Between Prophecy and Apocalypse: The Burden of Sacred Time and the Making of History in Early Medieval Europe 0199642559, 9780199642557

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Between Prophecy and Apocalypse: The Burden of Sacred Time and the Making of History in Early Medieval Europe Matthew Gabriele https://doi.org/10.1093/9780199642557.0 01.0001 Published: 2024 9780191860232

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Copyright Page  Page iv

Published: February 2024

Subject: History of Religion, Medieval and Renaissance History (500 to 1500), Intellectual History Collection: Oxford Scholarship Online

Between Prophecy and Apocalypse: The Burden of Sacred Time and the Making of History in Early Medieval Europe Matthew Gabriele https://doi.org/10.1093/9780199642557.0 01.0001 Published: 2024 9780191860232

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Dedication  Pages v–vi

Published: February 2024

Subject: History of Religion, Medieval and Renaissance History (500 to 1500), Intellectual History Collection: Oxford Scholarship Online

Between Prophecy and Apocalypse: The Burden of Sacred Time and the Making of History in Early Medieval Europe Matthew Gabriele https://doi.org/10.1093/9780199642557.0 01.0001 Published: 2024 9780191860232

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Acknowledgments  Published: February 2024

Subject: History of Religion, Medieval and Renaissance History (500 to 1500), Intellectual History Collection: Oxford Scholarship Online

This book has been a labor. The idea was born not long after I completed my rst monograph but then it languished for about a decade, moving so very slowly as other projects started and nished and other work

responsibilities called. But still it moved. And it would not have moved without all the friends and colleagues who kept encouraging this work, who read versions of these chapters, or who simply spent time to sit and chat about ideas. Although, of course, there are bad actors in academia generally and medieval studies speci cally, I have been overwhelmed by the generosity and love that I see as well. The future of the study of the European Middle Ages may seem rather bleak but I believe it is worth ghting for, worth trying to create the intellectual world that makes the eld a better, more open, more welcoming place. It’s worth, I think, nding time to point out those moments of light. My thanks rst go to my colleagues and students in the Department of Religion & Culture at Virginia Tech. They have all, in their own ways, been test subjects as I worked out some of these ideas. My students especially, even in the most basic intro-level survey course, have helped me in too many ways to count. I will always get a thrill when we work together with a source and peel its layers back to understand what it’s doing and why it’s doing it. Beyond Virginia Tech, thanks especially to the “Carolingian Experiments” group that was put together by Matty Gillis, and includes Andy Romig, Courtney Booker, Val Garver, Anne Latowsky, Abigail Firey, Lynda Coon, Martha Rampton, and Paul Dutton. I also owe a tremendous debt to my good friend and collaborator James T. Palmer, whose approach to the past is so complementary to my own—even if he is way smarter than me. The same goes for Jay Rubenstein, who has been a mentor to me for many years. I admire p. viii

immensely and cherish the friendship of Cord Whitaker, Roland Betancourt, Matthew X. Vernon,

Sierra

Lomuto, and Brett Whalen. I see them all far too little but I devour everything they write. In addition, I admire Eleanor Janega so much for all she does to engage wider publics in the study of the period. Finally, thank you to David Perry, my long-time collaborator and longer term friend. He’s a much better writer and sherman than I, but has worse taste in whiskey. You take the good with the bad. And of course thank you to my family, who put up with my nonsense and excitement about the medieval world, who are willing to be dragged to every church and museum around. I love watching Uly roll his eyes at every reference to the Middle Ages I make, and I love watching him chart his own path as his own person. He is kind and thoughtful. I am so proud. Rachel is everything. Even after all these years, I still think about the sayings inscribed on our rings and I know I would do it all again and a thousand times more.

Between Prophecy and Apocalypse: The Burden of Sacred Time and the Making of History in Early Medieval Europe Matthew Gabriele https://doi.org/10.1093/9780199642557.0 01.0001 Published: 2024 9780191860232

Online ISBN: Print ISBN:

9780199642557

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List of Images  Matthew Gabriele https://doi.org/10.1093/9780199642557.002.0005 Published: February 2024

Pages xi–xii

Subject: History of Religion, Medieval and Renaissance History (500 to 1500), Intellectual History Collection: Oxford Scholarship Online

0.1. Joseph Priestley, A New Chart of History (1769) 1.1. The Augustinian Atemporality 2.1. Ark of the Covenant, Mosaic, St-Germigny-des-Prés, France (late eighth century) 3.1. Vision of Ezekiel, from Commentary by Haimo of Auxerre, Paris BNF lat. 12302 1r (early eleventh century) p. xii

4.1. Last Judgment Tympanum by Giselbertus, St-Lazare of Autun, France (early twelfth century)

Introduction What do we know of the tenth and eleventh centuries in Europe? For many they are a space between, a roadside glanced from the window of a speeding car, something (perhaps) meaningful in and of itself but primarily for us a connector between other—­more “real”—things, between the early and high Middle Ages. The tenth and eleventh centuries are often seen as a time of particular “uncertainty.” This, we are told, was an age of lawless aristocrats, of weak political authority, of the Vikings, of cultural decline and dissolute monks, of rampant superstition and supposed apocalyptic expectation. As such, this is a period often judged from its margins, compared (mostly negatively) to what came before and what would follow. We speak, generally, of what was lost and what will be gained—­the former being the last vestiges of antiquity, the latter the first rays of modernity. We lament the loss of the “Carolingians” and fragmentation of their supposed political unity and look towards the rise of the centralizing monarchies of the twelfth century. We mourn the loss of the poets, annalists, and scholars of the ninth century, and yearn for the efflorescence of learning of the soon-­to-­be universities. We lament the loss of “empire” and seek the comfort of strong kings. We impose upon the tenth and eleventh centuries a sense of nostalgia as they looked backwards. We impose upon them a teleology, as they somehow knowingly foreshadow what is to come. That teleology comes at us in waves, a story that had been similarly told before, visible once we pull back from a tight focus on that period by itself. As the “disorder” of the millennium led to the so-­called “Twelfth-­Century Renaissance,”1 so the “chaos” of the late Merovingians 1  The classic starting point is of course Charles Homer Haskins, The Renaissance of the Twelfth Century (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1927); but reinforced thereafter by e.g. Christopher Brooke, The Twelfth Century Renaissance (New York: Harcourt Brace, 1952); Robert L. Benson, Giles Constable, and Carol D. Lanham, eds, Renaissance and Renewal

2  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse begat the so-­called “Carolingian Renaissance,”2 so the “turmoil” of the late Roman Empire was bookended by the revival of Byzantium in the sixth century,3 and so on. Much of this narrative (though not necessarily its reality) is tied to political “order,” particularly centralized authority. Rome loses its grip on the provinces and revival comes when Justinian (527–65) attempts to reassert control. The same for the Merovingians and the advent of Charlemagne. The papacy of the Gregorian reform restores “the Church” (or “the Empire,” depending on your tastes) to right order. The same for the narrative that tells of the devolution of power to the millennial castellans, in which civilization is only rescued by the rise of the Anglo-­Normans, the Capetians, the Salians. We tell stories about the past backwards from modernity, and modernity defines itself by political order, secularity, economic vitality, rationalism. Modernity tends to look for itself in the past and lauds what it sees as familiar. Modernity tends to question what it considers antithetical to the seemingly inevitable movement of history towards the present. The roots of our twenty-­first-­century understanding of the past lie at the roots of modernity itself.4 in the Twelfth Century (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1982); and particularly Gerhart B. Ladner, “Terms and Ideas of Renewal,” in Renaissance and Renewal in the Twelfth Century, ed. Robert  L.  Benson and Giles Constable (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1982), 1–33. Book titles using the phrase continue to this day. This reading of the twelfth century has been admirably summarized and challenged in John  D.  Cotts, Europe’s Long Twelfth Century (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), 1–13. 2  See the still useful summary of the history of the phrase in G. W. Trompf, “The Concept of the Carolingian Renaissance,” Journal of the History of Ideas 34 (1973): 3–26; and John J. Contreni, “The Carolingian Renaissance: Education and Literary Culture,” in The New Cambridge Medieval History, c.700–c.900, ed. Rosamond McKitterick, vol. 2 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 709–57. The phrase does seem to have fallen out of fashion lately but the idea that there was some sort of renewal of learning and political cohesion in the late eighth and ninth centuries remains. 3  Most recently exemplified in Peter Heather, The Restoration of Rome: Barbarian Popes and Imperial Pretenders (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017); also A.  D.  Lee, From Rome to Byzantium, AD 363 to 565: The Transformation of Ancient Rome (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2013); and the historiographical summary in Stefan Rebenich, “Late Antiquity in Modern Eyes,” in A Companion to Late Antiquity (Oxford: Blackwell, 2009), 77–92. 4  See the astute observations of François Hartog, Regimes of Historicity: Presentism and the Experiences of Time, tr. Saskia Brown (New York: Columbia University Press, 2015), 105–30; also related to how historians treat race, Lynn T. Ramey, Black Legacies: Race and the European Middle Ages (Gainesville, FL: University Press of Florida, 2014); and how they treat religion, Hussein Fancy, The Mercenary Mediterranean: Sovereignty, Religion, and Violence in the Medieval Crown of Aragon (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2016), particularly 142–9. Much of what follows is indebted to the pioneering work of Kathleen Biddick, The Shock of Medievalism (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1998).

Introduction  3 And this makes a certain amount of sense, as the parameters of much of what we study about the European Middle Ages were born of the nineteenth century. Take, briefly, the cases of Jules Michelet (d. 1874) and George Lincoln Burr (d. 1938) and how they viewed the tenth and eleventh centuries. Michelet is perhaps most famous for popularizing the idea of the “Terrors of the Year 1000,” the idea that Latin Europe waited for the turning of the first millennium with trembling anticipation and fear.5 Born to a Parisian family made nearly destitute by the Napoleonic crackdown on printers in Paris, Michelet nevertheless found himself benefitting from the expansion of educational opportunities at that time. He learned quickly and distinguished himself so that he traveled among the intellectual elites of 1820s Paris and was appointed professor at the École Normale in early 1827. It was at this time that Michelet became enamored of Giambattista Vico’s works and began to develop his own philosophy of history. For Michelet, history was a version of theodicy in which the nation took the place of God, in which a reality about human society was revealed by the study of the past.6 Michelet first hints at this idea in his 1831 Introduction à l’histoire universelle, where he asserted that “the world” (meaning for him, of course, Europe) was surprised to have survived past the year 1000 ce and celebrated “with childlike joy” by constructing new churches.7 Michelet expanded upon this sentiment later, in the second volume of his 1833 Histoire de France. Here, after an introductory geographical/racial survey, he restarted his history with the simple statement “There was a universal belief in the Middle Ages that the world would end with the

5  See the summary in Daniel Milo, “L’an Mil: Un problème d’historiographie moderne,” History and Theory 27 (1988): 261–81; Edward Peters, “Mutations, Adjustments, Terrors, Historians, and the Year 1000,” in The Year 1000: Religious and Social Responses to the Turning of the First Millennium, ed. Michael Frassetto (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002), 9–28. Now on this topic, see the exceptional James T. Palmer, The Apocalypse in the Early Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014). 6 Stephen  A.  Kippur, Jules Michelet: A Study of Mind and Sensibility (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1981), 1–46. 7  “Vers l’an 1000, le monde du moyen âge, étonne d’avoir survécu à cette époque, pour laquelle on lui annoncait depuis si longtemps sa destruction . . . se mit à l’ouvrage avec une joie enfantine, et renouvela la plupart des édifices religieux.” Jules Michelet, Introduction à l’histoire universelle, 3rd ed. (Paris: Hachette, 1843), 122.

4  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse 1000th year of the Incarnation.”8 This is, for all intents and purposes, the birthplace of the so-­called “Terrors of the Year 1000.” The tenth century was, according to him, a world without hope; a world living in constant fear; a time of absolute calamities. The Roman empire had fallen, Charlemagne was gone. The evils of the world piled up, “woe upon woe, ruin upon ruin.”9 They tremblingly awaited the End. The world was only saved by Robert II the Pious (996–1031), the first “real” Capetian king who helped stir the “French” as a people and move them towards a rational, modern France. Michelet’s understanding of this period did not, however, derive from the Middle Ages themselves, not from a deep, thorough, contextual reading of medieval sources. He said so directly. In a revised preface to his Histoire, he explained that his understanding of the arc of history was conceived on the hot pavements of Paris in July 1830. There he realized that man’s history was a struggle for liberty against a fatal world; in short, what he called an “eternal July.”10 In July 1830, a popular uprising in Paris upended the French monarchy and ushered a liberal, constitutional monarchy into place. That moment—­that movement of events—­ was the telos of Michelet’s story, the moment when history revealed itself in its entirety. The Year 1000 was a step forward in the journey towards that goal, when the nascent French nation began to emerge from the disparate regional peoples who inhabited the land.11 They did this by casting off the shackles of the Church, casting off superstition in favor of the ideals of the Revolution and reason, casting off privilege and individuation in favor of equality and community. It was the task of the historian, Michelet believed, to remain “committed to the cause of right 8  “C’était une croyance universelle au moyen âge, que le monde devait finir avec l’an 1000 de l’Incarnation.” Jules Michelet, Histoire de France: Moyen Âge, 2nd ed., vol. 2 (Paris: Flammarion, 1869), 103. 9  “L’empire romain avait croulé, celui de Charlemagne s’en était allé aussi; le christianisme avait cru d’abord pouvoir remédier aux maux d’ici-­bas, et ils continuaient. Malheur sur malheur, ruine sur ruine.” Michelet, Histoire de France, 2nd ed., 2: 109. 10 Michelet, Histoire de France, 2nd ed., 1: i ff. More generally, see the analysis of Michelet’s American contemporaries and their sense of history as one of experience that elided past and present in Jeffrey Insko, History, Abolition, and the Ever-­Present Now in Antebellum American Writing (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018). 11 Kippur, Jules Michelet, 65; Hartog, Regimes of Historicity, 132. More generally, see Patrick J. Geary, The Myth of Nations: The Medieval Origins of Europe (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2003).

