13—112,34). 9 Bede, HE 2,9—97,21–98,10.

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negotiated and consummated. At this point in the story, the reader does not know how keen Edwin’s interest in Christianity is, but has no reason yet to doubt as insincere his offer to have his advisors consider it. Meanwhile, the reader learns that Bishop Paulinus has a secret motive for encouraging Edwin’s conversion, namely, he wants to convert the entire race of the Northumbrians to the faith of Christ. Satan, however, is working to thwart Paulinus’ purposes.10 The narrative unit that extends from this point to ch. 9’s end, however, casts doubt upon Edwin’s sincerity and honesty.11 As it opens, Eumer, an ambassador from King Cwichelm of the West Saxons, is journeying to Edwin’s court and, when received into Edwin’s presence, draws a sword and attempts to murder him. The sword is tipped with poison, so that even if the sword’s blade does not prove fatal, the poison will. In the course of the struggle, one identified as Edwin’s minister, named Lilla, interposes his own body to shield the king’s, and dies. Another retainer (miles), Forthhere, is also slain in the skirmish. Edwin, though only superficially wounded, has been poisoned by Eumer’s sword point. Readers now are left to wonder whether Edwin will survive as the narrator diverts their attention to Queen Æthelburh who that very night—which happens to be Easter night—goes into labor and safely delivers a daughter, Eanflæd. By this time, a skillful reader will have deduced that those earlier identified as the king’s prudent men have had at least nine months to consider the Christian faith, but does not know whether Edwin has actually consulted them. The reader further deduces that Edwin is still a pagan when, in response to hearing news that his daughter was safely delivered, Edwin is said to have given thanks to his gods (diis suis).12 Upon hearing Edwin’s offering of thanks, Bishop Paulinus objects that the queen’s safe delivery was owing to Paulinus’ own prayers to the God of Christ, and presumably not to the pagan gods whom Edwin had invoked. Readers will rightly interpret Paulinus’ words as something of a rebuke to this recalcitrant king. Nevertheless, Edwin is said to have been delighted at Paulinus’ words (uerbis delectatus).13 Although it is difficult to believe that this delight is sincere in light of the slight he has just received from Paulinus, Edwin promises that he will serve Christ (Christo seruiturum) on two conditions: (1) that Christ gives him life—saving him, presumably, from the wound he has just received from the poison-tipped sword—and (2) that Christ grants him victory against the king who had dispatched the assassin to his court.14 As a pledge for this promise, Edwin agrees to let Paulinus baptize his infant daughter.15 Immediately after relating Eanflæd’s baptism along with that of eleven others from his household, the chapter proceeds to narrate the fulfillment of Edwin’s two conditions: Edwin (1) is healed of his wound, and (2) arrays his army

10 Bede, HE 2,9—98,17–32. 11 Bede, HE 2,9—98,33–100,16. 12 Bede, HE 2,9—99,25. 13 Bede, HE 2,9—99,20–21. 14 Bede, HE 2,9—99,25–28. 15 Bede, HE 2,9—99,28–30.

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against the West Saxons, either killing or receiving the surrender of all those who had conspired to murder him.16 These conditions having been fulfilled so completely and quickly, the reader expects Edwin’s immediate conversion. But it is not forthcoming. Returning home after his defeat of the West Saxons, Edwin is said to be unwilling (non uoluit) to receive the sacraments of Christian faith ‘immediately and unadvisedly.’17 Edwin is thus revealed to be at best a temporizer and at worst a breaker of vows made to Paulinus as well as to Christ. Although the quick narration of Edwin’s conditional vow, the fulfillment of its conditions, and Edwin’s refusal to abide immediately by its terms show vividly his character’s shady side, as if to soften the bad opinion of Edwin that the reader is developing, the text goes on to say that after he had promised that he would serve Christ (ex quo se Christo seruiturum esse promiserat), he no longer served his pagan gods (idolis).18 How should the reader interpret this information? Should she look more favorably upon a heathen-turned-agnostic than upon a heathen who still petitions his old gods? Or should she read Edwin’s half-measure toward full Christian conversion as an empty gesture intended to mollify Paulinus? Characteristically, the narrator offers the reader no clue for interpreting Edwin’s half-hearted commitment here. Consequently, this brief episode raises suspicions about Edwin’s motives, intentions, and trustworthiness. It also raises questions about his intelligence. Why would he not want to embrace Christian faith when he had seen so powerfully and quickly its power to help him fulfill his deepest desires? Paulinus had informed him that his first desire, namely to have Æthelburh painlessly and safely bear their daughter, had been fulfilled by Christ; and he saw for himself Christ’s immediate fulfillment of his second and third conditions, namely a recovery from his wound and the defeat of those who had conspired to murder him. Why would he not yet convert? What could be holding him back? Was it the allure of paganism? Was it Edwin’s inclination to intransigency? The reader can only speculate. The final episode of Edwin’s habitual temporizing is perhaps the most remarkable. It follows the famous analepsis, or flashback, that portrays him—before he became king—as a young exile taking sanctuary with Rædwald, king of the East Anglians.19 That flashback begins as King Æthelfrith of the Northumbrians perceives Edwin as a potential threat and thus seeks to murder him. Although Rædwald has given Edwin safe haven, Edwin learns from a certain very faithful friend (fidissimus quidam amicus) that Æthelfrith has been deploying both bribes and threats to tempt Rædwald into surrendering Edwin to him and that Rædwald has at last agreed either to kill or betray

16 Bede, HE 2,9—100,1–16. 17 Bede, HE 2,9—100,5–7: non statim et inconsulte sacramenta fidei Christianae percipere uoluit. 18 Bede, HE 2,9—100,7–8. 19 Bede, HE 2,12—107,16–110,23.

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him.20 Fearing for his life, yet unwilling to flee, Edwin spends a long fretful night not knowing what he should do. All of a sudden, a human (hominem) appears who is shown to be fully aware of Edwin’s plight.21 This person asks Edwin what he would give to someone who could not only release him from his dilemma, but also establish him as king, which at that moment must have been beyond his wildest dreams.22 Edwin replies that to such a one he would give ‘all that he could’ (omnia quae posset), ‘worthy thanksgivings’ (dignis … gratiarum actionibus), and a commitment to ‘follow in all things the teaching of the one who would establish him as king’ (in omnibus se secuturum doctrinam illius, qui se … ad regni apicem proueheret).23 More than that, Edwin is twice described as not hesitating to promise such things. His third promise is almost laughable in its redundancy: ‘Edwin did not hesitate to promise immediately’ (nec distulit Aeduini quin continuo polliceretur).24 Careful readers, however, already know that Edwin’s problem has never been a slowness to make promises, but rather a slowness to keep them. So their guard is up. The person (homo) then places his right hand on Edwin’s head and tells Edwin that this gesture is a sign that Edwin will see again when all these promises have been fulfilled and when it is time for Edwin to make good on the pledges he has made. After the person disappears suddenly, Edwin—along with the reading audience—is given to know that his visitor was, in fact, ‘not a human, but a spirit.’25 As in the previous story, in which Edwin receives blessings in exchange for a vow that he will not immediately keep, he will end up doing the same thing here, as the reader soon shall see. Not surprisingly, and still in the flashback episode, Edwin is immediately helped out of his jam. After the human-turned-spirit disappears, Edwin’s most faithful friend joyfully returns to him and announces that Rædwald’s wife has convinced her husband not to betray Edwin, arguing that it would be unseemly for a great king to abandon a friend in such dire straits. Convinced by her exhortation, Rædwald resolves not only not to betray Edwin, but also to help him do battle with Æthelfrith. Rædwald does so, however, at great personal cost: his son Regenhere is killed in battle.26 The flashback thus ended, the main narrative resumes with Bishop Paulinus frustrated at Edwin’s delaying tactics. We infer from the narrative that Paulinus, who is here called a ‘man of God’ (uir dei), knows the gesturing sign that the spirit showed Edwin. And so, seemingly as a last resort, he shows Edwin the sign, placing his right hand on Edwin’s head and asking him if he recognizes the sign. Edwin trembles and shows himself ready to throw himself at Paulinus’ feet. Paulinus, however, will have none of it. He reminds Edwin that, in particular, he must not delay (ne differas) to do 20 Bede, HE 2,12—107,22–108,7. 21 Bede, HE 2,12—108,20–24. 22 Bede, HE 2,12—108,33–109,3. 23 Bede, HE 2,12—109,4–21. 24 Bede, HE 2,12—109,17–18. 25 Bede, HE 2,12—109,27–28. 26 Bede, HE 2,12—109,29–110,21.

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the third thing he had promised the spirit when he was under Rædwald’s protection: to obey the instructions on salvation given by the one whom the spirit had prophesied would offer Edwin better counsel concerning his salvation than any of his kin had ever heard.27 He then asks Edwin if, at last, he is willing to comply with the will of Him who has already conferred a temporal kingdom upon him to the end that Edwin may participate in a heavenly kingdom. Edwin replies that he is both willing and obliged to receive the faith that Paulinus taught. But instead of rushing straight to the baptismal font, he delays yet again, saying that for the moment (adhuc) he would confer on this matter with his chief friends and counselors (amicis principibus et consiliariis) so that, if they all agreed, they might all be consecrated to Christ together in baptism.28 Significantly, Edwin has appealed to this delaying tactic twice before: first, when he was trying to secure a marriage to Æthelburh (2,9—98,9), and second, when he had survived the attempt on his life and had won revenge against King Cwichelm (2,9—100, 8–12). In both cases, as noted earlier, the text is silent on what Edwin’s chief men said in that conference, or whether that conference was even convened. It is difficult to know at this point—namely, after Paulinus shows Edwin the same sign that the spirit had shown Edwin—what to make of Edwin’s delay. On the one hand, the reader knows that Edwin has earlier used the excuse of needing to consult his counselors as a roadblock to his own conversion; on the other hand, his ostensible desire to receive the consent of his chief men—so that they can all be baptized simultaneously ‘if they also were willing to believe those same things with him’—may indicate a man who is humble and shows true devotion and charity to his counselors.29 In addition, Paulinus assents to Edwin’s delay and the reader at last witnesses Edwin following through with his stated intention, as the text states plainly: ‘he did as he had said’ (fecit ut dixerat), meaning not that he rushed to the baptismal font, but that he convoked a council to ask his wise men (sapientibus) how this strange teaching and new worship of a divinity seemed to them.30 As if to underscore Edwin’s foot-dragging, the narrative notes frequently when the story’s other characters either move quickly or encourage others to do so. Pope Boniface asks Æthelburh not to delay (nec differas) in working ceaselessly to convert Edwin and to inform the pope quickly (quantocius) should she succeed in her efforts.31 Advancing himself as an example of holy alacrity, he says that upon learning that Edwin was still a pagan, he did not hesitate (non distulimus) to warn Æthelburh to work toward his conversion.32 Just before the flashback scene at King Rædwald’s

27 The tertium in Paulinus’ warning—’Memento, ut tertium, quod promisisti, facere ne differas’ (Bede, HE 2,12—110,34–111,1)—serves as a verbal hook, leading the reader to recall its previous use by the spirit in securing Edwin’s promise: Tum ille [i.e. spiritus] tertio: ‘Si autem,’ inquit, ‘is … etiam consilium tibi tuae salutis ac uitae melius atque utilius … ostendere potuerit, num ei obtemperare, et monita eius salutaria suscipere consentis?’ (Bede HE 2,12—109,12–18). 28 Bede, HE 2,13—111,12–16. 29 Bede, HE 2,13—111,11–15. 30 Bede, HE 2,13—111,15–19. 31 Bede, HE 2,11—105,14–18 and 106,12–16. 32 Bede, HE 2,11—105,12–14.

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court, Paulinus the bishop also acts quickly (nec exinde distulit) to command Edwin to fulfill immediately (continuo) the vow he had made.33 Even the spirit who befriends the exiled Edwin in the dark of night is said to have put his right hand on Edwin’s head immediately (confestim), as he shows Edwin that mysterious sign, and then commands him not to delay fulfilling (adimplere ne differas) his just-made promise the next time he sees that sign.34 Then, as the main narrative resumes after the flashback, Paulinus again commands Edwin not to put off (ne differas) fulfilling the third vow he had made to the spirit he had encountered at Rædwald’s court.35 Surprisingly, the character whose alacrity provides the starkest counterpoint to Edwin’s foot-dragging is Coifi, Edwin’s chief pagan priest. In the council scene, when the king first asks his chief men what they make of this strange new Christian religion, Coifi responds immediately (continuo) with approval.36 At the end of a speech proclaiming his own dissatisfaction with paganism, Coifi suggests that if the council finds Christian teachings to be better and more potent, then it should ‘hasten’ (festinemus) to embrace them ‘without any hesitation’ (absque ullo cunctamine).37 Unlike his king, Coifi is clearly ready to move. After the unnamed noble finishes telling the sparrow story, Coifi again takes the floor and suggests that these Northumbrians’ traditional pagan temples and altars be consigned ‘swiftly’ (ocius) to scorn and flames.38 When Edwin asks who should be the first to profane the idols’ altars and shrines, no reader by now is surprised to hear Coifi volunteer. He ‘immediately’ (statimque) asks the king for weapons and a horse with which to destroy the idols, and as soon as he approaches the shrine ‘does not hesitate to profane it immediately’ (Nec distulit ille, mox ut adpropiabat ad fanum, profanare illud).39 Finally, the unnamed noble who gives the sparrow speech is also said to have added his remarks ‘immediately’ (continuo) after Coifi had spoken.40 Even dumb animals contrast favorably with the dilatory Edwin. As the storied sparrow flies through the king’s hall, it is said to enter ‘very swiftly’ (citissime) and to exit just as quickly (mox … exierit), slipping away from the courtiers’ gaze ‘in an instant’ (ad momentum).41 The skillful reader cannot know for certain just what the text intends when it refers so often to Edwin’s dilatoriness in tandem with the contrasting quick movement of the story’s other main characters. That this theme is there, however, seems obvious, as the multiple references above clearly attest. On the one hand, reading them will surely prompt the skillful monastic reader to remember Scripture’s several reminders to fulfill quickly vows they have made to God, as for example, when the Preacher of

33 Bede, HE 2,12—107,12–15. 34 Bede, HE 2,12—109,22–23 and 25–26. 35 Bede, HE 2:12—111,1. 36 Bede, HE 2,13—111,20–21. 37 Bede, HE 2,13—112,1–2. 38 Bede, HE 2,13—112,32–4. 39 Bede, HE 2,13—113,9–11 and 16–17. 40 Bede, HE 2,13—112,3–4. 41 Bede, HE 2,13—112,11–14 and 16–17.

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Ecclesiastes warns: ‘If you have vowed anything to God, do not delay in fulfilling it.’42 On the other hand, the eventual happy outcome of Edwin’s and the Northumbrians’ conversion story simultaneously prompts the reader to wonder what other factors or virtues caused Edwin, in the end, to triumph over his chronic procrastination. We shall have occasion to consider further this question at the end of this chapter and will be in a better position to do so after first attending to some of this story’s structural features and how they function to expose the story’s thematic center.

3. Interpreting the Northumbrians’ Conversion Story through its Narrative Inversions Careful consideration of the Northumbrians’ conversion tale reveals its highly sophisticated structure. Centering as it does on the figure of Edwin, it is a classic hero’s tale of departure, initiation, and return. Yet it is told in such a way as to highlight the Christian hero’s movement out of deep isolation into ever-widening circles of communal fellowship, culminating in communion not only with the worldwide church, but also with its Lord, whose reign—as the famous sparrow story will imply—extends beyond the limits of human life, bringing light and warmth even into the wintry climes of human non-existence, which include the non-existence that precedes human birth and follows human death. When read in sequence, the entire conversion narrative, excluding Pope Boniface’s letters, is seen to be divided into five main parts, which can be summarized as follows: I. [2,9—97,6–98,32] Edwin negotiates his marriage to the Christian Æthelburh by offering various concessions to her Christian faith and practice. II. [2,9—98,33–100,16] Reneging upon a promise, Edwin fails to convert to Christianity after winning a complete victory—presumably with God’s help—over a rival West Saxon king who had earlier tried to assassinate him. [Interlude: Pope Boniface’s letters to Edwin [2,11] and Æthelburh [2,12] III. [2,12] Edwin wants to embrace Christianity, thanks to the efforts of Bishop Paulinus who, by showing him a sign, reminds him of a promise he had made years before as a young exile in the court of Rædwald, king of the East Anglians. Most of this chapter consists of a flashback to Edwin’s time at Rædwald’s court. This flashback offers a gripping mini-narrative that induces the reader to see Edwin’s motives for conversion as more compelling. IV. [2,13] Edwin’s nobles, who were called by him into council, deliberate on the advantages of Christian faith over paganism. They end by freely deciding to join Edwin in embracing Christian faith and by destroying pagan shrines and images. V. [2,14] Bishop Paulinus baptizes the king, his household, his nobles, and the common people; and King Edwin takes steps to institute Christian faith and practice within his kingdom.

42 Qo 5:3—Si quid vovisti Deo ne moreris reddere. For similar warnings, see also Dt 23:21–23, Ps 75:12 (76:11), and Sir 5:8.

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Such a topical division of this story, although interesting and somewhat useful, fails to illuminate the convictions that drive forward its major characters and thus also the plot. To uncover these convictions and the larger discursive logic of this narrative, I will pay special attention to the series of parallelisms it exhibits, many of which are inverted—which is to say that the action of the first element of the parallelism is in some sense undone or fulfilled by the second. These parallelisms occur in the rough pattern of what we might call concentric symmetry (see Fig. 4.1), or chiasm, whereby a given parallelism can be nested inside others, and sometimes many others.43 For example, 2,9 narrates Paulinus’ initial failed attempts to convert the Northumbrians. By contrast, the narrative undoing or inversion of that failure, namely, Paulinus’ final success at conversion and baptism, is narrated in Book 14. Such inversions, of which this narrative has many, function as frames within each of which may fall a narrative that itself may contain further frames. That which falls between the opening and closing frame typically helps to explain what happened to bring about the inversion effected within that frame. So, for example, what falls between the narrative of Paulinus’ initial failure and final success at conversion serves to explain the circumstances that led to this particular inversion or reversal, that is, how Paulinus moved from a situation in which all efforts at conversion were blocked by the ‘god of this age’ to one in which—that god having been thwarted—they met with resounding and universal success. In cases where inversions occur within other inversions, looking into the deeply imbedded inversions can highlight what constitutes a story’s most crucial or pivotal moments. With these principles in mind, in Fig. 4.1 I propose a way to view the parallel inversions of the story: Of course, however logical the construction of such a figure may appear, it can be justly argued that the patterns exhibited are ones I, in doing this analysis, have actually fabricated rather than merely found in Bede’s story. There is, in fact, a certain arbitrariness to the recognition of these patterns. Some may seem forced or contrived to certain readers; others, which different readers might have ‘found,’ seem to them to have been left out (e.g., Cwichelm tries to overcome Edwin / Edwin overcomes Cwichelm).44 If the reader can find a more convincing way to structure the story’s narrative inversions, so much the better. The goal here is not so much to offer an indisputable interpretation of this story as to offer a possible one that takes seriously certain elements of what I deem to be its larger narrative structure.

43 Bede certainly knows how to deploy chiasm at the level of the sentence, or stanza. On Bede’s use of chiasmus at the sentence level in his Homilies, see van der Walt (1981), 53–54. For Bede’s use of chiasm in HE 4,20, his famous hymn to Æthilthryth, Harris (2016), 123–24 and 231–35. Here, however, I am discussing a chiastic-like mechanism that structures much longer pieces of narrative. Howlett (1997), 168–72 also sees a chiastic arrangement in this narrative, though he confines his analysis to 2,13 alone. I am indebted to Arthur Holder for these references. 44 Worth noting are parallelisms D/D', E/E', H/H', I/I', J/J', and K/K'. In each of these either the opening bracket serves also as the closing bracket of another parallelism, or the closing bracket serves as the opening bracket of another parallelism. For example, D'/E serves as both the closing bracket of D/D' and the opening bracket of E/E'.

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Figure 4.1: Parallel Inversions in the Northumbrians’ Conversion Narrative

A



A’

Paulinus’ wish to make the Northumbrians the bride of Christ is thwarted, the power of the ‘god of this world’ prevailing [ch. 9] B A murderous enemy, sent by Cwichelm, impales the king’s ministers, who die C Paulinus deliberates with Edwin about which god to pray to Edwin recovers from wound and overcomes Cwichelm Edwin promises conditionally to serve Christ D The conditions Edwin set are fulfilled by God D’/E Edwin reneges on promise / Edwin is unwilling to embrace Christian faith Pope Boniface exhorts Edwin to conversion, by a letter [ch. 10] Pope Boniface exhorts Æthelburh to urge Edwin’s conversion, by a letter [ch. 11] F Edwin, having not yet seen the ‘sign,’ is urged to convert by Paulinus [ch. 12] [The flashback begins:] Edwin is persecuted by Æthelfrith, but to no avail G H Edwin is befriended by Rædwald I Æthelfrith bribes Rædwald, then threatens to make war on him H’J Edwin is betrayed by Rædwald K Edwin befriended by his ‘friend’ Edwin’s speech: he will not betray his trust in Rædwald K’L Edwin deserted by friend Edwin alone in ‘darkest night’ M human appears suddenly (subito) 3 predictions / 3 promises M’ spirit disappears suddenly (repente) L’ Edwin rejoined by friend J’ Rædwald decides not to betray Edwin, is faithful to him I’ Rædwald makes war on Æthelfrith, slaying him G’ Edwin succeeds to the throne of the slain Æthelfrith [The flashback ends:] F’ Edwin, who is shown the sign by Paulinus, is adjured by him not to postpone doing the third thing he had promised (in M/M’), namely, to convert E’ Edwin is willing to affirm Christian faith [ch. 13] C’ King Edwin’s nobles deliberate with each other about which religion to follow B’ King’s ministers impale the gods of paganism, who ‘die’ Paulinus’ wish to make the Northumbrians the bride of Christ is fulfilled, the devil’s power having been destroyed [ch. 14]

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With that in mind, I turn to flesh out the implications of some of these inversions and demonstrate parallelisms that casual readers may not discern. A/A’ Paulinus’ desire for the Northumbrians’ conversion is frustrated / Paulinus’ desire for the Northumbrians’ conversion is fulfilled

The A/A’ inversion is the most comprehensive. The first item, or opening bracket, (A) occurs in ch. 9 when Paulinus conceives the desire to convert the Northumbrians but finds himself hindered by ‘the god of this age’ from doing so;45 its paired closing bracket, in ch. 14, narrates a triumphant Paulinus evangelizing and baptizing the Northumbrians, after Coifi impales the pagan idols along with their shrines and temples, the ‘god of this age’ having thus been figuratively slain.46 The narrative A’ emphasizes a point not mentioned at all in A: namely, that this conversion affects all classes of society. Up to that point, the narrative has been proceeding by extending conversion’s focus ever wider. It begins with Edwin alone in chs 9–12, then extends to Edwin’s counselors in ch. 13. Finally, in ch. 14’s first sentence, it expands to include all the nobles of his race (cunctis gentis suae nobilibus) and a ‘huge number of the common people’ (plebe perplurima), all of whom received the faith and baptism. Nowhere before this point have the plebs been mentioned as a specific group for which conversion is seen as a desired end. As if to underscore the comprehensive quality of the Northumbrians’ conversion, the substance of ch. 14’s opening sentence is repeated in slightly different terms later in the chapter, where Paulinus is said to have baptized a number of King Edwin’s offspring, ‘other nobles and not a few royal men,’ and the plebs, who were ‘flocking to Paulinus from all villages and locales.’47 The narrative here puts the circumstances under which the plebs were converted in bold relief, citing for this social class alone the specific details of its conversion, including where its members heard Paulinus preach (the royal ville at Yeavering), how long Paulinus catechized and baptized among them (36 days), and where Paulinus baptized them (the river Glen). Thus, a conversion narrative that begins by seeming to subsume the Northumbrians’ conversion story under that of their king ends by stressing the catholicity of this conversion in terms not of race or geography, but of social class. Every social class, even the humblest, is included in its compass. The narrative ends by noting also the geographical catholicity of these conversions, which include not only Edwin’s northerly peoples (the Bernicians), but also his southerly (the Deirans). The story of the Northumbrians’ conversion has thus been purged of every trace of parochialism: conversion is open to all, both high and low, and in every part of the kingdom of the Northumbrians.

45 Bede, HE 2,9—98,22–33. 46 Bede, HE 2,13—113,13–20. 47 Edwin’s offspring include his sons by Cwenburh (Osfrith and Eadfrith), his children by Æthelburh (Æthelhun, a daughter Æthelthryth, and another son Wuscfrea), and his grandson Yffi (Osfrith’s son), 114,24–28; ‘the other nobles, etc.,’114,28–29; plebs confluentem eo de cunctis uiculis ac locis, 115,4–5.

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B/B’ A murderous enemy stabs king’s ministers, who die / a king’s minister stabs the gods of paganism, who ‘die’

This is among the most surprising of the inverted parallelisms, difficult even for skillful readers to discern. Its opening frame (B) shows the assassin (sicarius), Eumer, slaying by dagger (sica) two of Edwin’s men, Lilla and Forthhere, in an unsuccessful attempt to murder Edwin (B). The author here introduces the character of Eumer in a sentence immediately following one in which, quoting from the Apostle Paul, he explains why Paulinus’ mission to the Northumbrians has met with so little success. It is because, he writes, ‘The god of this age has blinded the minds of the unfaithful so that the illumination of the glory of Christ’s gospel will not shine upon them’ (2 Cor 4:4).48 Making the assassin, Eumer, the subject of the very next sentence suggests that Eumer is a particular incarnation, or agent, of Satan, ‘the god of this age’ (deus saeculi huius). Eumer would hinder the king’s entrance to eternal life by ending his earthly one before Christian conversion. As an agent of Satan would do, Eumer brings chaos to Edwin’s court, as was mentioned earlier, slaying Lilla—Edwin’s most devoted minister (minister regi amicissimus)—and a guard Forthhere, as well as wounding Edwin with the tip of his poisoned sword. Although this story sounds like a classic Germanic tale of treachery, its plot actually plays upon the biblical story of Ehud, one of Israel’s judges, who, like the Eumer of this story, comes under the guise of friendship to a king’s court, conceals a two-edged weapon under his garments, and ends up murdering an unwary victim.49 Yet the Edwin-Eumer story reverses the Judges account of who is good and who evil. For Israel’s good judge Ehud here parallels the wicked assassin Eumer and the reprobate Moabite King Eglon parallels King Edwin, whom the reader knows is among God’s predestined. In the Judges story, because Ehud asks to have a private audience with Eglon, Eglon’s attendants leave him vulnerable to attack and he is assassinated. In the Historia’s version of this tale, however, Edwin’s life is saved because his attendants remain with him. Perhaps not coincidental is the resemblance of the name ‘Lilla’—Edwin’s ‘most devoted’ minister who ‘interposed his own body before the sword in order to save the king from death’—with the Latin word for ‘lily’ (lilium), which calls to mind the identification of Christ in patristic and medieval biblical exegesis with ‘the lily of the valley’ and of his church with a ‘lily among thorns’ (Song 2:1–2). Although presumably pagan, Lilla, as one who was literally pierced to death, becomes a poignant figure of the ideal disciple, a ‘lily among thorns,’ and one who has laid down his life for his friend.50

48 Bede, HE 2,9—98,30–32. 49 Cf. Jds 3:12–30. The terms for ‘two-edged’ differ slightly in each account: anceps ( Jds 3:16) vs. biceps (Bede, HE 2,9—99,3). 50 This act of sacrifice that Lilla, as Edwin’s most beloved (amicissimus) minister, performs recalls Jesus’ Great Commandment, ‘Greater love has no one than this, that one lays down one’s life for one’s friends (pro amicis suis)—Jn 15:13. See Kendall (2009), 144.

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B’ inverts the action of B. Like B, B’ foregrounds the actions of two of King Edwin’s chief men. In both B and B’, these chief men are portrayed as good men who do good deeds. In the opening bracket, however, they are victimized by evil; in the closing they conquer it. The one identified in the closing bracket B’ as ‘another great man’ (alius optimatum)—the one who recounts the famous sparrow-in-the-hall allegory—figuratively slays Satan in as much as he provides a compelling narrative that leads his peers, Edwin’s other elders and advisors (maiores natu ac regis consiliarii), to be ‘divinely moved’ (diuinitus admoniti) toward Christian faith and worship. As we will soon see, this nameless great man’s speech is arguably the chief crux of the entire conversion narrative. Also, paralleling Eumer’s stabbing of Lilla and Forthhere in B is the pagan priest Coifi’s impaling of the idol altars and shrines—potent symbols of Satan—with his lance in B’. The narrative links together B and B’ by including in each a reference to the Derwent River, which are the only references to Yorkshire’s Derwent in the entire Historia. In both, moreover, the Derwent is associated with the forces of evil. In B, it is the river next to which Eumer travels on his way to try to murder Edwin (2,9—99,5–7). In B’, it is the landmark just beyond which Coifi found those pagan idols and altars ripe for destruction (2,13—113,20–24). Also, in both B and B’, the respective protagonists encounter no effective resistance to their murderous actions. In B, the narrator emphasizes Eumer’s dominance over the situation by making him the ever active, overpowering grammatical subject of nearly every sentence in which he appears. Even in the sentence that informs the reader that Edwin’s men have finally thwarted Eumer’s murderous spree, Eumer appears as the active grammatical subject: ‘Although he was quickly surrounded by swords, in this melee he handily cut down with his dreaded sword another of the soldiers, whose name was Forthhere.’51 In B’, the tables have turned. The king’s men, no longer the helpless victims they were in B, totally dominate. Their victory over ‘the god of this world’ is total, coming without any opposition: in Edwin’s council, no pagan argument emerges to counter the sparrow-in-the-hall speech; nor does anyone oppose Coifi and his companions when they destroy the pagan idols’ altars and shrines. Moreover, the B/B’ parallelism develops the theme of catholicity by contrasting the degeneration of the old pagan community with the emergence of a new catholic and Christian one. B shows how the ‘god of this age’ destroys the fellowship that Edwin enjoys by destroying Edwin’s most loyal men, and almost killing Edwin in the process. B’ shows the erection of a new specifically Christian fellowship, whose first bonding activity is to destroy paganism’s idolatrous shrines. C/C’ Edwin and Paulinus deliberate about which god to pray to, what to pray for / Edwin’s Councilors deliberate about which religion to follow

Although the C/C’ inverted parallelism may also seem artificial, its respective poles are the only places in the entire story where the relative merits of Christianity and

51 Bede HE 2,9—99,15–17: Qui cum mox undique gladiis inpeteretur, in ipso tumultu etiam alium de militibus, cui nomen erat Fordheri, sica nefanda peremit.

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paganism are actually debated. In this inversion’s opening episode (C) Paulinus and Edwin lock horns in polite dispute after Æthelburh gives birth to a daughter on Easter night, just following Eumer’s assassination attempt upon Edwin earlier that Easter day. That debate is captured in a single sentence: And when the same king, in Paulinus’s presence, gave thanks to his gods for the daughter born to him, the bishop began, in opposition, to give thanks to the Lord Christ and to affirm to the king what he himself [i.e., Paulinus] by his own prayers had obtained for the king: that the queen should birth her offspring safe and without grave pain. Two issues are at stake here: (1) which deity or deities should be thanked for the safe birthing and (2) for what precisely one ought to give thanks. Edwin begins by offering thanks to his gods for the daughter born to him. Paulinus, ‘in opposition’ (e contra), gives thanks to the Lord Christ for granting his own petition, namely, that Æthelburh, the wife and mother, bear her offspring safely and without grave pain. Thus whereas Edwin is chiefly thankful for the health and welfare of his new daughter, Paulinus is thankful for Æthelburh’s health and welfare. While at first sight this debate may seem puzzling, it conforms to the pattern seen elsewhere in the Historia in which Christian catholicity is cast as opposing persons or parties that have so narrow a concern for their own that they care little for the outsider, or other. In this case, Edwin is giving thanks for his own—that is, for the extension of his bloodline which his daughter’s safe birth secures for him. In this way, he here resembles the British bishops and teachers at Augustine’s Oak, who in turn resemble Scripture’s Pharisees, those stereotypical Jews who so cherish their own traditions that they remain closed to embracing the other within their midst. To counter Edwin’s instinct, Paulinus indicates that Edwin ought really to be thankful for his wife’s health and survival of childbirth. In the same way that the Britons ought to be concerned for the spiritual welfare of the pagan English in their midst, so too should Edwin be concerned for the welfare of that person with whom he has no natural kinship ties. The bond of marriage is, after all, an artificial one inasmuch as the affection it sponsors cannot rely on the kind of narcissism that thrives on genetic similarity, as a father’s love for his daughter may do. This squabble between king and bishop results in what appears to be Edwin’s complete acquiescence to Paulinus’ statement. As was noted earlier, Edwin is said to be delighted at Paulinus’ words, but his reaction seems disingenuous. For his ‘delight’ prompts him to promise Paulinus that he will convert if he can defeat Cwichelm in battle and recover from the wound he sustained at Eumer’s hands. But when these conditions are fulfilled, he still refuses to submit to baptism, claiming only that he will forswear pagan worship. The final step of Edwin’s conversion will have to await the council with his chief men (C’), which functions as the closing bracket to Edwin’s and Paulinus’ earlier mini-council (C). Readers since Bede’s time have intuitively sensed that this council is one of the most important turning points—if not the most important—in the entire conversion narrative. And rightly so. Still, one might argue, as Calvin Kendall has done, that Edwin’s real conversion occurs just a little earlier, when Paulinus shows him the famous sign that the mysterious spirit had secretly revealed to Edwin

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so many years before during his exile at King Rædwald’s court.52 Edwin certainly agrees to conversion when Paulinus shows him the sign. Yet this conversion appears to be—from the perspective of the larger text—pagan in nature. By ‘pagan,’ I mean to suggest that it seems to be largely motivated by the do ut des principle of ancient religions whereby religion is a grand bargain that ensures a reciprocal exchange of goods and favors between gods and humans.53 By this principle, the worshipper offers a gift or service to the gods, either in response to an already conferred blessing, or in hopes that they will soon do so. One can see Edwin express this attitude earlier, first when he thanks the gods for the gift of his daughter and later when he promises he will serve Christ if he both recovers from the wound Eumer inflicts and if he defeats King Cwichelm. At first glance, Edwin’s understanding of religion as this tit-for-tat arrangement with the gods seems not to have changed much when he finally agrees to convert, Paulinus having shown him the same sign that the spirit did at Rædwald’s court.54 Edwin’s eventual assent to Christian faith still seems to follow directly from his acknowledgment that he had in fact received certain worldly benefits from God shortly after he had met with the spirit at Rædwald’s court. These benefits include: (1) King Rædwald’s change of heart in deciding finally to keep faith with Edwin instead of betraying him to Æthelfrith; and (2) Edwin’s great reversal of fortune in not only being freed from the threat Æthelfrith posed, but in succeeding to that persecutor’s throne. I am not saying that Edwin underwent no significant change when Paulinus finally showed him the mysterious sign, but I am saying that the author does not explicitly mark it as either significant or as specifically Christian. As I will later argue, it should be viewed as both, but that only a skillful reader has the capacity to discern this since doing so requires deftly inferring from among the story’s myriad details the inner movements of Edwin’s heart. About these the author is maddeningly silent. Yet however signficant that moment when Edwin sees that sign, for reasons that will become clear later, the narrative’s larger logic demands that we not view his conversion as complete until the Council scene ends, when—as the text relates—‘the king confessed that he was taking up the faith of Christ.’55 The council opens with a lengthy speech from Edwin’s pagan chief priest Coifi. Surely the Christian reader that our text envisions finds much to admire about Coifi, his paganism notwithstanding: Coifi suggests that all hear the teaching of the Bishop Paulinus, volunteers to destroy pagan idols, and suggests embracing Christian faith. 52 Kendall (2009), 147. 53 Do ut des is translated as ‘I give that you might give.’ The ut could indicate either result or purpose. If rendered in terms of purpose—‘I give in order that you might give’—it suggests more specifically that the the giver’s gift is motivated by the desire to receive something in return from his or her recipient. 54 Kendall argues that what distinguishes Bede’s Historia from Eusebius’ Historia Ecclesiastica as well as Gregory of Tours’ Historia Francorum is precisely the anti-Constantinian model of conversion that it offers in the Edwin story. This anti-Constantinian model, as he explains, rejects the notion that ‘the faith of a ruler and his people ought ideally to depend on a bargain struck between the ruler and God’—Kendall (2009), 138. In other words, it rejects the do-ut-des principle. By this chapter’s end, I will agree with Kendall yet I do not fully see his reasons for inferring that Edwin’s conversion was, as he puts it, ‘a profound transformation’—Kendall (2009), 137. 55 Bede, HE 2,13—113,1–3: rex … fidem se Christi suscipere confessus est.