Introduction  5 and truth,” to “resurrect” the past in its fullness. To do so, one read backwards from the present, taking the ideals of July 1830 and searching for them in the past.12 For a time, the debate about the Year 1000 was confined to Europe. When it finally crossed the Atlantic, George Lincoln Burr was one of the first American scholars to substantively deal with the idea of the “Terrors of the Year 1000” and did so in a 1901 article in the American Historical Review titled “The Year 1000 and the Antecedents of the Crusades.”13 Born in upstate New York in 1857, Burr saw the American Civil War first-­hand when he visited his father (serving as a Union army surgeon) on the battlefield in the aftermath of Antietam, one of the bloodiest battles of the American Civil War. He then enrolled in Cortland Academy as a teenager, graduated first in his class, became a schoolteacher for a time and then matriculated at the newly founded Cornell University in 1877, where he quickly became attached to that university’s first president, Andrew Dickson White (d. 1918). As White’s assistant, Burr traveled throughout Europe, adding to White’s (and Cornell’s) library and studying for a time in both Paris and Leipzig before returning to Cornell, where he became a professor of medieval history. He served as president of the American Historical Association from 1915–16, was a founding member of the Medieval Academy of America, and his students ­permeated the academy, holding positions at Harvard, Yale, Columbia, Wellesley, Williams, Vassar, Duke, the University of California-­Berkeley, Stanford, the University of Pennsylvania, Wesleyan, Missouri, and Idaho. At Cornell, he championed the cause of women’s education, and taught medieval history until his death in 1938.14 12  Ceri Crossley, French Historians and Romanticism: Thierry, Guizot, the Saint-­Simonians, Quinet, Michelet (New York: Routledge, 1993), 185–95; and generally Bernard M. G. Reardon, Religion in the Age of Romanticism: Studies in Early Nineteenth Century Thought (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), 23–6. 13  George Lincoln Burr, “The Year 1000 and the Antecedents of the Crusades,” American Historical Review, 6 (1901): 429–39. 14 Gertrude Randolph Bramlette Richards, “Review of George Lincoln Burr: His Life by Roland H. Bainton,” American Historical Review, 49 (1943): 76. For more on Burr and his connection, for instance, to Cornell alumna Jessie Redmon Fauset—­a luminary in the NAACP and Harlem Renaissance—­see Cord J. Whitaker, “B(l)ack Home in the Middle Ages: Medievalism in Jessie Redmon Fauset’s ‘My House and a Glimpse of My Life Therein,’ ” Postmedieval 10, no. 2 (2019): 162–75; and Matthew Gabriele, “The ‘Terrors of the Year 1900’: The Eleventh Century and a Debate about the Meaning of Modernity,” Postmedieval 10, no. 2 (2019): 194–205.

6  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse Burr’s 1901 article summarily dismissed the idea of apocalyptic expectation, saying that the vast majority of eleventh-­century Europe was not interested in the idea of the end of the world, plus they never really knew what year it was. The origins of the Crusades (the ostensible subject of the article) lay in the roots of Christianity itself, a general spirit of adventure, and the reform of the Church as an institution during the eleventh century. Burr concluded his article on the Year 1000 by quoting Oxford Bishop William Stubbs (d. 1901), who characterized the expedition of 1095–6 as “the first great effort of medieval life to go beyond the pursuit of selfish and isolated ambitions; they were the trial-­ feat of the young world, essaying to use, to the glory of God and the benefit of man, the arms of its new knighthood.”15 This was not the first time Burr had explicated his ideas on medieval Christian holy war. When he graduated from Cortland Academy in 1874, he gave the graduation speech to his peers. Title? “The Crusades.” Here, Burr lionized Lincoln and the Union cause. The Crusades, Burr said, continued into his own day, called by Abraham Lincoln (who Burr calls “our Urban, [our] Peter the Hermit”) to a cause that shared with the medieval event a similar “enthusiastic ardor, earnestness of purpose . . . , [and] eager longing for the fray.” In this, abolitionism was similar to man’s “better” crusades, such as the Renaissance and Reformation. In other words, a “crusade” was progress, movement away from superstition, away from rebellion and towards reason.16 The arc of Burr’s work during his lifetime was concerned with how dogmatic intellectuals created terror and violence. The struggle, in Burr’s own words, was not between “science and theology [but] between ­science and obscurantism” of any sort.17 To some of his colleagues, Burr’s stance implied a certain “secularity” that came across as anti-­religious

15  Burr, “Year 1000,” 439. Original quotation from William Stubbs, Seventeen Lectures on the Study of Mediaeval and Modern History (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1874), 157–8. The year after Burr’s article appeared, Albert Granger Harkness of Brown University could state that the belief that the world would end in the Year 1000 had been “conclusively disproved.” See Albert Granger Harkness, “Review of The Story of Rome, by Norwood Young,” American Historical Review 7 (1902): 125. 16 Roland H. Bainton, George Lincoln Burr: His Life, ed. Lois Oliphant Gibbons (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1943), 4–10. 17  Henry Guerlac, “George Lincoln Burr,” Isis 35 (1944): 151.

Introduction  7 (and Burr was indeed mocked by colleagues as late as 1944 for supporting the theory of evolution)18 but Burr’s position should be characterized as anti-“fanatical” more than anything else. Burr thought he lived through a time consumed by passions, but was now moving beyond them. He came of age in an America that was reconstructing itself from the ruins of that convulsive epoch. This is the period when the meaning of the American Civil War was still an active point of debate, when the modern idea of American exceptionalism (and “civil religion”) was created from the failed hopes of the “blood sacrifice” offered by both North and South,19 when US politics was reignited by the fiery Christian populism of William Jennings Bryan.20 For Burr, the Crusades were the antithesis of that. They were exploration, civilizing, scientific, a quasi-­modern imperialist project, hence progressive, hence reform-­minded, hence “good.” They presaged, as he said in his graduation speech, the Renaissance, the Reformation, the Enlightenment, abolitionism. As he would argue in a later article, Burr thought the movement of history was towards individual liberty—­but it was slow and winding and progressed gradually.21 For Burr, as Michelet, the past illuminated the present and pushed us towards the future. As Burr wrote, it was time to banish the “legend” of the Year 1000 for good, and “could we find a better moment for its study than now, as we stand at the threshold of another Christian century and look across it to the near close of another millennium?”22 Burr’s arguments about the Middle Ages were arguments against the demagogues 18  E.g. Raymond J. Gray, “Review of George Lincoln Burr: His Life by Roland H. Bainton,” Catholic Historical Review 30 (1944): 61–3. 19  David Blight, Race and Reunion: The Civil War in American Memory (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2001); Harry S. Stout, Upon the Altar of the Nation: A Moral History of the Civil War (London: Viking, 2006); Orville Vernon Burton, The Age of Lincoln (New York: Penguin, 2007); and George C. Rable, God’s Almost Chosen Peoples: A Religious History of the American Civil War (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2010). 20  For instance, see Michael Kazin, A Godly Hero: The Life of William Jennings Bryan (New York: Knopf, 2006); and in particular related to the context of Burr’s 1901 article, R. Hal Williams, Realigning America: McKinley, Bryan, and the Remarkable Election of 1896 (Lawrence, KS: University of Kansas Press, 2010). 21  Made clear in two of his most famous essays, George Lincoln Burr, “Anent the Middle Ages,” American Historical Review 18 (1913): 710–26; and Burr, “The Freedom of History,” American Historical Review 22 (1917): 253–71. Burr’s biographer, Roland H. Bainton, lamented that at the time of his death, Burr’s magnum opus on the evolution of religious liberty was not completed. Bainton, George Lincoln Burr, 88. 22  Burr, “The Year 1000,” 429–30.

8  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse of his own time. Burr, again just like Michelet, was arguing the meaning of the nineteenth century more than the eleventh. This important context should mean something to us today, even here more than a century removed from Burr, more than a century and half removed from Michelet, more than a millennium removed from the Year 1000. Brief though it may be, this historiography should alert us to the dangers laying hidden in our own scholarship. Too often we revert to what Michael Bentley has called “bibliography”—another invention of the modernists—­wherein “facts” (not events) are thought to dwell in the past, thereby to be simply uncovered and displayed, not interrogated. “Bibliography” means, Bentley continues, that scholarly positions can simply be summarized and either accepted or argued against, without consideration for the context in which they were generated. It allows us as historians to compile a list of who came before us, and call it a day.23 But Michelet and Burr reveal the dangers of that approach. To do so would mean that we, like they and their contemporaries, would remain trapped in what Hayden White has called the “practical past.” During the nineteenth century, the work of historians became a genealogy of the nation. Thus historians, “viewing the past from the vantage point of a future state of affairs, can claim a knowledge about the past present that no past agent . . . could ever have possessed” because the conclusion was always already foreordained. If history is genealogy, the end of the narrative was always the historian’s own present. Or to put it another way, it constructs a family tree that always lead to you.24 That teleology, in turn, framed the questions they asked about the tenth and eleventh centuries, the sources they sought, the way they read those sources. Thus, Michelet’s and Burr’s questions about the eleventh century, and the contexts in which those questions were generated, shape our own even today. When we continue to ask questions about the apocalypticism of 23 Michael Bentley, Modernizing England’s Past: English Historiography in the Age of Modernism, 1870–1970 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 12–13. My thanks to Levi Roach for pointing me towards this work. 24  Hayden White, The Practical Past (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 2014), 8–10; also Patrick J. Geary, “European Ethnicities and European as an Ethnicity: Does Europe have Too Much History?,” in The Making of Medieval History, ed. Graham A. Loud and Martial Staub (Rochester, NY: Boydell Press, 2017), 57–69.

Introduction  9 the Year 1000, for example, we play in the sandbox they created, ­reinscribing their questions and their limited set of sources.25 Michelet asked if there was a “universal belief . . . that the world would end with the 1000th year of the Incarnation” and if the world celebrated with “childlike joy” when the year passed. But Michelet asked that initial question because he needed to get to July 1830, to demonstrate what had finally jarred medievals from their stupor, moved humanity from its—­ note—“childlike” state towards adolescence, to politically “evolve” and allow France to begin to unite under its monarchs. Robert the Pious “necessarily” led to Louis Philippe. Burr asked the same question and for similar reasons, even if he came to a very different conclusion about what was going on in the period. Burr saw a rational past in the eleventh century, the so-­called “Terrors” had to be rejected because that would have been a manifestation of superstition of fanaticism and Christianity stood for order and reason.26 His own 1901 article, as he himself said, stood “at the threshold of another Christian century . . . look[ing] across it to the near close of another millennium.” As 1900 passed with an efflorescence of reason and science, so did 1000. As the demagogues of his own time had failed, so did those of the past. Both saw the turning of the first millennium as a space “in-­between”—a blip (even if a significant one) for Michelet on the way to the Capetians and liberal monarchy, for Burr on the way to the Renaissance, to Luther, to individual (religious) liberty. Both historians were asking questions of their present, using the European Middle Ages as origins, as the starting points for the evolutionary movement of  history towards their own day. And then later historians revisited these questions to suit their own modern purposes. Michelet’s work, for instance, was both attacked and defended as France moved from the July Monarchy (1830–48) to the Second Republic (1848–51) to the Second French Empire (1851–70) to the Third Republic (1870–1940),

25  Discussed thoughtfully in Peters, “Mutations, Adjustments, Terrors,” in The Year 1000, 16. 26  This idea, like the quotation with which Burr ends his 1901 article, comes directly from William Stubbs. On Stubbs and the Church, see Bentley, Modernizing England’s Past, 46–8. Burr reengages this idea in his essay “Religious Progress,” in George Lincoln Burr: His Life and Selections from his Writings, ed. Lois Oliphant Gibbons (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1943), 313.

10  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse as  the monarchy and the Church in France were alternately valorized and denigrated.27 So, bearing in mind Anthony Grafton’s injunction about how tradition can constrain the process of discovery by limiting the questions we ask of phenomena, can we break from tradition and ask better questions of the tenth and eleventh centuries?28 Perhaps the way out, the way forward, can be found by thinking about medieval futures instead of medieval pasts. This approach has its dangers though. Indeed, I have just suggested that teleology got us into this mess in the first place. François Hartog agreed that one of the cardinal sins of the nineteenth century was allowing the future to illuminate the past. Yet, the problem was never with the future their subjects saw. It was rather with the historians’ present. These nineteenth-­century scholars closed off the past’s possible futures to focus on their own. This, Hartog says, is presentism, a flattening of past and future into the instantaneous. Presentism creates the impression that the past connects directly to its future, hence gives an impression of necessary teleology, of foreclosed options.29 But we know this isn’t really the case. Our subjects always could have acted otherwise and it is incumbent upon us to restore to them their agency, to understand why they acted as they did based upon their own understanding of their world. Doing this—­consideration of what Reinhart Koselleck has called our subjects’ “horizons of expectation”—allows us to return contingency to historical events, to consider their actions

27  Christian Amalvi, “L’historiographie française face à l’avèvement d’Hugues Capet et aux terreurs de l’an Mil (1800–1914),” in Religion et culture autour de l’an Mil: Royaume capétien et Lotharingie, ed. Dominique Iogna-­Prat and Jean-­Charles Picard (Paris: Picard, 1990), 245–55. 28  Anthony Grafton, New Worlds, Ancient Texts: The Power of Tradition and the Shock of Discovery (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995), esp. 61–93; also H.  A.  Drake, “Constantine and Religious Extremism,” in Constantine: Religious Faith and Imperial Policy, ed. A. Edward Siecienski (New York: Routledge, 2017), 11–13. 29 Hartog, Regimes of Historicity, esp. 105–30, 201–3; Jonas Grethlein, “ ‘Future Past’: Time and Teleology in (Ancient) Historiography,” History and Theory 53 (2014): 310–13; and John Gray, Black Mass: Apocalyptic Religion and the Death of Utopia (New York: Penguin, 2007), 289. I have elsewhere described this as a “Rainbow Connection” to the past. Matthew Gabriele, “Islamophobes Want to Recreate the Crusades. But they don’t Understand them at All,” The Washington Post, June 6, 2017, ; Peter Manseau, “The Plague, in the Plague: Two Years of Black Death Comparisons. What have we Learned?,” Slate, March 13, 2022, .

Introduction  11 within the boundaries not of what we know was possible (with the ­benefit of hindsight), but what they thought possible.30 Attentiveness to what our subjects thought also importantly alerts us, unsurprisingly, to the power of ideas and how they were enacted in the world. But let me be clear that I am not advocating here the return of “intellectual history” in a more traditional sense, not the passage of high culture across time and the genealogies (Bentley’s “bibliographies”) of  august, dead white men. Instead, if we move beyond Koselleck’s Begriffsgeschichte (“Conceptual History”),31 we find that this path leads to something more complex and unsettled—­an engagement with the past that allows for the generation of ideas, for those ideas to move via texts and oral transmission, for those ideas to be modified and acted upon (sometimes in quirky ways) across high and low cultures. In this latter way of understanding our historical subjects, people are complex, can hold mutually contradictory ideas or definitions in their head at the same time, be influenced by them in different ways at different moments depending on the specific historical context, and act unpredictably in response to them.32 In this way of thinking, our subjects always have choices and so we must understand the field within which those people operated, the social and cultural constraints and liberties that animated them. * * * * * Arno Borst has written that medievals were akin to travelers in a dense wood, unable to see much ahead or far behind, without clear guidance as to where they were going or how to get there, save a general­ goal of “salvation” that awaited them somewhere in the future.33 30 Reinhart Koselleck, Futures Past: On the Semantics of Historical Time, tr. Keith Tribe (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1985), 267–88; also Matthew Gabriele, “Waging Guerrilla Warfare against the 19th Century,” in Burn after Reading: Miniature Manifestos for a Post/Medieval Studies, ed. Eileen Joy and Myra Seaman (Santa Barbara, CA: Punctum Books, 2014), 41. 31  This follows some of the suggestions in Jan-­Werner Müller, “On Conceptual History,” in Rethinking Modern Intellectual History, ed. Darrin M. McMahon and Samuel Moyn (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 74–93. My approach, however, still finds Müller’s suggestions too structural and presentist. 32  E.g., see how this might function in the context of the term “crusade” in Matthew Gabriele, “Debating the ‘Crusade’ in Contemporary America,” Mediaeval Journal 6 (2016): 73–92. 33  Arno Borst, Medieval Worlds: Barbarians, Heretics and Artists in the Middle Ages, tr. Eric Hansen (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), 71. This conception is, to some degree, echoed in Jean-­Claude Schmitt, “Appropriating the Future,” in Medieval Futures: Attitudes to

12  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse As  compelling as this metaphor might be, I think it still misses ­something. In Borst’s formulation, our medieval European subjects had no real future, no horizon of expectation. The density of the forest, the inability to see ahead or behind, suggests stasis—­or at least that their movement never ultimately mattered. Indeed, the inhabitants of Borst’s Middle Ages are so imbued with choices (they can literally go any direction and never leave) that their choices ultimately do not matter. Borst’s medievals have choices but none of consequence in the face of so vast a forest. They wandered aimlessly until the light of modernity appeared to guide them out of their fog. Conversely, Michelet’s and Burr’s Middle Ages were so overdetermined that their inhabitants also had no agency. Their path was set and the travelers could not deviate from it. Though they never specifically used it, the concept of the timeline, invented by Joseph Priestley in the late eighteenth century (Figure 0.1) and a commonplace after 1800, is analogous to what Michelet and Burr were arguing, as it graphically represented the teleology inherent in Burr’s and Michelet’s understanding of the past.34 Time on a line with no possible deviations. It necessarily began there and necessarily ends here. But what if we consider the two examples above not as the totality of how to think about the past, but as points on a spectrum? These two poles might productively be called “prophecy” and “apocalyptic,” with the difference between the two fundamentally one of perspective.35 Looking forwards versus looking backwards. As Bruce Holsinger has demonstrated in his reading of Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri’s Empire, apocalyptic comes across as inevitable because it can only be revealed in hindsight, and almost always textually. The act of writing the Future in the Middle Ages, ed. J. A. Burrow and Ian P. Wei (Woodbridge: Boydell & Brewer, 2000), 3–5. 34  Daniel Rosenberg and Anthony Grafton, Cartographies of Time (Princeton: Princeton Architectural Press, 2010), esp. chapters 4 and 5. Elizabeth Deeds Ermath blames this way of thinking specifically on the recourse to narrative. Elizabeth Deeds Ermath, History in the Discursive Tradition: Reconsidering the Tools of Thought (London: Routledge, 2011), 24–5. 35 The distinction in this way first explored in Matthew Gabriele, “From Prophecy to Apocalypse: The Verb Tenses of Jerusalem in Robert the Monk’s Historia of the First Crusade,” Journal of Medieval History 42 (2016): 306–7, 315–16. Although he juxtaposes “prophecy” and “history,” this distinction is also hinted at in Djelal Kadir, Columbus and the Ends of the Earth: Europe’s Prophetic Rhetoric as Conquering Ideology (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1992), 4–6.

Figure 0.1  Joseph Priestley, A New Chart of History as sent to Benjamin Franklin (1769), Wikimedia Commons, The Library Company of Philadelphia (Public Domain)

14  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse reveals an “inevitable” truth about what happened. Michelet and Burr were apocalyptic. They wrote the past with the benefit of hindsight and  hence “claim a knowledge about the past present that no past agent . . . could ever have possessed.”36 At the other pole, the same events anticipated but not yet seen, is prophecy. Those anticipating the events might think them inevitable but must concede that the timing is not. Prophecy will never “fail,” but it can always be deferred by man’s fallibility or changing historical context.37 Borst channels a prophetic mode. In their wandering through the darkened wood, his subjects have so many choices that it strips them of their agency. Their forest has limits, boundaries, but the choices the people within it make will never determine when they emerge from it. Some deus ex machina must appear. Their future will come, salvation will arrive, but they cannot know when. So let us take to heart Koselleck’s injunction about considering our subject’s horizons of expectation, also allow for messiness in thinking and decision-­making, and restore agency to our past subjects. This approach, one we might tentatively name “Instrumental History,” can perhaps help us avoid the historiographical pendulum swing between poles and better illuminate the spectrum of approaches between those poles. Instrumental History attempts to capture the messiness that comes between the genesis of an idea and its many iterations in the world, the ways in which actors at various stages can intentionally or unintentionally modify that idea and make it their own. In other words, this approach allows subjects to be acted upon by ideas and actors in their own right, neither automatons nor atomized individuals. The choices they made occurred within a specific field of action and had consequences for how they lived their lives.38 36 White, Practical Past, 10. 37  Bruce Holsinger, “Empire, Apocalypse, and the 9/11 Premodern,” in The Legitimacy of the Middle Ages: On the Unwritten History of Theory, ed. Andrew Cole and D. Vance Smith (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2010), 94–118; and R.  W.  Southern, “History as Prophecy,” Transactions of the Royal Historical Society 22 (1972): 159–80. 38  What I am suggesting here is a bit different from other uses of “instrumental” in historical writing. E.g., Philippe Buc has used “instrumental” as interchangeable with “intentional” (referencing Saul Friedländer’s discussion of “intentionalism”). This misses a key element of “instrumental” in a philosophical/theological sense as acknowledging a chain of causality for an action or event in which there can be intermediaries between the intention or idea and action in the world. Though imperfect as an analogy, this might capture the potential distance between an ur-­idea and the varieties of ways in which it can ultimately be manifested in the

Introduction  15 The tenth and eleventh centuries were not, were never, pale shadows of nineteenth-­century modernity, nor were they its antithesis. They were, and have always been, their own thing. The standard narrative of the tenth and eleventh centuries is one of “crisis,” of what was lost.39 That narrative always implies reactivity. Yet, even as those of the tenth and eleventh centuries were fully conscious of themselves as inheritors of a lost Golden Age, cherishing tradition as it was passed down to them from the Fathers and from the ninth century, the inhabitants of the tenth and eleventh centuries managed to carve out their own world. They kept, rejected, and modified ideas as they were transmitted. And they generated their own. How they understood, used, and acted upon specific ideas depended on specific historical circumstance and how they positioned themselves within that history. In their engagement with the ideas inherited from the past, they developed new ideas about the future. In engaging the past and future, they changed their understanding of their present, changed the fields of action available to them in a given moment, gave them an active role in their world. So, let us remember world. Aquinas wrote that “an effect is in an instrumental cause by the power that the instrument receives from the chief cause insofar as the latter moves the former. For example, a house’s form is in one way in the house’s stones and wood as the form’s proper subject, and in another way in the mind of the builder as the chief cause, and in another way in the saw and the ax as instrumental causes.” Aquinas, of course, sees a more direct line of transmission from ur-­idea (“chief cause”) to its manifestation in the world (the house) than I am suggesting but there does seem to be a suggestion in his formulation that the instrumental cause has agency and that unexpected alterations can occur (a dull saw, a knot in the wood, etc.). A. J. Minnis further clarifies that Aquinas’s understanding of “instrumental” here signaled a “new awareness of the integrity of the individual human auctor.” In other words, people could be influenced by many other things (besides God) in how to understand the world. See Philippe Buc, “The Monster and the Critics: A Ritual Reply,” Early Medieval Europe 15 (2007): 448; Saul Friedländer, “Introduction,” in Gerald Fleming, Hitler and the Final Solution (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1982), ix–xiv; Thomas Aquinas, On Evil, tr. Richard Regan, ed. Brian Davies (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 209–11; and A.  J.  Minnis, Medieval Theory of Authorship: Scholastic Literary Attitudes in the Later Middle Ages (London: Scolar Press, 1984), 83–4. See also the comments on a more nuanced “history of knowledge” in early medieval Europe in Sita Steckel, “From Crisis to Reconfiguration: Cultural Change around 900 and Beyond,” in Wissen und Bildung in einer Zeit Bedrohter Ordnung: Der Zerfall des Karolingerreiches um 900, ed. Warren Pezé (Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 2020), 400–4. 39 Matthew Gabriele, An Empire of Memory: The Legend of Charlemagne, the Franks, and Jerusalem before the First Crusade (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011); Anne  A.  Latowsky, Emperor of the World: Charlemagne and the Construction of Imperial Authority, 800–1229 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2013). Now also see the related Humanities in the Research Area (HERA)-funded project “After Empire: Using and Not Using the Past in the Crisis of the Carolingian World, 900–1050,” as well as the project “The Transformation of the Carolingian World: Plurality and its Limits in the Remaking of Europe” based at the Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Vienna.

16  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse back through the teleology of modernity. Let us once again let the tenth and eleventh centuries think they may arrive elsewhere than they did.40 * * * * * This book will not be an exhaustive survey, nor is it intended to be. Instead, it will trace a history of ideas manifested differently across several centuries in Latin Europe. More importantly, the book will think about the choices people made in enacting those ideas and their dependence on specific historic and cultural circumstances. As such, although we will be building towards tenth- and eleventh-­century Europe, we will have to begin much earlier and this book will spend a good deal of time in the fourth through ninth centuries. In doing so, we will see the longer trends that were shaped by human action and decisions that led us to the period around the turn of the first millennium. The first chapter will discuss the role of biblical commentary in late antiquity and the very early European Middle Ages. Rather than being another overview (of which there are several excellent ones) of the birth of exegesis in a Christianizing Mediterranean world, the chapter will focus specifically on the creation of an intellectual structure, how the arc of sacred history came to functionally delimit what was thought possible in this world. As Christianity moved into northern Europe, it brought with it the heavy weight of tradition—­a nostalgia for Rome, for Israel, for imperium, but a nostalgia necessarily adapted to a world that now only held the vestiges of that imperium. Time became locked in what I call an “Augustinian Atemporality,” as the recursive cycle of sacred history continued towards an elusive future but was borne back ceaselessly into the past. Chapter 2 considers how the Franks received, used, then reframed this tradition in response to their own particular concerns in the eighth and (especially) ninth centuries. The explosion of new biblical commentaries in the Frankish world, especially after ca. 800 ce, has been well attested, but what did it mean for the practice of governance, for the formation of new schools, for the establishment and renovation of 40  Kathleen Davis has similarly exhorted us to arrive elsewhere by dispelling notions of periodization. Kathleen Davis, Periodization and Sovereignty: How Ideas of Feudalism and Secularization Govern the Politics of Time (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2008).

Introduction  17 monasteries, for the organization of society, for the relations with external powers? What did it mean for the experience of power, for the everyday experience of events? Monks of the later ninth century took upon themselves the mantle of the prophets. If one followed the pattern of sacred history, after the loss of Jerusalem came the new exile and captivity. Only proper repentance, a return to the proper obedience to God, would restore His favor. Prophecy began to give way to apocalyptic, gave way to reform, to the foreclosure of possibility and the certainty of God’s judgment on his new chosen people. Chapter 3 pivots around the turn of the first millennium. This is the expression of that “reform,” emanating primarily from monasteries but expansive enough in its scope to encompass kings, nobles, and much of the rest of European Christian society. As the new prophets, monks continued their call to repentance, to return the world to how things once were, and they did so by writing, by preaching, by engaging the world around them. History became a form of exegesis. Ninth-­century texts continued to be copied and read and new texts were created to be commentaries on those commentaries, now adapted to a changed world. But then the pattern changed. It seemed that some began to listen to their prophets. They began to embrace repentance and “reform.” Doing so opened up an intellectual space for contingency, for possibility. The ascent, the return to God’s favor had begun. During the eleventh century, the new chosen people began to directly engage those who tormented them: heretics, pagans, Muslims, Jews, all the “enemies of Christ.” The world could be made ready for what was to come by becoming more like what it was. This time perhaps the new chosen people could avoid their fall from God’s favor. This time, maybe this time, it would be different. A brief epilogue, thinking with the twelfth century, brings the book to  its conclusion. Although never shedding the burden of tradition they carried with them, European medievals began to see a world of possibilities before them. The world became, in a sense, new. As such, it  needed new history and new exegesis, new ways to understand the world and God’s plan for it. A new pattern had to be found, a new reading of God’s plan for the world. The vast outpouring of history-­writing that followed the conquest of Jerusalem in 1099 is a part of this, but only a part. This new understanding of the world allowed new exegetical

18  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse forms to blossom, away from the ninth century, away from the Fathers. It allowed artistic patterns to change and architecture to shake free of its tethers and soar towards the heavens. Pushed by the past and pulled by the future, the present seemed a site of unnerving possibility. Those possibilities, the field of action within which medievals operated, were determined by ideas about nostalgia and history, prophecy and apocalypse. And ideas enacted and acted upon are what make the world—­a statement as true for the European Middle Ages as it is for today. Between Prophecy and Apocalypse: The Burden of Sacred Time and the Making of History in Early Medieval Europe. Matthew Gabriele, Oxford University Press. © Matthew Gabriele 2024. DOI: 10.1093/9780199642557.003.0001

1 The Weight of Tradition at the Beginning of the European Middle Ages Early Christians had a problem with time. There seemed to be either too much or too little. The admonition in Matthew that Jesus might return within the lifetime of his audience (Matthew 16: 27–8) alongside the insistence in that same book that man could never know precisely when that return would come (Matthew 24: 36), allowed much room for interpretation; indeed, that apparent paradox seemed to require interpretation and analysis. Had Jesus offered his followers a sense of the movement of sacred history, something just on the horizon, or was He saying that it was perpetually obscured, known not even to the angels but only to the Father Himself? Or was he saying both? Certainly, the answer to those questions was related to the apocalyptic,1 to revelation, to the (re-)intervention of God in the affairs of men. But what kind of intervention would that be? Would God reveal Himself and the contours of His plan on earth only at the moment of the final End—­at the Last Judgment—­or would there be another chapter of sacred history, God working in the world, written before that End? If there was an answer to be found to that last question, of course, it lived within what mankind knew of revelation itself, within the events of the past as narrated by the sacred page. So what was needed were explicators of that revelation, interpreters of those events. In order to understand the message, these new followers of Jesus needed to be sensitive readers who would take the tradition of the Israelites’ relationship to 1  On definitions as they relate to apocalypticism, see now James  T.  Palmer and Matthew Gabriele, “Introduction,” in Apocalypse and Reform from Late Antiquity to the Middle Ages, ed. Matthew Gabriele and James T. Palmer (New York: Routledge, 2018), 1–3.

20  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse God seriously and position their present moment within it. There were plenty of models for this way of thinking, both in the Mediterranean world generally and in scripture specifically. Understanding the movement of sacred history, from Adam to the time of the Apostles, offered not only (importantly) guidelines for the path to salvation but also a map for understanding current events. As Thomas Sizgorich summarized, bringing together a few separate scholarly strands, “any Christianity in any time or place is nothing more or less than an interpretation of certain sacred texts and traditions . . . and any such interpretation takes place in specific historical, cultural, and political circumstances.”2 The first few centuries of the Common Era may not necessarily have been considered to be a time of direct revelation. It was, however, a time when Christianity was struggling to define itself, to adapt to radically different political and cultural contexts after the conversion of the Emperor Constantine. For those Christians, God had clearly been working in the world and so it was a time for understanding. This was therefore a time for hermeneutics, a time for biblical exegesis. This chapter will begin with a brief overview of early Christian biblical exegesis as it moved through antiquity, including its methods and assumptions. We will see how the explication of what was believed to be  God’s word in the Old and New Testaments shaped other types of Christian writings, as well as the fields of action those texts created for the Jesus’ earliest followers. We’ll see how they interacted with the world. Then, in the second part of the chapter: Augustine. I will argue that his synthesis of his predecessors—­how he bore the weight of interpretive tradition—­reshaped the intellectual landscape of Latin West, effectively “pausing” sacred history, effecting a sense of stasis that would only begin to crack 400 years later.