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But Coifi does all of these things either in the council’s late stages or after it has ended. Yet if one looks at Coifi’s statement at the beginning of the council, his express motive for conversion seems congruent with that largely transactional do-ut-des view of religion that I just attributed to Edwin. He says: See, O king, the nature of what is just now preached to us [i.e., the new Christian religion]; for I disclose to you most truly what I have learned for certain, namely, that the religion which we have held up until now has nothing at all of power. For none of your [men] has given himself more zealously to the worship of our gods than I; and yet there are many who receive fuller benefits from you than I do, and greater dignities, and they are rendered more prosperous in all things that they decide should be done or acquired. But if the gods were able to do anything, they would want rather to help me who has taken care to serve them so zealously.56 Coifi’s words reveal certain assumptions about religion’s proper function in human life. First, he views religion’s purpose as securing power. A religion is to be judged as worthy by virtue of the power that accrues to the one who petitions its deity or deities. This is not something unique to Coifi’s view of religion. Even Christians’ worship of God is owing, in part, to their common acknowledgment of God’s power. But the conviction that God is supreme not only in power but also in goodness grounds Christian worship as well, as does the conviction that God’s goodness manifests itself in God’s love, directed not only to individuals, but also to such collectivities as Israel and the church. By contrast, Coifi does not seem to care whether the power of divinity is morally good. He only cares whether it is good for him. He complains—to Edwin’s face, no less—that the pagan gods have failed to move Edwin to shower him with fuller benefits and greater dignities (ampliora beneficia … et maiores dignitates) than those that many others have enjoyed at Edwin’s hand.57 Since Coifi knows himself to have besought these gods more diligently than Edwin’s other counselors, he concludes not that the pagan gods are unwilling to advance his interests, but that they are impotent to do so.58 They lack power. He cannot conceive of the possibility that the gods could have a motivation fundamentally different from his: if they are receiving diligent service from him, and want it to continue, why would they not grant his petitions? From the Christian reader’s perspective, Coifi is remarkable for not only the crass and shameless promotion of his own self-interest, but also for his frank admission that he has used the gods, albeit unsuccessfully, to bend King Edwin’s will to serve his own. Such is his first speech at the council. By the time he speaks a second time, he has changed his understanding of what conversion entails. Whereas in his first speech he is concerned about fuller benefits and greater dignities for himself in this world,

56 Bede, HE 2,13—111,21–31. 57 Bede, HE 2,13—111,27–28. 58 Coifi’s claim that none of Edwin’s cohort devoted themselves as faithfully to the pagan gods as he did intriguingly echoes the Apostle Paul’s claim that he was a ‘more abundantly zealous imitator’ (abundantius aemulator) of Jewish traditions than his peers (Gal 1:14).

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in the second he is concerned with a truth that confers the otherworldly gifts of ‘life, salvation, and eternal blessedness.’ Is there anything that a skillful reader can discern happening in the narrative that might have led to Coifi’s startling change of mind? Since his first speech, only the unnamed noble, a group of unnamed counselors, and Paulinus have spoken. Of these three, the narrator only gives substantive information about the speech of the unnamed noble. The unnamed counselors are simply said to have mirrored the sentiments of the latter, while nothing at all is reported about the content of Paulinus’ speech. Therefore, if any information about Coifi’s new orientation is to be mined from the text, it will have to come from the unnamed noble’s speech, which I shall abbreviate hereafter as ‘the sparrow story.’ Let us examine that story more carefully now to see what both the reader and Coifi might have gleaned from it and how it may have influenced Coifi’s new way of thinking about the advantages of Christian faith over paganism. The Sparrow Story

The comparison of human life to that of the sparrow seeking a winter refuge is among the most beloved episodes of Bede’s entire Historia. Its charm and power lie, perhaps, in the web of analogies that it traces out in the reader’s mind. On the surface level, this story is an allegory. The sparrow in fact represents the lives of human beings, as the noble makes clear in the commentary he offers at the parable’s end: ‘The life of humans,’ he says, ‘seems a little like this.’59 In a way analogous to the sparrow entering and exiting the royal hall in winter, human beings enter life at birth from the winter of their own non-existence and then at death pass back into that same winter, not knowing in the interim what precisely non-existence entails, nor how their brief existence informs it. While the story foregrounds a sparrow, its distinctive poignancy grows out of the deep concern it exhibits for the destiny of the solitary human being. At one level, the allegory would have worked perfectly well without associating the sparrow with those humans celebrating specifically in the king’s hall: the sparrow could have entered any warm shelter—a barn, or its own nest, perhaps. All that is needed is a dark, stormy winter’s night, a temporary safe haven, and the suggestion that this sparrow’s experience is analogous to every human being’s. Yet at another level, by setting the sparrow’s appearance not merely in a human context, but in the specific human context of Edwin’s band of nobles feasting around a winter’s fire, the narrator offers some wonderfully particular details that invite Edwin’s companions, and also the reader, to allegorize more fully than even the unnamed noble does in his brief commentary. The narrator adds detail to the story’s scene by constructing four ablative absolutes describing the circumstances of the sparrow’s appearance and departure: (1) King Edwin is sitting at supper with his ducibus and ministris in wintertime [te residente ad

59 Bede, HE 2,13—112,17–18: Ita haec uita hominum ad modicum apparet. I have translated ad modicum here as ‘a little.’ Cf. Mantello and Rigg (1996), 87.

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caenam cum ducibus ac ministris tuis]; (2) a fireplace is burning in their midst [accenso foco in medio]; which (3) warms the upper room [calido effecto caenaculo]; while (4) the winds of wintry rain and snow whirl outside everywhere [furentibus autem foris per omnia turbinibus hiemalium pluuiarum uel niuium].60 These rich contextual details invite the reader to identify with the sparrow and its predicament of enduring a wintry storm. If the sparrow in this story represents the human being, lost in a cold, dark, and mysterious cosmos, then whom do the story’s humans (i.e., King Edwin, his duces, and his ministri) represent? For whom are they an allegory? King Edwin and his ministers serve a vital function here. First, they are at once the audience to whom the unnamed noble tells his story and also that story’s human characters.61 As such they will surely see themselves, along with the sparrow, as the subjects of this story. With the skill of a mother who makes up a tale for her child about some other fictional child who nonetheless shares so many of her own child’s traits, the unnamed noble heightens the other councillors’ interest in the story by making them, or men like them, its characters. In doing so, he renders the story existentially relevant both to them and to us, its hidden audience. The parable’s didactic power hinges on the change it calls forth in the reader’s self-understanding. At its beginning, the reader identifies with King Edwin and his duces. After all, the reader has been following Edwin’s fortunes for some time now, so it is understandable that the reader identifies more with him and his retinue than with a common bird. At first, in relation to the sparrow, Edwin and his retinue seem to themselves—and to the reader—as being more fortunate than the sparrow in at least three respects. First, in contrast to the sparrow, which flits into and out of the hall’s warmth for what seems to be at most a few seconds, Edwin and his company may pass the entire day inside the hall, warmed by its fire, and they may, in turn, enjoy the warmth and fellowship it affords all the days of their lives. Second, they can provide for themselves what the sparrow can only enjoy as their guest: a warm, hospitable environment amidst the storm outside. Third, their haven includes fellowship with one another at supper, whereas the sparrow is a solitary. Indeed, the story identifies the bird not merely as ‘a sparrow,’ as Colgrave’s translation suggests, but as ‘one of the sparrows’ (unus passerum). The Latin thus emphasizes the sparrow’s singularity, or solitariness, which contrasts with the happy fellowship and camaraderie of the king’s retinue. A specifically Christian interpretation of the story, as told to this point, might allegorize the fellowship of King Edwin and his retinue as akin to the communion of the Heavenly King and His angels, who warmly host solitary human life, as represented by the sparrow, for as long as it endures. As the unnamed noble finishes his story, however, he shatters the reader’s initial conviction that the companionable life of Edwin and his chief men is any more fortunate than the sparrow’s: ‘Thus does the life of human beings seem a little.’ The noble thus suggests that the plight of the king and his retinue is not fundamentally different from the sparrow’s. Although God and the heavenly host share with the royal

60 Bede, HE 2,13—112,7–11. 61 Cf. Fry (1979), 192.

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retinue the impulse for fellowship and hospitality, they do not share that retinue’s all too human vulnerability to the winter of death and non-existence. The enduring and all-encompassing reality in this story is not the king and his counselors sitting around the warm fire, but the wintry wind, rain, and snow that surround them. The parable suggests that the comfortable reality of the king’s retinue sitting around the fire is nothing but a brief respite for its members, much as it is for the sparrow. From the parable’s perspective, both King Edwin and his retinue would be mistaken if they experienced the hall’s warm hearth and fellowship as enduring reality. Like the sparrow, the lives of Edwin and his men will inexorably slip away one by one. Yet at another level, the narrative here suggests that the plight of the king and the retinue is even worse than the sparrow’s. Why? Because finally, the viewpoint of both the reading audience and the audience of Edwin’s counselors is not the sparrow’s, but a human being’s. Specifically it is the point of view of one who gazes up at the lone sparrow in the rafters and sees it ‘slip away from [their] eyes’ (tuis oculis elabitur).62 If the sparrow could speak, it could presumably tell us whence it came and where it is going. The noble, however, gazing up from below, has no such knowledge. He knows the sparrow to be safe within the confines of the house, but has no such knowledge about how safe it is before it flies in, or after it flies out. The sparrow’s origin and its fate are a mystery, as are a human being’s. In this way, the life of the sparrow, humanly conceived, resembles that of a solitary human. The unnamed counsellor concludes his narrative by asserting that Christianity’s superiority lies in its providing a more certain knowledge than paganism about what precedes and follows our human lifetimes. But our analysis of the narrative tells against such a reader remaining satisfied with so simple a conclusion. The problem with human life in this narrative is not merely lack of knowledge about the void that brackets it, but also the lack of companionship with which such a void threatens it. The warmth of the fire in the hall suggests the charity of human fellowship; a sparrow flying through the icy wind outside suggests a terrible human isolation, reminiscent of the isolation experienced by the old exiled warrior in the Old English poem, The Wanderer. From one perspective, a reader could conclude that the sparrow story is deeply depressing. And yet, if the story’s implied reader is a Christian monk or nun, he or she may see more in it than the character who tells it. Such an implied reader may have heard that curious phrase ‘one of the sparrows’ (unus passerum) as an echo from the Gospels, in which Jesus speaks about ‘one from among the sparrows’ (Vg. = unus ex illis [passeribus]), saying, ‘not a single one of them falls into oblivion in God’s sight.’63 Bede himself comments on this very verse in his Luke commentary, saying: ‘If, Jesus is saying, God cannot forget the smallest animals, even those flying creatures that are borne wherever you please through the air, then you who have been made in the

62 Bede, HE 2,13—112,13–17. 63 Lk 12:6 and Mt 10:29 (Vg). In Vita Pauli 16 (PL 23,28B), Jerome uses the precise words that Bede later uses for this story, unus passerum (‘one of the sparrows’): ‘Domine, sine cuius nutu nec folium arboris defluit, nec unus passerum ad terram cadit.’ Jerome here is also clearly alluding to Lk 12:6/Mt 10:29.

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image of the Creator should not be made fearful by those who kill the body, because He who governs irrational creatures does not cease to care for rational ones.’64 For the skillfully reading monk or nun, therefore, this phrase could suggest a scriptural echo that, far from being depressing in a pagan way, is Christianly edifying. For it suggests that neither sparrow nor human is solitary, since each is accompanied by One who watches over it providentially. Here the unnamed noble’s depressing view of life is something that the knowing reader of Scripture recognizes as ironic: the noble intends the metaphor of the solitary sparrow to be gloomy and suggests Christian conversion as an antidote to its gloominess. But when read through the lens of Jesus’ saying, the sparrow story is comforting. Like the noble’s sparrow story, Jesus’ saying about sparrows has as its twin concerns sparrows and humans. It presumes that God providentially watches over the solitary sparrow, to be sure, but also over the human creature so much the more. If the noble knew that, he would feel better—not just about the sparrow, but about the human being to which he compares it. To say that the larger context for the sparrow’s time in the hall is a winter’s storm may be true, but only partially so. From a skillful reader’s perspective, the larger context, one that encompasses even the storm itself, is God’s providential care for every order of creation. If such care avails even for ‘one of the sparrows’ sold for a penny (cf. Mt 10:29), then how much more for the noble, his comrades, and his king?65 So, the skillful reader here knows more than the nameless noble knows, namely, that the noble’s depressing view of existence is untrue and that he cannot see the truth of human existence because he does not know the God of Christ’s gospel. Like Coifi’s argument for conversion, the unnamed noble’s argument is based on a desperation born of the deeply felt sense that paganism cannot provide what humans need most. The unnamed noble’s instinct that there is something better than paganism is correct. But the story he tells to make sense of that instinct gets it wrong—though not entirely so: for Coifi did in fact learn something crucial from the sparrow story. He learned that there are more urgent questions to ask of religion than whether it will enable him to gain this-worldly benefits and dignities from his king. After all, those benefits and dignities are the exclusive concern, if you will, of the sparrow inside the hall, which represents human life from the moment of birth to one’s dying breath. The unnamed noble, by contrast, is interested in the sparrow outside the hall, that is, in the eternity, if you will, of what precedes and follows this-worldly existence. By focusing all concern and anxiety on what happens to the sparrow in the wintry storms that bracket its sojourn inside the Edwin’s warm hall, the unnamed noble effectively renders irrelevant, or at least secondary, Coifi’s preliminary concern with worldly benefits and dignities. The skillful reader can also infer that Paulinus’ preaching must have endorsed the unnamed noble’s conviction that religion should embrace less trivial concerns, because Coifi now has a new Christian vocabulary to express higher concerns. He

64 In Lucam 12:6 in CCSL 120,247, ll. 649–60. 65 Donald Fry offers an interpretation of this sparrow parable that views it more through a lens provided by the Psalms, especially Ps 83(84). As such, it usefully complements my reading, which relies chiefly on Jesus’ saying about the sparrow. See Fry (1979).

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speaks of ‘the gifts of eternal life, salvation, and blessedness’ as though they were the proper answers to the question that the unnamed noble raises, namely, ‘What befalls human life beyond its appearance within human history?’ As we have seen, this entire six-chapter narrative’s chief concern is for catholicity, that is, for ceaselessly widening the circle of human community. As such, it aims at an expansiveness that includes what to this point has been seen as being out of bounds. In A’, catholic communal concern was shown to include the plebs as well as the high-born; the Deirans as well as the Bernicians. In C, that concern was shown to extend outside the circle of one’s blood kin and to include one’s wife, to whom one may have no natural kinship ties. And here in the Council story, C’, the Christian understanding of redemption is shown to be superior to paganism by expanding the scope of human concern and existence to include what comes before and after embodied life on earth. But more than that, the Council story suggests that life among humans in Edwin’s hall is richer than that of the solitary sparrow not just because it is warmer there, but because it is more companionable. Here is a notion of redemption that extends beyond the solitary individual to the close fellowship that renders human solitude bearable. In this way, human sociability mirrors the divine Trinity’s which, as Pope Boniface asserts three time in his letters to Edwin and Æthelburh, is ‘indivisible’ (individua).66 Boniface relates to Edwin that, whatever the Father does is done by the counsel of—or in council with—His Word (coaeterni Verbi sui consilio) and in unity with the Holy Spirit (Sancti Spiritus unitate).67 Moreover this Trinity does not rest content until it calls to Itself human beings of every race and kind. In a reference that foreshadows the unnamed noble’s image of the sparrow warmed by winter’s fire in the king’s hall, Boniface writes to Edwin that God’s mercy has now deigned to kindle ‘even the cold hearts of the races placed at the ends of the earth.’68 D/D’ Edwin promises conditionally to serve Christ / Edwin reneges on his promise E/E’ Edwin is unwilling to embrace Christian faith / Edwin is willing to affirm Christian faith

Inversions D/D’ and E/E’ are difficult to discern because D’ functions also as E. That is, Edwin’s reneging on the promise he had made to serve Christ (provided first that he recover from the poison-laced wound he had received from Eumer and then that he overcome King Cwichelm) serves as the polar opposite both of D (his promise)—which preceded E’ in the story—and of E’ (his actual willingness to serve Christ). In the D/D’ episode, the reader is surprised when Edwin reneges on his promise to serve Christ because the narrative between D and D’ had led the reader to expect that Edwin would fulfill it. After all, Edwin himself set the conditions that

66 Bede, HE 2,10—101,17 and 102,7 and 2,11—105,12. 67 Bede, HE 2,10—101,11–12: dispositis ordinibus, quibus subsisterent, coaeterni Uerbi sui consilio, et Sancti Spiritus unitate. 68 Bede, HE 2,10—101,24–26: etiam in extremitate terrae positarum gentium corda frigida.

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needed to be met for him to fulfill his side of the bargain and those conditions are immediately and completely fulfilled in the ensuing episode: he recovers from his wound and roundly defeats Cwichelm. Although the reader is left clueless within the D/D’ narrative as to why Edwin does not fulfill his promise, he has reason to hope that Edwin’s undoing (in E’) of his earlier ‘reneging’ in narrative D’/E may provide some clues. We may rightly infer, for example, that the three conditions/predictions made by the mysterious figure Edwin encounters in darkest night at Rædwald’s court (M) have little to do with Edwin’s changed mind seen first in E’. After all, the nature of these new predictions differ little from those Edwin articulated himself in D/D’. The first involves Edwin being delivered from Rædwald’s collusion with Æthelfrith, which is endangering his life.69 But this condition is little different from the first condition in D/D’, namely that Edwin be delivered from his poisonous wound, which also was life endangering. The second condition involves Edwin turning tables upon his political enemy Æthelfrith, and usurping his authority.70 But this is precisely like the condition that was fulfilled in D/D’: Edwin turned tables on Cwichelm who, like Æthelfrith, had conspired to murder him. These first two conditions require divine intervention for their fulfillment and they demand Edwin’s thanksgiving and submission, which he offers in E/E’, but withheld in D/D’. The third condition stipulates a more active response from Edwin: that he embrace Christianity if the one who—in predictions one and two—foretells the great gifts Edwin will enjoy can also offer him advice concerning his salvation and a better and more useful life than any of his forbears or kin ever heard of.71 But Edwin had implicitly set himself this condition earlier in D and then failed to fulfill it in D’. And lest any reader be tempted to believe that Edwin has undergone profound spiritual change when the mysterious spirit appears to him at Rædwald’s court, the narrative works to counter that by putting on Edwin’s lips a response to this third condition that shows the pagan do-ut-des framework as fully in place. Edwin says that he will follow the spiritual advice of whoever can put him at the ‘head of the kingdom’ (ad regni apicem)72 Here, clearly, Edwin shows that his willingness to take spiritual counsel is clearly subordinate to his political ambition. But if the three conditions/predictions in M/M’ play no role in Edwin’s successful religious conversion in E’, then what does? The answer to this question must await a broader consideration of the remaining inversions. F/F’ through M/M’: Narrative Inversions from the flashback scene at King Rædwald’s court

Inversions A/A’ through F/F’ occur within the main time frame of the conversion narrative. Inversions G/G’ through M/M’ occur inside the flashback at King Rædwald’s

69 Bede, HE 2,12—108,33–109,3. 70 Bede, HE 2,12—109,5–9. 71 Bede, HE 2,12—109,12–18. 72 Bede, HE 2,12—109,12.

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court. This flashback helps the reading audience make sense of the F/F’ and G/G’ inversions, which highlight how Edwin moves from a reluctance to a willingness to undergo conversion. Because of the inversions that the flashback narrates, the reader is expected to understand the meaning of the mysterious sign that Paulinus shows Edwin (i.e., placing his right hand on Edwin’s head) as well as Edwin’s trembling and capitulation upon experiencing it. The outermost bracket of the flashback, G/G’, shows the inversion ‘Æthelfrith persecuting Edwin / Edwin defeating Æthelfrith.’ The process by which this inversion comes about is, in turn, explained by the five inversions nested within it. The outermost inversions, H/H’ and I/I’, explain Edwin’s changed relationship with his patron, King Rædwald of East Anglia. H and H’ frame a brief sentence that explains why Rædwald goes from being Edwin’s friend and protector to becoming, potentially, a traitorous enemy, namely, because Æthelfrith has pressured Rædwald to hand over Edwin, promising to wage war if Rædwald fails to do so and to reward him with gifts of silver if he does.73 The narrative thus implies that human nature, if left to its own devices, is tempted to sin, here conceived as faithlessness to a friend, either through fear or greed. Rædwald’s problem is not that he is evil, but that concern for his own safety and welfare tempts him to sin against Edwin, whom he has committed to protect. As we shall see in inversion I/I’, Rædwald repents of the evil he here intends to do Edwin. To understand his change of heart, however, we need to look more closely at the remaining inversions. Mirroring the movements of King Rædwald, Edwin’s unnamed companion first offers Edwin help (K), then abandons or deserts him (K’=L), then returns as an ally to announce Rædwald’s changed heart (L’). This friend’s desertion of Edwin, however, differs from Rædwald’s in that it involves no change of heart, but only physical abandonment: he leaves Edwin by himself in darkest night. Also different is the abandonment’s cause. Whereas Rædwald out of greed and fear gives up on helping Edwin, the unnamed friend does so out of Edwin’s own refusal to accept the aid to escape, which his friend has offered. Although the reader sees no overt antagonism between Edwin and his friend, the K/K’ inversion nonetheless frames a conflict in their respective values. The friend assumes that Edwin’s proper response to Rædwald’s betrayal should be self-preservation. And so, he offers to help Edwin flee. Edwin disagrees: self-preservation is not his highest aim. Faithfulness is. Because Edwin has not yet suffered any harm at Rædwald’s hand and anticipates such harm only because of a rumor, Edwin concludes that he should not flee, since doing so would break the bond of trust that had been forged by the pact he and Rædwald had already made.74 Edwin’s logic does not suggest that self-preservation can never be pursued as a good, but rather, that it cannot be pursued as the highest good, as his friend assumes. A higher good is keeping faith with one who, though suspected of treachery, has done nothing yet to confirm such suspicion. Although at one level, the unnamed

73 Bede, HE 2,12—107,28–30: et copiosiora argenti dona offerens, et bellum insuper illi, si contemneretur, indicens. 74 Bede, HE 2,12—108,7–13.

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friend and Rædwald are portrayed here as opposites—the former remaining loyal to Edwin, the latter ready to betray him—yet at a deeper level they share the same conviction, which Edwin opposes: that the mere threat of one’s annihilation justifies one’s voiding of a pact already made. In contrast, Edwin holds firm to the conviction that mere fear of one’s own annihilation should not tempt one to faithlessness. More than that, as we noted earlier, this is the only point in the entire six-chapter narrative of Edwin’s conversion when the audience hears Edwin speak in his own words, in direct, quoted speech. The unnamed friend thereby leaves Edwin alone ‘in darkest night’ (intempesta nocte), thus setting the stage for a turning point that will motivate the following completed inversions: L’, J’, I’, G’, F’, and E’. It is fitting that the most deeply embedded inversions in the entire narrative (L/L’ and M/M’) are set in darkest night. Such a setting underscores the utter hopelessness, solitariness, and friendlessness of Edwin’s situation. Also, it recalls the situation of the English, mentioned by Pope Boniface, as a race situated in remoteness at the end of the earth. This inversion involves the sudden approach (M: subito … appropinquantem) and equally sudden disappearance (M’: repente disparuit) of a mysterious figure. As was said above, this figure is identified simply as a human person (hominem), but its true identity will be disclosed in the closing bracket M’. Approaching Edwin, this figure asks Edwin why he is sitting alone in gloomy wakefulness when the others are resting, having been overcome by sleep.75 In one of the narrative’s rare moments of humor, Edwin expresses more than a little annoyance at the unnamed person’s question, asking him why he or she should care whether Edwin spends the night inside or out? It is hard to miss the foreshadowing of the sparrow story here as well as an echo from Pope Boniface’s letter in 2,10. Like the lone sparrow in the winter storm (unus ex passeribus), Edwin here too is alone (solus) and outside (foris), both literally and existentially. In this way, Edwin is also like the English whom he personifies and whose chilled hearts are, as Pope Boniface writes, situated ‘at the end of the earth,’ far distant from Rome and the church’s established Mediterranean nexus. The sparrow, the English, and Edwin thus stand in contrast to those various others comfortably ensconced inside their respective ‘halls.’ Sensitive to Edwin’s annoyance, the mysterious person assures Edwin that he or she is well aware of Edwin’s plight and state of anxiety. (I say ‘he or she’ because this person’s gender is never identified). The person then asks Edwin three questions, each involving a hypothetical ‘someone’ (ei, siqui sit) who has the power to get Edwin out of his precarious situation: (1) ‘What reward would you give someone who would free you from this gloomy situation and persuade Rædwald not to betray you?’; (2) ‘What if he or she promised that you also will be king, your enemies having been wiped out so that you would surpass in power your predecessors and all before you who had been kings for the race of the English?’; and (3) ‘Would you consent to obey this person and agree to receive from such a one counsels concerning salvation if he or she were able to give you advice that is better concerning your salvation and

75 Bede, HE 2,12—108,24–27.

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more useful for your life than anything your forbears had ever known?’76 From the narrator’s perspective, though perhaps not Edwin’s, these three questions are asked in increasing order of importance. The first two implicitly promise Edwin earthly gain and ask him for payment in return; the last promises spiritual gain—better and more useful counsel concerning salvation—and asks obedience in return. Indeed, it is this third question around which the entire narrative revolves: Will Edwin conform to the counsels of Christian salvation and obey Christian teachers that God has commissioned and appointed to guide him? These questions asked of Edwin raise other interesting questions for the reader. For example, who is this ‘someone’ who can grant Edwin such blessings? A discerning reader will note that the one who resolves the dilemma mentioned in the first question is Rædwald’s unnamed queen. It is she who shames Rædwald into repenting of his shameful intention to betray Edwin into Æthelfrith’s hands.77 Yet as a presumably pagan queen and as one who may have later seduced Rædwald into a syncretism that worshipped both Christ and the old pagan gods, she certainly cannot be the ‘someone’ who can fulfill the promises made to Edwin in questions 2 and 3.78 She, therefore, cannot be the ‘someone’ whom the figure mentions. Nor can the ‘someone’ of all three questions be Bishop Paulinus. Although one could read him as the one who, as question 3 forecasts, offers Edwin the counsels of Christian salvation, he is assigned no role as the ‘someone’ who provides Edwin with the earthly blessings mentioned in questions 1 and 2. Clearly others are at work in making possible the blessings that will come to Edwin. In addition to the queen and Paulinus, these include Rædwald himself, who not only keeps faith with Edwin, but also puts his own army at Edwin’s service to defeat Æthelfrith’s forces, and Rædwald’s son Regenhere, who sacrifices his life in battle to assist Edwin to the throne. Yet from our text’s perspective, all these human others, most of whom are pagan, must be read, like Edwin himself, as the agents rather than the authors of Edwin’s and the Northumbrians’ happy destiny. As the narrative progresses, we begin to get a fuller sense of who ultimately drives the narrative. M/M’ is the inmost frame of the entire conversion narrative. The sequence of actions A, B, C, E, F, G, I, L begins to be undone or flipped once the M’ inversion occurs, that is, once the human who suddenly appeared to Edwin suddenly disappears and in that disappearance is recognized by Edwin really to be a spirit. The spirit’s sudden disappearance triggers a series of reversal events (L’, J’, I’, G’, F’, E’, C’, B’ and A’), all of which benefit Edwin, fulfill his deepest wishes, and resolve all the plot’s tensions. Who then authors all these reversals? There are only three possibilities, since there are only three characters mentioned inside M/M’ frame: Edwin, the mysterious figure who asks him the three questions, or the equally

76 Question 1 (Bede, HE 2,12—108,33–109,3); question 2 (109,5–9); question 3 (109,12–18). 77 Bede, HE 2,12—110,5–11. 78 Bede, HE 2,15—116,1–6. Since readers are not given the name of Rædwald’s queen, they cannot be sure whether the queen who counsels Rædwald against betraying to Æthelfrith is the same queen who induced him to syncretistic worship.

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mysterious ‘someone’ who is the subject of the mysterious figure’s three questions. Clearly it is the mysterious ‘someone,’ whom Paulinus finally identifies, once the main narrative resumes, as ‘the Lord’ (in F’). There he informs the still hesitant Edwin that Edwin had in fact escaped the hands of his foes (presumably Æthelfrith and Cwichelm) on account of ‘the Lord’s help’ (Domino donante) and, moreoever, that Edwin had at last attained the kingdom he had desired because ‘[the Lord] himself bestowed [it]’ (ipso largiente).79 Not surprisingly, therefore, God is the initiator of the plot’s resolution and thus the one who finally brings about Edwin’s and the Northumbrians’ conversion. As if to preserve God’s mystery, the author identifies the Lord as the ‘someone’ mentioned in the flashback scene only this once, and does so discreetly by slipping this information inside these two two-word ablative absolute clauses, just mentioned, which Paulinus utters as he shows the sign to Edwin and calls upon him to fulfill the promises he made to the mysterious spirit years earlier while an exile under Rædwald’s protection. Because the promises implicit in questions 1 and 2 occur in the context of a flashback, at the point in the narrative that the reader first reads of them, she knows that they have already been fulfilled, and from the larger context of the Historia must strongly suspect that the Lord Christ, or Lord God, has fulfilled them. Unlike the reader, however, Edwin knows and suspects none of this. Nor has Edwin yet correctly associated Paulinus and his Christian teachings with that ‘advice concerning salvation’ and those ‘redemptive warnings’ that the mysterious figure told him to expect. Immediately following the flashback, when the main narrative resumes, Paulinus prompts Edwin to make that association when he shows Edwin the secret sign by placing his right hand upon Edwin’s head, just as the mysterious figure had done so many years before. The sign itself bears discussion. Bede perhaps learned that Paulinus gave some sign to Edwin from the earlier Life of Gregory the Great, written by an anonymous English author some years before the Historia appeared.80 The Gregory Life, however, does not specify what the sign was. Creatively filling in this gap, the Historia says that it consisted of the mysterious figure placing his right hand on Edwin’s head and telling him to remember this sign.81 This sign has biblical, ecclesiastical, and even regal associations. Perhaps its closest parallel in Scripture is Gen 48:14, when an aged and visually challenged Jacob blesses his grandson, Joseph’s son Ephraim, by placing his right hand on his head. Specifying use of the right hand suggests that just as Ephraim, though the younger, was to be greater than his elder brother Manasseh, so Edwin, though a child in age comparison to the other English kings, would be the greatest among them, and his kingdom the greatest among all the English kingdoms. This, at any rate, is what the sign connotes when it is first shown to Edwin at King Rædwald’s 79 Bede, HE 2,12—110,32–34: ‘Ecce,’ inquit, ‘hostium manus, quos timuisti, Domino donante euasisti; ecce regnum, quod desiderasti, ipso largiente percepisti.’ My translation: ‘“Behold!” he said, “With the Lord’s help [domino donante] you have evaded the hands of enemies whom you feared; behold! you have received the kingdom that you desired, the Lord bestowing it [ipso largiente].”’ 80 Anon, Vita s. Gregorii 16 (Colgrave edn), 100. 81 Bede, HE 2,12—109,22–26.

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court. Clearly, however, when Paulinus later shows him that same sign once Edwin has become king, it connotes something much different, at least to Edwin. Seeing it the first time at Rædwald’s court, Edwin only knew that it had been shown him by a ‘spirit.’ The skillful reader, however, remembering the Ephraim story, knows that this sign signifies a blessing for Edwin. Although the reader interprets Paulinus’ second sign-showing to Edwin as yet another instance of blessing, Edwin reads it quite differently. Upon seeing it, he trembles (tremens) and wants to throw himself at Paulinus’ feet. It is hard to know what so troubles Edwin. Tremens and its cognates are used in the Vulgate Old Testament chiefly to denote a fear that results from a sudden revelation of God’s power and goodness, usually to sinners.82 Its peculiar form here (i.e., tremens) occurs only in the New Testament Gospel story of the hemorrhaging woman who touches Jesus’ garment, hoping to be healed.83 Sensing that some of his healing power has flowed out from him, Jesus asks who touched him. Mysteriously discovering who has, he peers at the woman and she trembles (tremens), ‘seeing that she was not hid.’84 Both Old and New Testament uses of this word help here to interpret Edwin’s trembling. Importantly, Edwin did not tremble upon realizing that Paulinus’ God had granted him ‘life and victory’ after Cwichelm and Eumer had conspired to kill him (D’). Here, however, when Paulinus shows him the sign, Edwin realizes that the God who had given him life and victory over King Cwichelm was that very ‘someone’ whom years earlier, as the spirit had promised, had both saved him from the persecuting King Æthelfrith and even delivered Æthelfrith and his kingdom into his hands (E’). When Paulinus showed him the sign, perhaps Edwin was overcome as he realized the enormity of the debt he owed this God. Here was a God from whom Edwin, like the Gospel’s hemorrhaging woman, could not hide. As an exile under Rædwald’s protection, Edwin had asked in desperation, ‘To where shall I flee?’, his enemies finding him everywhere. Now, ironically, his enemies have all vanished and he realizes that it is only God, his helper, from whom there is no escape. Perhaps Edwin was dumbstruck at the immense patience and goodness of this God, who had put up with his temporizing and not demanded that Edwin pay in full the debt he had long neglected. Or maybe it dawned upon him that the pagan do-ut-des model of divine-human relations did not work with this God. After all, that model was predicated on the assumption that the human partner could do something to enhance a god’s being. Maybe Edwin concluded this God, already having all the power and goodness that there was, could not be helped, but only be submitted to. Of course, the skillful reader can only infer the cause and meaning of Edwin’s trembling, since the author offers no explanation. That trembling, however, is the only clue that signals why Edwin decides to convert when Paulinus bids him do so at E’, after refusing to do so at D’.

82 Ex 15:15, Ezra 10:9, Is 33:14, Jer 48:1, Job 4:13–15, Vg Ps(G) 47:7 (48:6), Tob 12:16. 83 Mk 5:33 and Lk 8:47. 84 Lk 8:47.