The Long Arm of Exegesis Medieval European biblical commentary and its methods did not emerge in a vacuum, springing fully formed from the Gospels. As many 2  Thomas Sizgorich, Violence and Belief in Late Antiquity: Militant Devotion in Christianity and Islam (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009), 22.

The Weight of Tradition  21 have noted, how early Jesus followers interpreted their texts drew heavily from both Israelite and Hellenistic ways of reading.3 And interpretive strategies were indeed required since, as the Israelites well knew, their sacred texts never pretended to be transparent in their meaning and required some subtlety for their proper interpretation.4 This necessity of analysis was compounded with the story of Jesus, for His coming introduced the problem of reconciling (or at least dealing with) the old and the new, the changes that Jesus said He had brought with him. None of these interpretive points, alongside many others, were resolved easily or quickly, as any student of the tradition can attest. Most surveys of the tradition of Christian biblical exegesis understandably tend to totalize, to (perhaps unwittingly) ossify how scripture was, is, and will be read. Much of that tendency as it relates to antiquity and the European Middle Ages may have to do with the influence on the field by Catholic historians writing in the middle of the twentieth century—­among them Beryl Smalley, Jean Daniélou, and Henri de Lubac.5 By understanding how they viewed the medieval world, we will be better equipped to work through their assumptions and engage directly with our sources. Roman Catholicism in the middle of the twentieth century was on the precipice of a transition, its theology having been in the grip of neo-­ scholasticism (neo-­Thomism) since the late nineteenth century. Neo-­ scholasticism thought itself based upon “timeless” principles, outside of history. This approach had the effect of flattening distinctions among theologians of the late Middle Ages and by extension suggesting a model by which, just as Aquinas had integrated Aristotle into his own theology, 3 For instance see John Whitman, Allegory: The Dynamics of an Ancient and Medieval Technique (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987); as well as the brief summary in Frans van Liere, An Introduction to the Medieval Bible (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 116–17. 4  E.g., the Book of Ezekiel. 5  Their main works are Beryl Smalley, The Study of the Bible in the Middle Ages (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1964); Jean Daniélou, Sacramentum futuri: Études sur les origines de la typologie biblique (Paris: Beauchesne, 1950); and Henri de Lubac, Exégèse médiévale: Les quatre sens de l’Ecriture, 4 vols (Paris: Aubier, 1959–63). Daniélou has been translated as From Shadows to Reality: Studies in the Biblical Typology of the Fathers, tr. Wulstan Hibberd (Westminster, MD: Burns & Oates, 1960); and de Lubac as Medieval Exegesis: The Four Senses of Scripture, tr. Mark Sebanc and E. M. Macierowski, 3 vols (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1998–2009).

22  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse “modern scholastic theologians . . . [could] integrate the data of modern scholarship into their theology.”6 But just after World War II, a reaction begun primarily by French Jesuits based out of Lyons challenged this understanding by emphasizing the need to understand theological discussions within their proper historical context, meaning particularly an escape from the late Middle Ages and early modern period by returning to the Church Fathers. This reaction, spurred in part by the work of medievalist Étienne Gilson, came to be called the Nouvelle Théologie and counted among its members Daniélou and de Lubac, as well as eminent medievalists Yves Congar, Marie-­Dominique Chenu, and Joseph Ratzinger (later Pope Benedict XVI). This Nouvelle Théologie had a lasting effect on Roman Catholicism, as the intellectual movement would eventually shape many of the decrees of the Second Vatican Council (1962–5).7 For Smalley, who converted to Catholicism in Paris in 1929 while doing research on biblical commentaries at the Bibliothèque Nationale, her religion reconciled with her avowed Marxism, a response to the rise of fascism across Europe, inspired by what she saw to be the social justice work of the late medieval religious orders and the sympathy of Andrew of St Victor (d. 1175) for Jewish learning.8 The roots for her scholarship’s filiation with the mainstream Catholic tradition of neo-­ scholasticism thus lay in how her subjects read and understood the Bible, an analysis evinced in her most famous book, The Study of the Bible in the Middle Ages (first published 1941). For Smalley, commentary was caught between a search for literal and spiritual meanings. The former—­the literal—­was “true” exegesis, the product of a supposed school of thought arising out of Antioch in the first few centuries ce. The latter, whose progenitor was Origen (d. ca. 253) and a supposed school of thought out of Alexandria, led the commentator in Smalley’s analysis towards subjectivity. Origen and the Alexandrians were, however, unfortunately in Smalley’s view, most influential on the European 6 Gerald  A.  McCool, From Unity to Pluralism: The Internal Evolution of Thomism (New York: Fordham University Press, 1989), 11. 7 McCool, From Unity to Pluralism; also Jürgen Mettepenningen, Nouvelle Théologie—­New Theology: Inheritor of Modernism, Precursor of Vatican II (London: T&T Clark, 2010). 8 Henrietta Leyser, “Beryl Smalley,” in Medieval Scholarship: Biographical Studies on the Formation of a Discipline, ed. Helen Damico and Joseph B. Zavadil, vol. 1 (New York: Garland, 1995), 314–18.

The Weight of Tradition  23 Middle Ages, at least until the emergence of a new exegesis from the monastery of St Victor in the twelfth century.9 In particular, Andrew of St Victor restored something of an academic basis, akin to source criticism, to the study of the Bible by seeking out Jewish learning and moving back towards a literal understanding of the sacred page. This transition back to the literal, critically, underpinned scholasticism and the work of Thomas Aquinas.10 For her, all roads led “naturally” to Thomism. Jean Daniélou, a Jesuit, cardinal, and student of Henri de Lubac, argued for the importance of the Church Fathers and the continuity of theological tradition (through biblical commentary) against the neo-­ scholasticism/Thomism of the day. We ought not be surprised that Daniélou’s book Sacramentum futuri (1950), disagreed with Smalley’s ideas. Daniélou agreed that the divide in understanding the Bible remained drawn between literal and spiritual readings, but Daniélou contra Smalley argued for the importance of the latter. Specifically, Daniélou focused on typology. Typology, for him, allowed early Christian exegetes to link the Old Testament with the New and demonstrated continuity between the Gospels and Church Fathers. Origen of Alexandria formalized this type of reading with a three-­fold construction of typology, as Christological, mystical, and eschatological.11 This move, Danielou concluded, began the process that freed Christian exegesis from polytheistic allegory and (literally) laid the foundation for all  theology and Church tradition.12 In other words, he thought that Christians learned how to read the Bible through studying the past. This led modern Catholics of his own time to a better understanding of the Church as anchored in the Fathers, which in turn linked back to the Bible. De Lubac, the last of these three to publish their study of the Middle Ages, was like Daniélou also a Jesuit, also a cardinal, but was Daniélou’s teacher. De Lubac’s publications, however, were somewhat delayed by World War II. His theological resistance to the Vichy and the Nazis—­his 9 Smalley, Study of the Bible, 2–14. 10 Smalley, Study of the Bible, 112–95. 11  Though it must be said that Daniélou was not a fan of Origen’s nasty habit of “overlaying the spiritual sense with Philonian allegory and the eschatological sense of Gnostic anagogism.” Daniélou, From Shadows to Reality, 276–86, quotation at 277. 12 Daniélou, From Shadows to Reality, 44–5.

24  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse arguments about the incompatibility of Christianity and Nazism—­led him to help found an underground journal in Lyons titled Cahiers de témoinage Chrétien. De Lubac’s politics and active resistance to the Nazis also meant that several of his friends, such as the Jesuit Yves de Montcheuil, were captured and executed by the Germans, which forced de Lubac to spend the final year of World War II in hiding from the Gestapo. Indeed, part of the core of de Lubac’s resistance to the neo-­ scholastics in the Roman Catholic Church came from his experience in the 1940s, a time when many in the French Church had supported the Vichy collaborationist government.13 In his mammoth four-­volume Exégèse médiévale (1959), de Lubac’s focus was on allegory. Unsurprisingly, de Lubac agreed with many of Daniélou’s conclusions about the importance of the study of Church history in order to understand the foundations upon which, he argued, all theology rested. Moreover, the study of history was the critical foundation for understanding the Bible, as laid out by the Fathers. Although Origen, Jerome (d. 420 ce), Cassian (d. 435), and Augustine (d. 430) seemed to have differed, for example, on the precise number of hermeneutical approaches towards the Bible, de Lubac thought that they all agreed there should be movement in the reader’s analysis, that reading the text involved progression through the various approaches and towards understanding. One began by securely grasping the literal, the historical, the work of God in the world. From there, for Origen and Jerome, came moral lessons, then allegorical ones. For Cassian and Augustine, after the historical came the allegorical, followed by the moral, and finally the eschatological. De Lubac concluded that this last four-­fold way of reading scripture, derived from Origen but improved by other Fathers, set the parameters within which theology—­effectively the same thing as exegesis at that time—­operated for much of the European Middle Ages.14 Scholasticism, beginning in the twelfth century, led Christianity away from its foundations, away from proper humility before God and towards hubris.15 That trend continued into his 13  See David Grumett, De Lubac: A Guide for the Perplexed (London: T&T Clark, 2007), esp. 25–46. 14  De Lubac, Medieval Exegesis, tr. Sebanc, 1: 123–59, and esp. 1: 15–74; de Lubac, Medieval Exegesis, tr. Macierowski, 2: 41–226. 15  De Lubac, Medieval Exegesis, tr. Sebanc, 1: 55–66.

The Weight of Tradition  25 own day. Thus de Lubac was arguing for reform among his ecclesiastical peers, that studying the Church Fathers’ influence on medieval biblical commentary offered the contemporary Roman Catholic Church an alternative, more historically grounded path to understanding God’s plan for the world. It was a return to a Church before the Nazis. One can, I hope, see the lines within which all three scholars were operating, by proxy debating the intellectual trajectory of Roman Catholicism as it confronted the twentieth century. This observation is not, of course, intended to discredit their work, nor to minimize the enormous contributions each has made to our understanding of the place of the Bible in the Latin Christian West. Smalley, Daniélou, and de Lubac were correct in recognizing that exegesis was the foundation for theology for the vast majority of the Middle Ages. Now, no one who studies the Christian West can ignore the place of the Bible in medieval life, as they largely had before Smalley’s book.16 Thanks to their work, we now understand how medievals effectively “spoke Bible,” how the language of the Bible permeated the Christian West to the point that “without being conscious of it, one uses a biblical vocabulary . . . : it evokes, it suggests more than it says, and it consequently lends itself . . . to a signification that is richer and more elevated.”17 Yet, as demonstrated in the Introduction, the context in which these scholars framed their interventions should make us wary of the way we, in turn, frame our questions about the people and texts that Smalley, Daniélou, and de Lubac studied. We must beware not to unconsciously replicate their agendas and thereby distort our picture of the past. Just to take one example, de Lubac’s focus on methodology, his insistence on the coherence of medieval Western exegesis around the four-­fold reading of the Bible, may have been too heavily shaped by the pastoral commitments he held in his own time.18 Late antiquity and the Middle Ages themselves were not nearly that coherent in their 16  See the summary in R. W. Southern, “Beryl Smalley and the Place of the Bible in Medieval Studies, 1927–84,” Studies in Church History Subsidia 4 (1985): 1–16. 17  Jean Leclercq, “Monastic Commentary on Biblical and Ecclesiastical Literature from Late Antiquity to the Twelfth Century,” tr. A. B. Kraebel, The Mediaeval Journal 2 (2012): 31–2. 18  Subtly recognized (approvingly) by Robert Louis Wilken in his “Preface” to the English translation of de Lubac’s Exégèse médiévale. “DeLubac [sic] is not writing history. His is a treatise on how the Bible is to be interpreted today.” De Lubac, Medieval Exegesis, tr. Sebanc, 1: xii.

26  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse methodologies. Frances Young has argued that in reality to even speak of “methods” of exegesis in late antiquity is a modern conceit. The way biblical commentary was done was indeed about extracting meaning but not about the rigid mechanics of how it was done. Ways of analysis interwove subtly; “literal” and “allegorical,” the poles of the historiography, should be seen as points on a spectrum, rather than hard and fast distinctions.19 The goal of exegesis from late antiquity through the Middle Ages was that word that has become the bogeyman of some modern historians—­ relevance. Succinctly put, “medieval exegesis worked well because . . . specific interpretations were local . . . [and] made appropriate for the occasion and relevant for the particular audience.” This was because the primary concern of exegesis was “exemplary force,” the ability to ensure that the particular audience in question understood God’s plan as elucidated in scripture.20 In the third century, the exegesis of Origen, the figure to whom Daniélou and de Lubac so consistently returned, for example framed a theory of politics that would color the next thousand years of relations between empire and papacy. The New Testament superseded the Old. The spirit superseded the letter. The Church superseded the secular power. The latter in all those dyads remained true and important but the former was the more real. And at a more meta level, Origen’s intervention was even more significant than might first be imagined. Yes, as Gerard Caspary so powerfully illuminated, Origen’s exegesis of Gethsemane and the two swords was about empire and papacy, but Origen was also explaining how astute hermeneutics revealed God’s plan for the world writ large.21 In other words, we must not forget that, ultimately, early Christians believed that spiritual meaning revealed through exegesis demonstrated how Christians were to live here on Earth. Elizabeth Clark has compellingly demonstrated how this worked in relation to the early desert ascetics, the forerunners of monasticism. 19 Frances M. Young, Biblical Exegesis and the Formation of Christian Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), esp. chapters 6 and 9. 20  Richard K. Emmerson, “Figura and the Medieval Typological Imagination,” in Typology and English Medieval Literature, ed. Hugh  T.  Keenan (New York: AMS Press, 1992), 16–29, quotation at 16. 21 Gerard Caspary, Politics and Exegesis: Origen and the Two Swords (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1979).