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4. Reevaluating King Edwin Now that we have a better sense of the basic oppositions and similes that the entire conversion story establishes, it is time to return to the question of just how the skillful reader should evaluate the character of Edwin. Does he enact what the Historia’s Preface sees as ‘the good deeds of good people’ or the ‘evil deeds of bad people’? Or, is it even possible to answer this question in such straightforward terms? Of these two questions, the former admits of no straightforward answer. Edwin does good in leading his subjects to conversion, but evil in as much as he does not promptly execute what he promises. The reader also senses that he did something good when he refused to flee with his unnamed friend from the court of King Rædwald—but more on this later. So, it is the latter question that is the more relevant and surely it must be answered in the negative: Edwin is portrayed in this episode neither as straightforwardly good or evil. Yet, this should not cause the reader undue concern. Along with Bede, skillful medieval readers of the Bible knew that one and the same character could represent good as well as evil. In his own Tobit commentary, for example, Bede acknowledges that Tobit represents Israel in both its positive as well as its negative aspects. As such Tobit is a figure both of Israel’s generosity in sharing the word of God with Gentiles and of Israel’s prideful rejection of Jesus as Messiah.85 So, if one character can be a figure for both good and evil, then why can’t a character also be morally ambiguous, sometimes doing good, sometimes evil? As in the case of Tobit, the skillful reader can learn from his example by imitating his good deeds and avoiding his bad. Although we have so far labelled Edwin’s dilatoriness only as a vice, the skillful reader may perceive its more salutory aspects. For it can also be read emerging in part from Edwin’s wisdom and his concern for careful inner deliberation. One notes, for example, how he is described the first time that he reneges on the promise he had made to Paulinus: ‘Since he was very wise by nature, often sitting alone for a long time, his voice quiet but discussing many things with himself in the depths of his heart, he used to consider what should be done and which religion served by him.’86 As we observed in our consideration of the Britons’ council with Augustine, the Historia places high value on meeting together in conference or council as the only way to foster catholic unity. In that episode, Augustine convokes a colloquy (colloquium) with the Britons—and doing that was a good thing. In this episode, Edwin is said to have had and colloquy with himself, in his own mind (multa secum conloquens). Such an impulse for conversation is good, even if it is only with oneself. A skillful

85 On Tobias’ generosity: Bede In Tob. 1,2—CCSL 119B,3, ll. 21–30; on his pride: 2,10–11—CCSL 119B,5, ll. 1–20; and on how one person can represent both good and evil: 2,10–11—CCSL 119B,5, ll. 3–8; Foley and Holder (trans.), 57–58 and 60–61. 86 Bede, HE 2,9—100,13–17: Sed et ipse, cum esset uir natura sagacissimus, saepe diu solus residens ore quidem tacito, sed in intimis cordis multa secum conloquens, quid sibi esset faciendum, quae religio seruanda tractabat.

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reader might remember that the Virgin Mary, in Luke’s Annunciation scene, is said to have done the same thing in response to the angel’s words to her:87 Lk 2:19 (Mary)

HE 2,9 (Edwin)

omnia verba haec conferens in corde suo

in intimis cordis multa secum conloquens

considering in her own heart all these words

discussing in his heart’s depths many things with himself

Mulling things over with oneself is therefore a good first step, but it needs to be followed by a conversation or colloquium with others, which is something that Edwin several times only promises to do before finally doing it. Yet the narrative also makes it quite clear that Edwin’s being ‘very wise by nature’ (natura sagacissimus) cannot help him evaluate Christian teaching.88 Almost immediately after readers learn of Edwin’s wisdom at the end of 2,9, Pope Boniface declares in his letter to Edwin at the opening of Book 10, that God’s power is so vast that ‘no wisdom of nature’ (nulla ingenii sagacitas) can comprehend it.89 So, Edwin’s wisdom is useless to discern matters that must be embraced through faith. The skillful reader here might well associate this text’s ‘wisdom of nature’ with what Paul calls the ‘wisdom of this world’ (sapientiam huius mundi) in 1 Corinthians, in which he likens the Jews’ desire for a sign with the Greek’s desire for wisdom, both of which God frustrates by presenting the scandal of the cross to both instead.90 Apart from having a limited wisdom, Edwin also has some downright sinful qualities, especially pride. As 2,12 opens, the omniscient narrator lets readers know what Paulinus thinks about Edwin’s spiritual malady. Paulinus, it is said, sees that Edwin possesses the pride typical of kings, or as Paulinus describes it, ‘a royal spirit’s haughtiness,’ which is not easily bent toward humility.91 Although the text says this tersely, this statement perhaps explains better than any other Edwin’s chronic foot-dragging. The conversion narrative is riddled with Pope Boniface’s and Bishop Paulinus’ warnings to Edwin that, although he is king, his conversion requires what royal pride resists: submission. It requires submission to God and even to Paulinus, in as much as Paulinus is what he declares himself to be, the mouthpiece of God’s will: ‘which,’ as Paulinus insists, ‘[God] proclaims through me to you’ and to which Edwin must submit in obedience.92 This would require a radical reorientation from Edwin’s accustomed role

87 Note that the structure of both phrases is the same: a participle that means ‘pondering’ (conferens/ conloquens), a similar object (omnia verba/multa), and the detail that this pondering was done privately, in the heart (in corde suo/in intimis cordis). 88 Bede, HE 2,9—100,13. 89 Bede, HE 2,10—100,29. 90 1 Cor 1:20–23. 91 Bede, HE 2,12—107,5–7: uideret Paulinus difficulter posse sublimitatem animi regalis ad humilitatem uiae salutaris et suscipiendum mysterium uiuificae crucis inclinari. 92 Bede, HE 2,12—111,4–5: uoluntati eius quam per me tibi praedicat, obsecundare uolueris. Pope Boniface writes to Æthelburh complaining of Edwin’s resistance to showing obedience and listening to the voice of Christian preachers: ad suscipiendam uocem praedicatorum suam distulerit [Aeduini] obedientiam exhibere’ (2,11—105,9–10).

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in paganism, in which worshippers like Coifi petition the gods for favors from kings like Edwin. Under Christianity, Edwin will have to petition God for favors. Conversion will require this king, so royally haughty in spirit, to be at the mercy of a divine Other. The events of the narrative, happily, have prepared Edwin to do this, or perhaps they reveal that he has had the innate capacity to do so all along. As mentioned above, Edwin’s only significant speech, which occurs during the flashback scene, shows that Edwin, through all the trials of exile, has already learned how to be at another’s mercy. Since this speech reveals vividly what the narrator most wants the reader to know about Edwin’s virtue, it merits citation in full. It occurs when Edwin has just learned from his unnamed friend that Rædwald, fearing for his own safety, has decided to betray Edwin into Æthelfrith’s hands. When Edwin’s friend offers to help him escape, Edwin politely refuses, saying: For your kindness I thank you; but I cannot do what you suggest, namely, that I myself should be the first to make void the agreement that I entered with so great a king, when he has done me no evil nor yet brought upon me any hostilities. It is preferable, if I am to die, that he rather than someone even baser should hand me over to death. For where will I now flee—I, who for the course of so many years and seasons have, as a vagabond, been avoiding the snares of enemies throughout all the provinces of Britain?93 In this moving speech, the reader sees and admires another side to Edwin’s passivity and resistance to taking quick action. He expresses an admirable loyalty to the king, who thus far has treated him so kindly as an exile, all the while knowing that Rædwald may well now be planning to betray him. Edwin refuses to ‘make the agreement void’ (pactum … irritum faciam)—the agreement, that is, that he has concluded with Rædwald—since up until this point Rædwald has done him no harm. The phrase used here, pactum irritum, or ‘voided covenant,’ is used with some frequency in the Vulgate Old Testament. There God promises not to make void the covenant he has forged with Israel.94 Yet God knows that once Israel has been brought safely into the land of Canaan, they will make void their covenant with Him (et irritum facient pactum meum—Dt 31:20).95 A similar construction is found in the Gospels. There Jesus accuses the scribes and Pharisees of ‘making void’ 93 Bede, HE 2,12—108,7–15: Gratias quidem ago beneuolentiae tuae; non tamen hoc facere possum, quod suggeris, ut pactum, quod cum tanto rege inii, ipse primus irritum faciam, cum ille mihi nil mali fecerit, nil adhuc inimicitiarum intulerit. Quin potius, si moriturus sum, ille me magis quam ignobilior quisque morti tradat. Quo enim nunc fugiam, qui per omnes Brittaniae prouincias tot annorum temporumque curriculis uagabundus hostium uitabam insidias? 94 Lev 26:44: eos neque sic despexi ut … irritum facerem pactum meum. For the same phrasing in another passage, see Jds 2:1, where God makes the same pledge, saying, pollicitus sum ut non facerem irritum pactum meum vobiscum. 95 Other passages that use this specific language to describe Israel as ‘making void the covenant’ include Jds 2:20 (irritum fecit gens ista pactum meum quod pepigeram cum patribus eorum), Is 33:8 (irritum factum est pactum), Jer 11:10 (irritum fecerunt domus Israhel et domus Iuda pactum meum quod pepigi cum patribus eorum), Jer 31:32 (pactum quod irritum fecerunt), Ez 16:59 (ut irritum faceres pactum), Mal 2:8 (irritum fecistis pactum Leui).

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God’s commandment—which is the substance of the covenant—on account of their own tradition (irritum fecistis mandatum Dei propter traditionem vestram—Mt 15:6; cf. Mk 7:13). One can thus see that there is a side to Edwin’s slowness and dilatoriness that might be interpreted more positively as a sign of his faithfulness or fidelity to those with whom he has forged a covenant or agreement. This is a quality that he shares with Israel’s God and that distinguishes him from faithless Israel, which is personified in Jesus’ time by the scribes and Pharisees. Imagined as obstinate Jews, scribes and Pharisees make void God’s commandment for the sake of their own tradition. In this way, they are precisely like the Britons, who ‘prefer their own traditions’ for the sake of which they abandon God and the fellowship of the worldwide church.96 Though only a pagan, Edwin thus displays the faithfulness that the Christian Britons lack. In the sentence following, responding to his unnamed friend’s suggestion that Edwin flee with him immediately to a place of safety, Edwin refuses and asks his friend, ‘Where shall I flee?’ (quo fugiam?) On the one hand, Edwin here expresses a sense of flight’s futility; yet on the other, his quo fugiam expresses not mere futility because he has the memory of Rædwald’s unfeigned goodness to him, a goodness that has, thus far, repaid his confidence. In this way he echoes the more hopeful futility of the Psalmist, who asks of God: ‘Where shall I flee from Your face?’ (quo a facie tua fugiam?).97 Any skillful reader of the Christian Middle Ages could have seen much to admire in Edwin’s faithfulness to Rædwald here. Such faithfulness was the basis of feudal society. Its opposite, treachery, as we observed earlier, was the most heinous of all sins. Of course, from a Christian perspective, faithfulness requires a proper object to be virtuous, and that object is Christ. Edwin clearly has not yet made Christ the focus of his faithfulness. Yet from the text’s viewpoint, the capacity for faithfulness of any sort—even if it is focused on a king like Rædwald—seems an important prerequisite for a faithfulness centered specifically in Christ. In fact, the text even suggests Edwin’s faithfulness to Rædwald is akin to a Christian’s faith in Christ in as much as the pagan King Rædwald functions here as a type of God the Father who gave up his son to save Gentiles as well as Jews. As we learn in the narrative just following Edwin’s dark night, Rædwald decides in the end to keep faith with Edwin and in doing so loses his son Regenhere, who dies in a battle that Rædwald sponsored to help Edwin defeat Æthelfrith. Rædwald thus proves to be ‘so great a king’ (tanto rege) as Edwin had declared him to be and worthy of the trust that Edwin had put in him. The monastic reader would recognize Rædwald’s trustworthiness or faithfulness (fides) as an image of the faithfulness of God and His Christ. The author here twice puts the word fides upon the lips of the unnamed friend to mean not ‘faith,’

96 Bede, HE 2,2—81,24–26. In the later Synod of Whitby narrative, Wilfrid likewise accuses the Ionan Irish of being ‘accomplices in stubbornness’ with the Britons for continuing to embrace their incorrect tradition of dating Easter (3,25—184,28). 97 Ps 138(139):7. As noted in Tolley (2018), 127, n. 2, Edwin’s claim that he has been a vagabond who has long avoided his enemies ‘snares’ (insidias) may also echo the ‘snares’ references in Vg Ps(H) 37:13 (38:12) and Vg Ps(H) 90(91):3.

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but ‘faithfulness.’98 Remembering that this scene’s characters are all still pagan, it is important to stress just how devoid of Christian content the word ‘faith’ is here, and how devoid of a specifically Christian gospel proclamation this entire conversion narrative is. There is no explicit mention of what Christian conversion entails in terms of changed conviction or belief, except that it is to serve God by giving up paganism, receiving the sacraments, and believing that an everlasting kingdom follows this earthly one. There is little attempt, however, to explain the logic of Christian salvation in terms of Christ’s atoning work in the Incarnation, crucifixion and resurrection. Nearly the entire logic of conversion here is motivated by factors that Christianity is seen to share with paganism—faithfulness being chief among them.

5. Reading Racially the Northumbrians’ Council and Conversion Story Having completed our assessment of how a medieval monastic might have read the Edwin story, we must now draw upon the various observations made there to ask whether this text helps to construct a racist vision of the peoples of Britain and, if so, how. A cursory comparison of race language in this story with that of the story of the Britons’ conference with Augustine yields some interesting insights. First, the Historia speaks much more readily about the Britons as a race in the Augustine’s Oak story than it does about the English Northumbrians as a race in their conversion story. As we saw in the Augustine’s Oak story, apart from the hermit whose advice the British bishops and teachers sought and the treacherous guard Brocmail, who abandons the praying British monks to Æthelfrith’s marauding army, no single individual Briton is deemed worthy of mention. The author is interested almost completely in portraying the Britons as a collective type, and he is most interested in their collective vices, which include the faithlessness (perfidia) and the concomitant listlessness or lassitude (segnitia). By contrast, although the narrative of Edwin’s council has as its telos the conversion of the entire Northumbrian race, it never speaks about that race’s collective virtues or vices. Moreover, unlike the narrative of Augustine’s Oak, it portrays a number of individual Northumbrians quite vividly as individual personalities in their own right. Apart from Edwin, these include Edwin’s life-sacrificing friends Lilla and Forthhere, Edwin’s unnamed friend at Rædwald’s court, Edwin’s pagan priest Coifi, and Edwin’s unnamed counselor who relates the sparrow parable.

98 Both uses of the word occur in the unnamed friend’s speech, which occurs immediately after the spirit, who had appeared to Edwin in the dark of night, departs. In the first occurrence, the friend says, ‘For the king’s heart has been changed and he plans not to do to you anything wicked, but rather to maintain the faithfulness (fidem) he pledged’ (quia mutatum est cor regis, nec tibi aliquid mali facere, sed fidem potius pollicitam seruare disponit). See Bede HE 2,12—110,3–5. In the second, which occurs in the same sentence just five lines later, the friend summarizes the advice he heard Rædwald’s queen give her husband, warning him that it did not befit a great king to betray his friend for gold, nor to lose his faithfulness (fidem) (ammonens, quia nulla ratione conueniat tanto regi amicum suum optimum in necessitate positum auro uendere, immo fidem suam): 2,12—110,7–9.

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From this incongruity in the way that each race is portrayed in their respective council scene, one might conclude that it is impossible to speak about the portrayal of race in the Edwin story. But that would be a mistake. The very fact that the author is reluctant to speak about the English Northumbrians as a race, while he does so quite easily about the Britons, is itself a distinctive marker of the text’s racist impulse as well as its construction of the English Northumbrians as a superior race to the Britons. Yet we must proceed with care. Since the text makes no definitive statements about the English Northumbrian character, we will have to rely completely upon inference, generalizing from information given about individual characters about how the text views the race as a whole. Before doing that, however, we would do well to step outside the Edwin narrative for a moment to consider the Historia’s one very famous passage in which the English are spoken of as a race in somewhat typical—which is to say, stereotypical—terms. That, of course, is the famous scene in which Gregory the Great, before becoming pope, encounters some English boys for sale in a Roman slave market and, beholding their comeliness, is inspired to evangelize the whole English race. The scene concludes the mini-biography of Gregory the Great, which occupies the entirety of the second book’s first chapter and establishes Pope Gregory’s status as the apostle of the English, or ‘our apostle’ as the author calls him.99 Since this episode is not lacking for modern commentary, a full exposition of it will not be given here, but only an exposition of those parts that dovetail with certain elements we have observed in the Edwin story. In this regard, the most striking aspect of this account is how Gregory describes these pagan English slave boys as possessing already, even before their conversion, outward features that betoken the inner perfection of Christian holiness. The narrative says that as Gregory arrives at the Forum, he beholds these boys as having a ‘white body’ (corporis candidi), a ‘comely countenance,’ (uenusti uultus) and an ‘extraordinary head of hair’ (capillorum forma egregia).100 Scriptural allusions abound in these terms. Scripture commonly refers to God’s purification of the elect as resulting in their whitening. The Psalmist declares, for example, ‘In sins did my mother conceive me…Thou shalt sprinkle me with hyssop, and I shall be cleansed: thou shalt wash me, and I shall be made whiter than snow.’101 And whitening of the body, or at least a brightening of it, was a common feature in the stories concerning the transfigurations of Moses and Jesus.102 Like the story of the English slave boys, both of these biblical stories of transfiguration mention their respective subjects’ being in some sense white (candidus/albus) and having some significant change in their countenance (uultus/facies). Although Moses is said in 99 Bede, HE 2,1—73,6–11. 100 Bede, HE 2,1—80,1–2. An extended commentary on Gregory’s description of these English slave boys is given in Harris (2003), 48–50. 101 Vg Ps(G) 50:7,9 (51:5,7): in peccatis concepit me mater mea … asparges me hysopo et mundabor lavabis me et super nivem dealbabor. Cf. Dan 12:10: ‘Many shall be chosen, and made white, and shall be tried as fire’ (eligentur et dealbabuntur et quasi ignis probabuntur multi). 102 Ex 34:29–30, Mt 17:1–2, Mk 9:2–3, and Lk 9:28–29.

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Jerome’s Vulgate to have had a ‘horned’ appearance after beholding God’s glory on Sinai, Paul makes it clear that Moses’ new horned appearance was in fact a brightness, or glory, in his countenance.103 Intrigued by the slave boys’ appearance, Gregory asks where they are from and whether they are Christian or pagan. When he is told that they are pagan, Gregory ‘draws long sighs from his innermost heart’ (intimo ex corde) and laments, ‘Alas that the Author of Darkness holds captive human beings of so bright a countenance, and that so much beauty of outward aspect has a mind empty of internal grace.’104 Gregory then asks of the name of the boys’ race (uocabulum gentis illius) and is told that they are called English (Angli). He then makes the now famous Angli/angeli pun, saying, ‘That is apt for they even have an angelic face, and it is fitting that such be coheirs of the angels in heaven.’105 The English, therefore, though pagan, have all the outer markings of God’s holy, God’s elect: a bright countenance, white bodies, and even a name that portends a special relationship with God, forged just as history’s end draws near, when—as Christ reminds his Sadducee opponents—all human beings will be like the angeli.106 What the English lack is the inward grace that will confer an authenticity and integrity to these outer signs of their chosenness. I would suggest that the Northumbrians’ conversion narrative offers a striking complement to this story. Whereas the story about the English slaves suggests that the pagan English have certain physical features that betoken something particularly susceptible to the perfecting work of Christ’s grace, the Edwin story shows more precisely those inner virtues—those moral raw materials—that those physical features signify. Although they do not yet know the content of Christian faith, nor yet trust in God with fidelity that is characteristic of Christian discipleship, they nevertheless possess a generic capacity for faithfulness that renders them especially apt vessels for the perfecting work that comes with Christian conversion. As was shown earlier, the young Edwin was able to discern the past goodness that Rædwald had done him, and based on that past experience, chose to remain faithful to him, refusing to ‘make void his covenant’ with Rædwald even when he had evidence that Rædwald was about to betray him.

103 2 Cor 3:7: non possent intendere filii Israhel in faciem Mosi propter gloriam vultus eius (‘The children of Israel could not behold the face of Moses on account of the glory of his countenance’). Among the other references to a person’s whiteness are those that early Christians would have read as signifying Christ’s sinless righteousness (Song 5:10). 104 Bede, HE 2,1—80,8–11: ‘Heu, pro dolor!’ inquit, ‘quod tam lucidi uultus homines tenebrarum auctor possidet, tantaque gratia frontispicii mentem ab interna gratia uacuam gestat!’ 105 Bede, HE 2,1—80,14–15: ‘Bene,’ inquit; ‘nam et angelicam habent faciem, et tales angelorum in caelis decet esse coheredes.’ There is no obvious parallel in Scripture to ‘co-heirs of the angels in heaven.’ The phrase ‘angels in heaven’ is found twice in Matthew’s gospel; and whereas Rom 8:17 refers to disciples of Christ are as ‘co-heirs of Christ,’ while Eph 3:6 refers specifically to Gentile disciples of Christ as ‘co-heirs,’ the elect are nowhere in Scripture referred to as co-heirs of the angels in heaven, although perhaps that is implied in Mt 22:30, where Jesus, in response to the Sadducees’ questions about marriage in heaven, says of God’s chosen, ‘For in the resurrection they shall neither marry nor be married, but shall be as the angels of God in heaven (sicut angeli Dei in caelo).’ 106 Mt 22:29–30.

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This ability to remember the goodness that one has received from another and then, based on that experience, to ‘hope against all hope’ is what characterized Abraham, the father of faith, as well as that great cloud of witnesses who imitated his example.107 In the flashback scene, the quality of faithfulness is seen not just in Edwin, but in all its major English characters. It is seen first in Edwin’s unnamed ‘most faithful friend’ (fidissimus amicus) who remains by Edwin’s side, offers him counsel, pledges to guide his escape, and who announces the good news after Edwin’s dark night that Rædwald has decided not to break faith with Edwin. Thanks to the report of this friend, the reader can also see this virtue of fidelity in Rædwald’s unnamed queen who is the human character most responsible for turning the tide of external events in Edwin’s favor when he—and the narrative itself—is at its lowest and most demoralizing point. Upon hearing of her husband Rædwald’s plan to betray Edwin, she warns Rædwald, saying that ‘it in no way befits so great a king to sell for gold his best friend having been placed in straits, nor indeed to lose faithfulness, which is more precious than all jewels (omnibus ornamentis pretiosior est), because of a love of money.’108 Paralleling the queen’s proverb here is Prov. 3:15, ‘Wisdom is more precious than riches’ (pretiosior est cunctis opibus). Having already seen Edwin praised for being ‘very wise by nature’ and then, almost immediately afterwards, hearing Pope Boniface disparage wisdom as incapable of comprehending the magnitude and eternity of God’s power, the skillful reader now infers that faithfulness is perhaps a more precious virtue than wisdom in human relations as well as divine. Thus does Rædwald’s queen make clear that among the pagan virtues, faithfulness pledged to a friend is superior to acquisition of jewels and gold. Although Rædwald wavers in his fidelity, he ends by keeping his pledge to Edwin. Doing so, as noted earlier, cost him the life of his son Regenhere and jeopardized the succession of his own bloodline. As also noted earlier, Paulinus expresses his conviction in the debate with Edwin (C) that Edwin’s thanksgiving for the safe delivery of his one of own bloodline is inferior to Paulinus’ characteristically Christian thanksgiving for the queen’s safe delivery in childbirth. The text thus suggests that concern for one’s own genetically-related kin is transcended by Christian concern for the other. But the reader can see here that what Paulinus implicitly designates as a Christian virtue is already incarnated in Rædwald’s pagan faithfulness when Rædwald shows himself willing to subject his son to the dangers of battle in order to fulfill his pledge to Edwin. In much the same way that this story portrays English pagan faithfulness as a natural virtue that predisposes its holder to the supernatural virtue of Christian faith, so too does a wholly generic and pagan version of catholicity serve as a harbinger of the catholicity of the worldwide church. This narrative takes great pains to show just how strong is the English pagan impulse to come together, to consult, and to reach consensus. While in one sense, in terms of narrative emphasis, it is correct to speak of this narrative as the narrative of Edwin’s conversion, in another sense, it is

107 Rom 4:18 [Abrahae] qui contra spem in spem credidit; Heb 11:1–12:1. 108 Bede, HE 2,12—110,7–11.

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incorrect. For Edwin’s conversion is only of interest in so far as it is the harbinger of the conversion of the entire Northumbrian race. The very first sentence of the narrative, which serves as a sort of topic sentence for the entire six-chapter narrative, announces that the race of the Northumbrians received the word of faith and then adds, almost parenthetically, ‘along with its king, Edwin’ (cum rege suo Aeduino). Clearly the author wants the reader to view the conversion event as monumental because it is communal rather than merely individual. Even while still a pagan, Edwin himself displays this impulse toward catholicity. Although the narrative portrays him as an inveterate foot dragger when it comes to deciding whether to embrace Christian faith and baptism, it softens how the reader evaluates this vice. Three times the text informs us that Edwin’s delay is owing to—as Edwin himself says—his need to consult with his chief men, as if it were unthinkable for him to make an executive decision on so important a matter. Edwin wants what we moderns call ‘consent of the governed’ even in a matter that concerns his own individual redemption. First, as he is negotiating his marriage with Queen Æthelburh, he ‘does not deny’ that he would submit to Christianity ‘if it, having been examined by prudent men, could be found to be holy and worthier of God.’109 Second, after he recovers from the wound inflicted by Eumer and defeats Cwichelm’s army in battle, he does not wish—as the text says—to receive the sacraments ‘unadvisedly’ (inconsulte). So, he ‘took care’ to learn the faith from Paulinus and also ‘to confer with his chief men, whom he knew to be wiser, so that they might judge what should be done concerning these matters.’110 The text does not indicate whether ‘taking care’ to do these things meant that he actually did them. If it does, the author offers the reader no account of Edwin conferring with his chief men on these matters at that time. Finally, after the flashback scene, when Paulinus shows him the mysterious sign and enjoins him to embrace the faith, as Edwin had promised to do, Edwin replies that he will confer on this matter with his supporters—his chief men and counselors (amicis principibus et consiliariis). In this last instance, Edwin shows just how deep his impulse toward catholicity runs, saying that he wants to consult with his chief men and counselors so that, as the text says, ‘if they were willing to believe those same things with him, all might be consecrated to Christ in the font of life at the same time.’ Not content to act alone, Edwin hopes that his friends will believe with him, be baptized with him, and undergo all these things with him, and at the same time as he does. When at last he convokes the famous council of his ‘wise men’ to decide on whether paganism should be abandoned and Christianity embraced, that spirit of catholicity is finally realized. The reader is told that Edwin asked them all ‘one by one’ (singillatim) what they thought of this novel teaching, Christianity. The pagan

109 Bede, HE 2,9—98,7–10: Neque abnegauit se etiam eandem subiturum esse religionem; si tamen examinata a prudentibus sanctior ac Deo dignior posset inueniri. 110 Bede, HE 2,9—100,8–12: Uerum primo diligentius ex tempore, et ab ipso uenerabili uiro Paulino rationem fidei ediscere, et cum suis primatibus, quos sapientiores nouerat, curauit conferre, quid de his agendum arbitrarentur.

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priest Coifi speaks, as does the nameless optimas who tells the sparrow parable. More than that, the remaining ‘elders and counselors’ express opinions similar to Coifi’s and the unnamed noble’s, having been ‘divinely moved’ (diuinitus admoniti) to do so. So catholic a spirit is Coifi that, not content to hear only the opinions of his English kinsmen, he requests to hear Paulinus speak more about the Christian God, which Paulinus does at Edwin’s command. And having heard, Coifi rushes to destroy the pagan gods whose cult he served. The reader should not be fooled. Coifi, even after his conversion, remains as dimwitted as ever regarding the specifics of Christian doctrine. Even though he asked Paulinus to say more about Christian teaching, his response to Paulinus’ speech, which is not shared with the reader, gives only vague hints that he absorbed from it any specifically Christian insights. Dissatisfaction with paganism rather than any specific attraction to Christian teaching or inspiration is chiefly what motivates him. Responding to Paulinus, Coifi says only that the more studiously he has sought the truth of paganism, the less he has found it. Here, as in his first speech, Coifi expresses his conviction that religion should get him what he wants, be it royal favor or a firm grasp of the truth. And he thinks that the Christian God has conferred upon him a new wisdom that shows him the folly of worshipping the old pagan gods. Coifi’s new wisdom contains no hint of Christian paradox. His language of wisdom and folly has not been complicated at all by the Apostle Paul’s language about how the folly of the cross scandalizes all human wisdom. If he were told that Christian faithfulness will likely get him less of what he wants, and more of what he doesn’t—including, perhaps, martyrdom for Christ’s sake—he would be wholly incapable of understanding it. Nor should the reader put too high a store even on the unnamed noble’s parable or upon the collective wisdom or prudence of Edwin’s chief men. Describing them in one place as ‘very wise’ (sapientiores) and in another as ‘prudent men’ (prudentibus), the text may here prompt a skillful reader to recall Paul’s troping of Isaiah in 1 Corinthians, ‘For it is written: I will destroy the wisdom of the wise (sapientium), and the prudence of the prudent (prudentium) I will reject.’111 Since the conversion of the nobles that Edwin’s council engendered is, in effect, a non-Christian conversion or, if you will, simply a new permutation of what the old paganism might have dreamt up, a skillful monastic reader of the Middle Ages in no way would have regarded Coifi and the other nobles as ‘good men who do good deeds.’ And in fact, I do not believe that such a reader would have found these pioneering English converts so endearing as modern secular English readers have. And yet, although their pagan logic remains essentially intact, these nobles are shown coming together and reaching the same conclusions as Coifi and the unnamed noble. In good catholic spirit, the king has sought their counsel one by one, and they have given it. All agree. And so, their unchanged status notwithstanding, they win the approval of even skillful readers by their devotion to each other, and to their king.

111 1 Cor 1:19: scriptum est enim perdam sapientiam sapientium et prudentiam prudentium reprobabo. Cf. Is 29:14. Edwin’s nobles as sapientiores (Bede HE 2,9—100,11); as prudentibus (2,13—112,3).

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This spirit of catholicity, as we saw earlier, then reaches beyond the king’s circle of men to encompass even the plebs. It also moves geographically from Edwin’s southern kingdom of Deira to the northern, Bernicia. There, Paulinus is said to have catechized at the royal residence at Yeavering for 36 days and to have baptized in the River Glen the plebs, who came from all the villages nearby. Finally, in an act of catholicity that signifies the Northumbrians’ link to the larger worldwide church, centered in Rome, Edwin is said to have enclosed the first timber church that he had built, and dedicated to St Peter, inside a stone basilica that he built later, having been taught to do so by his bishop, the Roman Paulinus (docent eodem Paulino). The skillful reader may already have picked up hints in Book 1 that building structures of stone was a characteristically Roman architectural skill, something that will be stated explicitly later in 5,21, when the Pictish King Nechtan asks the English abbot to send him architects who could build for him a church of stone, ‘in accordance with the custom of the Romans’ (iuxta morem Romanorum).112 Therefore, even the layout of the architecture reinforces the theme of catholicity achieved. At last, after all his delays, Edwin submits himself to the authority of the Roman church by submitting to the teaching of Paulinus the Roman. Just as the stone basilica built in accordance with that Roman’s teaching encompasses the more primitive timber structure built in the Northumbrians’ style, so too does the church catholic, centered in Rome, now encompass the Northumbrian race. As my treatment of Edwin’s council scene and its relevant context concludes, we might do well to step back and take stock of the racial profiles that we have discerned so far. The Northumbrian English, while yet still pagan, exhibit the natural virtue of faithfulness and have a natural instinct for consultation, fellowship, concord and consent, that is, for catholicity. In this way, their natural fidelity contrasts starkly with the natural infidelity of their neighbors, the Britons. The Britons are unable to remain allied to each other in crisis and, though Christian, their natural inclinations toward faithlessness in general render them always vulnerable to succumbing to heresy. Moreover, the Britons’ faithlessness, or perfidia, renders impossible their cultivation of catholicizing instincts. Contrast their meeting, ostensibly to consult with each other concerning Augustine’s proposal, to Edwin’s meeting with his nobles. Whereas Edwin’s nobles offer their opinions—one by one—to each other, the Britons fail to consult among themselves at all, ceding their collective authority to that of the unnamed hermit. Like the sparrow, they flit about in isolation and do not have the capacity for mutual fidelity and friendship that the king’s men, sitting around a winter’s fire, do. In contrast to the Britons, the English Northumbrians are, as a race, ripe for incorporation into the worldwide church. As we observed in Ch. 2, the Historia 112 The Historia reports that instead of building a wall of stone, as the Romans had instructed them, the Britons had built a wall of turves to defend themselves from the Irish and the Picts. As a result, the Romans built them a ‘wall of strong stone’ (Bede HE 1,12—27,17–20: murum … firmo de lapide). Later, and somewhat elliptically in 1,33, Augustine is said to have restored a church ‘built by the ancient workmanship of Roman believers’ (1,33—12–13: ecclesiam … antiquo Romanorum fidelium opere factam), which was presumably workmanship of stone.

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emphasizes throughout that the church is a universal community and that individual members of this body of Christ, being bound together in love, do better when they accord each other the respect afforded by consulting one another, as the English do in the Northumbrians’ conversion story. If, however, one reads the episode of the Britons’ council with Augustine in light of the episode of King Edwin’s council with Paulinus, one sees what went right in Edwin’s council and what went wrong at the Britons.’ Despite being Christians, the bishops and learned men among the Britons, who consulted their hermit in Bangor, did wrong in failing to seek common agreement and in ceding all authority instead to the hermit; and despite being pagans, King Edwin and his Northumbrian counselors did right in coming to agreement and doing so by soliciting the opinion of all parties involved. In Bangor, the opinion of the charismatic hermit carried the day; in the kingdom of the Northumbrians, the opinion of Paulinus, though given, is not heard with any specificity by the reading audience. Ironically, the pagan English do right by behaving as true churches should, that is, by honoring each member and showing that honor through consulting and conferring with those to whom one is bound in charity and loyalty. Yet in the end, and quite unlike the Britons, they do not end by spurning the foreign expert, but by entering into fellowship with him and with the church he represents. What enables them to do this is their faithfulness—the virtue given such eloquent expression through a soliloquy delivered by Edwin himself at Rædwald’s court—and the community that such faithfulness leads them to foster, first among themselves and then among that ever-expanding circle of worldwide companions, which is the church catholic. In a word, the faithfulness (fides) of the English Northumbrians impels them toward catholicity, while the faithlessness (perfidia) of the Britons drives them apart, scatters them, and renders them unable to join in meaningful communion with the churches throughout the world. The Historia thus renders the English Northumbrian race as the perfect counter-type to the race of the Britons. Since the English embody all the virtues that oppose the Britons’ vices, one might expect that their perfect complementarity as types would exhaust all that the Historia could say about the opposing ways that people can live before God in the world. Yet the Historia also offers up to its reader a third racial type, one that partially subverts the neat contrast it implicitly establishes through the Edwin conversion story between English fides and British perfidia. That third type is represented by the Irish of Iona and their spiritual heirs. To the Historia’s representation of them our next chapter now turns.

Chapter 5

Racing the Ionan Irish The Synod of Whitby

As the earlier chapters have noted, the convictional structure of the Historia places great store upon a peaceful unity forged between potential rivals who work toward a mutual consent or consensus through synods, colloquies, conferences, and councils. Furthermore, as the previous chapter showed, those councils need not be ecclesiastically sponsored. Perhaps the most successful of all the councils portrayed in the Historia—and I am speaking here exclusively from the text’s point of view—is King Edwin’s council with his nobles. This council resulted in unanimous agreement between all the king’s men, including the bishop Paulinus, and led to the conversion of the English north of the Humber. The least successful council, I have argued, was that between Augustine and the British bishops and teachers at Augustine’s Oak. By ‘least successful,’ of course I actually mean ‘abysmal failure’ because this council led neither to final consensus nor lasting compromise. Neither side, in the end, was swayed by the other’s arguments. In contrast to these most and least successful conferences, the narrative of the Synod of Whitby is portrayed as a conference of middling success. On the one hand, this Synod is shown as forging a broader consensus of church practice in that some adherents of the Irish/Pictish method of dating Easter actually switched to the Roman method. On the other, at the nararative’s end several members of the Irish/Pictish position remained unmoved and decided to quit their life among the English Northumbrians, whom they had come to evangelize some thirty years before. In defeat, they returned to their island monastery of Iona, which the famous Irish St Columba had founded and where Irish monks continued to cultivate the ascetic life of work and prayer that Columba had established there. Like the narratives of the councils considered in the previous two chapters, the Whitby narrative concerns us less for the historical information it conveys than for the deep convictions it establishes, which include but are not limited to the image of the Ionan Irish as a racial type that at once complements and opposes the image of the Britons and the English, respectively. These convictions are so powerful that, in some quarters at least, they shaped decisively subsequent historiography. For example, and as Patrick Wormald relates, the Scottish Divinity course until recently ran its first section from the Acts of the Apostles until 664, the date of the Synod of Whitby. He suggests that Whitby’s significance on this particular church historical timeline had less to do with the significance of its outcome than with ‘Bede’s unrivalled artistry,’ which made Whitby ‘a central dramatic episode, perhaps the climactic episode, in his story.’1

1 Wormald (1992), 210.

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An aside is in order here to address how readers should construe the Historia’s use of the descriptor ‘Irish’ (Scotti) in the Whitby narrative. The word’s usage there refers specifically to the party led by the monks of Iona, who diverged in their Easter observance from what the text takes to be correct and canonical practice. Although the author clearly knows, and states explicitly in 3,3, that the ‘the races of the Irish that lived in the southern parts of Ireland’ observed Easter correctly, in the Whitby narrative he nevertheless uses the generic term ‘Irish’—without any qualification—to describe specifically the Ionan/northern Irish party and its erroneous position.2 By choosing to deploy the term Scotti in this way, the author gives what he knows to be the wrong impression: that the Irish way—in general—is an erroneous, non-canonical way. Unless otherwise noted, however, from this point forward the discussion below will adopt the author’s practice and use the term ‘Irish’ to designate specifically the Ionan Irish party and its views. Two other peculiarities of wording also bear mention. First, the author uses either Hibernia or Scottia to designate ‘Ireland.’3 Secondly, he speaks of Iona as being located in Ireland, even though he knows that, geographically, it is situated off the British mainland.4 So, for him, ‘Ireland’ designates something more than what moderns take to be the island of Ireland, or Éire. Like the narrative concerning the Britons’ encounter with Augustine, this one, which concerns the Irish monks and those English who had come under their spiritual influence, is motivated by the desire to convert these Irish and first-generation English Christians not from heathenism to Christianity, but from one Christian tradition to another. At Whitby, the universalizing (or catholicizing) party tries to convince both the Irish and many Northumbrian English Christians to abandon what it takes to be the erroneous dating of their Easter observance. According to the Historia’s narration, the Irish and their English converts had learned their way of dating from St Columba via Aidan, the bishop who, having established a monastery among the Northumbrian English at Lindisfarne, proceeded to re-establish a Christian presence in the English regions north of the Humber after Bishop Paulinus and Queen Æthelburh had been forced to retreat by boat to Kent.5 The occasion for this retreat was the toppling of Edwin’s kingdom, which had succumbed to the predations of the British king Cædwalla and the Mercian English King Penda. In 633, Cædwalla and Penda had defeated Edwin’s army and killed Edwin himself at the battle of Hatfield Chase.6 Like the narrative of the Britons’ failed conversion, the Whitby narrative portrays the universalizing party as eager to bring a smaller provincial race of Christians into

2 Bede, HE 3,3—131,26: Porro gentes Scottorum, quae in australibus Hiberniae insulae partibus morabantur … pascha canonico ritu obseruare didicerunt. 3 Colgrave and Mynors 16, n. 1: ‘Scottia refers to Ireland alone though he uses Hibernia too, apparently using both terms indiscriminately, as in iv.26.’ Plummer 2:11: ‘It cannot be too clearly realised that at the time when Bede wrote, and for more than two centuries after, the term “Scottia” refers to Ireland, and to Ireland alone.’ 4 Plummer 2:186. 5 Bede, HE 2,20—124,12–125,31 (Edwin’s death and the retreat of Paulinus and Æthelburh to Kent); Bede, HE 3,3–4 (Aidan and Columba). 6 Bede, HE 2,20—125,3–25.

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its worldwide orbit. Each narrative also portrays the desire for conversion as coming only from the universalizing party associated with the Roman mission. Neither the Britons in 2,2 nor the Irish in 3,25 show any desire to convert their respective opponents to their Easter observance. Nor, in the narrative at Augustine’s Oak, do the Britons criticize the Roman mission’s impulse to convert the English, their age-old enemies. They simply refuse to take part in that mission themselves. By contrast, in neither the Augustine’s Oak nor Whitby narratives do members of the Roman universalizing party remain content to adopt their opponents’ laissez-faire attitudes. If they did, they would not be universalizers. They insist, rather, that the other party abandon its way for theirs. For their way, as they claim, is the way of the churches throughout the world (per orbem totum), a way opposed only by wicked schismatics and heretics. With great rhetorical skill the Synod of Whitby narrative gradually exposes the Irish party as being spiritually isolated from the rest of the church, much as it is geographically isolated from the rest of the world. It does so through its elaborate and imaginative reconstruction of the debate between the Irish party’s leader, Colman, and the leader of the catholicizing party, the Northumbrian English Wilfrid. As that debate begins, Colman, who is bishop of Lindisfarne, understands his own position on the dating of Easter as agreeing with John the Apostle’s, Bishop Anatolius’s of Laodicea, and St Columba’s. By its end, Wilfrid has managed to call into question the support that Colman believed he had from each of these great figures. Stripped of these allies, Colman and his party are left standing in utter isolation from the entire communion of the saints, complete strangers to the church catholic.

1. The Opening Frame: The Lindisfarne Church as Building Two shorter narrative frames enclose the narrative proper of the Synod and its debate. Each frame, moreover, focuses upon a different aspect of the monastic community at Lindisfarne. The opening frame (3,25—181,3–13) details the physical aspects of the Lindisfarne church building. The closing frame (3,26) narrates Colman and the Irish monks’ departure from Lindisfarne after the Synod of Whitby and then offers up an idealized depiction of life at Lindisfarne before Whitby. Beginning from the death of Aidan, the opening frame reports successive additions made to Lindisfarne’s physical church by its bishops. Bishop Finan, Aidan’s successor, built a church ‘in the Irish manner’—that is, with hewn oak and a thatched roof—suitable for an episcopal see; Archbishop Theodore of Canterbury subsequently consecrated that church to St Peter; and Bishop Eadberht, still later, removed the thatch and covered this church’s roof and walls with lead. At this point the opening frame abruptly ends, proceeding immediately to narrate the controversy that led to the Whitby synod. Curiously, Archbishop Theodore’s consecration and Bishop Eadberht’s renovations, just described, must have occurred, chronologically, after the synod.7 The author, however,



7 Theodore did not become archbishop until two years after the synod and Eadberht did not become Lindisfarne’s bishop until some 24 years afterwards.

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constructs the narrative time of this chapter in such a way as to give the impression that all three events that relate to Lindisfarne’s physical church occur before the synod. Why would the author transpose events in this way? What narrative purpose does it serve? The answer may lie in a closer examination of how the word ecclesia (‘church’) is used in this chapter. In this brief opening, ecclesia is used only once and designates the physical church building at Lindisfarne. During the rest of the Whitby narrative, ecclesia will denote not a physical building, but a gathering of people, a communion of saints. Thus, the opening frame serves to contrast what one might call a ‘fleshly’ understanding of church as a building made of various materials—first hewn oak and later leaden sheets—with a subsequent more spiritual understanding of church as a worldwide community forged together by common consent and agreement on such matters as when to celebrate Easter. The opening frame, therefore, seems in retrospect as though it were intended to set the Lindisfarne tradition up for a fall, emphasizing its material or fleshly aspect at the expense of its spiritual achievement.

2. Conflicts that Occasioned the Synod of Whitby After narrating the physical status of the Lindisfarne church, the opening frame abruptly ends and proceeds—without any linking transition—to relate six instances of conflict that preceded and therefore prompted a synod to assemble at Whitby in 664. Table 5.1 illustrates how the lines of opposition are drawn in each controversy: Table 5.1 Parties at the Synod of Whitby

 

Universalizing party

Ionan-Irish party

1 2

the Irish Finan

7

those who had come from Kent or from the Gauls Ronan (Irish by birth, but having been taught the rule of ecclesiastical truth in parts of Gaul and Italy) all who had patiently understood that even if Aidan was not able to celebrate Easter against the custom of those who had sent him, he nevertheless took great pains to execute works of faith, piety, and love in accordance with the accustomed manner of all holy people — James the Deacon/Queen Eanflæd/Romanus Alhfrith [Oswiu’s son]/Wilfrid [who had taught Alhfrith, having in turn been instructed in Rome and Lyon]/ Agilberht/Agatho —

 

—

3

4 5 6

Aidan

Colman King Oswiu (taught by the Irish) Abbess Hild and her followers Cedd

It may be useful here to notice how the narrative configures these conflicts. As a quick glance at the table above shows, the universalizing party (i.e., those who are

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pitted against the various members of the Irish party) is a thickly populated bunch. Its hallmark is ethnic pluralism; the Irish party’s is parochialism. As one can see by glancing from row to row, the Irish are said to have been opposed by those from Kent, who were presumably English, or by those from the Gallic provinces;8 Finan had been opposed by the Irish Ronan, who learned ‘the rule of ecclesiastical truth’ from Gaul and Italy;9 Aidan, though not opposed openly, is contrasted with all those who had ‘patiently endured’ the dissonance caused by his Easter observance and who understood his limitations on this issue, yet chose to overlook them because of Aidan’s exceedingly holy character. As the narrative goes on to describe events prior to the synod, but more contemporaneous with it, King Oswiu is said to be opposed on two flanks. One includes his Kentish English wife, who is allied with the Roman James the Deacon and the Kentish priest Romanus. The other is headed by Oswiu’s son Alhfrith and includes the Frankish Bishop Agilberht of the West Saxons, the priest Agatho (about whom we know nothing except that he has a Greek name) and the English Wilfrid, who is described as ‘a man most learned in Christian erudition,’ presumably because he was taught ecclesiastical discipline both in Rome and Lyon).10 The universalizing party is thus shown to be pluralistic, multicultural, and cosmopolitan, while the Irish party is shown to be insular and monolithic. The universalizing party even contains an Irish monk, Ronan; while the Irish party contains only two non-Irish figures, namely, King Oswiu and Bishop Cedd, both English and both nurtured in their faith by the Irish. King Oswiu was raised and educated by the Irish at Iona, while Cedd was a priest under the guidance of Lindisfarne’s Bishop Finan.11 Having catalogued these six conflicts that led up to Whitby, the narrator begins to report the course of the Whitby debate, which is set forth as a conflict that had bubbled up from below. This longstanding dispute on the observance of Easter is said to ‘have quite rightly moved the sentiments and hearts of the many, who were fearing that—the designation of Christianity having already been received—they perhaps were running or had run in vain.’12 This final clause—‘they perhaps were running or had run in vain’—is quoted directly from Gal 2:2, in which Paul, after receiving the gospel from God and proclaiming it to the Gentiles, travels to Jerusalem to confer with the leaders of the church—James, Peter, and John. The reason for this conference, as Paul tells it, is to ensure that the Jewish leaders of the Jerusalem church are aware

8 Bede, HE 3,26—181,15–16: eis, qui de Cantia uel de Galliis aduenerant vs. the Irish (Scotti). Colgrave’s translation indicates that those from Kent and Gaul opposed the ‘Irish tradition’ (p. 295). The Latin, however, personalizes the opposition, saying that those from Kent and Gaul asserted that the Irish celebrated Easter contrary to the custom of the universal church. 9 Bede, HE 3,26—181,18–21: Ronan, natione quidem Scottus, sed in Galliae uel Italiae partibus regulam ecclesiasticae ueritatis edoctus. 10 Bede, HE 3,25—182,29–32. 11 Bede, HE 3,25—182,25–28 (Oswiu as taught and baptized by the Irish); 3,22—172,27–31 (Cedd as Finan’s disciple). 12 Bede, HE 3,25—182,21–24: Unde merito mouit haec quaestio sensus et corda multorum, timentium, ne forte accepto Christianitatis uocabulo, in uacuum currerent aut cucurrissent.

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of the gospel that Paul is preaching to the Gentiles and to win their endorsement of it. Paul wants to receive assurance from them that in executing this mission ‘he was not running or had not run in vain.’ That is, Paul wants to make sure, first, that his gospel proclamation to the Gentiles has not been for naught and, second, that the other apostles affirm his gospel as one that, though different from theirs, is also from God. In the end, they endorse Paul’s mission—recognizing the grace that had been given to him. The Historia’s allusion to this first council in Jerusalem is entirely in keeping with the consistent concern it shows for catholicity. Indeed, the Jerusalem Council provides the earliest Christian model for how catholicity can be maintained through mutual consultation. The presence of this allusion at this point in the narrative thus effectively links the Council of Jerusalem with Whitby’s proceedings, which are about to be narrated. As such, it provides for the skillful reader a standard by which to judge the success of this latter-day council. In comparison with earlier Latin patristic citations of Gal 2:2, this one is unusual in that it is not attributed explicitly to Paul. Bede prefers for skillful readers to catch the allusion themselves and then to interpret its meaning here in light of Paul’s original.13 Yet even if one recognizes this allusion, interpreting it remains a challenge. Bede states here that ‘many’ feared that they might be running or had run in vain, yet he does not say who these ‘many’ are—whether they belong to the Romanizing party, the Irish party, or both. Sally Shockro presumes that they are, in fact, the Irish party, but I see no clue in the text to warrant such a conclusion.14 In fact, the larger narrative suggests the opposite. In the Galatians context, Paul identifies himself as the one who considers that he may have run or be running in vain. For him, ‘running in vain’ meant preaching a gospel to the Gentiles in a way that would sow seeds of discord between himself and the Jewish church in Jerusalem, led by the Apostle Peter, and thus hinder his mission as the Gentiles’ apostle. Since the author presents the Irish party in this narrative as analogous to the Jews and Jewish Christians—much as he did the Britons in Books 1 and 2—whom he perceives as adhering blindly to ancient tradition, his allusion to Galatians 2 invites comparision of the Irish party with the earliest Jewish church with whose leaders Paul consulted. Opposed to this ‘Jewish’ way of being, which the Irish and Britons exemplify, is the catholic way, which is closely associated with Paul and the Gentile church and which, in the Historia, is associated with the church of Rome, the Roman mission to England, and the so-called Roman party here at the Synod of Whitby. At the Jerusalem meeting that Paul describes in Galatians 2, Paul is a minority of one conferring with other Jewish apostles, who, unlike Paul, had known the earthly Jesus. One imagines Paul’s situation to be analogous to that of the Roman party in 13 An electronic database search of the string ‘cucurr*’ shows that, in contrast to Bede, such earlier Latin Fathers who cite Gal 2:2—including Ambrosiaster, Augustine, Jerome, and John Cassian—do so in a non-allusive way which explicitly identifies this passage as written by and about Paul (LLT, www. brepolis.net, 12 Jan 2022). 14 Shockro (2008), 139–42. Although I disagree with Shockro’s reading of Wilfrid and the Romanizing party being portrayed as legalistic and Jew-like in the Historia’s Whitby narrative, her reading of that narrative usefully challenges my own.

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the land of the Northumbrians. The Roman mission to King Edwin notwithstanding, the Historia’s narrative to this point gives the impression that the Roman voice in the church of the Northumbrians has been, like Paul’s voice in the Jerusalem church, a distinct minority. Having already learned at the close of Book 2 that the Northumbrians’ affairs had been thrown into confusion after Edwin fell in battle and that Bishop Paulinus, Queen Æthelburh, and Edwin’s daughter Eanflæd had then retreated to Kent, the reader rightly infers that the Roman party that Paulinus had led soon became the minority party of Christians in the north. Although the narrative tersely informs us that one representative of the Roman party, James the Deacon, remained to continue Paulinus’ work, it goes on in Book 3 to wax eloquently—and at length—about the Irish mission brought by St Aidan from Iona and its immense success in converting the English Northumbrians to its distinctive celebration of Christian faith. As the narrative of the Synod of Whitby begins, the skillful reader rightly thus discerns that in the narrative world of this text, the Irish tradition now functions as the status quo among Christian Northumbrians, analogous to the Jewish Christian tradition in the Jerusalem church, and that the Roman party is a distinct minority, and thus analogous to Paul. In an important variation on Paul’s quotation, our text here says that the many were fearing (multorum timentium) that they might have run in vain. Yet in Gal 2:2, Paul expresses no fear. He says merely that he conferred (contuli) with the Jerusalem apostles so that he might not have run in vain. So, Paul is conferring to ensure that his work has wide support; in the Historia’s parallel, however, the ‘many’ are fearing that their work has been fruitless. Again, the Irish party, looking at the great missionary gains it has made among the English Northumbrians, has no reason at all to fear that its work has been fruitless. As we put ourselves imaginatively into this narrative world, it is difficult to imagine the Irish mission emanating from Lindisfarne as having such fear. After the retreat of the Roman mission under Paulinus, St Aidan and his successors express no concern or frustration with the progress of their own mission. As the narrative soon informs us, when King Oswiu’s younger son Alhfrith granted some Irish-trained monks the foundation at Ripon, but soon after forced them either to embrace Roman tradition or be ejected from their newly acquired monastery, they chose to be ejected. Their choice is hardly the move of a faction fearful that it may have been doing things all wrong. The ‘many’ who fear they might be running in vain are more likely to have come from the Roman rather than the Irish party. According to the Historia’s presentation of the Christian mission among the Northumbrians, the Irish would have had little reason to call for this council. They had been evangelizing the English in their own ways for some 30 years and had become the dominant Christian tradition among the Northumbrians at that time. Indeed, as a child King Oswiu, the convoker of the synod, had been the Irish tradition’s beloved disciple at Iona. Unlike the Roman tradition, the Irish party in our narrative never expresses dissatisfaction at having to co-exist with a few Christians who follow Easter or who shave their tonsure in a different—Roman—way. As such, the reader might presume that they were willing to live and let live. By contrast, the Roman mission among the Northumbrians has legitimate reason to fear that that its missionary efforts under Edwin have been in vain, eclipsed as they have been by the

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Irish mission. Moreover, unlike the Irish, the Roman tradition cannot just let be. It is portrayed as unable to abide any dissent from what it takes to be its universal ways. Consistently in the Historia, it takes the initiative to consult with the others. It lives uneasily amid significant differences in ritual life and practice. From this Roman perspective, Christ’s church is one. That oneness is a marker of its legitimacy and, as such, must be made manifest by all the churches of the world practicing in the same way its common rites and ceremonies. Curiously, after describing the awkwardness of King Oswiu and Queen Eanflæd celebrating Easter at different times in some years, according to their respective Irish and Roman traditions, and after noting how this awkwardness was tolerated as long as St Aidan remained alive, the text relates cryptically that a ‘graver controversy’ (gravior controuersia) arose when Colman came from Ireland to become Lindisfarne’s new bishop.15 Even more curious, it goes on to relate how this controversy ‘came to the ears’ (peruenit ad ipsas … aures) of King Oswiu and Alhfrith, his son, wording that would suggest that this controversy raged mostly outside their own social circles.16 Yet as related above, Alhfrith had actually chosen to eject Irish monks from their foundation at Ripon once he had learned, presumably from Wilfrid, church practice as it was observed in Rome and Gaul. This information lets the reader know that, far from having merely heard about this controversy, Alhfrith had actively instigated it. That the narrator should first describe Alhfrith as innocently learning of this controversy from others, and then almost immediately re-describe him as one of its instigators, leads the skillful reader to question the narrator’s reliability and to wonder whether he holds conflicting loyalties—wanting, at one and the same time, both to implicate Alhfrith in and to exculpate him from this ‘graver controversy.’ In describing the ‘graver controversy,’ the text presents father and son as each representing an opposing faction. Each faction, moreover, is enumerated in three tiers. The first tier consists of royalty: King Oswiu for the Irish faction and his son Alhfrith for the universalizing one. The second tier is comprised of high-ranking churchmen and their surrogates: Bishop Colman with his clergy from Ireland on the Irish side, and Bishop Agilbert with the priests Agatho and Wilfrid for the universalizing faction. Finally, the third tier consists of clergy below the episcopal rank and monastics: the abbess Hild who was ‘with her own in the Irish party’ (cum clericis suis de Scottia) and, on the universalizing side, James the Deacon and Eanflæd’s Kentish priest, Romanus. Among those mentioned in association with this third-tier Irish party is the ‘venerable bishop’ Cedd who, although he holds episcopal rank, does not merit mention among the second-tier participants, presumably because he will function exclusively as ‘a most astute’—and presumably non-partisan—translator for each side of the debate. From this point forward, most of the characters from all three tiers effectively drop out of the narrative, leaving only some second-tier characters—Colman on the Irish side, and Agilberht and Wilfrid on the universalizing side—to engage in the debate proper. Oswiu’s son, Alhfrith, a first-tier character, also drops completely out

15 Bede, HE 3,25—182,19–20. 16 Bede, HE 3,25—182,24.

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of the Historia after his mention here. Of the remaining four characters, Agilberht presently takes himself out of the debate, ceding to Wilfrid the presentation of the universalizing position because of Wilfrid’s native English-speaking abilities. For the rest of the debate, only three actors appear: King Oswiu, Colman, and Wilfrid.

3. King Oswiu’s Introduction of the Debate As the debate begins, King Oswiu’s role undergoes a curious shift. Earlier he was introduced as one who, having been educated as a youth at Lindisfarne, ‘thought that there was nothing better than what [the Irish] had taught.’17 Because of this Irish education, he celebrated Easter in some years on a different date than both his wife and son. As the debate proper begins, however, he suddenly shifts into the role of a neutral adjudicator. Even more curious is the tone of his speech opening the debate. Rhetorically, it sounds uncharacteristic of the person we have come to know. For it is neither Irish nor even impartial in tone, but positively universalizing. The narrative puts his speech introducing the debate in the form of indirect discourse: ‘Oswiu [said] that they who serve one God must hold to one rule of living and not vary in the celebration of the heavenly sacraments, seeing that all await one kingdom in the heavens; it must rather be asked which is the truer tradition and that this one must be followed by all in common (ab omnibus communiter)’ [emphasis mine].18 I have highlighted here the passage’s concern for unity and for all to agree in common upon a single observance. While one may justly note that, from a historian’s point of view, this concern for unanimity resulted from the unrest that arose at court when—as the text notes19—king and queen in some years celebrated Easter on different Sundays, when considered rhetorically this call for unanimity echoes themes that have already been made by the universalizing party elsewhere in the Historia. As we saw above in Ch. 3, for example, the narrative at Augustine’s Oak makes frequent use of this language of unity, commonality, and unanimity as characterizing the true church, as opposed to the factionalist British church. This rhetoric of unity is the hallmark of the universalizing position. By contrast, the parochializing churches—whether British or Irish—typically do not appeal to universal unity to support their arguments, but rather point to the unanimity of their parochial tradition20 or to the holy life led by one or several of that tradition’s founders or luminaries.21

17 Bede, HE 3,25—182,25–28: Osuiu … nil melius, quam quod illi docuissent, autumabat. 18 Bede, HE 3,25—183,28–33: oporteret eos, qui uni Deo seruirent, unam uiuendi regulam tenere, nec discrepare in celebratione sacramentorum caelestium, qui unum omnes in caelis regnum expectarent; inquirendum potius, quae esset uerior traditio, et hanc ab omnibus communiter esse sequendam … 19 Bede, HE 3,25—182,1–6. 20 e.g., Colman’s claim that his party’s Easter practice was celebrated by ‘all our fathers’ (Bede, HE 3,25—184,4–5: omnes patres nostri). 21 e.g., Colman’s claim of St Columba’s holiness (Bede, HE 3,25—187,3–6) and the British clergy’s impulse to consult a holy hermit when deciding how to respond to Augustine at the second council at Augustine’s Oak (Bede, HE 2,2—82,24–27).

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It would thus seem that even before the main portion of the debate begins, the crucial role played by King Oswiu has undergone a profound transformation from one who was a partisan of the Irish party to one who now serves as a somewhat Roman-leaning arbiter of the debate between Colman and Wilfrid. There is thus a strong foreshadowing here of Oswiu’s final verdict in favor of the universalizing position symbolized by Rome and the catholicizing church. Having concluded his opening speech, Oswiu too now retreats into the story’s background, leaving only Colman and Wilfrid to engage in their debate unfettered and leaving the reader free to devote all attention to arguments about to be made.

4. Antiquity or Catholicity? The ensuing debate leaves no doubt in the reader’s mind as to which side must be followed. At every turn Wilfrid is portrayed as having delivered Colman a rhetorical punch so powerful as to have left him figuratively reeling. He does so by showing the reader that the solid ground of tradition upon which Colman believes himself to be standing is really quicksand. Time and again, Wilfrid undercuts Colman’s attempts to seek refuge in what he believes to be the Irish tradition’s terra firma. As the debate begins, Colman and Wilfrid appeal to different warrants for establishing the truth of a religious tradition. Whereas Wilfrid appeals to the universality, or catholicity, of his Easter practice as the warrant for its authenticity, Colman justifies his practice by its antiquity. Colman’s is a tradition that, as he says, he received from his ancestors (a majoribus meis), that had been observed by all of his people’s fathers (omnes patres nostri), and that the blessed Evangelist John celebrated with all the churches over which he had presided. Noting that John was the disciple especially loved by the Lord (specialiter Domino dilectus), Colman thus implies that his tradition enjoys nothing less than the ancient warrant of Christ’s blessing.22 In response, Wilfrid declares that he has seen for himself that the Easter dating that his own community follows is followed not just in Rome, but also in Italy and Gaul. More than that, Wilfrid has learned that that same dating is observed in Africa, Asia, Egypt, and Greece and ‘throughout the whole world, wherever Christ’s church has spread’ (omnem orbem, quacumque Christi ecclesia diffusa est)—except, of course, among ‘these people’ (hos), presumably the Irish of Iona, and ‘their accomplices in obstinacy’ (obstinationis eorum complices), the Picts and the Britons. Wilfrid’s word choice here shows just how comparatively small a sample of the world observes this wrong Easter. Whereas he designates that small sample by the names of certain peoples who inhabit Britain (e.g., hos [Scottos], Pictos, Brettones), he denominates that large majority of the world that rightly observes Easter by the names of entire geographical regions (e.g., Italia, Gallia, Africam, etc.). Wording the point in this way emphasizes the point put on Wilfrid’s lips at the end of his first salvo against Colman, namely, that these three peoples ‘do battle in stupid exertion against the whole world from 22 Bede, HE 3,25—184,2–10.

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the two remotest islands of the ocean, and not from their entire extent.’23 In other words, the existence of the English outside Northumbria and the southern Irish, whose practices conform to the universalizing churches, prohibits identifying the wrong Easter observance with the entire regions of Britannia and Hibernia.

5. John or Peter? As the reader might expect, Colman takes exception to Wilfrid’s calling the Irish, Pictish, and British peoples’ exertion ‘stupid’ (stultum), noting that they are merely following the example of John, ‘an apostle so great that he was worthy to recline on the Lord’s breast.’ As if to counter Wilfrid’s use of the word ‘stupid,’ Colman asserts that John—whose example Colman’s people follow—lived ‘most wisely.’ And, as though taking a page out of Wilfrid’s own universalizing and catholicizing playbook, he insists that ‘the whole world’ (omnis mundus) knows this. Wilfrid denies that he has, as Colman implies, cast aspersions upon the Apostle John by attacking ‘stupid’ Irish practice. In doing so, he proceeds to drive a wedge between John’s practice and that of Colman and his party. Wilfrid asserts that John’s Easter observance was motivated, above all else, by his concern for Jewish Christians, as he explains: Heaven forbid that I should fault John for foolishness because he submitted to Mosaic Law’s decrees according to the letter at a time when the church was Judaizing in many ways, and when the apostles could not suddenly repudiate every legal observance that had been instituted by God (in the way that it is necessary for all who come to the faith to repudiate idols invented by demons), lest they scandalize those Jews who were among the Gentiles.24 Wilfrid then delineates how Paul also tried to avoid scandalizing the Jews by, for example, circumcising Timothy and offering up sacrificial victims in the Temple.25 Wilfrid thus concedes that John practiced a different Easter than the one that the Roman church and all of Christendom (excepting portions of Britain and Ireland)

23 Bede, HE 3,25—184,28–31: cum quibus de duabus ultimis oceani insulis, et his non totis, contra totum orbem stulto labore pugnant. 24 Bede, HE 3,25—185,2–10. Bede seems to be saying here the entrance of the Jews into the earliest church did not require them to abandon circumcision and other legal practices that they had observed ‘to the letter’ (iuxta literam). It did, however, require Gentiles immediately to abandon the practice of idol worship. Plummer’s notes for 3,25 usefully comment on Wilfrid’s words here: ‘This particular argument as to the very gradual way in which Judaic observances were eliminated from the early Church, which shows a genuine historical sense, appears constantly in Bede’s works’ (2:190). Plummer then cites as an example the Latin of Bede’s commentary on Genesis, given here in English, ‘The primitive Church in Jerusalem used to observe many of the Law’s ceremonies also according to the letter, when even those who had been called from the Gentiles were judaizing … For they were not suddenly able to cast off as harmful those things that they had known to have been established by God’ (My translation of Bede, In Genesim 4, ll. 1692–95 and 1718–20 [on Gen 21:9–10]—CCSL 118A,241). 25 Act 16:3 and 21:26.

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practice today. More than that, he implies that John did this, just as Paul did, not because he did not know any better, but because he was unwilling to scandalize the Jewish Christians (whom the text here merely calls ‘Jews’). Quoting Act 21:20, Wilfrid then reminds the reader that during the time of the primitive church, Jewish Christians, who yet remained zealous for the Law, were numbered in the ‘many thousands.’ By describing these two early apostles’ behavior toward the primitive (and Judaizing) church as he does, Wilfrid implies that although they were wrong in one sense for observing the Jewish and Jewish-inspired ceremonies that they did, they were nevertheless right in another sense: that is, in not wanting to cause offense to the many thousands of Jewish Christians.26 And I would add that not wanting to offend Jewish Christians in this manner is just another way of saying that Paul and John had as their paramount concern the preservation of the unity and concord of the church. Wilfrid thus implies that John, by having this as his highest concern as he established his Easter observance, is actually giving expression to the current sentiment of the worldwide church that looks to the church in Rome as its guiding star. Both churches are concerned with inclusion: the primitive church strives to include the many thousands of practicing Jews that embraced Christ, while the latter day church has the more herculean task of trying to include the ‘whole world’ (omnem orbem), by which of course Wilfrid means the whole Gentile world, since in the 600 years between the primitive church and Wilfrid’s time the issue of how to handle Jewish converts had seemed to have disappeared completely. The narrative thus conveys here the conviction that John and the contemporary church hold in common, namely: that love, unity, and concord are the true and only indispensable marks of Christ’s church. By identifying this common conviction, Wilfrid deftly manages to claim the authority of the Apostle John for the worldwide church as, at the same time, he wrests it away from Colman and his party. According to Wilfrid’s reasoning, since John wished to live in harmony with the church in his own time and place, it was fitting that he ‘began the celebration of the Paschal feast on the evening of the fourteenth day of the month, caring not whether this celebration arose on the sabbath or on some other weekday.’27 But, argues Wilfrid, Peter knew better, being ‘mindful that the Lord arose on the first day of the week.’ Peter, therefore, began his reckoning of Easter just as John and his church did, but then, if he saw that the calculated date did not fall on the first day of the week, our Sunday, he waited to 26 In other works, Bede indicates that the early Jews who believed in Christ did nothing wrong in continuing to observe Jewish Law and ritual. He cites St Augustine’s authority for this view in Bede, Collectio ex opusculis sancti Augustini in epistulas Pauli Apostoli [Gal 2:11–14], (Hurst [trans], 202–03). He expresses the same view in Bede, Retract. in Act. [Act 21:25]—CCSL 121,157, ll. 13–16: Non ergo prohibiti sunt eo tempore credentes in Christum Iudaei secundum consuetudinem legis ingredi, stante adhuc templo ac religione sua, quamlibet in solis noui testamenti sacramentis salutem habituri. (My translation: ‘So, Jews believing in Christ at that time, when the Temple and its cultus were still standing, were not forbidden to enter [the Temple] according to the Law’s custom, even though they were about to lay hold of salvation solely in the sacraments of the New Covenant.’) 27 Bede, HE 3,25—185,19–23: Itaque Iohannes secundum legis consuetudinem XIIIIa die mensis primi ad uesperam incipiebat celebrationem festi paschalis, nil curans, utrum haec sabbato, an alia qualibet feria proueniret.

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celebrate Easter until that day. Moreover, and as Wilfrid explains, the Apostle John’s successors in Asia were converted to Peter’s observance, as was ‘the whole church throughout the world’ (omnis per orbem ecclesia).28 With this last phrase, Wilfrid repeats the universalizers’ main argument in the Whitby debate, as both he himself and King Oswiu had articulated it earlier.29 He also severs the last possible tie that Colman can maintain as his link to a Johannine Easter dating. Wilfrid’s implied argument here is that if even John’s successors, who had known John personally, had abandoned his Easter practice so many years ago, following the example of St Peter, then who is Colman to argue that such a practice is still legitimate? Finally, Wilfrid appeals yet again to the authority that grows out of universal agreement, noting that Peter’s Easter practice, which was eventually adopted by John’s followers, was confirmed at the Council of Nicaea, which—as he notes—is described in The Ecclesiastical History of Eusebius.30 Perhaps the author assumes that the monastic reader would know that this meeting at Nicaea was the church’s first ecumenical council and the most famous of all early church councils. Already in Book 2, the Historia’s author had identified Nicaea as a reason why the southern Irish had abandoned their peculiar Easter practice, citing a letter from Pope John IV (640–642) who ‘showed clearly that it is necessary for Easter Sunday be sought from the fifteenth moon to the twenty-first, as was approved at the Nicene synod.’31 Wilfrid, at this point, utters a sentence—pithy by his standards—that begins by summarizing brilliantly the argument so far against Colman and ends by leveling a new accusation against him. He says, ‘Wherefore it is agreed, Colman, that you follow neither the examples of John, as you allege, nor of Peter, whose tradition you knowingly contradict; and you neither conform to the law nor the gospel in your observance of Easter.’32 This latter charge that Colman’s Easter observance does not adhere to the gospel is hardly surprising. After all, Wilfrid has already demonstrated that Colman’s practice follows neither St Peter to the letter nor St John in spirit. Having no support from these or any of Christ’s apostles, it is not hard to see how Colman’s practice fails to conform to the gospel. Wilfrid supplements this charge with this fresh observation: that by observing Easter between the fifteenth and twenty-first day of the Paschal month, Colman departs from Peter’s practice of observing it from between the fourteenth to the twentieth day. More surprising, however, is the charge that Colman, whose Johannine practice Wilfrid has shown to result from John’s Judaizing, does not conform to Jewish Law either. Of course, since Easter observance is a specifically Christian rite, there is no way it could conform to a Jewish Law that knows nothing about the Easter event. What Wilfrid clearly means here is that Colman’s observance of Easter does not even conform to John’s way of

28 Bede, HE 3,25—186,4–10. 29 Bede, HE 3,25—184,20–28 (Wilfrid) and 183,27–33 (Oswiu). 30 Bede, HE 3,25—186,10–13. 31 Bede, HE 2,19—122,23–26. 32 Bede, HE 3,25—186,14–18.

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dating Easter, which took no account of the day of the week on which it falls. How John dates Easter, therefore, conforms to the way that the Law prescribes for Jews to date Passover, namely, without concern for the day of the week. But Colman, not following John in this respect, always celebrates Easter on Sunday only. More than that, Colman and his people will in certain years begin their celebration of Easter on the evening of the thirteenth day and will always end it on the twentieth day, instead of the twenty-first. Both of these practices, Wilfrid observes, are utterly contrary to John’s Judaizing observance, which Wilfrid associates here with ‘the law.’33 Thus having shown that Colman’s practice has neither apostolic nor Mosaic warrant, since it runs contrary to both New Testament gospel and Old Testament law, Wilfrid has cut Colman’s major supports out from under him. At this point, the argument should be over, but Colman persists. Having exhausted his appeals to apostolic and biblical authority, he proceeds to appeal to the authority of two giants in the intervening ecclesiastical tradition.