The Weight of Tradition  27 As  she writes, the traditional categories modern historians (deriving from de Lubac) have delimited for biblical exegesis—­literal, allegorical, tropological, anagogical—­would have made little sense to her subjects, as all modes of reading the Bible in the fourth century seem to have been derived from the same Platonic ideals. Thus, boundaries blurred quite easily because the primary goal of her readers remained “listening across a historical gulf,” bringing the times of the Israelites and Apostles into her subjects’ fourth century, into the lived experiences of her readers of the Bible.22 Origen was formative in this development, a step towards Jerome’s forceful assertion of the orthodoxy of this approach.23 Evagrius Ponticus (d. 399 ce), for instance, used Origen to help himself better understand the work of demons in the world. This was not some abstract, academic exercise for him. Ascetics needed to know how to alter their lifestyle in this world to better fight those demons, who were both real and present around them.24 More generally, Antony (d. 356), Athanasius of Alexandria (d. 373), Pachomius (d. 348) and his followers, and Shenoute (d. ca. 456) all used the Bible as a map for their ascetic confrontation with demons. This could range from the recitation of biblical passages as totemic wards against evil to analyses of the animals of the Bible as guides to how demons tormented the faithful.25 As John Cassian (d. 435) explained in  his ca. 415 ce Conferences, the exegete’s goal was always to inspire imitation in his audience, allowing the monk (meaning specifically, in his case, the novice monk) to embody scripture in his own life. In other words, this mode of reading allowed the monk to bring the scripture into his own day. This mode of reading allowed scripture to become the monk’s own experience—­a guide for the monk on how to be an ascetic.26

22 Elizabeth A. Clark, Reading Renunciation: Asceticism and Scripture in Early Christianity (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1999), 70–3, 104ff., quotation at 86. 23 Clark, Reading Renunciation, 153–4. 24  David Brakke, Demons and the Making of the Monk: Spiritual Combat in Early Christianity (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2006), 52–77. 25 Brakke, Demons and the Making of the Monk, 92, 31, 107. 26 Christopher  J.  Kelly, Cassian’s Conferences: Scriptural Interpretation and the Monastic Ideal (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2012), 16, 88; and Duncan Ferguson, Lectio Divina: The Medieval Experience of Reading (Collegeville, MN: Cistercian Publications, 2011), 85–6.

28  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse

Jerome Turns his Back on the Future The vector by which this thinking was transmitted to the West ought to  be assigned to Jerome (d. 420 ce). As others have demonstrated, Jerome’s authority in Rome, in Palestine, and to posterity stemmed largely from his biblical interpretation—­an affectation that permeated both his commentaries as well as his letters. Indeed, maintaining his status as exegete par excellence may have driven much of what he produced and when he produced it. Deeply influenced by Origen’s exegesis as well as Hellenistic tradition, Jerome’s approach to commentary (and scripture generally) might best be characterized as a search for auctoritas, a conscious self-­ positioning that established him (so he successfully claimed) as an expert on the biblical text itself, on grammar and the Hebrew/Greek original.27 In effect, this grammatical and textual work allowed Jerome to play off Origen’s contemporary intellectual popularity but also push beyond him by doing something even Origen had not done, thus positioning Jerome as supplanting not only Origen but Paul (!) as an “arbiter of textual truth.” Jerome’s move to Palestine, home of so many desert monks, further supplemented his bona fides. Then, he reminded his readers of this connection through his consistent metaphors linking reading with eating/fasting/self-­ mortification and so established exegesis as its own form of asceticism, a proper enterprise for monks to engage in.28 Indeed, he says so directly in a letter to Augustine, wherein Jerome defends exegesis as right and proper to monks, who are humble before authorities—­be they bishops like Augustine, or their predecessors in the exegetical tradition.29 All of these threads perhaps come together most clearly in Jerome’s commentaries on the prophets. Commentaries on texts had, in Hellenistic tradition, generally been distinct from the original text itself. They 27  Andrew Cain, The Letters of Jerome: Asceticism, Biblical Exegesis, and the Construction of Christian Authority in Late Antiquity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 42–53, 59–60, 169–79. On auctoritas and texts, see Mary Carruthers, The Book of Memory: A Study of Memory in Medieval Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 189–220. 28  Megan Hale Williams, The Monk and the Book: Jerome and the Making of Christian Scholarship (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006), 55, 77. 29 Jerome, “Epistola 112,” in Epistulae, ed. Isidorus Hilberg, vol. 55, CSEL (Vienna: F. Tempsky, 1912), 372; and the comments of Williams, Monk and the Book, 199.

The Weight of Tradition  29 circulated separately from one another. This was particularly true of grammatical treatises. Commentaries presupposed that the reader would know the original text and so those commentaries would move slowly, line-­by-­line, even sometimes down to brief phrases or individual words. Thus, each comment could be read independently of others surrounding it, allowing pericopes to be picked up, moved, and redeployed by later readers.30 What this meant for Jerome was that it allowed him to follow Origen’s dyadic approach methodically, evaluating biblical verses—­or just portions of those verses—­for their literal meaning before moving on to their spiritual meaning. And as with Origen, the spiritual always superseded the literal and always brought the reader into his own fourth-­century Mediterranean world.31 For example, in Jerome’s commentary on Isaiah, he read the verse 11: 10 against historical fulfillment, against what might seem at first glance to be a connection to the crucifixion. The verse reads: “In that day the root of Jesse will stand as a sign of the people; [someone] the peoples will seek, and his sepulcher will be glorious.”32 Jerome returns to that verse several times throughout his commentary but in each case almost exclusively focused on the first two-­thirds of the verse, on the root of Jesse and its manifestation as a sign for the people. He rarely mentioned the “glorious sepulcher.” Doing so empowered Jerome to take the verse as a spiritual metaphor for the early Church and the promise of eternal life for the individual—­how the sepulcher (death) is overthrown by Jesus’ coming. Had Jerome read it literally, even if just to move through it on the way to his intended spiritual reading, he would have had to confront not only Jesus’ crucifixion and resurrection but more importantly the messianism of Isaiah, a mode that could lead to apocalyptic expectation and anti-­Roman sentiment.33 And Jerome did not want to do that. 30 Williams, Monk and the Book, 104–6. See also n. 2 above. This grammatical approach will be one critically important in the ninth century, as discussed in Chapter 2, below. 31 Williams, Monk and the Book, 114–17. 32 Latin: in die illa radix Iesse qui stat in signum populorum ipsum gentes deprecabuntur et erit sepulchrum eius gloriosum. 33  Jerome also mentions the verse Isa. 11: 10 when discussing Isa. 49: 22–3, Isa. 53: 12, and Isa. 66: 7–9. See Jerome, Commentariorum in Esaiam, ed. Marci Adriaen, CCSL 73-­73A (Turnhout: Brepols, 1963), 153, 545, 597, 777. See also the trenchant observations in Elisabeth Mégier, “Christian Historical Fulfillments of Old Testament Prophecies in Latin Commentaries on the Book of Isaiah (ca. 400 to ca. 1150),” Journal of Medieval Latin 17 (2007): 89–90; and for

30  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse In his commentary on Ezekiel, the urgency that could potentially be felt in the pericope of verse 13: 5, an exhortation to defend Israel in battle on the day of the Lord (non ascendistis ex adverso neque opposuistis murum pro domo Israhel ut staretis in proelio in die Domini), is effaced. The verse was not a call to arms for Jerome. It did not look forwards but rather backwards. It did not signal the coming cosmic war but rather simply functioned as an anodyne reminder for the shepherds of the Christian flock (priests) to be watchful against heresy, just as Aaron had done for the Israelites.34 Jerome’s exegesis of Daniel 14, a section known as “Bel and the Dragon,” doesn’t even mention the monster at all and thereby foregoes any potential connection with the dragon of Revelation. Indeed, Jerome’s commentary on the forty-­two verses of Daniel 14 consist of only two sentences.35 Put simply, spiritual over literal enabled Jerome to escape the future. The ultimate goal of Jerome’s exegesis seems to have been renunciation of the world, intellectualizing the asceticism of the desert monks who preceded and inspired him by placing reading/exegesis at the center of their spiritual activity. But using the Christian sacred texts as models for contemporary action in the world empowered others to do the same in different venues. And sometimes, exegesis led to violence. Oftentimes the genesis of this violence can be linked to clarifying boundaries between communities, particularly at moments when the lines between them seemed too porous, too indistinct.36 In those moments of intellectual insecurity, the Bible provided a template for action. Natalie Zemon Davis’s foundational article “The Rites of Violence” demonstrated how this might work by studying the context of later medieval uses of Isa. 11: 10, Matthew Gabriele, “From Prophecy to Apocalypse: The Verb Tenses of Jerusalem in Robert the Monk’s Historia of the First Crusade,” Journal of Medieval History 42 (2016): 304–16. 34 Jerome, Commentariorum in Hiezechielem Libri XIV, ed. Francisco Glorie, CCSL 75 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1964), 138. For more on that verse and its exegetical legacy, see Matthew Gabriele, “This Time. Maybe This Time. Biblical Commentary, Monastic Historiography, and Lost Cause-­ism at the Turn of the First Millennium,” in Apocalypse and Reform from Late Antiquity to the Middle Ages, ed. Matthew Gabriele and James T. Palmer (New York: Routledge, 2018), 183–203. 35 Jerome, Commentariorum in Danielem Libri III, ed. Francisco Glorie, CCSL 75A (Turnhout, 1964), 945. 36  Theorized so well for the European Middle Ages in David Nirenberg, Communities of Violence: Persecution of Minorities in the Middle Ages (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996); also for the period under discussion Sizgorich, Violence and Belief, 4–11.

The Weight of Tradition  31 sixteenth-­century France, how Catholic and Huguenot alike derived their actions from a heady mix that counted the Bible as an important component in framing their fields of (possible) action.37 Similarly, the tension between communities, the need for divine guidance, was felt to have been particularly acute in the fourth and fifth centuries ce, as Christians adapted to a new reality in which they had to rethink their relationship to Rome after Constantine’s conversion. The Vita Constantini of Eusebius of Caesarea (d. 339 ce) strove to justify the new world in which he seemed to live, a moment when cosmic peace seemed on the cusp of finally aligning with earthly peace, when Rome had become Christian. To do so, Eusebius wreathed the emperor Constantine I (d. 337 ce) with imagery taken from models pulled from the Hebrew Bible, particularly Moses as liberator of his people—­from Constantine’s upbringing in the “home of the tyrants” in chapter 12 to Constantine’s victorious entry into Rome in chapter 39. But at the same time, Eusebius was quite comfortable with Constantine acting every bit as a typical Roman emperor, one who had to subdue tyrants by violence in order to achieve that peace.38 This elision would have likely been largely unpalatable even just a generation before. As some of the many early Christianities elided with Rome, others resisted. Ascetics were the front lines of this conflict, even this early being seen as protectors of a “pure” Christianity that directly linked back to the martyrs and through them back to Jesus Himself. Their self-­mortification 37  Natalie Zemon Davis, “The Rites of Violence,” in Society and Culture in Early Modern France (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1975), 178. Similarly in the early modern world, Jesuit missions to Mexico should perhaps be seen as (literal) lived exegesis, with the Jesuits oftentimes consciously attempting to recreate the actions of the Apostles and early Christian martyrs from more than 1,000 years before. See Daniel T. Reff, Plagues, Priests, and Demons: Sacred Narratives and the Rise of Christianity in the Old World and the New (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 122–236. 38 George  E.  Demacopoulos, “The Eusebian Valorization of Violence and Constantine’s Wars for God,” in Constantine: Religious Faith and Imperial Policy, ed. A.  Edward Siecienski (New York: Routledge, 2017), 118–20; and esp. Averil Cameron, “Eusebius’ Vita Constantini and the Construction of Constantine,” in Portraits: Biographical Representation in the Greek and Latin Literature of the Roman Empire, ed. M.  J.  Edwards and Simon Swain (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997), 145–74. But note that these comparisons of emperors with biblical figures were almost entirely absent from historical writings of the period. See Claudia Rapp, “Old Testament Models for Emperors in Early Byzantium,” in The Old Testament in Byzantium, ed. Paul Magdalino and Robert Nelson, Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2010), 183–7.

32  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse was a way of flattening the space between past and present, of linking times through narratives, through texts. Their suffering called to mind the models of suffering that their predecessors had endured.39 But actions against the flesh were directed externally (away from the community, against polytheists and so-­called “heretical” Christians) as well as internally. In other words, the conflict waged among and against these various early Christianities was a rhetorical battle as much as a physical one, a battle over what sacred space was, over what was meant by religio, etc. The participants fired textual salvos, but often landed very real blows to the body.40 In every case, their actions were guided by models from the past, oftentimes lifted from the Bible. For instance, Michael Gaddis has argued that when the desert monks thundered down denunciations on perceived heretics and the impious, when they violently attacked those groups across North Africa, they were effectively enacting an exegesis of the Book of Kings, specifically related to Elijah, by aping that prophet's zeal for God in the massacre of the priests of Ba’al.41 Their spiritual reading of the Bible in this case led them to see the re-­enactment of biblical history around them and offered them a role to play in that drama. Roman emperors after their conversion to Christianity in the early fourth century found the ascetics’ approach to text and action both congenial and problematic related to their own ends. The fourth- and fifth-­ century imperial alliance with the bishops in order to police imperium and the ecclesia has been well-­documented, so too the alliance of bishops with ascetics within and around individual communities across the Mediterranean. These two relationships in tandem could effectively expand the emperor’s reach into the hinterlands of the empire. Yet, at the same time, the models to which bishops and monks looked to 39  R. A. Markus, “How on Earth Could Places Become Holy? Origins of the Christian Idea of Holy Places,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 2 (1994): 257–71; Elizabeth  A.  Castelli, Martyrdom and Memory: Early Christian Culture Making (New York: Columbia University Press, 2004); Sizgorich, Violence and Belief, 111–24. 40  Michael Gaddis, There is No Crime for Those Who have Christ: Religious Violence in the Christian Roman Empire (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2005), 190, 212–13. 41 Gaddis, There is No Crime, 183–6; also generally Brent D. Shaw, Sacred Violence: African Christians and Sectarian Hatred in the Age of Augustine (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011). But also see the critique of these approaches in Ellen Muehlberger, Moment of Reckoning: Imagined Death and its Consequences in Late Ancient Christianity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019), esp. 185–92.

The Weight of Tradition  33 understand rulership, the kings of the Christian Old Testament, had just as many tyrants as righteous rulers. The language of martyrdom and persecution could be—­ and was—­ redeployed against the Christian emperor himself, a man who could be presented as one transformed from the righteous Josiah into something more akin to the evil Ahab.42 Categories and alliances were thus deeply unstable. Emperors were good, or they were bad. Bishops liked ascetics, or they didn’t. Ascetics engaged both, or they refused. Yet, they all looked to the biblical past for justification and legitimacy. In that way, one could justifiably say that Jerome distilled and positioned the intellectual frame within which late antique Christians operated. That frame determined that exegesis was about the past and present, about reanimating a lost then. But what of the future? Jerome was not particularly interested, or if he was, he didn’t seem to think that the future could be discerned via exegesis.43 Yet, his attempt to foreclose discussion about what was to come—­to delimit the purview of exegesis as contained within the present but not necessarily the future—­was not entirely successful. Much recent scholarship, encapsulated by the marvelous recent book by James T. Palmer, has shown that thinking about the future (not necessarily the same as thinking about the End) permeated late antiquity and the early Middle Ages.44 As the late antique Mediterranean worked to come to some sort of understanding about the proper relationship between Christianity and Rome, a good deal of mental energy was expended in charting that relationship among past, present, and future. One of the most important sources for doing this, for integrating the future into Christian history was the so-­called legend of the Christian “Last Emperor.”45 The first iteration of this legend comes from an author called Pseudo-­Methodius. The history of this text, originally composed 42 See esp. Richard Flower, Emperors and Bishops in Late Roman Invective (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 78–126; Gaddis, There is No Crime, 101–2; Rapp, “Old Testament,” 187–8. 43  See above, nn. 30–5. 44 James  T.  Palmer, The Apocalypse in the Early Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), esp. 1–24. 45  I will continue to use this phrase for the legend, but note the problems modern historians need to confront if they continue to use the title of “emperor” here. See Matthew Gabriele, An Empire of Memory: The Legend of Charlemagne, the Franks, and Jerusalem before the First Crusade (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 107–8.