6. Columba or Anatolius? First, seemingly peeved at Wilfrid’s charge that he and his party follow neither law nor gospel to determine their Easter dating, Colman now justifies his Easter observance by appealing to the authority of Anatolius, a late third-century bishop of Laodicea, and asks, ‘Did the holy man Anatolius, much lauded in The Ecclesiastical History mentioned before, who wrote that the Pasch should be celebrated from the fourteenth to the twentieth, know things contrary to law and the gospel?’34 Next, Colman appeals to the more recent and—given his audience—probably more compelling authority of St Columba, saying, Should it be believed that our most reverend father Columba and his successors, men beloved of God, who observed the Pasch in this same manner, did or knew things contrary to divine pages? Since there have been many among them whose heavenly signs attest to their sanctity, and whose miracles attested to the mighty deeds they have done, I—having no doubt that they are holy men—will not cease to follow always their life, manners, and teaching.35 In reply, Wilfrid first quickly dismisses Colman’s appeal to Anatolius because, as he says, Colman and his party do not observe Anatolius’ decrees (nec eius decreta seruetis). For, as Wilfrid notes, that ‘most holy and learned’ Anatolius posited for the dating of Easter a 19-year cycle, which Colman and his party ‘either ignore or utterly despise as a thing acknowledged and kept by the whole church of Christ.’36 33 Though Bede does not cite a specific biblical passage to warrant this claim, one can presume he is thinking here about Ex 12:18, where Moses specifies that the Passover should last from the fourteenth until the twenty-first day. 34 Bede, HE 3,25—186,34–187,2. 35 Bede, HE 3,25—187,3–10. 36 Bede, HE 3,25—187,11–17.

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Additionally, Anatolius rightly observed Easter eve as never occurring before the fourteenth lunar day of the month, whereas Colman and his party in certain years observe it on the thirteenth.37 There is little point, at this stage of our analysis, to go into the fine points of Easter dating, or the computus, which would only illuminate the computus debate and do little to help us understand the larger issue that divides Wilfrid and Colman. The fact that Colman never responds to Wilfrid’s more technical arguments about the computus, but argues only with Wilfrid about issues of teaching authority and its tradition, is revealing. The author here might have gotten into the finer details of the computus debate by putting on Colman’s lips at least some attempted rejoinder to Wilfrid’s technical arguments. That the author does not do so serves two purposes: First, it portrays Colman and his party as intellectual simpletons, totally out of their depth in the technicalities of the Easter debate. At the same time, it portrays Wilfrid and the Romanizing party as possessing a cosmopolitan knowledge that shows itself as in conversation and communion with all the churches of the world. Second, and of equal importance, it signifies to the reader that the Easter controversy is merely the occasion to drive home what the text has already driven home in all preceding conversion narratives—that the true mark of a church is its catholicity, its willingness to enter into communion with all the churches throughout the world. In this sense, Wilfrid’s remark that Colman either ignores or despises Anatolius’ 19-year cycle is less important that his insistence that Colman does this in contrariety to an observance ‘acknowledged and safeguarded by the whole church of Christ’ (agnitum et a tota Christi ecclesia custoditum).38 Having made quick work of Colman’s claim to have the support of Anatolius’ Easter reckoning, Wilfrid finally turns to what was certainly the most emotionally charged aspect of Colman and his supporters’ argument: the appeal to St Columba’s authority. He begins by belittling Colman and his party, asserting that they say that they imitate the sanctity of Columba and Columba’s followers (quorum sanctitatem imitari … perhibetis).39 He thus sows doubt in the reader’s mind as to whether they really do what they say. He then proceeds to revise Colman’s praise of Columba so as to deflate Columba’s sanctity. Although he repeats Colman’s wording when he avers that Columba did indeed possess a sanctity (sanctitatem) that was also accompanied by heavenly signs (caelestibus signis), he is willing to concede only that these signs confirmed the legitimacy of Columba’s monastic rule (regulam) and abbatial commands (praecepta).40 By contrast, Colman had already asserted that these heavenly signs were witness to Columba’s and his successors’ miracle-working powers (uirtutum quae fecerunt miracula).41 After Wilfrid refuses to interpret these heavenly signs as certain evidence of Columba’s miracle-working powers, he proceeds to cite Jesus’

37 Bede, HE 3,25—187,17–24. 38 Bede, HE 3,25—187,16–17. 39 Bede, HE 3,25—187,24–27. 40 Bede, HE 3,25—187,24–27. 41 Bede, HE 3,25—187,6–10.

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warning that at the Last Judgment he will not acknowledge all those who prophesied in his name, who cast out demons, and who—now using the words that Colman used to describe Columba—‘did many miracles.’42 These words, ascribed to Wilfrid, recall Gregory the Great’s admonition to Augustine of Canterbury in Book 1 not to rejoice in his miracles since these can be worked for one’s own private good rather than for the edification of others.43 As such, working miracles does not necessarily fulfill God’s purpose. Here Wilfrid is suggesting that, perhaps for the very same reason, Colman not set too great a store upon Columba’s alleged miracles. Wilfrid’s suggestion here that Columba might have been one to whom the Lord might say at the Last Judgment, ‘I never knew you,’ and thus be found to be a fraudulent saint, seems unduly harsh.44 As though acknowledging that he has crossed some line of decorum with this slur, Wilfrid quickly backpedals, saying, ‘But heaven forbid that I speak this concerning your fathers, because it is far more righteous to think good rather than evil concerning people unknown.’45 Wilfrid then proceeds effectively to damn Columba and his successors with the faintest of praise. He says, ‘I do not deny that even they were servants of God and beloved to God—they who loved God with rustic simplicity, yet pious intent.’46 Instead of positively asserting that Columba and his successors are servants of God, Wilfrid simply ‘does not deny’ it (non nego). Moreover, in conceding that God’s beloved include ‘even those who love God with rustic simplicity and pious intention,’ he suggests that God’s love of them is secondary to God’s love of others. The character of Wilfrid thus appears as one who, however much he wishes to present himself as giving Colman’s spiritual fathers their due, does not actually hold them in very high esteem. Continuing his lukewarm assessment, Wilfrid concedes that, given Columba’s ignorance of the correct Easter observance, his disciples’ like observance ‘did not greatly harm them’ (neque illis multum obesse).47 Yet in order to isolate Colman using arguments that are consistent with the Historia’s major themes, the character of Wilfrid here must do more than simply damn Columba with faint praise: He must show that even Columba and his successors, unlike Colman, valued broad-based consent and ecclesiastical harmony

42 Bede, HE 3,25—187,28–31. Compare the phrase uirtutes multas fecerint of this passage with Mt 7:23: in tuo nomine uirtutes multas fecimus. 43 Bede, HE 1,31—66,27–67,1. 44 Bede, HE 3,25—187,30–31. 45 Bede, HE 3,25—187,31–33. Bede makes a similar point in his Homilies on the Gospels. Addressing the last verses of Luke’s Sermon on the Plain, he comments on Jesus’ saying, ‘Each tree is recognized by his own fruit’ (Lk 6:44). Bede cautions that the fruit that Jesus mentions here refers only to clearly perceived vices and virtues. He continues, ‘There are some actions of which [our neighbors] do not know with what intention they are performed; hence they can be judged in either way [as being good or bad]. But all doubtful actions are more rightly judged as good by those who love what is good, that the apostle’s words may be fulfilled: Do not pass judgment ahead of time (1 Cor 4:5)’ (Bede, Hom. euang. 2,25—CCSL 122,371, ll. 103–08; Martin and Hurst [trans] [1991], 258). 46 Bede, HE 3,25—187,33–188,1: Unde et illos Dei famulos ac Deo dilectos esse non nego, qui simplicitate rustica, sed intentione pia Deum dilexerunt. 47 Bede, HE 3,25—188,2–3.

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and unanimity. And Wilfrid does just that speculating that if a ‘catholic computist’ (catholic calculator) had ever come and taught Columba and his followers the correct Easter dating, then ‘they would have followed his warnings in the same way that they are rightly approved for having followed those mandates of God that they had [already] known and learned.’48 In other words, Columba would have done the right thing had he only had known that a better way existed. Such criticism serves to drive a wedge between Colman’s followers and the beloved founder of their own tradition. As importantly, it links Columba with the universalizing, catholic tradition. As such, and from the perspective of the larger work, it is certainly the most damning criticism against Colman and his party in the entire debate. Wilfrid wants his audience to infer that Colman is not doing what Columba himself would have done. In the previous sentence, Wilfrid asserted that Columba and his companions ‘loved God with rustic simplicity, yet pious intent’ (simplicitate rustica, sed intentione pia deum dilexerunt). The phrasing of this clause, and especially the use of that ‘yet’ (sed), leaves little doubt that from the perspective of the character Wilfrid their ‘rustic simplicity’ is a shortcoming of sorts, for which their pious intent amply compensates. Still, it is an understandable shortcoming given that they lived in ‘one corner of a remote island,’ as Wilfrid will soon note, and thus far away from the world’s center.49 But, as a comparison of the Historia’s other uses of simplicitas and rusticus/-a/-um make clear, however much the character of Wilfrid here intends ‘rustic simplicity’ as a slight, the Historia’s author does not. To him—as a reading of how he uses simplicitas elsewhere reveals—the descriptor ‘rustic simplicity’ bespeaks a humility of which he approves unfailingly, since humility enables one to embrace the alien other—in this case, a hypothetical ‘catholic computist’—as a co-heir of Christ.50 Indeed, such humility on the part of at least one party in a council, and ideally both, is what makes catholic consent possible. From the perspective of Wilfrid—and the author—Colman and his followers love God with rustic simplicity. In this way they resemble their predecessors, Columba and those who followed them. Yet unlike them, at least from Wilfrid’s perspective, they lack the pious intention, or humility, that would compensate for it. Because they lack humility, their rustic simplicity stubbornly asserts itself and thus scorns the decrees of apostolic see (sedis apostolicae) and the universal church (uniuersalis ecclesiae), as Wilfrid asks rhetorically in the next sentence: ‘For although your fathers were holy, should the fewness of them from one corner of a remote island be preferred to Christ’s universal church, which

48 Bede, HE 3,25—188,5–8. 49 Bede, HE 3,25—188,13–14. 50 Of their Roman missionaries the first Kentish converts to Christianity are said to have marveled at the ‘simplicity of [their] innocent life’ (simplicitatem innocentis uitae: Bede, HE 1,27—47,8). Putta, bishop of Rochester, is praised for being content with simplicity (simplicitate) in living, and not restless for the things of this world (4,2—206,7–8). Likewise, Dryhthelm is assured by his guide that if he keeps his words in rectitude and simplicity (simplicitate), he will be counted at his death among God’s elect (5,12—309,1–7).

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is throughout the world?’51 Wilfrid here states explicitly a point that moments before he conceded only grudgingly: that Colman’s ‘fathers’ were indeed holy. He then argues that the fewness of these fathers (eorum paucitas), who hail from a single corner of a remotest island, should not be preferred to Christ’s universal church, which is throughout the world. Here Wilfrid repeats from the previous sentence the words ‘universal church’ (ecclesia uniuersalis), which he there opposed to Colman and his friends who, in his words, were contemptuous of it (contemnitis).52 In this sentence, however, he opposes ‘universal church’ to the fewness of the fathers of Colman’s party and draws a sharp contrast between the physical locations of each party: the universal church is ‘throughout the world’ (quae per orbem est), while the church of Colman’s party and its fathers is limited to ‘one corner of a remote island’ (uno … angulo extremae insulae). At this point, Wilfrid has essentially undercut the claims of Colman and his party by deploying the catholicity argument to its fullest extent: How can the practice of a comparatively small tradition in one corner of a remote island be preferred to the practice of another tradition spread abroad throughout the rest of the world? As noted in Ch. 3, this was the same argument that Augustine of Hippo deployed against his Donatist opponents in the early fifth century. Yet Wilfrid is not content to counter Colman’s position merely on the grounds of showing its lack of catholicity. He also insists that that position has no support from any tradition whatsoever—especially one purported to have been inaugurated by an apostle or holy person. He already undercut such a claim early in his discourse when he denied that Colman could legitimately appeal to the tradition handed down by John the Apostle. There Wilfrid maintained that John’s observance of Easter was dictated solely by his catholic instinct to accommodate the Judaizers of the early church and that John’s successors in Asia observed the correct Easter dating, having learned it after John died.53 In parallel fashion here, Wilfrid implicitly argues that Columba’s immediate successors had greater reverence for the authority of the Apostle Peter than even for their own St Columba. To discern his argument, one must pay close attention to the Latin of Wilfrid’s next rhetorical question, my English rendering of which reads as follows: And moreover, if that Columba of yours, and no less of ours, was a holy man and—if he was of Christ—powerful in miracles, was he capable of being preferred [praeferri potuit] to the most blessed prince of the apostles, to whom the Lord said: ‘You are Peter, and on this petrification I will build my church and the gates of hell will not prevail against it, and I will give you the keys of the Kingdom of Heaven’?54

51 Bede, HE 3,25—188,11–14: Etsi enim patres tui sancti fuerunt, numquid uniuersali, quae per orbem est, ecclesiae Christi eorum est paucitas uno de angulo extremae insulae praeferenda? 52 Bede, HE 3,25—188,8–11. 53 Bede, HE 3,25—185,2–10. 54 Bede, HE 3,25—188,14–20.

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Recent translators of popular English editions of Bede’s Historia have translated the Latin praeferri potuit in this question as a verb of the present tense. So, for example, Leo Sherley-Price translated these words as ‘can he [i.e., Columba] take precedence,’ while Bertram Colgrave translated them as ‘is he to be preferred?’55 Neither translator renders the potuit in the perfect tense of the original (and Colgrave loses the sense of the verb posse altogether). As a result, both translators convey the sense that Wilfrid is asking Colman to state his own opinion about whether Columba can be preferred to the prince of the apostles. But the text here clearly asks not what Colman’s current opinion is, but what someone else’s past opinion was. He asks, ‘Was Columba capable of being preferred to the most blessed prince of the apostles?’ By putting the infinitive of praeferre here in its passive form, Wilfrid does not explicitly identify the implicit subject—that is, who was, or was not, capable of preferring Columba to the prince of the apostles at some unspecified in the past. From the preceding discourse, however, it seems clear that Wilfrid here is asking Colman what, in Colman’s judgement, the opinion had been of those whom Wilfrid identified earlier both as Columba’s ‘disciples’ (sequacibus eius) and the ‘fathers’ of Colman and his party (patribus vestris): Were they capable of placing Columba’s authority above that of St Peter’s? Translating the potuit here as the perfect (or past) tense—which the verb form actually is—makes a difference. It tells the reader that what Colman believes now is not even what Columba’s disciples, Colman’s own ‘fathers,’ believed. Wilfrid is, yet again, trying to sever Colman from one more tie to a tradition that Colman wants to claim as supporting his party’s position. Having shown earlier in the debate that Colman can claim the authority of neither John the Apostle nor Anatolius, Wilfrid here demonstrates that Colman and his party cannot even justly claim the authority of their very own spiritual fathers, that is, of Columba and his disciples because—as Colman himself concedes—these latter were incapable of preferring their own authority to that of Peter, prince of the apostles. Wilfrid thus effectively portrays Colman and his followers themselves, like the islands they inhabit, as remote from the consensus of the larger church, cut off completely from every conceivable Christian tradition and authority, including that of their beloved St Columba and his disciples. Geographical remoteness thus functions here as an apt metaphor for a remoteness of affect. The remoteness of Iona from the rest of the world has fostered in Colman and his brethren only a lukewarm attachment to the ‘churches throughout the world’ and the tradition upon which all those churches agree. In asking Colman, ‘Was Columba capable of being preferred to Peter?,’ Wilfrid uses the particle num, which shows that he is expecting Colman to say, ‘No.’ Yet before Colman has the chance to answer, King Oswiu interrupts to ask Colman a different question—a question indirectly prompted by Wilfrid’s. For Wilfrid had included in his question Jesus’ description of Peter, in Matthew’s Gospel, as the rock [= petram/‘petrification’] upon which the Church would be built.56 Apparently

55 Bede, HE 3,25—188,16 (cf. Colgrave and Mynors [trans], 307 and Sherley-Price [trans], 192). 56 Bede, HE 3,25—188,17–18 = Mt 16:18—cui Dominus ait: ‘Tu es Petrus, et super hanc petram aedificabo ecclesiam meam.’

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impressed that this description of Peter had come directly from Christ, Oswiu asks Colman whether the Lord had really conferred upon Peter the power of the keys and proclaimed Peter to be the rock upon which He, the Lord, would build his church. In putting this question on Oswiu’s lips, the author conveys to the skillful reader the sense that Oswiu is scarcely more biblically literate than King Edwin and the priest Coifi showed themselves to be in the episode on the Northumbrians’ conversion. Oswiu is portrayed as enough of a Christian to know that to be named by Christ as the Rock of His church is significant, but not enough to be familiar with the Scriptural passage in which Christ actually gave Peter that name and its concomitant powers.57 Like Coifi before his so-called conversion, Oswiu is most concerned to identify who holds divine favor and thus can wield divine power. Upon hearing Colman answer ‘yes’ to his first question, Oswiu then asks whether Colman can adduce any evidence that Columba was endowed—presumably by Christ Himself—with a power as great as Peter’s. When Colman concedes that he cannot, Oswiu asks if they both ‘agree, without any controversy’ (sine ulla controuersia consentiunt) that the words Wilfrid quoted were indeed spoken ‘authoritatively’ (principaliter) by Christ to Peter and that Christ had in fact conferred upon Peter the keys of the heavenly kingdom. To this, each one replied, ‘Yes.’ Two points merit attention here. First, as noted earlier, Oswiu’s opening speech to the synod emphasized the importance of consent—that the two parties ‘not vary’ (nec discrepare) in their Easter observance and that they determine the truer one—one that must be followed ‘by all in common’ (ab omnibus communiter). Reemphasizing that same theme in this closing frame, Oswiu now asks Wilfrid and Colman, as representatives of their respective parties, whether they too at last ‘consent without any controversy’ (sine ulla controuersia consentiunt) upon this one point. Having listened to all their points of disagreement, Oswiu finally finds one point of agreement around which, he hopes, Catholic unity might be forged, namely, that Christ conferred a greater power upon Peter than he did on Columba. Second, the author’s use of the word principaliter, which he puts in the mouth of Oswiu, bears further scrutiny. Oswiu asks Colman whether Christ’s words concerning Peter’s status as the ‘rock’ ‘were said principaliter to Peter.’58 Colgrave renders principaliter as ‘primarily’; Sherley-Price as ‘indisputably.’59 Colgrave’s translation suggests that while Christ may have been uttering these words chiefly to Peter, he intended to address them to others as well. Such a translation makes no sense in this context, in which Oswiu is trying to find a sole and supreme authority upon which to ground a dating for Easter. Sherley-Price’s

57 In Stephen’s Vita Wilfrithi 10, which was written over 20 years before the Historia—and which Bede knew—King Oswiu is said to have asked this question ‘smilingly’ (subridens) to all, and then, having heard their answer, to have replied ‘wisely’ (sapienter) in deciding against the Irish party. By contrast, the Historia shows Oswiu asking his question only of Colman, and offers no clue concerning either Oswiu’s affect or its assessment of him. In all, the Wilfrid Vita presents a more knowing, kinder, and wiser Oswiu than the Historia does. See Eddius Stephanus, Vita sancti Wilfrithi 10—Colgrave (ed. and trans), 22–23. I am grateful to Arthur G. Holder for alerting me to this contrast. 58 Bede, HE 3,25—188,27. 59 Bede, HE 3,25—188,27 (cf. Colgrave and Mynors [trans], 307 and Sherley-Price [trans], 192).

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‘indisputably’ seems to get closer to a meaning appropriate to the context. Oswiu’s utterance of principaliter here echoes Wilfrid’s description—just ten lines earlier—of Peter as apostolurum principi: ‘the most blessed prince of the apostles’ (188,17). As such, Oswiu’s use of principaliter here underscores his sense that Christ’s words to Peter were spoken with the authority of a princeps—an authority, in other words, that indisputably establishes Peter’s status as the rock upon which Christ’s church is built. Thus, Christ said these things to Peter in a ‘princely’ or authoritative way. As such, they ought to carry great weight for how Christians in general, and Colman in particular, regard Peter’s authority in the present, especially as it relates to Columba’s. Peter’s supreme authority having been established, Oswiu concludes the debate and pronounces his verdict, saying, Then I say to you all: since this man is that gatekeeper whom I wish not to contradict, I desire rather to obey his statutes in all things insofar as I know and am able, for fear that, when perchance I arrive at the kingdom of heaven’s gates, no one will be there to unlock [them]—because the one deemed fit to hold the keys is opposed [to my entrance].60 Here, Oswiu’s concern drastically shifts from communal concord to naked self-interest. As such, it is wholly out of keeping with the spirit of his opening speech as well as Wilfrid’s arguments. It also reveals Oswiu’s motives as less than edifying and reduces his standing in the reader’s eyes. Remarkably, in this sentence of 43 words, Oswiu speaks in the first person singular six times—five times in the indicative mood (dico, nolo, novi, valeo, and cupio) and once in an ablative absolute (adueniente me). What seems to motivate Oswiu here is his dread of rejection and subsequent abandonment, specifically Peter’s, which might occur when, having died, Oswiu comes ‘to the gates of the kingdom of heaven.’ Oswiu worries that unless he resolves this Easter crisis now, Peter will ‘not be [there]’ (non sit) for him then. This fear of being turned away by Peter, prince of the apostles, echoes the anxiety already observed in the English conversion narrative that occurred in the court of King Edwin. If one turns again here to the story of the sparrow as a metaphor to guide the reader in thinking about King Oswiu’s anxiety, then Oswiu here could be compared to one who identifies with the sparrow—which is about to leave the warm and bright hall for winter’s darkness—and so is anxious for both it and himself. What awaits beyond the threshold of the hall? Will it be utter and unremitting loneliness? Or will Peter be there for him? While one might read Oswiu’s intense self-concern here as a sign that, somewhat like Coifi, he sees Christian faith as a means to meet his own personal needs, Coifi’s motives and Oswiu’s must be distinguished. Coifi was willing to swap out the old paganism for Christianity in hopes of gaining more earthly power, status, and royal favor. Oswiu, however, wants something quite different. Though driven in this closing speech by his own personal anxiety about being left behind, rejected and

60 Bede, HE 3,25—188,30–189,3: Et ego uobis dico, quia hic est ostiarius ille, cui ego contradicere nolo; sed, in quantum noui uel ualeo, huius cupio in omnibus oboedire statutis; ne forte, me adueniente ad fores regni caelorum, non sit qui reserat, auerso illo, qui claues tenere probatur.

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alone after death, he showed himself, in his opening speech, as also concerned about the larger communal issue of unity—an issue he and others seem to believe he bears direct responsibility for addressing. In a sense, Oswiu’s this-worldly and next-worldly concerns are one and the same: he wants to cultivate fellowship now so that he may continue to enjoy it in the heavenly life. Fostering such fellow feeling and unity serves as a powerful antidote not only against communal strife, but also against the alienation and isolation that such strife brings in its wake. And if such alienation is not countered now, it will extend its tragic reach from this life into the next. None of this, however, diminishes the parallels that could be drawn between Oswiu and Coifi. Both are concerned with the maintenance of their power. Oswiu’s attitude to the Irish party implicitly resembles Coifi’s toward paganism. Both the Irish party and the pagan tradition are judged by their respective practitioners as lacking the ability to provide them with the power that they seek: either the power to win favors from an earthly king or the power to win admission to heaven from the Prince of the Apostles. The sentence that closes ch. 25 and the Whitby narrative expresses the ideal of concord perhaps better than any other in the entire work: ‘When the king said these things, all the nobles (maiores)—who were sitting or standing, along with the commoners (mediocribus)—applauded; and once the less perfect institution was abandoned they rejoiced to turn themselves toward those things that they had recognized as being better.’ Yet despite the jubilation, this sentence is telling in what it lacks: any mention of the Irish party. The only communal rift implied here is the one that might exist between the maiores and the mediocribus—two words that commonly indicate social status—from which a skillful reader might infer that the tensions that led to the Whitby debate also fell along the fault lines of social class. Yet the narrative gives no other indication of class conflict. One way to explain the story’s interest here in the consensus of maiores and mediocribus is to note that in this chapter’s opening frame, the author mentions the union of a similar opposing pair, namely, the mediocribus on the one hand and, on the other, Archbishop Honorius of Canterbury and Felix, first bishop of the East Anglians. So, in the Whitby narrative the reader finds two oppositions that involve mediocribus, or ‘commoners’: (1) mediocribus vs. bishops Honorius and Felix (3,25—182,13) (2) mediocribus vs. maiores (3,25—189,5) Considered without reference to the first opposition, the second might lead the reader to see this opposition to be only one of social class. Yet if considered in light of the first, the second could be taken to indicate a distinction not of social class, but of religious status, and specifically one between either bishops and laity or between bishops and the lesser clergy. Yet perhaps a subtler but no less significant distinction is being drawn here between Irish/British provincialism and English/Roman universalism. The context in which the first opposition appears is a discussion of St Aidan who, we are told, observed the Columban dating of Easter. The text here emphasizes that, despite his erroneous observance of Easter, Aidan ‘took great pains to perform works of faith, piety, and love in accordance with the manner practiced by all holy people.’

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For this reason, the text concludes, ‘he was rightly loved by all, even those who felt differently concerning Easter; and he was held up for veneration not only by the common people (mediocribus), but also by the bishops Honorius of the Kentish people and Felix of the East Angles.’61 The text here thus explicitly underscores the English associations of these bishops: They are the bishops, respectively, of two great English peoples: the Kentish and the East Angles. Yet the skillful reader of this text may remember another fact that the Historia has earlier either implied or stated about these bishops: that they are foreigners. Their Latin names indicate their continental origins. Already in Book 2 we learned that Felix was a Burgundian; we inferred as well that Archbishop Honorius was a Roman.62 Since this first opposition involving mediocribus occurs in the opening frame of the Whitby synod narrative, it would make sense to interpret the maiores of the second opposition (which is opposed to mediocribus) not as ‘nobles,’ but as the members of the universalizing party for whom Wilfrid is the spokesperson—a party that includes ecclesiastics Ronan and Agilberht, whose origins or training were, like Honorius’ and Felix’s, decidedly continental. Note the shift that has occurred in the relations of this oppositional pair between the opening and closing frame of the Whitby synod narrative. In the opening frame, they all agree that Aidan’s works of faith, piety, and love render him worthy of love, and this despite the differences that some—like Honorius and Felix—have with him over Easter’s dating. The implication here is that if some disagreed with Aidan’s Easter dating when the synod began, others did not. In the closing frame, they now all agree that Aidan’s dating of Easter was wrong and that the way recommended by the catholic party must be followed. Yet their consensus on Easter will diminish neither their love of Aidan nor their reverence toward the Ionan/Lindisfarnean style of sanctity that he represented—a reverence that the author shares, as the Historia’s next chapter will make clear. At the end of 3,25, one is left with the impression that the catholic party has won a total victory without casualties—a victory that has brought everyone into its fold, mediocribus and maiores. Yet this impression the next chapter (3,26) will immediately correct.

7. Heading for Home The transition from 3,25 to 3,26 occasions no thematic break. The narrative unit of the debate proper begins with telling of the arrival of the various parties at Whitby in ch. 25 (183,13–26) and ends with the details concerning their departure in ch. 26 (189,10–23). One of those details, concerning Colman, serves as a transition to the next—and final—section of the larger Whitby narrative, which revisits an interest 61 Bede, HE 3,25—182,12–16. 62 Bede, HE 2,15—116,26 (Felix) and 2,18—120,29–130,9 (Honorius). In this latter reference, Pope Honorius implies that Archbishop Honorius was a personal disciple of Pope Gregory, and thus Roman. Much later in the Historia, in the chapter dedicated to Bishop Wilfrid (5,19—323,24–27), the reader will learn more explicitly that this same Honorius was Pope Gregory’s disciple, and thus one who came to the English kingdoms from abroad.

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in the larger narrative’s opening frame: Lindisfarne prior to Whitby. The beginning of 3,26 relates the homeward journeys of just three Whitby participants: Bishop Agilberht of the West Saxons, Bishop Colman of Lindisfarne, and Bishop Cedd of the East Saxons. Why the narrator chose to focus only on these three is curious, especially since he had earlier detailed the presence of so many more of the synod’s participants. Perhaps significantly, all three are bishops. A close inspection reveals that they are the only bishops named as having attended the synod. Also, their positions both before and after the synod function as ideal types of the range of positions represented at Whitby. Bishop Agilberht personifies the universalizing position. Of his home journey, the author merely says that he ‘returned home’ (domum rediit). The author then turns his attention to Colman, who personifies the Ionan-Irish position. Of Colman’s home journey, and of his inner disposition, the author has more to say: Seeing that his teaching had been spurned, and way of life scorned, Colman returned to Ireland ready to consider with his own what he should do about these things, taking along those who wished to follow him—that is, those who did not want to accept the catholic pasch and tonsure of the crown (for there was a very great dispute concerning this too).63 The ‘Ireland’ (Scottia) to which Colman is returning is not Ireland proper—the island Bede called Hibernia—but rather Iona, which belonged to the Irish Kingdom of Dalriada.64 Although this description of Colman’s action makes it seem as though he might be returning to Iona temporarily, the narrative soon makes it clear that Colman is leaving his episcopal see at Lindisfarne and the English kingdoms permanently. While these first two bishops left the Whitby conference with their positions unchanged, the third one, Cedd, is said to have undergone something of a conversion, having abandoned the ‘footsteps of the Irish’ and embraced the catholic Easter.65 As such, he represents, from the universalizing point of view, the ideal participant in the Whitby conference. Yet the English Cedd’s conversion hardly represents the dramatic change of heart one might expect the author to narrate. His status at the conference’s beginning is ambiguous. Although we learn earlier in Book 3 that Cedd’s mentor is Finan, the Irish bishop of Lindisfarne, Cedd’s name appears in the pre-debate cast list under neither the Irish nor the catholic heading.66 Rather, he merits being placed in a category all his own as a mediator, one who ‘stood out as a most astute translator for each party at that council.’ Also significant here are the implicit associations between ethnicity and ideal type: Agilberht, ever the universalist, is Frankish; Colman, ever the particularist, is Ionan Irish; and Cedd, who mediates between the universalist and particularist traditions, is English (de Anglis: 3,21—170,20). Unlike the first two, Cedd is flexible. As linguistic mediator between all the parties, he can move between one language and another. At

63 Bede, HE 3,26—189,11–16. 64 Dalriada encompassed an area that includes present-day northern Ireland and western Scotland. 65 Bede, HE 3,26—189,16–17: relictis Scottorum uestigiis. 66 Bede, HE 3,21—170,15–20 and 3,22—172,24–31.

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the narrative’s end, he remains a mediating figure of sorts as one who, though trained by the Irish of Iona, has left behind their ways, having embraced the catholic dating of Easter. As such, he is the clergy’s counterpart to the synod’s ideal lay convert: the English King Oswiu. Nevertheless, of these three homegoing bishops, the narrator is clearly more interested in Colman, whose homegoing account, sandwiched between those of the other two, is more than five times longer than Agilberht’s and more than three times longer than Cedd’s.

8. The Closing Frame: Lindisfarne as a Holy Community The rest of 3,26 narrates, first, the succession of the two bishops at Lindisfarne who followed Colman—the Irishman Tuda and the Englishman Eata—and, second, an idealized yet moving account of the ethos of Lindisfarne in the time between Aidan and Colman. This latter section emphasizes the artless, guileless, and ascetic nature of the early Lindisfarne community. Underscoring as it does the deeply spiritual nature of the early Lindisfarne ecclesia, it contrasts with the opening frame’s interest in the Lindisfarne ecclesia as a physical building. In both 3,25 and 3,26, Lindisfarne thus functions as a symbol that provides the larger context or frame for the main Whitby narrative. It symbolizes something ambivalent, even complex. While the opening frame, with its emphasis upon the evolution of Lindisfarne’s church building, seems to focus on the unimportant, literal, and material, its closing frame turns its attention instead to the significant spiritual blessings that Lindisfarne’s monks conferred upon the northern English. As such, it manages to subvert any notion that Lindisfarne is to be judged solely in terms of its comparatively unimpressive physical or literal appearance. In fact, 3,26 interprets Lindisfarne’s physical appearance itself as an expression of its remarkable spiritual resources. Concerning its entire physical complex, the author explains, ‘Except for the church, the tiniest of buildings were found; that is, only those without which civil association could have in no way existed.’67 In others words, what is remarkable about Lindisfarne is not its church’s appearance as such, but the church’s status as the only building upon which significant attention was lavished at all. So great was the asceticism of its monks that they cared little for the buildings in which they ate and slept. By including this detail about Lindisfarne’s physical structures, and then following it with a paean to its missionary and pastoral work, the author refuses to let stand the impression of Lindisfarne left by Colman’s defeat at the synod. In one of the most touching passages of the entire Historia, the author describes what for him must surely be the highest ideal to which a Christian community can aspire—an ideal that he describes as having been fully realized by the Lindisfarne monks in their pastoral work with royalty and common folk alike. One might describe that ideal as ‘parochially catholicizing.’ It is ‘catholicizing’ because it emphasizes the Lindisfarne 67 Bede, HE 3,26—190,21–24.

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church’s unity of faith and religious purpose as well as its reach to every class of persons. It is ‘parochial’ because it is spread not ‘throughout the world,’ but dwells rather in the rustic places inhabited by the English Northumbrians. What distinguishes this picture of Golden-Age Lindisfarne is its monks’ quiet dedication to evangelization and pastoral care as well as their exclusive concern for spiritual matters—a concern whose flip side is an utter indifference toward worldly goods and riches. The author emphasizes the qualities of this Golden Age by positing briefly two opposing sets of actions: good ones embodied by actual kings, powerful men, Colman and his predecessors at Lindisfarne, Lindisfarne’s monastic teachers, its priests and clergy, and the laity; and bad ones embodied by their hypothetical opponents. Table 5.2 brings those opposing actions into bolder relief. Table 5.2: Narrative Oppositions at Lindisfarne (HE 3,26—190,25–191,23)

Good Subject(s)

Good actions (+) of good subjects

Bad actions (–) of hypothetical bad subjects

page/line #

Colman and his predecessors Powerful men

give money (to poor)

receive money

190,25–26

King and his attendants Teachers of Lindisfarne Teachers of Lindisfarne All (of the people/laity) Priests/clergy

come to the church for come to church on account 190,26–30 prayer/hearing God’s word of moneys it collects and houses it provides are content with simple/ seek more than simple/ 190,32–191,2 daily food of brethren daily food of brethren are concerned with serving are concerned with serving 191,2–3 God the world care for cultivation of the care for cultivation of the 191,4 heart belly gather at church on Sundays gather at church on 191,12–14 to hear God’s word Sundays to feed the body approach villages to care for accept territories and 191,20–23 souls (give spiritual benefit) possessions for building monasteries

It is fashionable for the more historically minded to interpret this passage by appealing to Bede’s other writings. Rightly or wrongly, these historians believe that Bede here implicitly criticizes the people of his own time—people of the sort famously mentioned in his late Epistle to Egbert, who actually engage in the bad actions akin to those listed here, including bishops and their companions who charge money for their pastoral services, greedily serve their own worldly interests instead of God’s, and fill their own bellies with feasts instead of their minds with heavenly nourishments.68 While these historians may well succeed in explaining what Bede intended to convey to his

68 Bede, Ep. Ecgbert. 4—407,23–27 and 7—410,31–411,3.

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mid-eighth century audience of Northumbrians, they do not consider how reading monastics of a later age, who had no access to Bede’s Epistle to Egbert, might have interpreted these oppositions as relevant religious instruction for them. Even when Bede compares the evil of the present to the glories of some past Golden Age, monastic readers likely did not envisage that present as the ‘present’ of early eighth-century Northumbria. They saw it rather as their own present and so were challenged to think about how the Historia’s celebration of the Ionan-Irish sanctity of Lindisfarne contrasted with how they saw holiness embodied and enacted in their own time. Latter-day readers of Bede’s Historia thus had to discover within the text itself clues for how to interpret more fully this description of Lindisfarne’s Golden Age. An attentive reader would have remembered the Historia’s parallel account of St Aidan’s manner of life, recounted earlier in 3,5. Indeed, one might read the idealized description of the Lindisfarne mission in 3,26 as one that in many ways recapitulates the earlier account of Aidan. Like 3,26’s description of Colman and his predecessors, 3,5’s description of Aidan puts great emphasis upon his humility, his utter indifference to worldly possessions, and his zeal for preaching the gospel and administering the sacraments to whomever he encountered. Even more than the holy men of 3,26, Aidan is described as fearlessly rebuking the rich and powerful when their sinning required it. Any riches they heaped upon him, he immediately handed over to the poor, or used to manumit those unjustly sold into slavery.69 And, in a particularly telling anecdote, the author relates how Aidan, when invited to feast with the king, would take only a little food and then quickly retreat with ‘his own’ to read or to pray.70 This description of St Aidan conveys more strongly than the later, generally idealized description of Lindisfarne in Colman’s time just how dangerous association with powerful men could be. For Aidan, it comes as the most dangerous of temptations. For while courtesy demands that Aidan appear when the king summons, caution dictates that he spend only a short time with him and that he consume precious little of the king’s sumptuous fare. From the perspective of the text, one must be wary of rich and powerful men. To partake of their riches is to expose oneself to the temptation of becoming like them, of being their equal. Succumbing to such temptation can only lead to defrauding the poor, which is presumably why Aidan is said to have handed over to the poor any gift a king or rich man had given him. The extreme danger that lust for worldly possessions poses is given vivid expression in 3,19, roughly midway between the narratives of Aidan in 3,5 and of Lindisfarne’s Golden Age in 3,26. There we read the story of Fursa, yet another Irish monk-evangelist who, while afflicted with severe illness, had an out-of-body experience in which, accompanied by guiding angels, he beheld heaven’s joys as well as hell’s terrors. At one point in this story, Fursa suffers the torments of evil spirits. Using a burning human body as their brand, they scorched Fursa’s shoulder and jaw. The burn marks they

69 Bede, HE 3,5—136,26–29: sed ea potius, quae sibi a diuitibus donaria pecuniarum largiebantur, uel in usus pauperum, ut diximus, dispergebat, uel ad redemtionem eorum, qui iniuste fuerant uenditi, dispensabat. 70 Bede, HE 3,5—136,16–17: et, ubi paululum reficiebatur, adcelerauit ocius ad legendum cum suis, siue ad orandum egredi.