34  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse in Syriac in the seventh century, but quickly translated into Greek, then into Latin by the early eighth century, need not be rehearsed again here.46 It is, however, worth considering the Greek and Roman versions of Pseudo-­Methodius briefly and in their entirety, rather than just the part of the work focusing on the future. We must make ourselves aware that the text functions organically as a true universal history of the enemies of God.47 Pseudo-­Methodius opens with Adam and Eve’s exile from Paradise and closes the circle with the destruction of the son of perdition and Jesus’ return to Earth. In between, the Greek version of Pseudo-­ Methodius’s Apocalypse goes systematically through biblical history, a historical exegesis composed of fragments, pulled together to illustrate the continuity of tribulations faced by God’s people. From Adam, the text moves to Cain, to the founding of Babylon, to the sons of Ham and of Ishmael, to Alexander the Great who locked up the unclean peoples, to the founding of Byzantium, and to the greatness of Rome. These are the first ten chapters. The last four ostensibly look forward, pinpointing the moments when prophecy will be fulfilled to the chastisement of Rome and its Christians, even unto the arrival and reign of the son of perdition, with a brief interlude before the End led by the so-­called “Last Emperor.”48 This ruler, a king of the Romans, in a way resolved a still-­lingering tension about the proper role of Rome in sacred history. Even here, 46  See now, e.g., Christopher Bonura, “When did the Legend of the Last Emperor Originate? A New Look at the Textual Relationship between the Apocalypse of Pseudo-­Methodius and the Tiburtine Sibyl,” Viator 47 (2016): 47–100; Palmer, Apocalypse in the Early Middle Ages, 107–29; and still the foundational work of Paul J. Alexander, “Byzantium and the Migration of Literary Works and Motifs: The Legend of the Last Roman Emperor,” in Religious and Political History and Thought in the Byzantine Empire (London: Ashgate, 1978), 47–68a; and Alexander, “The Medieval Legend of the Last Roman Emperor and its Messianic Origin,” Journal of Warburg and Courtald Institutes 41 (1978): 1–15. An accessible edition and translation of the Greek and Latin versions is available at Pseudo-­Methodius, Die Apokalypse des Pseudo-­ Methodius: Die ältesten Grieschen und Lateinischen Übersetzungen, ed. W.  J.  Aerts and G.  A.  A.  Kortekaas, 2 vols (Leuven: Peeters, 1998); and translated in Pseudo-­Methodius, Apocalypse, tr. Benjamin Garstad, Dumbarton Oaks Medieval Library (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2012). 47  “An accurate relation of our holy father Methodius . . . concerning the kingdom of the heathen nations and an exact demonstration of the End Times.” Pseudo-­Methodius, Apocalypse, tr. Garstad, 3 (Greek), 79 (Latin). 48  The “Last Emperor” discussion appears at Pseudo-­Methodius, Apocalypse, tr. Garstad, 57–65 (Greek), 127–35 (Latin).

The Weight of Tradition  35 Rome is both “bad” and “good”—the greatest pagan empire but also the instrument of God, tasked with destroying the Hebrews, Ethiopians, and Persians, a final bulwark against the sons of Ishmael, and the reservoir from which the “Last Emperor” will spring to prepare the world for its final End.49 In this way, Pseudo-­Methodius’s understanding of Rome, in itself, was an act of exegesis—­a way of reading the Book of Daniel (and Revelation) spiritually and Rome historically, so that Pseudo-­ Methodius’s text could better align with the political realities of the seventh century and confront the seemingly existential threat of the newly unified peoples of the Arabian peninsula.50 What Pseudo-­ Methodius was doing specifically and what apocalypses—­moments of revelation—­provide generally, are narrative closure for their audience by offering a “focusing lens for the present,” a way of understanding the past to intellectually construct a coherent narrative so that past, present, and future align. Pseudo-­Methodius, and especially the “Last Emperor” legend, offered a way to explain that connection and situate the author’s own seventh century within an unfolding telos. What will be is connected to, and depends upon, what is and what was. All points in that timeline are teleological, being determined by God alone. Yet the path to that future has yet to be charted by man, creating a crisis of possibility.51 Pseudo-­Methodius, like other texts of its type, never offered a yellow brick road of events leading clearly towards a foreordained future. The past was clear, and so was the future. What was fuzzy was how one got from the former to the latter. Early Christian commentaries on the Book of Revelation struggled mightily with this tension. That book, or at least the foretold End the book illustrated, loomed at the horizons of the late antique Christian imagination. The book was truth, impassable and immutable once it became canon. But it was also awesome. It contained a cavalcade of 49  Pseudo-­Methodius, Apocalypse, tr. Garstad, 33–7 (Greek), 105–9 (Latin). 50  Josef Adamek, Vom Römischen Endreich der Mittelalterlichen Bibelerklärung (Würzburg: K. Triltsch, 1938), 32–3, 60–1; also now the summary in Palmer, Apocalypse in the Early Middle Ages, 110–14. 51  Cathy Gutierrez, “The Millennium and Narrative Closure,” in War in Heaven/Heaven on Earth: Theories of the Apocalyptic, ed. Stephen  D.  O’Leary and Glenn  S.  McGhee (London: Equinox, 2005), 47–52; John R. Hall, Apocalypse: From Antiquity to the Empire of Modernity (Cambridge: Polity, 2009), 3–4, 41.

36  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse strange images and textual allusions that needed explication. The opening of the Seven Seals (Revelation 5–8), for example, might seem to be a rather straightforward (if colorful) description of the tribulations to be poured out upon the Earth at the End. War, famine, pestilence, earthquakes, stars falling from the sky, etc. But early commentators, including Victorinus of Pettau (d. ca. 304), who deeply influenced Jerome, and Tyconius (active ca. 380 ce), who shaped the thought of Augustine, all worked hard in their commentaries to escape reading these signs literally into the future. In doing so, they downplayed a particular mode of spiritual exegesis. They all seemed to think that the opening of the seals should be read historically, as descriptions of past tribulations that led to their own fourth-­century Christian community. Only the last two Seals hinted at the future and then only in part. In other words, their exegesis of Revelation demonstrated the process of recapitulation in sacred ­history.52 Things happened again. The future illuminated the past, but only because the past illuminated the present. Notice here the seemingly parallel narrative and interpretive structure with Pseudo-­Methodius. That was almost certainly intentional. This is how apocalypses worked. The Book of Revelation might widely be understood today as a text about the future but not necessarily so to late antique exegetes. It was as much a history as an apocalypse, but importantly both all in one. Ten chapters (five seals) detail the past, four chapters (two seals) the future—­the percentages divided between the two chronological moments in both Revelation and Pseudo-­Methodius are the same. Gog and Magog torment the Earth, are defeated, then return, then are defeated again. Evil rulers led their armies against the Israelites and Antichrist would come at the end to do it again. Godly men would rise up against them all until their last avatar, the “Last Emperor,” did so a final time. Recursion. Recapitulation. Cycles repeating in substance if not specifics, from the beginning until the final End but never clarity on how or when the final cycle would arrive.

52  E.  Ann Matter, “The Apocalypse in Early Medieval Exegesis,” in The Apocalypse in the Middle Ages, ed. Richard K. Emmerson and McGinn Bernard (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 38–45; and Douglas  W.  Lumsden, And Then the End will Come: Early Latin Christian Interpretations of the Opening of the Seven Seals (New York: Routledge, 2001), 15–29.

The Weight of Tradition  37

Augustinian Atemporality What more can be said about Augustine? His presence in studies such as these is as inevitable as the tides, a gate that must be passed as one moves from late antiquity to the European Middle Ages. Part of that ubiquity, however, may be due to his multiplicity. As scholars now speak of multiple Christianities across the ancient Mediterranean, perhaps we ought also to speak of multiple Augustines. To frame the statement in this way is simply to say that he was read and cited (though perhaps more cited than read) throughout the European Middle Ages and, of course, beyond.53 But because he wrote so prolifically, oftentimes reacting in letters and longer works to some particular stimulus, and also wrote at different points of his life, his ideas developed and responded to historical circumstance. His ideas changed over time. To state this perhaps rather obvious point is not to diminish his intellect or to minimize the man’s influence both on his contemporaries and those who followed him, but rather to acknowledge the situatedness (and prodigiousness) of his textual production. He wrote in a certain time and place and bore the weight of the intellectual traditions that came before. He was a Roman and a Christian, a rhetorician and a bishop. He sat for a time near the seat of power in the Roman West and then watched it from the margins. Then, on top of all that he was read, copied, intellectually reframed, and deployed in totally different historical circumstances. He was large, and contained multitudes. So, let us consider one of these many Augustines, specifically the Augustine who thought about the future. This Augustine is related to—­ but not the same as—­the one who concerned himself with apocalyptic expectation.54 And the bishop of Hippo did indeed think about the final 53  See now the comments on Augustine in Graeme Ward, History, Scripture and Authority in the Carolingian Empire: Frechulf of Lisieux (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2022), 26–7. 54  The anti-­apocalyptic Augustine is well-­known in the scholarship as a foil to the idea of widespread apocalyptic expectation in the Middle Ages, particularly related to the so-­called “Terrors of the Year 1000.” That characterization, however, is not entirely fair. The literature is far too vast to list here but for the modern debate, see esp. Richard Landes, “Lest the Millennium be Fulfilled: Apocalyptic Expectations and the Pattern of Western Chronography 100–800 ce,” in The Use and Abuse of Eschatology in the Middle Ages, ed. Werner Verbeke, Daniel Verhelst, and Andries Welkenhuysen (Louvain-­la-­Neuve: Leuven University Press, 1988),

38  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse and coming End—­a salient concern for contemporary observers of the late fourth- and early fifth-­century Roman world, particularly after the sack of Rome in 410 ce. That said, we ought be conscious of our own preconceptions; Augustine never directly connected that event either with the signs enumerated in the Book of Revelation or with the coming Final End more generally, even if the event did understandably redirect Augustine’s thinking in a way that would be most clearly manifested in his City of God.55 Rejecting specific predictivity about the date when God’s will would finally become manifest to earthly men, Augustine created an apocalypse that was both far and near, as distant event and close personal experience, as a longing for a lost world that would someday return again—­in a sense, a nostalgia for the future.56 This, I think, is a bit different than Victorinus’s and Tyconius’s ­conception of recapitulation in sacred history. And subtlety here is important. Augustine was, as noted above, certainly influenced by these authors’ understanding of biblical prophecy but not by them alone. As Frances Young so succinctly put it, Augustine was a (but not, of course, the) logical conclusion to the variety of strands of interpreting scripture in late antiquity. He was part of a tradition formed by hermeneutics, shaped by exegesis. He offered a totalizing discourse that, through exegesis, explained all of sacred history.57 Most importantly for him, however, was that this discourse explained Augustine’s own present. Exegesis was particularly important in his own day, Augustine thought, because it was virtually the only available path to any possibility of spiritual development. There was very little chance of direct divine

137–211; Johannes Fried, “Endzeiterwartung und die Jahrtausendwende,” Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters 45 (1989): 381–473; Sylvain Gouguenheim, Les fausses terreurs de l’an Mil (Paris: Picard, 1999); Palmer, Apocalypse in the Early Middle Ages, espe. 25–54; and Chapter 3, below. 55  J. Kevin Coyle, “Augustine and Apocalyptic: Thoughts on the Fall of Rome, the Book of Revelation, and the End of the World,” in Augustine and Apocalyptic, ed. John Doody, Kari Kloos, and Kim Paffenroth (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2014), 38–41; and R. A. Markus, Saeculum: History and Society in the Theology of St. Augustine (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1970), 32–3. 56 Richard Corradini, “Augustine’s Eschaton: Back to the Future,” in Abendländische Apokalyptik: Kompendium Zur Genealogie Der Endzeit, ed. Veronika Wieser et al. (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2013), 710–13. 57 Young, Biblical Exegesis, 284.

The Weight of Tradition  39 illumination anymore. For him, the age of prophecy was over.58 And the fact that the age of prophecy was over meant that, in a way not dissimilar from how Natalie Zemon Davis discussed her early modern subjects, Christians ought look to the Bible, with guidelines for action in the world ca. 400 ce to be found in proper hermeneutics.59 For example, and as has been extensively analyzed, biblical interpretation provided the framework for how he thought Christians should deal with heretics and Jews in his contemporary Mediterranean.60 Although it has been suggested that Augustine’s exhortations against the Jews in particular were rooted in a distinctly elite discourse that was intended to ameliorate actual physical violence, there remains the fact that violence against the Jews was still carried out and Augustine provided, at least in part, an intellectual justification for those actions.61 Although it is perhaps hard to tell if this move towards violence against the Jews of fourth-­century North Africa was intentional, Augustine’s repeated use of the present tense in his sermons and longer works is suggestive. Just to take one example, in the City of God Augustine explains to his fellow Christians, “just as we say to the Jews, ‘You slew Christ’, though it was their forebears who did so, so the Jews of that time will grieve because . . . they did what their forefathers did.” In other words, the Jews of the fourth century carried the guilt of their forefathers’ actions and, in fact, continued to harm Jesus by their very existence.62 As David Nirenberg has demonstrated, this intellectual architecture provided by Augustine had deep, persistent ramifications for Jewish–Christian relations through to the end of the Middle Ages. These ideas inspired violence.63 58  “Prophecy” meaning, importantly, divinely inspired speech—­not necessarily a prediction of the future. See Hall, Apocalypse, 2. See also Duncan Ferguson, Lectio Divina: The Medieval Experience of Reading (Collegeville, MN: Cistercian Publications, 2011), 52–5; and esp. R.  A.  Markus, Saeculum: History and Society in the Theology of St. Augustine (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1970), 12–44. 59  See above at n. 37. 60 Gaddis, There is No Crime, 132. 61  But in defense of Augustine, see Paula Fredriksen, Augustine and the Jews: A Christian Defense of Jews and Judaism (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2008); Shaw, Sacred Violence, 269–71. 62 Augustine, De Civitate Dei libri xxii, ed. B.  Dombart, A.  Kalb, CCSL 47–8 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1955), 20.30. Translation from Augustine, The City of God against the Pagans, ed. and tr. R. W. Dyson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 1040. See also Shaw, Sacred Violence, 283–4; and more generally on the importance of verb tenses and exegesis Gabriele, “From Prophecy to Apocalypse,” 304–16. 63 Nirenberg, Communities of Violence, esp. 200–30.

40  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse Augustinian Atemporality

Creation

The End

Figure 1.1  The Augustinian Atemporality, created by Rachel Gabriele (CC BY-­NC-­SA 4.0)

The present tense is also important here for another, larger reason, because it leads us to what might best be called the “Augustinian Atemporality” (Figure 1.1). Before we return to Augustine though, we must consider how that elision—­speaking of the past in the present tense—­developed. Generally speaking, after the destruction of the Temple in 70 ce, the Abrahamic monotheists of Roman Palestine were unsure of what came next. Untethered from Israel, many in exile from Jerusalem, God seemed to have departed from history and would only return at the final End. The present, in other words, was stasis, a (nearly) perpetual standstill in the movement of sacred history.64 One might see how that appearance of stasis continued into late antiquity and the European Middle Ages by looking at sacred geography. Latin Christian pilgrims to the Holy Land well into the eleventh century walked not so much through living communities as “through the pages of the Old and New Testaments.” Sites connected backwards in time, allowing the visitor/pilgrim to experience the events of sacred history anew. The implication, however, was of course that there was little of value to engage in the pilgrim’s own present.65 But Christians of the second and third centuries did not think

64  Rudolph Bultmann, Primitive Christianity in its Contemporary Setting, tr. R.  H.  Fuller (New York: Meridian, 1956), 60. 65 Gabriele, Empire of Memory, 84–6, esp. n. 50 on the absence of the future in Latin pilgrim narratives. See also generally Robert L. Wilken, The Land Called Holy: Palestine in Christian History and Thought (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1992). Sacred history would “restart” in the twelfth century, in part because of the conquest of Jerusalem in 1099 ce. See below, Epilogue; also the excellent Jay Rubenstein, Nebuchadnezzar’s Dream: The Crusades, Apocalyptic Prophecy, and the End of History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019).

The Weight of Tradition  41 themselves time travelers. Time had not actually stopped, even if it had conceptually paused. Instead, the distinction being made was between two types of time that sometimes converged and sometimes diverged but whose distinct movements did not necessarily impact the other. The relationship here described might conjure in our minds the ­liturgy, in the ways it commemoratively pulled the present back into the past, as well as how it worked cyclically and recursively from season to season, year to year. The passage of history here described might also conjure in our minds typology, spiritual readings of the Bible, and how the past was conjured into the present. And liturgy and exegesis were of course connected, interweaving to create a reading of sacred history that helped explain a particularly contested present, telling the author and reader how, as well as why, they got to where they were.66 Thus, revealed events within sacred history—­those described in scripture, whether past or future—­replayed themselves, were re-­enacted in the author’s/celebrant’s own present. In general, as communities construct narratives for themselves, “members of those communities will interpret contemporary events as further episodes within those narratives. Recast as episode, these events accordingly accrue meaning within the plot of the narratives in question.” But those narratives oftentimes have predetermined outcomes. For early Christians, that narrative of sacred history was bookended from the beginning by Creation and the Last Judgment, but then subsequently altered by the coming of Jesus, which revealed more clarity about the meaning and ultimate course of events. Thus, their ultimate exemplars were the Apostles, who pulled Christians after the fourth century through the martyrs back to themselves, and then ultimately back to Jesus.67 66  Margot Fassler, “The Liturgical Framework of Time and the Representation of History,” in Representing History, 900–1300: Art, Music, History, ed. Robert A. Maxwell (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2010), 149–71; and Susan Boynton, “The Bible and the Liturgy,” in The Practice of the Bible in the Middle Ages: Production, Reception, and Performance in Western Christianity, ed. Susan Boynton and Diane J. Reilly (New York: Columbia University Press, 2011), 10–33. 67 Quotation from Sizgorich, Violence and Belief, 49, also 71–5. See also Gutierrez, “Millennium and Narrative Closure,” 50–1. The idea of imitatio apostolorum is thoroughly analyzed in Candida R. Moss, The Other Christs: Imitating Jesus in Ancient Christian Ideologies of Martyrdom (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010).

42  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse Augustine rejected much of what I just described. Certainly, there is a mammoth amount of evidence that he was concerned about what was happening politically, culturally, and socially around him. He just did not think that events of his own day could be charted as important markers on man’s progress towards his appointed end. He thought that those two distinct types of time were thoroughly separated. Sacred history could not be tied to contemporary events, nor could man could exert an influence on the path towards a foreordained future.68 Part of this had to do with the problems humanity had in experiencing time itself. As Gerhart Ladner so succinctly put it, for Augustine the present was almost impossible to experience because it was so fleeting—­always trapped between memory and expectation.69 In book 11 of his Confessions, Augustine explains his understanding of time as fundamentally concerned with the distance between God and man. For God, there is only eternity, a perpetual present, always known. It is different for humanity. Humankind experiences time via language and thought. The past consumes the future through the (briefest) succession of present moments. As such, the present is akin to a process of translation, moving the future into the past. Expectation becomes memory through attention. But these three stages are all perception, all (potentially) fallible. Thus, humankind’s perpetually perceived/experienced—­ but not perpetually existent—­present is always dependent upon our own subjective reactions to a metaphorical dance between what we think will happen and what has happened. Most famously, Augustine gave the example of reciting a Psalm; before he begins, the Psalm lives entirely in his expectation but as he recites, that Psalm is gradually consumed by his memory. The present—­the recitation—­is ultimately not much more than a way of translating the former into the latter.70 68  Jennifer A. Harris, “The Bible and the Meaning of History in the Middle Ages,” in The Practice of the Bible in the Middle Ages: Production, Reception, and Performance in Western Christianity, ed. Susan Boynton and Diane  J.  Reilly (New York: Columbia University Press, 2011), 88–9. 69 Gerhart B. Ladner, The Idea of Reform: Its Impact on Christian Thought and Action in the Age of the Fathers (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1959), 203–4. 70  dicturus sum canticum, quod noui: antequam incipiam, in totum expectatio mea tenditur, cum autem coepero, quantum ex illa in praeteritum decerpsero, tenditur et memoria mea, atque distenditur uita huius actionis meae in memoriam propter quod dixi et in expectationem propter quod dicturus sum: praesens tamen adest attentio mea, per quam traicitur quod erat futurum, ut

The Weight of Tradition  43 If this sounds a bit familiar, it should. Augustine’s discussion here on past, present, and future mimics his contemporaries’ understandings of  revelation in sacred history. The past was knowable, set down in scripture. The future too was knowable, set down in scripture. That space between past and future—­the present where Christians themselves lived, the space between the fifth and sixth seals of Revelation or between books 10 and 11 of Pseudo-­Methodius—­was an act of translation from the latter to the former, a bridge of uncertain (and ultimately unknowable) length. As  R.  A.  Markus so astutely observed, this was a  world caught between “already” and “not yet.” Thus, “in this long perspective . . . events [of the present] could henceforth only be neutral, devoid of sacred significance. There was no room for further ‘epoch-­ making’ events. The ‘sacred history’ of the last times was a blank, an open space between the Lord’s two comings.”71 The blankness of that act of translation therefore provided the author with a choice. One choice would be for the author to look expectantly for signs in the world around them, foreshadowing the arrival of something new. This perspective could lead to apocalyptic expectation, to a hunting for the signs of the coming End. Numerous authors made that choice throughout late antiquity.72 But his exegesis pushed Augustine in a different direction. If one combined the idea of a perpetually experienced present with the exegetical framing of recapitulation/recursivity in revealed sacred history, then those potential signs in the present day become more-­or-­less inconsequential. Their appearance heralded nothing “new” because that “newness” would always be ephemeral.73 Time as it passes from future to past through the present is translated through the lens of how we know sacred history to move, a lesson learned from fiat praeteritum. quod quanto magis agitur et agitur, tanto breuiata expectatione prolongatur memoria, donec tota expectatio consumatur, cum tota illa actio finita transierit in memoriam. Augustine, Confessionum libri XIII, ed. L. Verheijen, CCSL 27 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1981), 11.28; also esp. 11.11, 11.14, 11.20, and 11.27. 71 R. A. Markus, The End of Ancient Christianity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 87–9, quotation at 89. 72  See summary in Palmer, Apocalypse in the Early Middle Ages, 25–54. 73  This is similar to but not the same as the distinction made between “predictive” and “psychological” imminence of the End in Bernard McGinn, “The End of the World and the Beginning of Christendom,” in Apocalypse Theory and the Ends of the World, ed. Marcus Bull (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), 58–89; and how these ideas are put to good use in Palmer, Apocalypse in the Early Middle Ages, 7–8.

44  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse scripture. Or, to put it another way, the movement of time worked only in recursive cycles, wherein the specifics may vary while the substance remained the same. This would continue for an indefinite, unknowable time until the foreordained final End. Ultimately, Augustine’s view of history (meant here as understanding past events, not the events themselves74) was about the role of prophecy in the last age of the world. Prophecy—­divine inspiration—­had effectively ceased after the coming of Jesus. And with its disappearance, the ability to effectively discern which events were critically important to the fulfillment of God’s plan for the world and which were not. Markus explains that, “since the coming of Christ, until the end of the world, all history is homogeneous, . . . cannot be mapped out in terms of a pattern drawn from sacred history, . . . [and] can no longer contain decisive turning-­points endowed with a significance in sacred history.” The meaning of this age, the sixth, the present, was therefore radically ambiguous. In this time, there can be no sacred history—­only a gap within sacred history. So, here we are with Augustine, caught once more between memory and expectation, between past and future. The present age, like the experience of the present in human time, was so fleeting that its importance was effectively indiscernible.75 Markus’s brilliant summation must, again, be understood within the wider context of this particular Augustine—­one who thought the experience of the present in a certain way, who thought the world in its final age, whose exegetical tradition delimited the boundaries of revelation as framed between the lacuna created by the Acts and Revelation.76 Between those times, between the departure of Jesus and His return, lies the Augustinian Atemporality. Sacred time had not stopped. Its passage just didn’t matter in any real sense because it was beyond man’s understanding. One can see this, at least implicitly, in the very structure of his mammoth City of God. Books 11–18 detail and explain the progress of sacred

74  A crucial distinction. See Markus, Saeculum, 14. 75 Markus, Saeculum, 17–23, quotation at 20–1. 76  The power of exegesis on Augustine’s thinking encapsulated by Markus when he wrote, “outside the . . . Bible we have no way of assessing the meaning of any action, event, . . . person or institution, or any culture, society or any epoch in the unfolding history of salvation.” Markus, Saeculum, 158.

The Weight of Tradition  45 history beginning with Creation, culminating with the coming of Jesus, and concluding with the proclamation of the Gospel by the Apostles (and the “foolish” beliefs of the polytheists). Books 20–2 are concerned with the Last Judgment and what happens after, be it eternal punishment or reward. And book 19—only book 19—sits right in between. Book 19, in its own way, is Augustine’s present. This is when the two cities—­the two types of time—­begin to diverge and start towards their respective final ends. Mostly, book 19 is about getting by in a world beset by ills great and small, by war, by deception, by social anxiety. Indeed, before moving immediately to the Last Judgment, Augustine closes that book by describing the peace experienced by Christians and the misery of those estranged from God. This prefigures the eternity to come after the Last Judgment: a better version of the self for Christians, a worse one for the others.77 But in that book there are no events, no signposts to mark the direction sacred history must travel. This is a world only truly experienced at the level of the individual, thus subjective, thus outside of revelation, outside of truth. Time moved but history did not. Or, perhaps a better way to think about this is that the movement of sacred history was not to be measured quantitatively but rather qualitatively. The passage of human time was quantitative. Things did change. Years stacked upon one another. The passage of sacred history was measured qualitatively. Progression was marked by content, by events that revealed God’s plan for the world.78 The present of Augustine’s sixth age was in the grand scheme of things a brief window to be endured, a fleeting act of translation that could best be understood by looking both forwards and backwards. Time moved linearly, from future to past. Events moved differently, as if caught on a recursive loop. The present experienced approximations of what had happened before and what would happen again but without any single event approaching the

77 Augustine, De Civitate Dei, ed. Dombart and Kalb, particularly 19.27–8. 78  On biblical time as qualitative and not quantitative, see H.  Hahn, “Zeit, Ewigkeit,” in Theologisches Begriffslexicon zum Neuen Testament, ed. Lothar Coenen, Erich Beyreuther, and Hans Bietenhard, 2/2 (Wuppertal: Theologischer Verlag Rolf Brockhaus, 1971), 1473–4. Also useful perhaps is the discussion of how time functioned in Nancy M. Farriss, “Remembering the Future, Anticipating the Past: History, Time, and Cosmos among the Maya of Yucatan,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 29 (1987): 566–93.

46  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse significance of the “real” moments of sacred history that had either passed or were yet to come. The power of Augustine’s way of thinking about how to track sacred history between the Incarnation and Second Coming seems to have been compelling. Augustine’s own pupil Paulus Orosius (d. ca. 418 ce), for instance, framed his discussion of sacred history in terms of the Book of Daniel. In so doing, Orosius had Rome take a place in the succession of kingdoms—­one of the four developed in the exegesis of Nebuchadnezzar’s dream of the statue in the Book of Daniel.79 This might seem to push against the Augustinian Atemporality, allowing Rome to occupy a place within the translatio imperii. But not so. Note that ultimately this Danielic/Orosian scheme is still fundamentally compatible with what Augustine had thought. The transfer of imperial authority to Rome predated the Incarnation, and Rome still continued to Orosius’s own day. Events of course still happened and Orosius narrated them. The passage of time still happened but the movement of history did not. The statue still stood, even if Orosius acknowledged that he and his contemporaries lived among its muddy feet and waited and watched for the inevitable stone to appear suddenly and to destroy the statue for good. Between Prophecy and Apocalypse: The Burden of Sacred Time and the Making of History in Early Medieval Europe. Matthew Gabriele, Oxford University Press. © Matthew Gabriele 2024. DOI: 10.1093/9780199642557.003.0002

79  Harris, “Bible and the Meaning of History,” 85–8; Matthew Kempshall, Rhetoric and the Writing of History, 400–1500 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2011), 66–70; James  T.  Palmer, “The Ordering of Time,” in Abendländische Apokalyptik: Kompendium zur Genealogie der Endzeit, ed. Veronika Wieser et al. (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2013), 612–13. For more on the use of Daniel, see Matthew Gabriele, “The Last Carolingian Exegete: Pope Urban II, the Weight of Tradition, and Christian Reconquest,” Church History 81 (2012): 796–814; and now Rubenstein, Nebuchadnezzar’s Dream.