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left remained on his body for the rest of his life. He had been deemed a fit target for the demons’ torments because he had once taken the clothes of a dying man whose body they subsequently used to brand Fursa. The text, however, is maddeningly vague about where Fursa’s fault lies. A guardian angel at once defends Fursa’s theft, declaring to the evil spirit that it had not been motivated by Fursa’s greed, but by his desire to save the dying man’s soul. As if that defense were not confusing enough, the same angel then accuses Fursa of reaping the penalty of his actions: ‘What you set on fire has burned in you. For if you had not received the property of this man as he was dying in his sins, his punishment would not be burning in you.’71 Fursa’s good intentions notwithstanding, he has justly suffered the penalty of his action. If such be the punishment for receiving the clothing of a dying man, the discerning reader can only imagine the dangers that would be visited upon one who received and enjoyed in any measure the considerable wealth of living kings. Book 3 reveals, sometimes starkly, sometimes in hints, just what dangers the rich and powerful pose. Several chapters before the narrative of the Synod of Whitby, the reader learns, for example, about the treachery of King Oswiu, who had the saintly King Oswine assassinated, even after Oswine stood down and submitted to him in peace.72 A mindful reader would remember that, although Oswiu’s son Alhfrith is described in the Whitby narrative as Wilfrid’s benefactor and as his father’s partner in convoking the synod, the Historia’s very first mention of him—11 chapters earlier—is as one who, with the assistance of his cousin, attacked his own father. The kings of the Northumbrians,’ therefore, as well as their ambitious children, are a fearsome bunch. The author does not make too much of this fact, but the way that he underplays the ease with which they either aspire to patricide or move from the slaughter of the battlefield to adjudicating calmly at an ecclesiastical synod, for example, might prove upsetting to a reader of conscience. The twin idealized narratives of Aidan’s biography and later Lindisfarne’s Golden Age only hint at the moral danger that vexes the dedicated ascetic who lives too close to such men of power. Kings and nobles possess ravenous desire. As one infers from the oppositions of 3,26, they crave good food, vast territories, palatial dwellings, and lots of money. Their danger lies in the possibility that their ravenous appetite is infectious. It can tempt spiritual teachers to crave the same and desire for themselves dwellings that reflect the glory of their royal and wealthy patrons. Such religious men are thus in danger of acquiring the hearts of kings. This is why Aidan is said not to dwell long at the royal table, to take only a little food there and, then, to ‘hurry away.’73 A pastor who spends too long in the royal presence is liable to take on the arrogant mind of a prince. Conversely, a king who longs too much for the holy life will not remain a king very long. He will 71 Bede, HE 3,19—166,32–167,3. 72 Bede, HE 3,14, esp. 155,29–157,18. 73 Bede says here, somewhat redundantly, that Aidan ‘hastened quickly’ (adcelerauit ocius) away from the king’s table. This underscores, almost comically, just how little this humble bishop relished contact with kings, especially at table. See Bede, HE 3,5—136,13–17: Et si forte euenisset, quod tamen raro euenit, ut ad regis conuiuium uocaretur, intrabat cum uno clerico aut duobus; et, ubi paululum reficiebatur, adcelerauit ocius ad legendum cum suis, siue ad orandum egredi.

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either be slaughtered by rivals of a more conventional kingly mindset, or he will retreat to the monastery—perhaps by choice, or perhaps not. In the author’s mind, what makes Aidan and the Irish monks of Lindisfarne so exceptional is their ability to abide among royalty and, at the same time, to recognize and repel the dangers that royal presence poses to them. Aidan abides among the young princes Oswald and Oswiu when they are exiled at Iona, and even accompanies them as they return to Northumbria to claim their crowns. He along with the other monks of Iona educated them and catechized them in the Christian faith, yet not always to much effect. As we have noted, King Oswiu, for example—his auspicious spiritual education at Iona notwithstanding—plays the role of a murderous king with apparent ease. The narrative encourages the reader to infer that the tears that Aidan sheds for the doomed holy King Oswine are prompted by a foreknowledge that Oswiu, Aidan’s own disciple, will murder Oswine, whom—as the narrative artlessly states—Aidan loved (quem amabat).74 Clearly the holiness of Aidan and of the Lindisfarne monks is powerless to subdue royal violence. The best it can do is to mourn that violence, to resist the temptations that royalty poses, and to deny kings who wish to dine in the monastic refectory the royal fare to which they are accustomed. On a more positive note, it can preach the word to kings and powerful men. It can feed them food for the soul rather than food for the body. Besides highlighting the cruelty of kings, the account in 3,26 of Lindisfarne’s Golden Age also casts a dim light on those clergy whose worldly fortunes tend to rise. The rustic simplicity of the Lindisfarne monks in this episode thus contrasts sharply with the urbane sophistication of the Gallic Archbishop Agilberht and especially of Wilfrid, whose arguments for the Roman dating of Easter are portrayed as totally decimating every justification that Colman adduces for the Irish dating. It is difficult for the skillful reader, however much he might agree with Wilfrid’s arguments, not to pity Colman as he witnesses Wilfrid ruthlessly sever Colman’s deeply felt connections to those whom Colman esteems most highly—John the Apostle, Anatolius, and especially Columba. Wilfrid even suggests that Colman’s beloved Columba may have been a false prophet. Such rhetorical thrusts prove as cruel as those of any royal sword. Thus severed from every connection to an ancient tradition that meant so much to him, Colman is left at the debate’s end seemingly as a church of one. The author’s portrayal of Wilfrid unsettles the reader because it seems duplicitous. On the one hand, it endorses Wilfrid as the one who eloquently championed the correct dating of Easter and whose teaching must rightly (iure) be preferred to all the traditions of the Irish—traditions that the author later describes, in his own voice, as ‘less perfect’ (minus perfecta) than Wilfrid’s.75 On the other hand, the author’s presentation also makes it easy for the reader to infer that Wilfrid had received ill-gotten gains when he participated in, and benefitted from, Alhfrith’s treacherous decision first to expel the Irish-trained clergy at Ripon, whom Alhfrith himself had installed there not long

74 This coupling of this phrase—quem amabat—with the theme of murder brings to mind God’s call to sacrifice Isaac, ‘whom,’ as God says to Abraham, ‘you love’ (quem diligis)—Gen 22:2. 75 Bede, HE 3,25—182,33–35.

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before, and then to grant that foundation with its buildings to Wilfrid. In a sentence that, though not a bald-faced lie, surely seems intended to deceive, the author states that a choice was given to Ripon’s Irish-trained clergy (data sibi optione) either to cede the place or give up their customs, including their dating of Easter.76 By framing what happened in this way, the author presents the Irish-trained monks’ departure as freely chosen rather than as imposed upon them by Alhfrith, with Wilfrid at his side. The reverence that the author has already expressed for the Irish-inspired mission and for the sanctity of its founder, St Aidan, leaves the reader unable to regard Alhfrith’s and Wilfrid’s actions here as wholly benign. More than that, the final sentence of 3,26’s idealized description of Lindisfarne-trained priests and clergy offers an oblique criticism of clergy like Wilfrid, who choose to receive from the rulers of the age ‘territories and possessions for building monasteries.’77 It suggests that greed motivates priests like Wilfrid who did so. For all the accolades that a cursory reading of the Whitby narrative wants to heap upon Wilfrid for securing a stunning victory at Whitby for catholic practice, a more discerning reader will also recognize in Wilfrid the type of clergy that the monastic ideal of Golden-Age Lindisfarne most vigorously opposes. This is not to say that Wilfrid loses all heroic stature. Rather, his victorious performance at Whitby, along with the outcome it occasioned, is something that the skillful reader will interpret as deeply ambiguous because it brings in its wake a tragic loss, one reminiscent of the aboriginal loss of Eden.

9. The Historia’s Depiction of the Irish as a Holy but Uninformed Race At first blush, one might be tempted to say that like the Whitby narrative specifically, the Historia as a whole ascribes a peculiar racial identity far less to the Irish people than Irish churchmen and Irish monks.78 Yet on closer inspection it becomes clear that the author does not in fact distinguish clearly between the Irish race in general and holy Irish ecclesiastics in particular. Just how fuzzily he makes the distinction is seen when he writes, at the opening of 2,19, ‘The same Pope Honorius sent a letter also to the race of the Irish, whom he discovered had erred in their observance of Easter.’79 Surely Honorius would have not addressed this letter literally to ‘the race of the Irish’ (genti Scottorum) in general but to particular Irish ecclesiastics, it being a matter specifically of ecclesiastical concern. The fact he almost certainly did not

76 Cf. Bede, HE 3,25—183,3–7 and 5,19—325,9–17. 77 Bede, HE 3,26—191,20–23. 78 There is a rich historical literature that aims at discerning Bede’s attitude toward the Irish. Unlike our interest, which focuses on what a skillful reader likely inferred about the Irish race from a specifically religious reading of the Historia, these works attempt to reconstruct the historical Bede’s actual views. These works include McCann (2015), Stancliffe (2003) and (2010), Thacker (1996), and Gunn (2009), 68–75. 79 Bede, HE 2,19—122,12–14.

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can be inferred from a clue offered later in that same chapter. There the author goes on to describe, and then to cite, a letter sent by Honorius’ successor, Pope John, to ‘the Irish,’ but when the letter is actually cited, the reader can plainly see that John actually addressed his letter not to the Irish generally, but to particular Irish bishops, priests, teachers, and abbots.80 Clearly it is the Historia’s author, not these two popes, who elides the distinction between a race of the Irish on the one hand and its ecclesiastics on the other. A reading of the entire Historia reveals that the author is able to elide the distinction between the Irish and their church in part because of his views concerning both the Irish race and the island of Hibernia in which it mostly dwells. In 4,26, narrating Northumbrian King Ecgfrith’s invasion of Ireland, he writes, ‘In the year of our Lord 684, Ecgfrith, king of Northumbria, sent an army to Ireland under his ealdorman Berht, who wretchedly devastated a harmless race that had always been most friendly to the English.’81 Here, the author explicitly names a unique virtue that the Irish race possesses: harmlessness. Had he not done so, the reader might have inferred it anyway from the text’s generally warm portrayal of Irish individuals and communities. That the Irish are indeed a ‘harmless race’ (gentem innoxiam) can be inferred, in part, from the text’s lack of interest in Irish military exploits, especially as compared to its interest in those of the English and British. More significantly, it can be seen in its narration of episodes that exhibit instances of Irish reactions to their own failures and disappointments. Such reactions are never portrayed as defensive, resentful, or spiteful. When, for example, Oswiu’s son Alhfrith decides to cast out those Irish-trained monks to whom he had just given the monastic foundation at Ripon, these monks are said merely to ‘cede the place’ (loco cedere) apparently without fanfare or protest.82 In the same way, when Colman suffers a crushing defeat at Whitby, ‘seeing that his teaching had been rejected and his way of life scorned,’ he is said simply to have returned with his like-minded companions to Iona, taking care before his departure to take some of Aidan’s bones with him and to secure from Oswiu the promise that the English monk Eata—who was ‘one of Aidan’s twelve boys’—would be placed as abbot over the Lindisfarne brethren.83 In neither case is the Irish party said to have engaged in acrimonious protest, or any protest at all. Had it done so, Colman could hardly have negotiated Eata’s installation as abbot, nor would Oswiu have been said—after issuing his decision against Colman at Whitby—to have ‘greatly loved Colman on account of the prudence innate in him.’84

80 Bede, HE 2,19—122,21–123,9, esp. 123,1–4. 81 Bede, HE 4,26—266,14–17: Anno dominicae incarnationis DCLXXXIIII, Ecgfrid rex Nordanhymbrorum, misso Hiberniam cum exercitu duce Bercto, uastauit misere gentem innoxiam, et nationi Anglorum semper amicissimam … 82 Bede, HE 3,25—183,4–5. 83 Bede, HE 3,26—189,11–12; 190,8–12 and 15–18. 84 Bede, HE 3,26—190,12–13: Multum namque eundem episcopum Colmanum rex pro insita illi prudentia diligebat.

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A skillful reader might perceive the harmlessness of the Irish race to derive in part from the special nature of the island itself, as it is described in 1,1.85 There, the reader learns that Ireland—Hibernia—is supremely fit for human habitation. Like the harmlessness of its people, the land itself resists what is noxious. Serpents cannot survive there and everything that the island produces serves as an antidote to its poison.86 One might surmise that in this ability to counter the evil that serpents do, Ireland surpasses even Eden in its ability to safeguard human life, then at least in its fostering of human holiness. Like the promised land into which the Hebrew people immigrated from Egypt, Ireland also is described as ‘rich in milk and honey’ (diues lactis ac mellis).87 With its characteristic pacificity, the Irish race—in the Historia’s first mention of it—defuses a potentially deadly encounter with the Picts when the latter petition to settle in Ireland with them. The Irish suggest that the Picts seek out instead a homeland in Britain. They even offer themselves as allies should the Picts encounter resistance there, and they grant Pictish requests for Irish women as wives.88 As a race, therefore, the Irish are portrayed as peaceable and hospitable. That hospitality is exhibited to the full later in the Historia as aspiring English holy men venture to Ireland to acquire the benefits of Irish monastic learning as well as ascetic training.89 Never does the reader witness the Irish rebuffing English men seeking these benefits. Irish harmlessness and the race’s ability to remain steadfast and equanimous in the face of defeat and disappointment distinguish it from the Britons. Of course, in other ways, the Irish and Britons are portrayed as close ecclesiastical kin. In terms of ceremony and ritual, for example, the Irish and British share important practices. From the text’s Rome-centered perspective, both observe the wrong dating of Easter, and perhaps do so in the same way; both also shave their tonsure in the wrong way. In terms of theology, both flirt with the heresy of Pelagius. 90 What they wrongly share in common, however, only serves to underscore what, from the text’s perspective, constitutes the most significant and dramatic difference, one that is closely associated with Irish harmlessness, namely, Irish friendliness toward the pagan English. As the narrative of Augustine’s Oak makes clear, the British adamantly refuse to work with Augustine’s Roman mission to evangelize the pagan English. Indeed, they refuse to evangelize the English at all. By contrast, the Irish, in their monks, show a zeal to convert the pagan English to a Christianity

85 Our reading of the connection that the Historia forges between the territory of Ireland with the character of its natives has already been noticed by McCann (2015), 28–29. 86 Bede, HE 1,1—12,30–13,6. 87 Bede, HE 1,1—13,6. Cf. the biblical phrase ‘a land flowing in milk and honey’ (terram fluentem lacte et melle) and its variants, which can be found throughout the Pentateuch, e.g., Ex 3:17, Lev 20:24, Num 13:27, Dt 6:3. See Kendall (1979), 181. 88 Bede, HE 1,1—11,34–12,19. 89 English men aspiring to a more spiritual and austere life in the Historia include Egbert (Bede, HE 5,9), Æthelhun (3,27), Æthelwine (3,27), Chad (4,3), Black and White Hewald (5,1), and Haemgisl (5,12). 90 On the tonsure, see Bede, HE 5,22—347,10–16 and 5,21—341,35–345,11. On Irish Pelagianism, see Bede, HE 2,19—122,12–29.

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that utterly eschews all aspects of worldliness. Moreover, they transmit this zeal and their peculiar Irish-designated piety to the great northern English missionary saints, Cuthbert and Chad.91 Together with these English disciples, Irish teachers model Christlike humility for the English—tirelessly preaching the word in season and out of season, even when doing so requires them to venture into the most remote and rugged of places. Their asceticism is intense; their contempt of luxury and pomp of any sort, conspicuous. In their zeal to convert the English, they collectively resemble Pope Gregory the Great. They actually do what Gregory wanted to do himself, but was only allowed to superintend: preach the gospel and administer baptism to the pagan Angli. Their effort is intense, untiring. The Irish, however, fall short of the ideal that Gregory represents in one crucial respect: their ignorance of the worldwide church’s ritual practices and its catholic wisdom, which begets catholic orthodoxy. Inasmuch as Colman and his Irish party refused to embrace the Roman Easter dating, even after the decision at Whitby, they would seem to exhibit a fault other than mere ignorance. Once enlightened by Wilfrid and overcome by his arguments, they know better. Yet they still refuse to conform to the observance of the worldwide church. In refusing, they resemble the Britons. While the Historia’s author chalks up the Britons’ refusal to conform to their perfidia, their preference for their own traditions, and their seemingly congenital inability to consult with their own brethren, he never definitively ascribes to Irish refusal a similar fault, or any fault at all. Faults, besides ignorance, they may have, but they are scarcely named. So diligent, so tireless have the Irish been in their desire to convert the Northumbrians that the author seems scarcely capable of ascribing perfidia to them. At Whitby, however, Wilfrid ascribes one vice to them: stubbornness (obstinatio) and declares that they share this vice with the Britons, as well as the Picts. On account of this stubbornness, he alleges, all of the inhabitants of Britain, except the English, engage in stupid exertion (stulto labore) against the whole world, by which he means all the churches in the catholic communion. Significantly, the author uses the character of Wilfrid to voice this criticism, refusing to do so himself. The way Wilfrid lumps together the British and Irish races runs counter to how the author, in his own voice, distinguishes quite clearly between Irish open-heartedness and British hard-heartedness, especially as concerns the attitudes of each to the English race. Insofar as the author has been able to forge a sympathetic connection between the Irish and the reader—and to discourage an equally sympathetic connection with the character Wilfrid—the reader will look askance at Wilfrid’s criticism of the Irish here. The way that the author portrays Wilfrid’s earlier cavalier treatment of Columba as well as his curt tone toward Colman—who, as a bishop, was Wilfrid’s superior— seems designed to undermine the reader’s trust in Wilfrid, his correct position in 91 Although the text leads the reader to infer that Chad is English, some modern scholarship has suggested that the name ‘Chad’ is actually British, not English. While it is therefore possible that the historical Chad was of mixed parentage, the typical medieval monastic reader outside of Britain—and perhaps even some inside, especially after 1066—likely would not have recognized that Chad had a British name. He would presumably have been identified racially as English. See Foley and Higham (2009), 178–79.

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the Easter controversy notwithstanding. This is not to say that the author gives the Irish a pass. To be sure, he tirelessly reminds the reader of their shortcomings, but theirs are shortcomings of practice, of knowledge—never of heart, never of intent. As devastating as Wilfrid’s critique of Colman and his traditions are, the author does not let Wilfrid utter a single world of contempt or criticism concerning St Aidan, founder of the Irish mission among the Northumbrians. Indeed, Wilfrid never mentions Aidan by name at all in his otherwise comprehensive catalogue of those authorities to whom Colman—in Wilfrid’s mind—wrongly appeals. The author’s refusal to let Wilfrid sully Aidan’s reputation shows the lengths to which the author will go to safeguard the holiest Irish man to have dwelt among the Northumbrians. To be sure, Aidan had his faults. The author knows them, names them, but then moves heaven and earth to ensure that those faults do not mar Aidan’s reputation. As he says of Aidan at the beginning of the Whitby account, Even though Aidan could not celebrate Easter against the custom of those who had sent him [i.e., from Iona], he nevertheless took great pains to perform works of faith, piety and love in accordance with the manner practiced by all holy people. For this reason he was rightly loved by all, even those who felt differently concerning Easter; and he was held up for veneration not only by the common people, but also by the bishops Honorius of the Kentish people and Felix of the East Angles.92 With this assessment, the author completes his sketch of Aidan as a kind of archetype for the Irish race, perfectly embodying the best elements of its character. Like the narrative of Augustine’s encounter with the British ecclesiastics, the narrative of Whitby conveys to the careful reader a message that is deeply ambiguous. On the one hand, the author endorses wholeheartedly the Roman and catholic dating of Easter. King Oswiu’s decision at the synod’s end to conform both his own practice and that of his subjects to the Roman norm is presented, at one level, as a victory for the Rome-centered church catholic and as progress for the nascent English church, it having become a beacon in Britain for Roman tradition. For modern, more secular, and more jingoistically English readers, it represents a significant step toward the English entering the European and world stage. Yet such a triumphalist view of Whitby does not seem warranted after carefully reading 3,25–26 in the Historia’s larger context. Although at the text’s surface level the author approves the Roman victory, at a deeper and perhaps more subliminal level, he intimates that this victory entails a deeper loss. The wistful description of Lindisfarne in its Golden Age, which frames the events and debate at Whitby, conveys the depth of that loss. What has been gained at Whitby is the agreement of more people to celebrate Easter every year on the same date. What has been lost is a rustic community that, once upon a time, embodied as fully as any secular society could the ideals of the earliest and purest church at Jerusalem, the ecclesia primitiva. Although that society was still a long way from ensuring that its members hold all things in common, as the earliest 92 Bede, HE 3,25—182,8–16.

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church did, nevertheless, through the agency of holy Irish and Irish-inspired saints like Aidan, Eata, Finan, and Colman, it did succeed in some measure at softening the boundaries between rich and poor, king and commoner. A poor beggar became rich, for a time at least, by receiving a king’s noble steed; a king became poor by, for a time at least, as he and his men remained content to abide in humble dwellings and eat a Lindisfarne monk’s simple fare.93 Or so the author would have us believe. Although the reader is certainly not encouraged to underestimate what has been gained at Whitby, namely, the good of a common Easter celebration, she finds it difficult at the episode’s end not to mourn the good that has been lost—a good that typified in the author’s mind, perhaps, the highest gift of the Irish to the English race.

93 Bede, HE 3,14—156,8–15 and 3,26—190,32–191,2.

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Chapter 6

The Historia and its Legacy of Racist Discourse

This book began by considering storied racist Edward Augustus Freeman’s accounting of who did what to bring about the English Nothumbrians’ Christian conversion in the mid-seventh century. As we saw, he summarized the contributions made to that conversion by saying, ‘The Roman planted, the Scot watered, the Briton did nothing.’1 He then added, ‘Mind, it is no kind of blame to the Briton that he did nothing; but as a matter of fact, he did nothing.’ I noted that Bede’s Historia is the most ancient source that Freeman could have used to justify this statement. It is almost certainly the source upon which Freeman most relied. In Chs. 2, 3, and 5, I offered an extended analysis of the Historia’s treatment of those whom Freeman respectively designated as ‘the Roman,’ ‘the Briton,’ and ‘the Scot.’ Keeping in mind the analyses of these chapters, we now are in a position to ask how faithfully Freeman represented the facts, the viewpoint, and the tone of his source. In some ways, he represented them poorly. Freeman’s flippancy and whimsy diverges sharply from the consistently sober, earnest, and morally serious tone that Bede adopts in both his construction and judgment of Britain’s races. When Freeman says, ‘it is no kind of blame to the Briton that he did nothing,’ he clearly ignores Bede’s stern indictment of the Britons for doing nothing to convert the English—the sort of blame that merited God’s vengeful slaughter of British monks and soldiery at the battle of Chester. Bede might also have taken issue with Freeman’s saying that ‘the Scot watered,’ since ‘the Scot’ (by which Freeman means those whom I have called ‘the Irish’ in these pages) did more than simply water. From the Historia’s perspective, St Aidan and his Iona-tradition successors at Lindisfarne clearly ‘planted,’ to use Freeman’s word, which is to say that they brought Christianity to some of the pagan English Northumbrians. In other ways, Freeman expresses Bede’s convictions faithfully. For example, in so far as Bede identifies Gregory as ‘our apostle’—and by this ‘our’ refers to all the races of the English—Freeman’s saying that the Roman planted seems to channel Bede’s own sense that Gregory is in some way responsible for converting all of the English, even the Northumbrians.2 More important, Freeman seems to have inherited from Bede both the latter’s apparent contempt for the ancient Britons and his appreciation for both the Roman and Irish missions. Most important, however, Freeman conveys even more explicitly than the Historia Bede’s clear sense of the perduring differences to be found among each of the races here mentioned—especially the Roman, the Irish, and the Briton. To be sure,

1 Freeman (1888). 2 Bede, HE 2,1—73,11: ‘our apostle’ (nostrum apostolum).

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by ‘Roman’ Freeman seems to have something narrower in mind than Bede does. Although Bede is responsible for Freeman’s knowing that missionaries from Rome conducted the first Christian missionary forays among the English peoples, he is not responsible for Freeman’s sense that these ‘Romans’ have particularly distinctive, raced-based qualities and characteristics. As we saw, Bede’s characterization of the ‘Latin’ race and its language in the Historia’s first book serves as a catch-all term for Latin-literate churchmen, no matter their geographical origin. Bede is responsible, however, for conveying to Freeman a firm sense that the Britons and the Irish each constitute a singular and distinctive race. Bede generalizes about the British and the Irish in ways that do nothing to discourage Freeman’s tendency to essentialize what he takes to be their natural racial differences. Bede’s Historia conveys a robust notion of racial difference, even though it does not presume to speculate, as modern racism does, about how one might account for that difference. Freeman’s sense that the Britons are not to be blamed for failing to contribute to English conversion would seem to indicate that their failure was owing more to native frailty than to moral fault. Perhaps it assumes that such frailty is genetic and therefore not culpable. In contrast to Freeman, Bede attributes enough humanity to the Britons to find their lack of charity toward the English thoroughly reprehensible—a matter that I will discuss more thoroughly later. So, did Bede abet Freeman’s virulent racism, which goes far beyond Bede’s by classifying and stereotyping not only the peoples of Britain, but those of the entire world? Probably. While some readers may think it a stretch to link modern racism to influences dating back over a millennium, daring scholars have already thrown caution to the wind by proposing just such a link. As we saw in Ch. 1, Debby Banham has argued that ‘racist’ is precisely the term that describes early medieval English attitudes toward, and treatment of, the Britons.3 She also shows how the Historia in no small measure both reflected and propagated racist anti-Britonism.4 Suggesting that racism occurs when an ethnic group is ‘regarded as being in some degree genetically related, and defined by physical characteristics, geographical origin, cultural practices, or any combination of the three,’ Banham shows how the Anglo-Saxons give expression to their understanding of the Britons in thoroughly racist ways.5 To conclude, however, that Bede was a racist, or rather, that his Historia is suffused with a thoroughly racist consciousness, is in many ways to reach for low-hanging fruit. A more significant project is to articulate the architecture of that racism. Put another way, one needs to show how, through his telling of the story of Christianity’s progress across the whole of Britain, he constructs a racial hierarchy based on what he imagines to be the moral and theological sins and virtues of each of its races. We have already examined something of that construction in the previous chapters, each of which is mostly focused on his construction of one particular race. In this chapter, our task is to take a step back and to examine the relations of these races to



3 Banham (1994). 4 Banham (1994), 145–46. 5 Banham (1994), 144.

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each other—not their actual historical relations, but their relations as they appear in the Historia’s narrative, as ideal types.

1. The Final State of the Races We begin by examining the Historia’s final narrative chapter (5,23), in which Bede structures his final assessment of Britain’s current spiritual condition along racial lines. Introducing this final section with the formulaic phrase in praesenti (‘currently’), he proceeds to list those who rule as bishops over the church of each of the major English races, which include the Kentish, the East Saxons, the East Angles, the West Saxons, the Mercians, the Hwiccans, the people of Lindsey, the people of the Isle of Wight, the South Saxons, and the Northumbrians.6 He then summarizes the state of the three non-English races, about whose churches and bishops he shows no interest at all, choosing instead to catalogue the stance of each toward the English race as a whole. He writes, The nation of the Picts also at this time both has a covenant of peace with the race of the English and rejoices that it exists as a sharer of catholic peace and truth with the universal church. Those Irish who inhabit Britain, being content with their own borders, raise up no snares nor dissemblings against the race of the English. The Britons, although for the most part they oppose both the race of the English with a domestic hatred and the state of the entire catholic church through [their] less correct Easter and defective customs, nevertheless, in neither case are they able to obtain their desired end, since both divine and human strength utterly resists them; indeed, although they are partly their own masters, some nevertheless have partly been made subject to servitude of the English.7 Apart from what this summary says about each of these races and their relations to the English, when read as a whole, I notice several things. First, the order in which Bede mentions the peoples of Britain here is almost the exact opposite of the order in which he first describes them in Book 1. Here in 5,23 the order of interest is English, Picts, Irish, and Britons; in Book 1, it is Britons, Picts, and Irish (1,1); and then English (1,15). In Book I, the order is chronological; in 5,23, the rationale for the ordering, though not stated, might well be taken as perhaps reflecting the relative divine favor that each race enjoys—the races of the English enjoying the most, the Britons the least. As if reflecting the spiritual law articulated in Mt 20:16, the race listed first in 1,1—namely, the Britons—has become the last in 5,23, and the last—namely the English—has become first. Second, Bede associates only the English with the term ‘race’ (gens) in this summary. Each sentence implicitly opposes the non-English people (who are mentioned without using the word gens) to the ‘race of the English’: the nation of the Picts vs.

6 Bede, HE 5,23—350,10–351,4. 7 Bede, HE 5,23—351,5–17.

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the race of the English (Pictorum natio/gente Anglorum), the Irish vs. the race of the English (Scotti/gentem Anglorum), the Britons vs. the race of the English (Brettones/ gentem Anglorum). Whatever else might explain this peculiarity of phrasing, it surely encourages the reader to view the several English peoples, whose separate kingdoms and respective bishops had just been highlighted in the sentence before, as a single English race, or gens.8 Third, in addressing the situation of the Picts and the Britons here, Bede mentions their relations not only with the English, but also with the universal, catholic church. The Picts share peace and truth with that church, while the Britons oppose it by observing their own incorrect Easter as well as by practicing other idiosyncratic customs. Oddly, he omits the Irish stance vis-à-vis the church universal. Of the individual statements made about each of the non-English races, most noteworthy is that concerning the Britons, which is significantly longer than his statement about either the Picts or the Irish. The Britons’ attitude toward the race of the English is characterized as one of ‘domestic hatred’ (domestico odio). The significance of that domestico is hard to fathom. Inasmuch as the ‘domestic’ quarrel is among two parties, each of which wants to lay claim (albeit in different ways) to a shared Christian tradition, domestico might here be taken to mean ‘in-house.’ That is, this hatred that the Britons exhibit toward both the English and the universal church is an in-house hatred of the sort that only those who self-identify as Christian can have. As such, it is not the sort of enmity that arises between spiritual strangers, such as might occur between a Christian and a pagan. On the other hand, in light of Bede’s previous portrayals of the Britons turning against each other during times of distress, it may refer to the impotence of British hatred toward outsiders—an impotence that was shown in Book 1 especially in relation to their Pictish and Irish foes. Their ‘household hatred’ so divided them that they were unable to mount any effective resistance against foreign or outside enemies. The word domestico may also convey connotations of ‘slavish,’ or that which is proper to the condition of household slaves (domestici). If so, the reader might also get the sense that the Britons’ hatred is akin to a slave’s servile and therefore impotent hatred. While it may burn hot, the worst it can do is to burn its kindlers.9 This sense is confirmed in the next clause where

8 Bede, HE 5,23—351,5–11. In speaking about the Historia’s use of the term gens Angloroum, Alan Thacker has argued that, in general, it refers to only the Northumbrians and the Kentish, and explicitly excludes the Mercians. See Thacker (2016). 9 If the question switches for a moment from how a theoretical ‘skillful reader’ might interpret this phrase to what the historical figure of Bede perhaps intended by it, then Bede’s use of a parallel construction, inimicitias domesticas, in his commentary on Ezra 5:7–9 seems highly relevant (Bede, In Ezr. 2—CCSL 119A,292, ll. 163–64; S. DeGregorio [trans], 83–84). In that context inimicitias domesticas describes the ‘in-house enmities’ that the Samaritans aimed against the Judeans, or Jews. According to Ezra 4, after the Jews had returned from exile in Babylon, the Samaritans at first offered to help them rebuild the Jerusalem Temple. When the Jews, however, refused their offer, the Samaritans tried to thwart the building project, treacherously writing to Persian King Artaxerxes in hopes of stirring up his suspicions against the Jews, who had already received permission from Darius, Artaxerxes’ predecessor, to rebuild. Bede there describes those enmities as ‘in-house’ (domesticas) presumably because the Samaritans reputedly traced their ancestry back to the Northern

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the reader learns that the Britons’ hatred is not able to obtain its desired end, being opposed as it is both by ‘divine and human strength’ (diuina et … humana … uirtute).10 Perhaps the ‘divine strength’ refers to God’s guardianship of the church catholic, which effectively resists British perfidia and the British church’s misguided customs; and perhaps the ‘human strength’ refers to English military might which has subjected the Britons, in part at least, to a life of servitude under English lords.

2. The Historia’s Understanding of Sin and Its Construction of Race: Faithfulness vs. Faithlessness In order to grasp fully the Historia’s theology of racial difference, a theology that reaches its culmination in 5,23, let us explore more deeply one dimension of that theology’s understanding of sin—racial (or national), as distinct from personal. Anyone who inhabits the Historia’s imaginative world for very long soon becomes sensitive to how it distinguishes the races more by their respective moral characters than by physical characteristics. As shown earlier, it resorts at least once to correlating race with physical appearance, and does so in the famous scene in which Gregory the Great distinguishes the English from other races by singling out the English slave boy’s ‘white body’ (candidi corporis) and ‘bright countenance’ (lucidi uultus), which taken together presumably refer to his uncommonly fair skin.11 Yet apart from this one reference, the Historia typically distinguishes the races of Britain by means of moral character rather than superficial appearance. The virtue it

Kingdom of Israel, which God had punished for its idolatry by subjecting it to the Assyrian king, who exiled its citizens to his own kingdom. The same Assyrian king subsequently resettled Samaria with non-Israelites, who practiced an idolatrous syncretism consisting of various local cults along with Israelite worship of Yahweh (2 Kgs 17:1–18:37). It is presumably these syncretistic Samaritans to whom Bede is referring in this passage from his Ezra commentary. The Historia uses the word ‘Samaritans’ once (2,15—116,6). There, Bede is likening King Rædwald’s apostasy from Christian faith into an apostatizing, Samaritan-like syncretism, which attempts to worship the God of Christ along with pagan English idols. An interpreter who knows of Bede’s use of the construction inimicitias domesticas in the Ezra commentary may rightly conclude that Bede sees a connection between the ‘enmities’ (inimicitias) of the Samaritans and the ‘hatred’ (odium) of the Britons. Because each people shares a certain spiritual ancestry with those whom they hate—the Samaritans with the Jews, and the British Christians with catholic Christians—their hatred is described as ‘in-house’ (domesticus). Not surprisingly, in his commentary on Ezra 4:1–2, Bede tells his readers that these Samaritans figuratively represent the ‘heretics and bad catholics’ of the present time (hereticos et malos catholicos: Bede, In Ezr. 1 [Ezra 4:1–2]—CCSL 119A,281, ll. 1609–10). It is thus easy to see how Bede would imagine the Britons as latter-day Samaritans. Were we to let this consideration affect our interpretation of domestic odio in 5,23, then it would weight our interpretation more in favor of the first option, namely, as a domestic quarrel between two parties—British and English—whose shared Christian tradition has occasioned their ‘domestic’ quarrel. 10 Bede, HE 5,23—351,13–14. 11 Candidi corporis (Bede, HE 2,2—80,1); lucidi uultus (2,2—80,9). Additionally, Gregory refers to their ‘comely aspect, with an extraordinary head of hair’ (2,2—80,1–2: ac uenusti uultus, capillorum quoque forma egregia).

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extols is faithfulness—not surprisingly so for a work authored by a Christian monk. Yet the contours of the faithfulness it has in mind are complex and must be induced from the particulars of the text and its vocabulary. We can perhaps best get a sense of what this faithfulness entails by first identifying the sins to which it is opposed. a. Faithlessness as Perfidia

As I argued in Ch. 3, faithfulness is opposed to a faithlessness that is of two kinds. The first is a specifically religious or Christian kind, designated most often by the noun perfidia and its cognate adjectival form perfidus. These words, when used to construe this kind of faithlessness, typically indicate a person’s or nation’s adversarial relation to catholic Christianity. One who is perfidus is faithless, either by remaining a pagan or by becoming a heretic or apostate.12 Although classical Latin uses the words perfidus and perfidia to describe acts of personal betrayal or treachery, the Historia more typically uses it in this later, specifically Christian sense.13 Insofar as it is used to express a sense of betrayal or treachery at all, it connotes a betrayal of God or of the church catholic. In one instance, the Historia ascribes perfidia to two Christian kings of the Northumbrians, Osric and Eanfrith, who after the death of King Edwin had lapsed back into paganism. Perfidia here clearly carries the sense of ‘apostasy’ and, as such, might be interpreted as an act of betrayal to the God to whom one had earlier, at baptism, pledged faithfulness. In most other instances, however, the word is used to mean ‘faithless’ in the sense of not embracing the catholic Christian faith, regardless of the reason. The pagans it labels as ‘faithless’ (perfidi) include, in one instance, old Roman-British pagan persecutors of early Christian Britons like Alban, and in other instances those who practice a cult venerating the old Germanic gods.14 The heretics it calls ‘faithless’ include Arians, Pelagians, Saracens, simoniacs, and those Britons whose ‘heresy’ consists in their peculiar Easter observance and tonsure.15 b. Faithlessness as Treachery

The second kind of faithlessness to which the Historia’s notion of faithfulness is opposed is treachery, or betrayal of a person or persons. As noted above, classical Latin authors, 12 Gerard Lukken argues that the words perfidia and perfidus are used in one early Latin liturgy to express specifically the disloyalty, for example, of Jews and heretics, but not to pagan unbelievers, who were denominated instead as infideles or gentes. See Lukken (1973), 23–24. Bede, by contrast, uses perfidia and perfidus more generally to include pagan as well as heretical unbelief. 13 One exception, however, which we saw in Ch. 3 and will review below is the twofold description of the Britons as perfidi at the battle of Chester. These two particular instances of perfidus likely include connotations of personal treachery in addition to those of heretical and schismatic infidelity. 14 For perfidia/perfidus in conjunction with Romano-British persecutors: Bede, HE 1,7—18,12; with the old Germanic paganism: 2,5—90,33, 2,1—128,15, 3,7—141,15, 3,24—179,18, 3,24—177,2, and 3,30—200,6. 15 For perfidia/perfidus in conjunction with Arians: Bede, HE 1,8—22,29; with Pelagians: 1,10—23,28 and 1,17—35,32; with the Saracens, 5,23—349,16; with simoniacs: 5,21—344,21; and with the Britons, without specific regard to their Pelagianism: 2,2—84,4 and 85,1.

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but not Bede, designate this form of faithlessness as perfidia. The Historia knows, however, the reality to which the classical use of the term points, noting instances of personal treachery, yet often without making too much of its dastardly quality. It makes little effort to tie its characters who commit treachery to their biblical prototypes, either Cain’s treachery (which entailed the abandonment of his faithfulness to his brother Abel) or Judas’ treachery (whereby Judas, as disciple, broke an implicit pledge of loyalty to Jesus, his teacher and master). Nevertheless, a number of the Historia’s episodes feature instances of personal treachery or its opposite, faithfulness. Most of these, but not all, involve the English races. An example of how not to be faithless in this way, of how not to be treacherous, is found in Britain’s protomartyr, Alban. While still a pagan Alban offered hospitality in his house to a Christian cleric who was fleeing from persecutors. Having pledged his hospitality to the cleric, Alban was unwilling to let the persecuting soldiers take the one he was harboring. Instead he offered himself to the soldiers in his guest’s place.16 To have surrendered the cleric would have been treacherous, but Alban remained faithful to his guest. c. Faithless Britons vs. Faithful Irish

The later Britons, unlike their great protomartyr, prove themselves wholly deficient in matters of personal loyalty and Christian doctrine. In terms of personal loyalty, the Britons are said to desert even their own when confronted by their Pictish and Irish foes, being reduced to ‘mutual rapacity’ (rapacitate mutua).17 That is, they are incapable of faithfulness even to their own people, especially when under the duress of an attacking enemy. In the episode that narrates the slaughter of the Britons at the battle of Chester, the author calls out by name the Britons’ military leader, Brocmail, who ‘left those [monks] whom he ought to have defended unarmed and exposed to the sword.’18 Brocmail thus personifies the treachery that the author would have us believe characterizes the British race as a whole—that ‘faithless race’ (gentis perfidae) as he calls it in the opening sentence of the battle of Chester episode. Then, at its end, he reminds the reader that those who suffered the ‘vengeance of temporal death’ at Chester were ‘faithless’ people (perfidi).19 Both uses of perfidus have a double meaning, designating the British church’s ‘faithlessness’ in dating Easter contrary to the practice of the churches in the entire world, yet also connoting those acts of personal treachery that the Britons have committed against their own. After all, Brocmail also suffered ‘the vengeance of temporal death’ at Chester, but his sin had nothing to do with ecclesial shortcomings. His sin was to have abandoned those monks who, the reader presumes, had been assured that he and his soldiers were there to protect them. In short, Brocmail’s sin was treachery of a personal rather than 16 Bede, HE 1,7—18,20–29. 17 Bede, HE 1,12—28,10. 18 Bede, HE 2,2—84,27–29. 19 Bede, HE 2,2—84,29–85,2: Sicque completum est presagium sancti pontificis Augustini, quamuis ipso iam multo ante tempore ad caelestia regna sublato, ut etiam temporalis interitus ultione sentirent perfidi, quod oblata sibi perpetuae salutis consilia spreuerant.

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a religious sort and is consistent with the behavior of the Britons as a whole when, desperate to save their own skins in the face of earlier assaults from outsiders, they forsook each other. When conceived as a race, the Irish are portrayed as the Britons’ polar opposite. If the final portrait of the Britons is that of the faithless race par excellence, then that of the Irish is just the opposite, even though both are portrayed as erring in some of the same ways. Through most of the Historia, for example, both the Britons as well as the Irish of Britain dissented from Roman ways of dating Easter and shaving the tonsure. Yet unlike the Britons, the Irish lack only the knowledge that should accompany Christian faith, and not at all its characteristic charity or humility. At the Historia’s end, they embrace the catholicity of thought and practice that befits their blameless moral character. Purged of faithlessness in its religious sense, they remain free also of it in its other manifestation as personal disloyalty or betrayal. In the summary of the status of races, given at the Historia’s end, the Irish are defined even more specifically as the race that knows no treachery. It erects ‘no snares nor dissemblings against the race of the English.’20 Snares and dissemblings are the tactics of deception and treachery’s building blocks, but the Irish, being content with their borders, are free of them. The Irish alone are the ‘harmless’ race. d. The Moral Indeterminacy of the English Race

However attractive Bede’s portrayal of the Irish may seem, like his depiction of the Britons it fails to go beyond stereotyping. These two non-English races—the Irish and the British—are thus each portrayed in two-dimensional, cartoonish ways. By contrast, the English display a diversity and variety that renders them authentically human. Individual English men and women can incarnate either faithfulness or its opposite. Moreover, they can move from one pole to the other. While Edwin’s example shows the English race as fully capable of exhibiting faithfulness in religious matters as well as in terms of personal relations, other episodes depict its members as capable of apostasy as well as the foulest treacheries—even after their Christian conversion. Bede, however, is not eager to dwell upon these examples—especially English examples of treachery. While he takes every occasion to remind the reader that Britons are treacherous and heretical, he tends either to gloss over or to downplay the English characters’ personal acts of treachery. Though he narrates such instances of treachery, he refrains from making them the subject of serious moral censure. Take for example, the Historia’s treatment of King Oswiu, who ‘destroyed through a most foul murder’ his partner King Oswine, a man of ‘great piety and religion.’21 Concerning Oswiu’s enmity against Oswine, the text merely says that Oswiu ‘could

20 Bede, HE 5,23—351,8–10: Scotti, qui Brittaniam incolunt, suis contenti finibus nil contra gentem Anglorum insidiarum moliuntur aut fraudium. 21 Bede, HE 3,14—155,6–7: miserrima hunc caede peremit; 154,27: uirum eximiae pietatis et religionis. For the full account of Oswiu’s elimination of Oswine, see Bede, HE 3,14—154,24–155,22.

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not keep peace with him.’22 As a result, Oswiu turned for assistance to Hunwold, whom Oswine had believed to be his friend. Oswine, however, was ‘betrayed by the same companion,’ Hunwold, to Oswiu, who used the intelligence that Hunwold had provided to find Oswine and have him murdered—even after Oswine had abandoned as hopeless the idea of engaging Oswiu in war.23 So tragic was Oswine’s murder that Aidan is portrayed as weeping over its very premonition, which had come to the sainted bishop after the king’s penitent tears had reminded Aidan of the king’s own saintliness. At that moment, Aidan concluded that so holy a king could not survive long in this world.24 Still, the Historia seems largely to give Oswiu a pass for his crime. It relates that Oswiu atoned for this murder by having a monastery built at Gilling, where monks would offer daily prayers for the souls of both the murdered and the murderer! Although Bede describes Oswiu’s crime as ‘most foul’ (miserrima), he casts only a faint light on Oswiu’s treachery. Nor is Oswiu’s action shown to diminish his moral stature in any significant way. He appears 11 chapters later as the convener and arbiter of the Synod of Whitby. His moral authority to assume these roles at the synod is not questioned, nor is his earlier murder of Oswine there mentioned. Another example of English treachery, about which Bede has even less to say and which puts Oswiu on its receiving end, is the conspiring of Oswiu’s own son, Alhfrith, and his nephew, Oethelwald, to attack Oswiu’s army. The text mentions this treachery only perfunctorily, in a participial clause that aims to explain why Oswiu’s 28-year reign was so difficult, namely, because of the enmity Oswiu faced from the Mercians and from his own son and nephew.25 To attack one’s own father must surely count as an act of the grossest treachery. Yet Bede makes nothing of it. Ten chapters later, Alhfrith will be portrayed as fighting loyally alongside his father against the heathen Mercian King Penda and, as recently noted, 11 chapters later as Wilfrid’s great patron and a major instigator of the Synod of Whitby.26 Like the father’s treachery, the son’s merits no mention in those Whitby chapters. And like his father, Alhfrith is portrayed as having a moral stature that renders him worthy of the major role he plays in helping to convene this council and in serving as patron to Wilfrid, the Roman party’s great spokesperson. After the Whitby episode, however, Alhfrith mysteriously disappears from the narrative, leaving the reader to wonder at his fate. It is not hard for a skillful reader to infer that Alhfrith paid somehow for his treachery against his father. Yet a third example of treachery unpunished occurs in 3,22, just two chapters before the Synod of Whitby narrative. There, the saintly King Sigeberht, who ruled over the Middle Angles and East Saxons, is killed by two of his own kinsmen because, as the

22 Bede, HE 3,14—155,3–5: Sed nec cum eo ille … habere pacem potuit. 23 Bede, HE 3,14—155,19–22: Nam ab eodem comite proditum eum Osuiu … interfecit. 24 Bede, HE 3,14—157,3–12: ‘Scio,’ inquit, ‘quia non multo tempore uicturus est rex; numquam enim ante haec uidi humilem regem. Unde animaduerto illum citius ex hac uita rapiendum; non enim digna est haec gens talem habere rectorem.’ 25 Bede, HE 3,14—154:9–12: [Oswiu] inpugnatus uidelicet … a filio quoque suo Alchfrido, nec non et a fratruo, id est fratris sui, qui ante eum regnauit, filio Oidilualdo. 26 Bede, HE 3,24—178:2–4 and 3,25—182,24–183,13.

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text explains, they were incensed at Sigeberht’s tendency to spare his own enemies and to forgive those who had done him wrong. Yet giving voice to a curious moral calculus, the author explains Sigeberht’s death as resulting, not from the faithlessness of his kinsmen, but from Sigeberht’s own wrongdoing. According to the text, one of Sigeberht’s murderous kinsmen had forged an illicit union with a concubine, which led Bishop Cedd of the East Saxons to excommunicate that kinsman (excommunicauit eum) and to prohibit anyone from entering his house or taking his food. Sigeberht disobeyed Cedd’s prohibition by later agreeing to dine at this kinsman’s house. Having done so, however, he tearfully confesses this transgression to Bishop Cedd, but to no avail. Cedd proceeds to touch Sigeberht with his staff and prophesy that the king will, because of this sin, die in that kinsman’s very house. And so it happens. But what sentence does the author pass on Sigeberht’s treacherous and excommunicated kinsman? None. This heinous act of treachery provokes no word of judgment from the narrator, leaving the reader to infer that it also provoked no punishment worthy of mention. Not his kinsman’s murder of the king, but Sigeberht’s receiving that excommunicated kinsman’s hospitality is the sin worthy of punishment here. A fourth example of English treachery (though not identified as such) is attributable to King Oethelwald, son of King Oswald. Oethelwald, in addition to conspiring with Oswiu’s own son against Oswiu, on another occasion had also offered no aid to this same uncle and cousin—who this time are joined as allies—in their fight against the pagan King Penda of the Mercians. In fact, as the text describes, ‘Oethelwald, King Oswald’s son, who should have been helping them, was on the enemies’ side and emerged as leader over the very ones preparing to fight against his fatherland and his father’s own brother, although at the time of battle he withdrew himself from the fray and awaited the outcome in a place safe from danger.’27 Noteworthy is the author’s use of a brief relative clause to describe Oethelwald’s treachery: Oethelwald is one ‘who should have been helping’ (qui … auxilio esse debuerat) his uncle and cousin. The author used a similar grammatical construction earlier to condemn as treacherous the Briton Brocmail, who ‘should have defended’ (quos defendere debuerat) those praying monks whom he had abandoned to slaughter at the battle of Chester.28 As loathsome and cowardly as Oethelwald’s betrayal is, however, the author does not condemn it as running in any way counter to Oethelwald’s deep Christian piety, which in the chapter preceding was expressed through a story concerning his deep respect for Bishop Cedd—a respect that inspired him to grant the holy bishop lands upon which to found a monastery into which Oethelwald might come to hear the Word and pray.29 Much like Rædwald’s pagan queen, Oethelwald is portrayed at one time as being holy, at another time as doing something heinous, and yet the author makes no attempt to reconcile these contradictions in character. Yet of all the acts of treachery that the Historia narrates, none is more central to the story—and to the history behind it—than the Saxon mercenaries turning the

27 Bede, HE 3,24—178,6–11. 28 Bede, HE 2,2—84,28. 29 Bede, HE 3,23—174,27–175,4.

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tables on their British employers by seizing the Britons’ land as their own.30 Indeed, from the Historia’s perspective one might fairly describe this particular act of treachery as the founding sin of the English races, upon which all the English kingdoms based their subsequent settlements on the island. Like Cain’s murder of Abel, Saxon treachery founds a civilization, and it forges in the reader’s mind an unbreakable link between the races of the English, continental in origin, and the island of Britain. That is, through this treacherous act of turning upon their British employers, the English become dissociated from their continental origins as Angles and Saxons and are henceforth associated with the most fertile lands in all of Britain. Although Bede never condemns the English for their plunder, he recognizes implicitly that this theft of land was preceded by English duplicity. The English, he says, first settle the eastern part of the island ‘as if ’ (quasi) ready to fight for the Britons’ homeland, but ‘in reality’ (re uera) they intend to seize it for themselves.31 Having begun by agreeing to fight on the Britons’ behalf against the Pictish incursions onto British soil, the Saxons subsequently forge a truce with the Picts so that they, the Saxons, might ‘begin to turn their arms on their partners,’ namely, the Britons.32 Extorting ever more provisions from the hapless Britons, the Saxon hordes eventually lay waste to the island, having ‘broken their covenant’ (rupto foedere). As we observed in an earlier chapter, this concern for breaking covenants replicates Scripture’s focus upon Israel’s covenant-breaking. It also foreshadows Edwin’s later vigorous renunciation of covenant-breaking in 2,12, which he gives in the only direct speech that the author allows him, during his exile at Rædwald’s court.33 Yet the author here focuses more on the sin of the ones betrayed than on the sin of the traitors, much as he later does in the narrative of King Sigeberht’s murder. Not a word of judgment is pronounced on the pagan Saxons for their treacherous rapacity. Instead, God’s vengeance is directed exclusively at the Britons, whose laziness (segnitia) is made to justify Saxon aggression. The fertility of the Britons’ land renders that plunder enticing. But instead of judging the Saxons for their duplicity, covetousness, and theft, the author puts forth earlier British crimes (sceleribus) as the reason why God allegedly authorized the punishment that the Britons underwent.34 The Historia thus takes a maddeningly ambiguous stance towards treachery and one that seems, frankly, racist. The treachery of the invading Saxons passes by without any censure, while the treachery exhibited by the Britons is condemned in the severest manner possible. The Historia portrays the English as engaging in acts that can be found across a wide moral spectrum. As we have seen, sometimes they maintain the faithfulness they have pledged; sometimes they abandon it. Neither case, however, leads them to

30 Bede, HE 1,15—32,4–33,3. 31 Bede, HE 1,15—30,30–31,3: Tunc Anglorum siue Saxonum gens, inuitata a rege praefato, Brittaniam tribus longis nauibus aduehitur, et in orientali parte insulae, iubente eodem rege, locum manendi, quasi pro patria pugnatura, re autem uera hanc expugnatura, suscipit. 32 Bede, HE 1,15—32,9: in socios arma uertere incipiunt. 33 Bede, HE 2,12—108,8–10: non tamen hoc facere possum, quod suggeris, ut pactum, quod cum tanto rege inii, ipse primus irritum faciam. 34 Bede, HE 1,15—32,16.

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be judged as a race. The text invites the reader only to judge them as individuals. And even on that level, the reader is encouraged to see the same person as faithful at one moment and unfaithful—or treacherous—at another.35 Of course, so nuanced and textured a perception of the English race does not carry over to the race of the Britons, about whom Bede does not shrink to paint in the broadest and most unflattering of brush-strokes. They are, to put it simply, a faithless race (gens perfida).36 e. The Spiritual Dangers of Physical Remoteness

If there is anything that the British, Irish, and English races are said to share, it is remoteness—remoteness from the world’s center, remoteness that has rendered all of them vulnerable to a more worrisome spiritual isolation from the remaining churches of the world. For the holy ascetic, isolation is a spiritual condition to be prized. Irish ascetics, like Aidan, and the English holy men whom they inspired, like Cuthbert—seek out isolation in order to cultivate communion with things of the Spirit and the virtues that these bring, chiefly humility. On the level of the race, however, the Historia never portrays isolation as a characteristic of spiritual health. Again and again, and from different voices, the reader is reminded that Britain’s physical remoteness from the world’s center has made each of the nations who inhabit her susceptible to some spiritual danger: either of languishing in idolatry—a danger to which the pagan English were especially prone—or of remaining stuck in heresy or schism, as the Britons and Ionan Irish had. After corrupting the whole world, the Arian heresy managed to make its way to Britain, which, as the author implies, was so vulnerable to the temptation that that heresy posed precisely because ‘this island was removed so far beyond the world.’37 In his opening salvo at Whitby, Wilfrid reminds the synod’s attendees, and also the Historia’s readers, that since the Britons, the Irish, and the Picts inhabit the ‘two remotest islands of the ocean,’ they are susceptible to a stubbornness (obstinatio) that causes them in matters spiritual to ‘do battle in stupid exertion against the whole world.’38 Again, as he ends his Whitby oration, Wilfrid suggests that the location of the Ionan Irish in ‘one corner of a remote island’ is practically proof perfect that their dissent from ‘Christ’s universal church, which is throughout the world,’ is hopelessly misguided, as lacking in probity

35 These include: (1) King Rædwald’s unnamed queen who exhorts her husband, on the one hand, to remain faithful to the pledge he made to young Edwin (Bede, HE 2,12—110:5–11), yet later entices Rædwald to embrace elements of pagan worship (2,15—116,1–10); and (2) King Oswiu, who, as was noted earlier, engaged in treachery against the saintly King Oswine, yet is portrayed as a perfectly fit adjudicator over the ecclesiastical issues debated at the Synod of Whitby. 36 Bede, HE 2,2—84,4. 37 Bede, HE 1,8—22,16: Arrianae uesaniae, quae, corrupto orbe toto, hanc etiam insulam extra orbem tam longe remotam … sui infecit. For a historian’s explanation of how Bede acquired his sense of his island’s remoteness through the legacy left by earlier Roman historians, see Howe (2004), 150–51. 38 Bede, HE 3,25—184,28–31: praeter hos [Scottos] tantum et obstinationis eorum conplices, Pictos dico et Brettones, cum quibus de duabus ultimis oceani insulis, et his non totis, contra totum orbem stulto labore pugnant.

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as it is in charity.39 Wilfrid’s critique of the Ionan Irish merely underscores Pope Honorius’s similar allegation, expressed earlier, that the Irish fancifully imagine ‘their own smallness established in the extreme corners of the world’ as being ‘wiser than the churches—ancient and modern—that are throughout the world.’40 And both Honorius’ and Wilfrid’s comments anticipate the warning that ‘more learned men’ among the English gave to Iona’s abbot Adamnan, in Book 5—namely, that he must not counter the custom of the church universal by remaining ‘in alliance with his own few-numbered people, who are situated also in the remotest corner of the world.’41 Not even the English are exempt from the spiritual dangers posed by geographical isolation. As the pagan King Edwin delays and dithers on the way to his eventual embrace of Christian faith, he is reminded by Pope Boniface that even ‘the cold hearts of the races at the ends of the earth’ can be warmed by the Holy Spirit.42 That Edwin’s is one of those ‘cold hearts’ he leaves no doubt, exhorting Edwin’s Christian Queen Æthelburh to ‘inflame the coldness of his heart’ by frequently urging him towards conversion.43 Even after the Northumbrians’ initial conversion under King Edwin, Pope Vitalian continues to remind a later king of the Northumbrians of just how physically remote this people is. Theirs, however, is now a salutory remoteness—signifying as it does the gospel’s having at last been spread to the entire earth and calling to mind the prophecies of Isaiah: ‘Hear, O islands, and hearken, you peoples from afar’ (Is 49:1) and, ‘I have given you as the light of the Gentiles so that you might be my salvation to the ends of the earth’ (Is 49:6).44 Geographical isolation in the northerly and colder places of the globe poses the danger of leaving those who live there unable to access the light of faith and warmth of catholic unity. For these radiate from Rome, the world’s geographical and spiritual center. The danger posed by geographical isolation is akin to the danger posed by treachery. Both leave first the race, then the single human being susceptible to terrifying spiritual isolation. The entire force of Edwin’s conversion narrative consists of being able to stir up readers’ dread at the prospect of a retrograde movement from community back into loneliness, from the companionable warmth of the king’s hall to the wintry blast outside, or from the haven of Rædwald’s court to lonely exile, or even worse, to death at Æthelfrith’s hands. The reader identifies with Edwin who, having been left by his unnamed companion, remains in the custody of King Rædwald—‘alone’ and ‘outside’ (solus foris).45 Having enjoyed Rædwald’s protection, Edwin now faces what seems to be the certain prospect of Rædwald betraying him into the hands of

39 Bede, HE 3,25—188,11–14: Etsi enim patres tui sancti fuerunt, numquid uniuersali, quae per orbem est, ecclesiae Christi eorum est paucitas uno de angulo extremae insulae praeferenda? 40 Bede, HE 2,19—122,14–18: sollerter exhortans, ne paucitatem suam in extremis terrae finibus constitutam, sapientiorem antiquis siue modernis, quae per orbem erant, Christi ecclesiis aestimarent. 41 Bede, HE 5,15—315,21–24: ne contra uniuersalem ecclesiae morem … cum suis paucissimis et in extremo mundi angulo positis uiuere praesumeret. 42 Bede, HE 2,10—101,24–25: in extremitate terrae positarum gentium corda frigida. 43 Bede, HE 2,11—105,34–106,1: Frigiditatem cordis ipsius … succende. 44 Bede, HE 3,29—197,8–12. 45 Bede, HE 2,12—108,16.

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his enemy, King Æthelfrith. The terrifying prospect of learning that the one upon whom you have confided your trust has no power to protect you, and knowing that now he contemplates deserting you to secure his own status, is akin to learning the lie of paganism: that idol-worship affords protection. But, from the perspective of the text, idols fashioned by human hands can offer no help at all. As Pope Boniface writes to Edwin, quoting Psalms, ‘[Idols] are created, therefore, just like those who put their trust’s hope in them.’46 In other words, because idols are made, they are not worthy of human trust. Part of the lesson that Boniface wants to tease out from this psalm is precisely the one that the pagan Coifi infers from his own experience: that the pagan gods are unworthy of human trust. Coifi proclaims, ‘If the gods were able to do anything, they would want rather to help me who has taken care to serve them so zealously.’47 But they have done nothing. The version of the psalm that Boniface cites, however, is saying more than just that. In noting that both the idol and human beings are made, it also implies that humans are not worthy of trust either, which is precisely the lesson that treachery teaches its victims. Like the solitary human being, the race that puts its trust in anything other than the true God seeks protection from that which cannot give it. It also loses access to worldwide communion, which that true God fosters. It is thus destined to wander on the world’s periphery, languishing spiritually—as well as geographically—in its remotest corner. Treachery’s ill-effects are by no means confined to the one who has been betrayed. It leaves the traitor morally vulnerable and potentially isolated as well. As we have observed, in the world of the Historia, personal treachery is somewhat akin to perfidia, or ‘faithlessness’ of a religious sort. Religious perfidy, however, leaves Christ as the one betrayed, or merely ignored, but Christ’s divine majesty is such that a race’s perfidy does Christ no harm, nor does it render as subject to isolation Him Who, as Son, enjoys eternal and indivisible communion with the Father and the Holy Spirit.48 Instead, religious perfidy isolates a race from Christ by isolating it from Christ’s body, which is the church scattered throughout the world. By appealing to the anxiety that such isolation evokes, Wilfrid hopes to influence Colman and the Ionan Irish party at Whitby to give up their Easter dating and their peculiar form of the tonsure. Moreover, by appealing to the reader’s anxiety, the narrator moves the reader to avoid the fate of the Britons, a race that, by the Historia’s end, is ‘unable to obtain what it wants,’ being ‘opposed by God and man alike.’49 By contrast, the fidelity of the English race, along with that of the Picts and the Irish, has rendered them fit for fellowship with all the races of the world. Not only have the English escaped the fate of the lonely sparrow, they have shown themselves to be the most spiritually precocious of all of Britain’s races. Although the last to embrace Christian faith, they are the first to enter communion with all the churches of the world. Moreover,

46 Ps 113:16 (115:8): similes illis fiant qui faciunt ea et omnes qui confidunt in eis. Cf. Pope Boniface’s version in Bede, HE 2,10—102,18–19: similes ergo efficiuntur his, qui spem suae confidentiae ponunt in eis. 47 Bede, HE 2,13—111,29–31. 48 Bede, HE 2,10—101,17 and 102,7. 49 Bede, HE 5,23—351,13–15.

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it is through the efforts of English saints that the Picts and Irish finally enter that worldwide communion as well.

3. The Historia and the Darker Side of Christian Universalism If we, as readers, begin to think of the theological implications of the Historia’s attempt to arouse our anxieties over being isolated from the rest of the world, as the Britons are, we soon run up against the problematic aspects of its Christian universalist project.50 In its rhetorical attempt to portray the Britons as hopelessly mired in their singular, and thus defective, interpretation of the Christian tradition, the Historia condemns the Britons for refusing to conform to a ‘consensus’ which, by the time it had been presented to them, was no longer subject to discussion or deliberation. What the Historia presents as having been freely consented to by the rest of the world is offered up to the Britons as fiat and ultimatum. The norm to which all others had consented was Roman-inspired catholicity and all that it entails. The Historia’s push for catholicity is seductive because, on the face of it, it seems so reasonable and even kind-hearted. Who can object to a community, the church, held together in every aspect of belief and ritual practice by charity’s common consent? What makes Bede’s particular articulation of catholicity so seductive is his ability to make readers believe that it coalesced solely out of free consent and not at all by any hegemon’s tipping of the scales. It is precisely for this reason that English Protestants, who historically have had little sympathy with monkish celibacy and papal claims for authority, have largely conceded that the celibate monk Bede was telling the truth when he recounted the papacy’s singularly benevolent role in birthing their own national church. The Historia’s Roman church and its popes are no hegemons. To be sure, they are authoritative, but not authoritarian. Their authority comes through moral exhortation, delivered through letters of persuasion, dispatched privately to individual kings, queens, and bishops. The Historia’s popes function more as expressions of catholicity than as either its originators or its enforcers. What is more authoritative than ‘Rome’ for Bede is the communion of the churches scattered throughout the world—a communion that Rome promotes and for which it serves as both symbol and, to the extent that it can, as custodian. Yet the fact that the true church is a world-wide communion, open to all the races of the world, and that it is the only gate through which human life can arrive at its proper destiny means that any human or race that chooses not to join in communion with it is self-evidently perverse and certainly deluded. If God, in Christ, has thrown open the gates of the covenant so that its blessings are now open to Gentiles as well as Jews, then what is one to make of either the Jew or Gentile who chooses to remain outside its companionable enclosure? Early Christianity scholar Denise Kimber Buell has called this expectation, which Christian insiders

50 Following Buell (2013), I intend here by the terms ‘univeralist’ and ‘universalism’ not the doctrine that all human beings will be redeemed, but rather that the gospel will be preached—and the church extended—to all races.

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impose upon outside others, ‘compulsory mutability.’51 According to compulsory mutability’s logic, if outsiders are free to change for the better by conforming to the truer ways of the insiders, then they must. And if they do not, if they fail to respond appreciatively to God’s call as apprehended in the insiders’ loving embrace, then they deserve in full measure the opprobrium that God and God’s insiders will heap upon them. Or, to use the Historia’s metaphor, their cold hearts deserve to remain spiritually exiled in their far-flung climes. To reject the catholic call for conversion, therefore, is to remain stubbornly particularistic. To accept it is to become universal. In Bede’s Historia, the race of the Britons personifies stubborn particularism at its worst. The Britons insist on their own way of dating Easter, on their own way of shaving the tonsure, and on their own sense that the English are not fit subjects of the Britons’ evangelizing efforts. As we have shown, the power of Bede’s portrayal of the Britons relies on his skillful projection of early Christianity’s anti-Jewish tropes onto the Britons. Like the Pharisees of the Gospels, who epitomize the worst of Jewishness, the Britons, says Bede, cravenly cling to their own particular traditions and refuse to open themselves up to the new things that God is doing in their midst: calling them to join as one with all the churches throughout the world and to bring the pagan English to the baptismal laver. Like the Pharisees, they are ‘inveterate’ in their ways.52 They simply refuse to answer God’s new call in ways that would require them to abandon their own cherished, longstanding traditions—traditions to which they are not merely accustomed, but addicted. Drawing upon the work of Ann Stoler, Denise Kimber Buell has also argued that although racism is popularly imagined to involve ascribing certain fixed characteristics to the group that one is ‘racing,’ racism’s power also requires ascribing a certain fluidity to the race in question.53 In the case of the Britons, Bede characterizes them as having certain fixed features: their laziness (segnitia), their consequent inability to do for themselves, and their congenital fascination with the newness of heresy. Yet were they portrayed as being simply at the mercy of their inherited nature, they might evoke pity from the reader. The fact that they evoke contempt rests upon the reader’s sense that, despite all of these fixed qualities, they yet possess the freedom—the fluidity—to change. Indeed, the very animus that the reader is expected to have for the Britons rests upon the reader’s deep-seated sense that the Britons could, if they wanted, transcend their fixity. This sense is deepened at the Historia’s end, when the Ionan Irish, who throughout the entire narrative have shared with the Britons a non-catholic Easter dating, at long last freely conform to catholic practice. They finally do what the Britons do not, and in doing it, they give the lie to any sense that the reader might have that the Britons

51 On the notion of ‘compulsory mutability,’ see Buell (2013), 113–16. Buell (2014), 50 spells out its implications, saying, ‘Early Christian universalizing claims … have an exclusionary edge insofar as making belonging in Christ potentially available to all opens the door to vilify and marginalize any who resist this invitation.’ 52 Bede, HE 5,22—347,10–13: Brettones … ipsi adhuc inueterati. For a consideration of this passage’s allusion to Vg Ps(G) 17:46 and to ways that Augustine of Hippo interpreted that biblical verse as referring to legalistic and intransigent Jews, see Foley and Higham (2009), 160–62. 53 Buell (2013), 113–28 and also (2010), 175.

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are incapable of repentance. If the Ionan Irish, after years of wrong practice, can change, then why not the Britons? In this way, the Ionan Irish conversion to Roman practice, narrated at the Historia’s very end, can be seen to justify morally—and even intensify—the contempt that Bede has encouraged unskillful readers to have for the Britons all along. The theological problem with the Historia’s articulation of universalism—and perhaps with all articulations of Christian universalism—is how, by a deft sleight of hand, it attempts to conceal the very particularity and hegemonic authority of the universalism it espouses. In doing so, it takes its cue from the characteristic way in which the Apostle Paul is often read as universalizing what it means to be a ‘Gentile’ convert. For what unites all Gentiles is the mere fact that they are not Jews, who are particular and who, in being particular, are raced. In Paul’s letter to the Galatians, for example, what unites the the Gentile Christians of Galatia is their status as the targets of Jews—not Jews in general, but Judaizing Christians—who not only continue to observe Jewish Law, but also aim to foist the Law upon their Gentile Christian brethren. By signifying the Gentile in this way, namely, as a person whom the Jew tries to cajole into observing Jewish Law, Paul glosses over as unremarkable, for example, the particularities that distinguish one Gentile convert from another. As a result of this construction of Gentiles vs. Jews, only Jews become raced. Only Jews are known by their particular insistence that being God’s covenanted people requires adherence to the Law, specifically to the rite of circumcision. These particularities are painted in the dimmest of colors—if not by Paul, then by later Christians—both orthodox and Gnostic—who will draw upon the categories that Paul establishes to somehow affix upon their enemies the label ‘Jewish.’ By contrast, the Gentiles, by which we mean Christian Gentiles, will hardly be denominated as raced at all. Instead of being posited as a race in opposition to the Jews, Christian Gentiles are posited rather as a non-race, as the antithesis of race. And so, in the early Christian imagination, the Jews and ‘Jewish’ Christians—heretics and schismatics all—become recognizable by their particularities, which are all evil. By contrast the Gentiles are recognized by the things they share in common, which are all good.54 Adapting biblical reasoning for his own uses, Bede applies Paul’s characterization of Christianized Jews to the Britons. Like these ‘Jews,’ the Britons are a particular and peculiar people. Likewise, Bede casts all the other nations of the world, including the English, as universal. At the Synod of Whitby, King Oswiu opts to throw off the last vestiges of the Northumbrians’ unwanted particularity and to become one with the

54 According to Paul, Christ is a stumbling-block for Gentiles and Jews equally (1 Cor 1:22–24). As such, neither is a better candidate for redemption than the other. The Historia nevertheless conveys the impression that God, while actively incensed at the heretical ‘Jew-like’ Britons, is more indulgent toward ‘Gentile’ English paganism. Bede more explicitly grants higher standing to pagans than to heretics in his In Epistolas septem catholicas (CCSL 112: 274,219–26). In commenting on 2 Pet 2:15–16—which likens the church’s false teachers to Balaam and notes that Balaam’s folly (insipientia) was corrected by a dumb beast of burden (subiugale mutum)—Bede likens this dumb beast to slowwitted pagans (hebetum paganorum) and asserts that even such pagans despise the insanity of heretics. On the story of Balaam, see Num 22.

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universal as it is embodied in the church catholic, which having shed all vestiges of Jewishness is thoroughly Gentile. This is why the English are portrayed as the least ‘particular’ race of all the races of Britain and thus the least ‘Jewish.’ Their racial identity is portrayed as complex: there are English South Saxons, English Northumbrians, English Mercians, and so forth. Apart from the common language they are said to share, and whatever is implied about their commonality in the episode of Gregory’s meeting the English slave boys in the Roman Forum, there is not much to be said about their English particularity. By contrast, the racial identity of the Britons is portrayed as simpler, more unitary. The Britons are not portrayed, as the English are, as being comprised of several sub-races, which would confer upon them a complexity not easily reducible to stereotype. Instead, Britons are just Britons, all of whom can all be comprehended by the markers of bad character and bad faith that they exhibit.

4. The Historia’s Racism: A Concluding Assessment Unlike the historians, who are interested in studying the Historia to illuminate those things either about which Bede was writing or that reveal something about Bede himself, his world, or his work, I have been motivated instead to discern within the contours of the text the system or patterns of moral convictions that it impressed upon its later readers—readers who had to puzzle out its meaning with only the text itself and the Christian Bible before them. Since the Historia states clearly in its Preface that its purpose in relating the history of Britain, with special interest in its English peoples, is a moral one—that is, to guide its readers’ moral choices and, in turn, shape their moral character by providing good as well as bad moral exemplars in the history of Britain’s peoples—it has seemed appropriate to ask just what kind of moral effect the Historia might have had upon its readers. This task, of course, must clearly be speculative. No medieval monk or modern English schoolchild of whom I am aware has left an autobiography that describes the effect the Historia had upon him or her, moral or otherwise. Yet I have proceeded by assuming that the Historia did have some kind of moral effect upon all its readers, whether they were skillful or unskillful, and not primarily because it tells us that it aims to, but rather because that is what all stories do, whether they claim to be historical or not. All stories offer up a vision of a world inhabited by characters who make moral choices. Often, as readers, we can see the effects of those choices upon both the characters who make them as well as those who have experienced their effects. To be sure, as readers we import our own values into our first, unskillful reading of the story, and judge it by our own moral lights. But the more we surrender ourselves to the power of the narrative, as we sometimes do, and the more we are compelled by its vision, the more we consider the possibility that the narrative world it describes somehow matches our own lived world. When that happens, we begin to believe that if we think and act like the characters whom we encounter as moral exemplars in the story, the better off we will be. Maybe the story will even provide us with a wholly new sense of what it means to be ‘better off.’ Clearly, this has been the assumption that many people have had when they approach their reading of the Bible. Christian faith is built upon the

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assumption that reading the Bible’s stories has the power to produce moral persons. Such moral persons become so first by discerning the moral differences between Pharaoh and Moses, or Judas and Peter and then by trying to emulate Moses instead of Pharaoh, Peter instead of Judas. The Historia offers up plenty of clear examples of moral persons, but, as I have taken pains to show, it also offers up examples of persons—and even races—whose moral status is more ambiguous. These include St Augustine of Canterbury, King Rædwald’s wife, King Oswiu, and the race of the Britons. The reader’s sense of their ambiguous moral character stems from the fact that the Historia seems at times to speak with two voices, one dominant, the other muted and even esoteric. Most modern synopses of and characterizations of the Historia represent its dominant voice. According to this voice, God has elected the English race as His special possession, much as God elected Israel and brought her out of Egypt. This election has conferred spiritual benefits on the English and forged a vital link between the English—through their church—and the races of the whole world, by which ‘whole world’ chiefly means the territories of the old Roman Empire as well as those of the Germanic peoples to its north. To these latter Germanic territories the English have, in these days, brought the light of the gospel, mindful as they were of their kinship to these peoples.55 God’s election of the English has also coincided with English hegemony over all of the races of Britain, especially over the Britons, who bedevil the English with continued, though futile, resistance—in matters spiritual as well as political. Largely through English agency, Britain’s other churches, specifically that of the Picts and the Ionan Irish, have at long last consented to throw off their peculiar ancient and local ecclesiastical traditions and embrace instead the tradition of the true church, which is scattered throughout the world.56 Having been brought into a warm and enlightening orbit around this worldwide church, centered in Rome, the races of Britain, save for the Britons, no longer languish in the spiritual darkness of idolatry, heresy, or schism. Alongside this dominant voice, however, lurks another—one that either greatly qualifies the dominant voice, or subverts it altogether. It is heard most clearly in Bede’s account of the Britons’ slaughter in 2,2. At the dominant level, this account seems to assert that the Britons rightly deserve God’s scorn and the slaughter that ensues at the hands of Æthelfrith, who resembles Saul, God’s first-chosen king over Israel. The Britons ought to have responded favorably to Augustine’s overtures, but they did not. God’s favor, therefore, has passed over them and has now alighted upon the English, in whose evangelization the Britons stubbornly refuse to take part. At a deeper, more subterranean level, however, the reader intuits another message that, to be sure, is communicated subtly and almost imperceptibly. It informs the reader that, however undeserving the Britons may be, God has not abandoned this people, whom God foreknew.57 Through the lens of this more esoteric and subversive

55 Bede, HE 5,9–11—296,6–303,23. 56 Bede, HE 5,23—351,5–10. 57 Bede, HE 1,22—42,6–9.

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perspective, Augustine is not the longsuffering bishop who endures continually the Britons’ slights, but rather one whose arrogance shows itself either through an overweening desire to work miracles that establish his hegemonic authority or through his refusal to rise and greet the throng of British bishops and teachers who have come warily to engage him in dialogue about the future cooperation of his church and theirs. Moreover, however deserving those British bishops and teachers might have been of censure, the praying monks at the battle of Chester, who much later bore the brunt of that censure, were holy innocents, their slaughter having been authorized by an English king who, like Saul, was a raving madman. It is not only the Britons, however, whom this subtler voice treats differently. If that voice confers more forgiveness to the Britons than the dominant voice does, it also casts doubt on the goodness of the English, and especially on English royalty. King Edwin, though he brings the race of the Northumbrians at last to Christian faith and baptism, shows himself along the way to be a temporizing opportunist whose own conversion at times seems more the result of his own straitened circumstances than of his genuine repentance. King Oswiu treacherously authorizes the murder of King Oswine. Like Oswiu, the English more generally are depicted as being no strangers to treachery, it having been the chief means by which they were able to wrest from the Britons their native land and make it their own. After eliminating Oswine, Oswiu survives to become the chief arbiter at the Synod of Whitby, where his stated reason for ruling in favor of the Roman party shows that he is awestruck by St Peter’s power rather than convinced of its goodness. Even the English priest Wilfrid, whose eloquence offered up an airtight argument in favor of the Roman dating of Easter, exhibits toward his opponent Colman a cruelty that takes wanton delight in denigrating both Colman personally as well as the ecclesiastical tradition that Colman clearly holds dear.58 The Historia’s voice in the Whitby episode convinces the skillful reader that a more companionable holiness—however wrongheaded it is on the dating of Easter—abides in the Irish at Lindisfarne and Iona than in any community over which the ever orthodox Wilfrid might preside.

58 In his famous chapter, ‘Bede and the Ghost of Bishop Wilfrid,’ Walter Goffart did Bede scholarship a great service by making this esoteric voice more audible, using the character of Wilfrid as his case study. Asking whether Bede had a good opinion of Wilfrid had long been a sort of cottage industry for Bedan studies. Goffart answered that question with a resounding ‘no’ and then took almost 100 pages to argue why. Although I find Goffart’s arguments largely persuasive, in contrast to him I here emphasize the double-sided nature of Bede’s authorial voice. As the last chapter and this one argue, the character of Wilfrid in the Whitby narrative can be read as cruel. But it needs here to be added that Wilfrid can be also read as highly learned and highly competent—even ruthlessly so—in support of the crucial matter of bringing the Northumbrian English into the catholic fold. The problem with most debates about Bede’s opinion of Wilfrid is that they are constrained by their self-imposed limitation to resolve the issue in ‘either-or’ terms, trying as they do to make a thoroughly ambivalent voice sound unitary and unambiguous. In other words, they assume that Bede must either have liked Wilfrid or not liked him at all. As I have tried to show in this chapter and throughout this book, the Historia’s voice speaks ambivalently about a whole host of its characters, besides Wilfrid. See Goffart (1988), 235–328.

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In identifying the Historia as embodying a racist discourse, I have tried to bring to light here instances of its racist moves—moves that often resemble those of modern racist discourse. Almost all of these moves occur when the dominant voice is speaking. The muted, more esoteric voice does not merely tone down the dominant voice’s racism: it actually works to undercut it. It resists, for example, the conclusion that God has abandoned the race of the Britons completely and forever. While it never announces the opposite—that there are those among the race of the Britons who remain among God’s elect—it leaves some clues that this in fact is so, as I tried to demonstrate in Ch. 3. This muted voice equally resists celebrating the English as God’s new Israel, or—if it does—it recognizes that this new Israel, like the old, remains populated with the cruel, the hard-hearted, and the treacherous, and that many of these prosper in the world even as they cultivate close relations with God’s church. The Historia rarely condemns such characters outright. Nevertheless, by placing them among those who clearly exhibit the characteristics of sanctity—humility, longsuffering, and lovingkindness—the silent voice shows by comparison just how spiritually impoverished the former are. The identification of these two voices raises the question of why the Historia does not speak with a single voice. That question exposes the limitations of my study, because answering requires immersing oneself in those historical questions that I have kept off limits. Questions would have to be asked about the historical Bede’s state of mind: Was he conscious of that subtler voice woven into his narrative? If so, why did he choose to put it there? Is it possible that Bede may have expected that this work, unlike his biblical commentaries, would become known to English kings and princes who would not abide, for example, a more measured treatment of the Britons, or one that acknowledged that—just as in Christ’s church ‘there is no longer Jew or Greek, no longer slave or free’—so there is also no longer English or Briton among Christ’s faithful in Britain?59 But if English kings would not abide by such a view, why would Bede care? Was he hoping that by indulging them in their racial enmity he might open their hearts in other ways? Or was he afraid that by not doing so, by rendering it clear that God is no respecter of persons and thus no respecter of race, he could subject himself and his monastic community to royal recrimination or even persecution? But if that were the case, then why would Bede care? Did he not see persecution at the hands of kings and princes as that which raised up martyrs for God’s elect? Or had Bede and the early medieval monasticism that he represented lost the nerve that they believed had characterized the church in the apostolic age and in subsequent periods of persecution? Then again, perhaps we should not look to the historian to resolve this dilemma for us. A deconstructionist critic, for example, might tell us that every narrative text contains the seeds of its own destruction, that its so-called dominant voice is merely what a given reader constructs in her mind and is not a feature inherent in the text itself. Such issues are appropriately left for different kinds of scholars to ponder. My book began with the supposition that when Edward Augustus Freeman summarized 59 Gal 3:28.

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the early rise of the church among the English with his pithy statement, ‘The Roman planted; the Scot watered; the Briton did nothing,’ he accurately reflected the spirit of Bede’s Historia, the source for this summary. As the book ends, that initial supposition is now seen to need qualification. Although Freeman’s summary reflects quite well the racial consciousness and prejudice of what I have called the Historia’s dominant voice, it fails to do justice to that secondary voice. To make this observation is not to exonerate the Historia from the responsibility it bears for having supported later racist Christian readings of history. If those racist readings arose largely because unskillful readers failed to heed sufficiently the Historia’s more subliminal, more esoteric voice, the fault cannot be said to lie with unskillful readers alone. The author surely bears some responsibility for what his unskillful readers will take away from the text. It is all well and good if a Christian author hopes that the more spiritually advanced will be able to discern obscurer meanings from the lowly plain meaning of its literal sense. But that does not mean that the plain sense remains unimportant. After all—and this from a strictly early Christian understanding of hermeneutics—the literal sense is all that the spiritually simple can understand. If the discourse at this literal level is toxic, then the author may not disavow responsibility for its consequences. In this sense, then, I conclude that while the Historia is too simplistically summarized as an unfortunate piece of racist discourse, it and its author nevertheless bear more than just a little responsibility for whatever racist legacy it engendered in Freeman and who knows how many other of the Historia’s readers across the ages.

Bibliography

Ancient and Medieval Authors Anon, Vita sancti Gregorii (B. Colgrave, 1985, The Earliest Life of Gregory the Great, Cambridge, UK, First Paperback edn) [original edn, Lawrence, KS, 1968; CPL 1379]. Augustine, Contra duas epistulas Pelagianorum (C. Urba and J. Zycha, 1913, CSEL 60, 423–70) [P. Holmes and R. E. Wallis (trans), NPNF Ser. 1, 5, 377–434]. — De Trinitate (W. J. Mountain and F. Glorie, 1968, CCSL 50 & 50A) [E. Hill (trans) and J. Rotelle (ed.), 1991, The Trinity, The Works of Saint Augustine, Pt. 1, Vol. 5, Brooklyn, NY]. — Contra Faustum Manichaeum ( J. Zycha, 1891, CSEL 25/1, 251–797) [R. Stothert (trans), NPNF Ser. 1, 4, 155–345]. — Contra litteras Petiliani Donatistae (M. Petschenig, 1909, CSEL 52, 3–277) [ J. R. King and C. D. Hartranft (trans), NPNF Ser. 1, 4, 519–628]. — Ep. 93 [Ad Vincentium] (A. Goldbacher, 1898, CSEL 34/2, 445–96) [R. Teske (trans), 2001, WSA 2/1, 376–408]. — Ep. 142 (A. Goldbacher, 1904, CSEL 44, 247–50) [R. Teske (trans), 2003, WSA 2/2, 298–300. — Ep. 185 [= De correctione Donatistarum liber ad Bonifatium] (A. Goldbacher, 1911, CSEL 57, 1–44) [R. Teske (trans), 2004, WSA 2/3, 178–206]. Bede, Collectio Bedae presbiteri ex opusculis sancti Augustini in epistulas Pauli Apostoli [D. Hurst, (trans), 1999, Excerpts from the Works of Saint Augustine on the Letters of the Blessed Apostle Paul, CSS 183, Kalamazoo, MI]. — De schematibus et tropis (C. B. Kendall [ed. and trans], 1991, Libri II de arte metrica et De schematibus et tropis/The Art of Poetry and Rhetoric, Bibliotheca Germanica, Ser. Nova 2, 168–203, Saarbrücken, Germany). — Epistola ad Ecgbertum episcopum (C. Plummer, 1896, Venerabilis Baedae Opera Historica, Vol. I [of II], 405-23. — Explanatio Apocalypseos (R. Gryson, 2001, CCSL 121A) [F. Wallis (trans), Bede: Commentary on Revelation, 2013, TTH 58, Liverpool]. — Expositio Actuum apostolorum (M. Laistner, 1983, CCSL 121, 1–99) [L. T. Martin (trans), The Venerable Bede: Commentary on the Acts of the Apostles, 1989, CSS 117, Kalamazoo, MI]. — Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum (C. Plummer, 1896, Venerabilis Baedae Opera Historica, Vol. I [of II], 5–360, 1896, Oxford) [other edns.: (1) A. Wheelocke, 1644, Cambridge; (2) B. Colgrave (trans) and R. A. B. Mynors (ed.), 1969, Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People, Oxford Medieval Texts, Oxford; (3) L.

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Sherley-Price (trans), 1990, Ecclesiastical History of the English People, rev. edn, Penguin Classics, London.] — Homeliarum evangelii libri II (D. Hurst, 1955, CCSL 122, 1–378) [L. Martin and D. Hurst (trans), 1991, Homilies on the Gospels, 2 vols, CSS 110 and 111, Kalamazoo, MI]. — In Cantica Canticorum (D. Hurst, 1983, CCSL 119B: 163–375) [A. G. Holder (trans), 2011, On the Song of Songs and Selected Writings, CWS, 37–249, Mahwah, NJ, USA]. — In epistolas VII catholicas (D. Hurst, 1983, CCSL 121, 179–342) [D. Hurst (trans), 1985, Commentary on the Seven Catholic Epistles of Bede the Venerable, CSS 82, Kalamazoo, MI]. — In Ezram et Neemiam (D. Hurst, 1969, CCSL 119A, 235–392) [S. DeGregorio (trans), 2006, Bede: On Ezra and Nehemiah, TTH 47, Liverpool]. — In Genesim (C. W. Jones, 1967, CCSL 118A) [C. Kendall (trans), 2008, Bede: On Genesis, TTH 48, Liverpool]. — In Lucam (D. Hurst, 1960, CCSL 120, 1–425). — In primam partem Samuhelis (D. Hurst, 1962, CCSL 119, 1–272) [S. DeGregorio and R. Love (trans), 2019, Bede: On First Samuel, TTH 70, Liverpool]. — In Tobiam (D. Hurst, 1983, CCSL 119B, 1–19) [Foley and Holder (trans), 1999, Bede: A Biblical Miscellany, TTH 28, 53–79, Liverpool]. — Retractatio in Actus apostolorum (M. L. W. Laistner, 1983, CCSL 121, 101–63). — Vita sancti Cuthberti [prosa] (B. Colgrave, 1985, Two Lives of St Cuthbert, Cambridge, UK, First Paperback edn) [original edn., 1940]. Benedict of Nursia, Regula (T. Fry [trans], 1981, RB 1980: The Rule of St Benedict in Latin and English with Notes, Collegeville, MN). Cyprian, Epistula 73 (W. Hartel, 1871, CSEL 3, pt. 2, 778–99) [G. W. Clarke (trans), 1989, The Letters of St Cyprian of Carthage/Letters 67–82, ACW 47, 54–69, New York]. Eddius Stephanus, Vita sancti Wilfrithi (B. Colgrave [ed. and trans], 1985, The Life of Bishop Wilfrid, Cambridge, UK. Eusebius, Ecclesiastica historia (K. Lake, 1975, 2 vols, LCL 153 and 265, Cambridge, MA and London). Gildas, De excidio Britanniae (M. Winterbottom [ed. and trans], 1978, The Ruin of Britain and other Works, History from the Sources: Arthurian Period Sources 7, Chichester, UK). Gregory I, Pope Ep. 11,36 (D. L. Norberg, 1982, CCSL 140A, 925–29) [ J. R. C. Martyn (trans), 2004, The Letters of Gregory the Great, Vol. 3 (of 3), Medieval Sources in Translation 40, 779–82, Toronto]. Jerome, De nominibus Hebraicis (P. de Lagarde, 1959, CCSL 72, 59–161). — Vita Pauli (PL 23,7–28). Isidore, Etymologiae (W. M. Lindsey, 1911, 2 vols, Scriptorum Classicorum Bibliotheca Oxoniensis, Oxford). Origen, De principiis (P. Koetschau, 1913, GCS 22) [K. Froehlich (trans of Book 4), 1984, Biblical Interpretation in the Early Church, Sources of Early Christian Thought, 48–78, Philadelphia]. Orosius, Historiarum aduersum paganos libri vii (C. Zangemeister, 1882, CSEL 5). Pelagius, Ad Demetriadem (PL 30,15–45) [ J. P. Burns (trans), 1981, Theological Anthropology, Sources of Early Christian Thought, 39–55, Philadelphia]. Prosper of Aquitaine, Epigrammata in obtrectatorem Augustini (PL 51,149–52).

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Peter the Venerable, De miraculis (D. Bouthillier, 1988, CCCM 83). Virgil Georgics (R. A. Mynors, 1994, Oxford). Cummian, Epistula de controversia Paschali (Walsh, M. and D. Ó. Cróinín [eds], 1988, Cummian’s Letter De controversia Paschali, Studies and Texts 86, Toronto). Weber, R., B. Fischer, and R. Gryson, (eds). (2017). Biblia sacra: iuxta Vulgatam versionem (5th ed.). Stuttgart, Germany: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft.

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Indices

Index of Scripture Genesis 21:9–10157 22:2175 22:1867 2431 29:1–1431 48:14133 Exodus 2:15–2231 3:17178 12:18160 15:15134 34:29–30140–41 Leviticus 14:545 20:24178 26:44137 Numbers 13:27178 22199 Deuteronomy 6:3178 11:26–2884 23:21–23115 31:20137 Judges 2:1137 2:20137 3:12–30119 3:16119

1 Samuel 2:12–1774 9:1–1050 14:4798 22:1897–98 31:1–350 1 Kings 3:2046–47 18:16–4096–97 18:21–3975 19:19–2131 2 Kings 17:1–18:37187 Ezra 4:1–2186–87 5:7–9186 10:9134 Tobit 12:16134 Job 4:13–15134 28:2849 Psalms 2:7–867 17:46 45–46, 198 21:28–2967 37:13138 47:7134 50:7140

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in d i c e s

50:9140 67:774 71:867 75:12115 83127 90:3138 113:16196 132:174 138:7138 Proverbs 3:15142 Qoheleth 5:3115 Song of Solomon 2:1–2119 5:10141 6:165 6:8–965–66 Wisdom of Sirach 5:8115 Isaiah 29:14144 33:8137 33:14134 49:1195 49:6195 Jeremiah 1:13–1582 4:682 5:581 6:2282 10:2282 11:10137 31:32137 48:1134 Ezekiel 16:59137

Daniel 12:10140 Malachi 2:8137 Matthew 7:23162 10:29 45, 126–27 11:1546 11:29–3080–81 15:274 15:374 15:6 74, 138 16:18165 17:1–2140–41 20:16185 22:29–30141 23:481 25:31–4666 26:54–5641 Mark 5:33134 7:974 7:13 74, 138 9:2–3140–41 12:1041 14:4941 Luke 2:19136 4:2141 6:645 6:44162 8:47134 9:28–29140–41 9:57–6231 11:4932 12:6126 22:3741 24:2741 24:3241 24:46–47 60, 67

i nd i ce s

John 2:12–2242–43 4:17–1931 7:4241 13:1841 15:13119 19:2841 Acts of the Apostles 1:13–2637 6:2–637 10:3450 1555 15:6–2937 15:1081 16:3157 20:33–3489 21:17–2537 21:20158 21:25158 21:26157 28:25–2732 Romans 2:27–2933 4:18142 7:24–2562 8:4–1333 8:17141 11:2100 13:1382 1 Corinthians 1:19144 1:20–23 76, 136 1:22–24199 1:25–2776 3:619 4:5162 4:1289 7:39109 9:3–1889

2 Corinthians 3:6–733 3:7141 4:4119 12:2082 Galatians 1:14123 2:2151–53 2:11–14158 3:28203 4:15–16199 4:21–3133 4:2763 5:19–2381–82 Ephesians 3:6141 1 Thessalonians 2:989 2 Thessalonians 3:10–1289 Hebrews 11:1–12:1142 2 Peter 2:15–16199 1 John 2:266 Apocalypse 1:262 22:2162

215

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in d i c e s

Index of Bede’s Works De schematibus et tropis De templo

43–44 33

Epistola ad Ecgbertum episcopum 40, 173 4172 7172 Expositio Actuum apostolorum 10,36 50 15,1181 Explanatio Apocalypseos 162 3862 Homiliarum euangelii libri II 2,1 43 2,25162 Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum 1,1 35, 57, 178, 185 1,291 1,391 1,7 86, 99,188–89, 1,8 64, 86, 92, 188, 194 1,10 61, 86, 92, 188 1,12 89, 92, 145, 189 1,14 81–82, 92–94 1,15 89, 92–94, 185, 193 1,1693–94 1,17 82, 86, 188 1,17–2193 1,21100 1,22 82, 93–95, 99–100, 201 1,2393 1,2583 1,25–2669 1,27 78, 83–84, 163 1,31 76, 78, 162 1,33145 1,34 43, 98

2,1 34, 140–41, 183, 188 2,2 27, 36, 63, 69–70, 73–80, 82–83,  86–91, 94–99, 101–02, 106–07, 138,  149, 155, 187–89, 192, 194, 201 2,464 2,5 86, 188 2,9–14105 2,9 108–11, 113, 115–16, 118–20,  135–36, 143–44 2,1064, 106, 115, 128, 131, 135–36, 195–96 2,11 106, 113, 115, 128, 136, 195 2,12 46, 109, 111–15, 129–33, 136–37,  139, 142, 193–95 2,13 45, 106, 109, 113–16, 118, 120,  122–26, 144, 196 2,14 100, 115 2,15 132, 169, 187, 194 2,18169 2,19 58, 61, 63, 159, 176–78, 195 2,20148 3,186 3,3148 3,5 78, 89, 173–74 3,7 86, 188 3,14 174, 181, 190–91 3,19 77, 89, 173–74 3,21 101, 170 3,22 151, 170, 191 3,23192 3,24 86, 188,191–92 3,25 36, 64, 77, 106, 138, 149, 151, 154–  169, 171, 175–77, 180, 191, 194–95 3,26 149, 151, 169–77, 181 3,27178 3,29195 3,30 86, 188 4,2163 4,3 89, 178 4,489 4,777 4,13100 4,1490

i nd i ce s

4,1764 4,20116 4,2590 4,26177 4,27100 4,2889 5,1178 5,9 55, 178, 201 5,12 48, 102, 163, 178 5,1348,102 5,15 64, 195 5,1749 5,19 101, 169, 176 5,21 86, 145, 178, 188 5,22 20, 45, 178, 198 5,23 36–37, 86, 91, 101, 185–88, 190,  196, 201 5,2440

In Epistolas septem catholicas

66, 199

In Ezra et Neeemiam

186–87

In Genesim

157

In Lucam 12:6

127

In primam partem Samuhelis 2,8,2–374 3,22,1898 In Tobiam 42 1,2135 Retractatio in actus apostolorum

37, 158

Vita sancti Cuthberti (prosa)17, 42–43, 73 In Cantica Canticorum 4,5,1765 4,6,866

217

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Index of Ancient and Medieval Names Adamnan 64, 90, 195 Æthelburh, queen 106, 108–11, 113, 115, 117–18, 121, 128, 136, 143, 148, 153, 195 Æthelfrith, king 43, 45–46, 50, 69, 86–87, 90, 95–99, 101–02, 109, 111–12, 117, 122, 129–30, 132–34, 137–39, 195–96, 201 Æthelhun 118, 178 Æthelthryth 118 Æthelwine 178 Agatho 150–51, 154 Agilberht, bishop 150–51, 154–55, 169–71, 175 Aidan, St 49, 78, 89, 148–51, 153–54, 168–69, 171, 173–77, 180–81, 183, 191, 194 Alban, St 99, 102, 188–89 Aldfrith, king 64 Alhfrith, king 150–51, 153–54, 174–77, 191 Ambrosiaster 152 Ambrosius Aurelianus 93 Anatolius, bishop 149, 160–61, 165, 175 Augustine, bishop 36–37, 49–50, 63, 65, 68–87, 91, 93, 95–99, 101–02, 106–07, 109, 121, 135, 139, 145–49, 155, 162, 178, 180, 201–02 Augustine of Hippo 36, 42, 49, 56, 58–64, 67, 74–75, 85, 152, 158, 164, 198 Benedict, St (the rule of) 44, 46, 89 Berth 177 Boniface V, Pope 64, 108, 113, 115, 117, 128, 131, 136, 142, 195–96 Boniface, tribune 67 Brocmail 87–88, 90-91, 97, 102, 139, 189, 192 Cædwalla, king 148 Cedd, bishop 150–51, 154, 170–71, 192 Chad, St 178–79 Ceolwulf, king 49 Coifi 106–09, 114, 118, 120, 122–24, 127–28, 137, 140, 144, 166–68, 196

Colman, bishop 64, 77, 89, 106, 149–50, 154–67, 169–73, 175, 177, 179–81, 196, 202 Columba, St 64, 77, 147–49, 155, 160–68, 175, 179 Cummian 55–56 Cuthbert, St 42–43, 49, 89, 100, 179, 194 Cwenburh 118 Cwichelm, king 110, 113, 116–17, 121–22, 128–29, 133–34, 143 Cyprian, bishop 56, 58–60 Decius, emperor 58–59 Donatists, Donatism 59–67, 164 Dryhthelm 90,163 Eadbald, king 109 Eadberht, bishop 149 Eadfrith 118 Eanflæd, queen 37, 110, 150, 153–54 Eanfrith, king 188 Eata 171, 177, 181 Ecgfrith, king 177 Eddius Stephanus 166 Edwin, king 36–37, 45–46, 53–55, 64, 70, 100, 103, 105–148, 153, 166–67, 188, 190, 193–96, 202 Egbert 55, 178 Eumer 110, 119–22, 128, 134, 143 Eusebius of Ceasarea 37, 122, 159 Felix, bishop 168–69, 180 Finan, bishop 149–51, 170, 181 Forthhere 110, 119–20, 139 Fursa 89, 173–74 Germanus of Auxerre 82, 93–94 Gildas 71, 73, 81–82, 92, 94, 99 Gregory I, Pope 18, 27–28, 36, 43, 49, 55–56, 60, 69, 76–78, 84, 93, 133, 140–41, 162, 169, 179, 183, 187, 200 Gregory of Tours 23, 34, 122 Haemgisl 178 Hengist and Horsa 54–55 Henry VIII, king 18, 55 Hewald the Black and

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Hewald the White 178 Hild 150, 154 Honorius I, Pope 57, 63, 169, 176–77, 195 Honorius, Archbishop 36-37, 168–69, 180 Hunwold 191 Irenaeus 33 Isidore of Seville 35 James II, king 54–55 James the Deacon 150–51, 153–54 Jerome 45, 47, 51, 62, 126, 141, 152 John IV, Pope 61, 159, 177 John Cassian 152 Josephus 42 Lilla 110, 119–20, 139 Lupus of Troyes 82 Nechtan, king 145 Oethelwald, king 191–92 Origen 33 Orosius 91 Osfrith 118 Osric, king 188 Oswald, king 175, 192 Oswine, king 174–75, 190–91, 194, 202 Oswiu, king 36, 53, 150–51, 153–56, 159, 165–68, 171, 174–75, 177, 180, 190–92, 194, 199, 201–202

Owine 89 Paulinus, bishop 36–37, 70, 106–08, 110–22, 124, 127, 130, 132–36, 142–48, 153 Pelagius, Pelagianism 60–63, 65, 67, 82, 85, 91–92, 178, 188 Penda, king 148, 191–92 Peter the Venerable 48–49 Prosper of Aquitaine 61, 92 Putta, bishop 163 Raedwald, king 46, 105, 107, 109, 111–15, 117, 122, 129–35, 137–38, 140–42, 146, 187, 192–95, 201 Regenhere 112, 132, 138, 142 Romanus 150–51, 154 Ronan 150–51, 169 Sigeberht, king 191–93 Theodore of Canterbury 149 Tuda 171 Valentinian, emperor 94 Vincentius 63 Vitalian, Pope 195 Wilfrid, bishop 53, 56, 64, 70, 77, 106, 108, 138, 149–52, 154–67, 169, 174–76, 179–80, 191, 194–96, 202 Wuscfrea 118 Yffi 118

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Index of Modern Authors Achtemeier, P. J. 31 Adams, J. 53–54 Alter, R. 31 Banham, D. 30, 184 Barrow, J. 105 Berschin, W. 42–43 Bogaert, P.-M. 51 Booth, W. C. 39 Brauer, J. C. 33 Bright, W. 19–20 Brown, P. 31 Browne, G. F. 22–24, 34 Buell, D. K. 29, 197–98 Burns, J. P. 58–59 Carter, J. K. 27, 33 Colgrave, B. and R. A. B. Mynors 34, 45, 53, 57, 86, 125, 148, 165–66 Curtis, L. P. 19 Darby, P. 35 Davidse, J. 35 Dawson, C. 16 DeGregorio, S. 40, 186 Droge, A. J. 31 Dyer, R. 68 Eslinger, L. M. 31 Foley, W. T. 56, 73 Foley, W. T. and Higham, N. J. 65, 100, 179, 198 Frantzen, A. J. 54 Freeman, E. A. 19–22, 24, 35, 44, 50, 54, 183–84, 203–04 Frend, W. H. C. 59 Fry, D. K. 125, 127 Gainer, J. 18 Goffart, W. A. 202 Gorton, C. V. 22 Grimmer, M. 72–73 Gunn, V. 176 Hanning, R. W. 50 Harris, S. J. 57, 116, 140 Hauer, S. R. 54 Heal, F. 70

Heng, G. 28–29 Higham, N. J. 20–21, 40, 72–73, 100 Hilliard, P. 35 Holder, A. G. 42, 116, 166 Howe, N. 50, 56, 194 Howlett, D. R. 116 Hubbard, B. J. 31 Inett, J. 70 Irvine, M. 38 James, L. 71 James, M. R. 34 Johnson, B. J. M. 37 Jones, P. F. 87 Kaufman, P. I. 61 Kendall, C. B. 105, 119, 121–22, 178 Kindt, T and H-.H. Müller 39 Koch, R. M. 22 Lavezzo, K. 33 Leclercq, J. 45–48 Liberman, A. 34 Lingard, J. 70 Lukken, G. 188 Machin, G. 18 Magennis, H. 90 Mantello, F. A. C. and Rigg, A. G. 124 Martin, L. T. 74–75 Mayr-Harting, H. 72–73 McCann, S. 176, 178 Merrills, A. H. 41, 51 Molyneaux, G. 50–51 Moore, S. J. 38 O’Reilly, J. 51 Oakeley, F. 70 Oosthuizen, S. 71 Parker, C. J. W. 20 Patte, D. 44, 88 Pitts, A. W. 31 Ruf, J. 29 Scully, D. 100 Sherley-Price, L. 165–67 Shakespeare, W. 32 Shockro, S. 152

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Smedley, A. 34 Smith, M. 100 Stancliffe, C. 69, 100, 176 Stapleton 45 Stenton, F. M. 71 Stephens, W. R. W. 21–22 Stubbs, W. 22 Sullivan, S. 68 Tannehill, R. C. 32, 44 Thacker, A. 40, 96, 98, 176, 186

Tolbert, M. A. 44 Tolley, C. 42, 75, 138 Tracy, D. 31 van der Walt, A. G. P. 116 Ward, B. 100 Wemyss, G. 68 West, C. 27 Westgard, J. A. 45 Wormald, P. 45, 50, 147

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