2 Watchmen over the Apocalyptic Ninth Century According to R.  A.  Markus, the distinction between “secular” and “sacred” was almost totally erased by the sixth century. In most cases, the former had either been marginalized or absorbed into the latter and so, Markus concluded, Augustine’s conception of the movement of history (or rather, lack thereof) had won.1 But I wonder if that was truly the case. Consider for a moment one of the two great Gregorys of that period, Bishop Gregory of Tours (d. 594). His Historia looked expectantly at the world, cognizant of Augustine but not thoroughly convinced. Gregory of Tours’ Historia is explicitly structured to position his own sixth-­century Gaul as connected both backwards and forwards in time, back to creation and forward to the Last Judgment. The end of his preface specifically says that he found it necessary to “begin at the beginning” in order to properly situate the story of Tours, St Martin, and the Franks for his audience.2 Then, at the very end of the work, at the end of book 10, Gregory both evokes the closing of the Book of Revelation (22: 18–19) in asking that his text not be changed and reiterates his positionality as bishop in a precise historical moment within sacred time—­in relation to the Creation, the Flood, the Exodus, the Resurrection, and the death of St Martin of Tours.3 As such, there is both a timelessness 1 R. A. Markus, The End of Ancient Christianity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 226–8. This chapter was written before I became aware of the 2021 special issue of Early Medieval Europe on the “early medieval secular,” in which the authors there reach similar conclusions to me here about the long-­term applicability of Markus’s conclusions in early medieval Europe. 2  Libuit etiam animo, ut pro suppotatione annorum ab ipso mundi principio libri primi poniretur initium, cuius capitula deursum subieci. Gregory of Tours, Libri Historiarum X, ed. Bruno Krusch and Wilhelm Levison, MGH SRM 1/1 (Hanover: Hahn, 1951), 1. 3  Gregory of Tours, Libri Historiarum X, ed. Krusch and Levison, 1/1: 535–7. On the references to Revelation, see James T. Palmer, The Apocalypse in the Early Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 76–7, with relevant literature.

48  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse and a notable situatedness at work here. His may have been a world connected to sacred history but was it one within sacred history? Walter Goffart famously said of Gregory of Tours that the “world he portrayed might as well have been indeterminate or timeless.”4 Gregory’s world was one in which the progress of history was a qualitative process with durations/signposts that could only be measured by content not length. All seems Augustinian so far. But this may be an Augustine more cited than read. Rather than following Augustine completely and marginalizing the role of the present in this analysis, Gregory was obsessed with contemporaneity.5 Instead of the present being so fleeting as to be nearly inconsequential, it was the present that itself stretched out “timelessly.” Gregory believed, and Augustine never would have denied, that God was still—­constantly—­working in the world.6 Augustine, however, would have reminded his readers that without divine inspiration it was nearly impossible to use the present to understand the importance of any specific event in sacred history, to know what would lead them towards the future. Gregory of Tours seemed to take the second part of that sentence more seriously than the first. He recorded everything he could, linked the present to the past, contemplated the future, and concluded that he could not discern the way forward. That is perhaps another reason why he asked that not a word of his work be changed. Everything he had recorded was potentially important. He thought that something in his work would most likely matter in the future, when sacred history restarted at the End and revelation returned to humankind. The world of course did not end in the sixth (or even seventh) century. Bishoprics changed hands, Gregory of Tours’ successors piled one upon the other, Rome continued, though different peoples were the ones to carry its mantle forward in the West. Gregory’s expansive present was reabsorbed into the Augustinian Atemporality. The past continued to 4  Walter Goffart, The Narrators of Barbarian History (AD 550–800): Jordanes, Gregory of Tours, Bede, and Paul the Deacon (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998), 204. 5  Giselle de Nie, “Roses in January: A Neglected Dimension in Gregory of Tours’ Historia,” Journal of Medieval History 5 (1979): 283–4. 6  De Nie, “Roses in January,” esp. 283–8. Note too that Gregory was certainly familiar with Augustine’s work. See Martin Heinzelmann, “The Works of Gregory of Tours and the Patristic Tradition,” in A Companion to Gregory of Tours, ed. Alexander C. Murray (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 281–336.

Watchmen over the Apocalyptic Ninth Century  49 consume both the present and future. But buried within this stasis lay the danger. The thing that would ultimately threaten this Augustinian stasis, what would upend his conception of the movement of sacred history, wasn’t the arrival of the future. Instead, it was the return of the past. If the movement of sacred history was indeed stuck, the only thing that could unstick it would be the arrival of some clear signpost, some “new” moment that was so like a past moment as to be proof that God’s preordained plan for the world was being enacted. Or, to put it another way, if the past returned in such a way that the present became, no longer an approximation, but a new version of a sacred history that had come before, then it would shift the direction of analysis. The cycle would bend back around onto itself. The return of the past into the present could bring with it new sacred history.7 And that past did return in the ninth century; its progression a slow-­ moving apocalypse, a summative moment of revelation, one in which God’s plan became apparent to those who could thoughtfully discern, to exegetes who understood the arc of sacred history because they took seriously Augustine’s injunctions (and so encountered the unforeseen consequences of the bishop’s thought). Pepin (750–68), like a new Saul, united the Franks, who then became a true kingdom under Charlemagne (768–814), the new David. Like a new Solomon, Louis the Pious (814–40) then continued the monarchy until the kingdom split under Louis’s sons, just like it had for Rehoboam and Jeroboam. It all fit so well. The new Israel rose to new glory and then was beset by new tribulations. So, it needed new prophets to call the people back to the Lord. This chapter will move into the eighth and ninth centuries. As Latin Europe emerged out of late antiquity, the Augustinian Atemporality remained, but was complicated by those like Gregory of Tours who saw a present filled with potential sacred meaning but without a catalyst to turn that potential into reality. The Franks began to work out that tension, at first to justify their coup d’état against the Merovingians, then to explain their continuing success in building an empire. But the catalyst 7  My discussion here owes much to Alexandra Walsham, who talked about conceptualizing religious change as a “twirling and twisting” spiral. See Walsham, “Migrations of the Holy: Explaining Religious Change in Medieval and Early Modern Europe,” Journal of Medieval and Early Modern History 44 (2014): 241–80, esp. 264.

50  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse was really ignited as that empire crumbled in the fourth generation, as the Franks looked around them and tried to explain their failures. We will find the intellectual building blocks that created this world woven into the bindings of codices scattered across Europe. After Augustine, it seemed that sacred time was paused. But it also seemed like all events were potentially of great importance. That importance seemed then to be revealed when a new chosen people established a new Jerusalem north of the Alps.

The New Israel We must begin with Bede (d. 735) if we are to talk about the ninth-­ century Franks. He, as a follower of Augustine’s intellectual tradition, was also like Augustine in being so large as to have his own gravitational field. All subsequent early medieval encounters with time had to engage his work, particularly if arising from the ninth-­century continent.8 In large part, that gravitational field was not entirely his own. He and Augustine functioned as binary stars in some regards, amplifying each other’s reach. Augustine taught Bede that all learning needed to be subordinated to exegesis, how to process the movement of the Church within the framework of sacred history.9 For example, when Bede meditated on the “Day of the Lord” in Isaiah 24: 22–3, he articulated an interesting (but by now familiar) understanding of the gift of prophecy and its use in the world. A prophet could see what was and what was to come, even all the way to the time of the Antichrist.10 Embedded within 8 Joyce Hill, “Carolingian Perspectives on the Authority of Bede,” in Innovation and Tradition in the Writings of The Venerable Bede, ed. Scott DeGregorio (Morgantown, WV: West Virginia University Press, 2006), 227–49; James T. Palmer, “The Ends and Futures of Bede’s De Temporum Ratione,” in Bede and the Future, ed. Peter Darby and Faith Wallis (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2014), 150–60; Mark Stansbury, “Early-­Medieval Biblical Commentaries and their Readers,” Frühmittelalterliche Studien 33 (1999): 75–7. 9  Alan Thacker, Bede and Augustine of Hippo: History and Figure in Sacred Text, Jarrow Lecture (Newcastle upon Tyne: Bealim Signs, 2006), 14–33. 10 Bede, On What Isaiah Says, ed. Arthur G. Holder, tr. W. Trent Foley (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1999), 44–5. We should note too that prophets in Christian tradition are not necessarily soothsayers but are instead divinely inspired. This connection to God allows them to speak with authority about past, present, or future. See John  R.  Hall, Apocalypse: From Antiquity to the Empire of Modernity (Cambridge: Polity, 2009), 2–4.

Watchmen over the Apocalyptic Ninth Century  51 that conceptualization was an acceptance of Augustine’s core message. As Samuel W. Collins so well summarizes in another context, for Bede “the scriptural past and future are sacred and full of meaning while the present remains cut off from most divine action, adrift between the first and second comings.”11 Sacred history existed in the past and would start again just before the final End. This was what was knowable by a prophet. The space between—­the present—­was noise. But Bede didn’t think of himself as a prophet. Indeed, even as he worried deeply about the future, “Bede’s key point . . . was that no form of prediction [about the End] was acceptable. What [his audience] needed to do was prepare their souls” to deal with that inscrutability.12 What was knowable, on the other hand, was the sacred past. His On the Holy Places, derived in large part from Adomnan of Iona’s (d. 704) original, described a world fossilized in amber. Sacred history in Jerusalem had stopped in 70 ce with God’s punishment of the Jews, so his description of the city had stopped with the apostles. There was no present or future for the Holy Land. Indeed, although he plundered the Bible freely for his examples and justifications, Bede studiously avoided using only one type of book—­the prophets (including Revelation).13 This remains true in Bede’s Ecclesiastical History, now beginning to be understood as an exegetical exercise in and of itself. The work bristles with sophisticated biblical allusions that he fully expected his audience to understand. Biblical history resonated into the present. As Conor O’Brien has noted more generally, Northumbrians and Israelites were 11 Samuel  W.  Collins, The Carolingian Debate over Sacred Space (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), 39. 12 Palmer, Apocalypse in Early Middle Ages, 101–5, quotation at 101. See also Palmer, “Ends and Futures,” 139; and more generally Peter Darby, Bede and the End of Time (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2012). Palmer takes a more mediated view on Bede’s ideas of eschatological imminence, framing it as situational within each text. 13 Bede, De Locis Sanctis, ed. I. Fraipont, CCSL 175 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1965); also Matthew Gabriele, An Empire of Memory: The Legend of Charlemagne, the Franks, and Jerusalem before the First Crusade (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 84–5; and Collins, Carolingian Debate, 18–19 and n. 15. Similarly, in his On the Temple and Tabernacle, Bede remained focused on the past. Sacred architecture did not translate to the present. One could perhaps argue that the future made an appearance in his work when Solomon’s Temple was described as a fulfillment of the Heavenly Jerusalem. Yet, this is little more than a trick of the eye, since the Heavenly Jerusalem prefigures the Temple on earth because the former already exists. Thus, the connection between the two was more a spiritual (almost Platonic) connection than a chronological one.

52  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse directly connected in this text by history, woven into a seamless web.14 The conversion of King Edwin, for example, functions most effectively when read as an inversion of moments taken from the Gospel of John.15 The Acts of the Apostles figure heavily in the narrative of the conversion of the English, and even the structure of the Ecclesiastical History in five books may well be intended to evoke the Pentateuch. This was a new version of an old story, a “historiography largely nourished on biblical exegesis.”16 This is Augustinian, but an Augustine filtered through Gregory of Tours.17 Direct revelation had indeed stopped and the past, like a codex, had to be sensitively read for meaning. But, like Gregory of Tours, Bede took this understanding to also mean that God still worked in the world, even if one could only see that engagement after the fact.18 As such, one needed to record the present/recent past so that future historical exegetes could use it. They would have better perspective, could, in turn, read those events for meaning. In other words, the present mattered mostly because it connected to the past. The historian of religion Robert Orsi characterizes moments like this as abundant history, moments when the “transcendent broke into time.” Attentiveness to how our subjects felt the “presence” of the divine brings the past and present together, allowing authors to approach “events that are not safely cordoned off in the past, that are not purified, but whose routes extend into the present.”19

14  Conor O’Brien, Bede’s Temple: An Image and its Interpretation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), 72–3. 15  Julia Barrow, “How Coifi Pierced Christ’s Side: A Re-­Examination of Bede’s Ecclesiastical History, II, Chapter 13,” Early Medieval Europe 62 (2011): 703–5. 16 Roger  D.  Ray, “Bede, the Exegete, as Historian,” in Famulus Christi: Essays in Commemoration of the Thirteenth Centenary of the Birth of the Venerable Bede, ed. Gerald Bonner (London: SPCK, 1976), 136; also Darby, Bede and the End, 209. 17  Augustine’s early medieval interlocutors emphasized the consensus of the Fathers, so this conjunction of Augustine and Gregory for Bede makes sense. See Josh Timmermann, “An Authority among Authorities: Knowledge and Use of Augustine in the Wider Carolingian World,” Early Medieval Europe 28 (2020): 532–59. 18 O’Brien, Bede’s Temple, 65. See also Dominic Janes, “The World and its Past as Christian Allegory in the Early Middle Ages,” in The Uses of the Past in the Early Middle Ages, ed. Yitzhak Hen and Matthew Innes (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 110–13. 19 Robert A. Orsi, History and Presence (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2016), 48ff., quotation at 71.

Watchmen over the Apocalyptic Ninth Century  53 The eighth- and ninth-­century Franks felt that presence. Certainly, the Franks of this period did not spring from the earth thinking themselves inheritors of God’s favor, but rather it was a slow, gradual development that followed from their violent assumption of power from the Merovingians and then the formation of a palace school towards the end of the eighth century. The key work here is that of Mary Garrison, who has shown that the narrative of election—­the Franks as God’s new chosen people—­ developed primarily as a reaction to the realities of Charlemagne’s (768–814) reign, particularly the need to justify their conquest of fellow Christian peoples.20 But undertheorized here is why this understanding that permeated the political class of Francia adapted and ultimately (albeit perhaps inadvertently) subverted the late antique proposition that revelation was no longer available to humanity. Or, to put it another way, the Franks’ conception of themselves as a new Israel redefined how God seemed to be involved in the world. God’s plan could be visible once more. * * * * * The elision of the Franks and the Israelites within the Frankish realm happened gradually, oftentimes it seems sort of by accident—­one among many methods of legitimation attempted over the course of the eighth century as the Franks under Charlemagne tried to define themselves against their enemies. Conor O’Brien has recently emphasized that this was done situationally, often to make specific points in the Franks’ favor.21 And they found many situations in which this worked, especially as they pushed out from their territorial core, warring with peoples both polytheistic and Christian, requiring a rhetoric to justify their right to rule. For them, the Christian Old Testament provided a fertile stock of images 20  Mary Garrison, “The Franks as the New Israel? Education for an Identity from Pippin to Charlemagne,” in The Uses of the Past in the Early Middle Ages, ed. Yitzhak Hen, Matthew Innes, and Dominic Janes (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 114–61. See also now Gerda Heydemann, “The People of God and the Law: Biblical Models in Carolingian Legislation,” Speculum 95 (2020): 89–131; and Conor O’Brien, “Chosen People and New Israels in the Early Medieval West,” Speculum 95 (2020): 987–1009. These both supplement Garrison’s findings, attempting to unpack the sticky relationship between “Franks” as a term of ethnicity and “chosen people” as a language of universality related to the ecclesia. In other words, making clear whence power flowed by the use of terms such as “chosen people” or “new Israel.” 21  O’Brien, “Chosen People and New Israels,” 1002–7.

54  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse from which to draw. Cathwulf, writing in the 770s, suggested that the Frankish regnum shared a covenant with God, like the Israelites. The Admonitio generalis not long after set up a functional echo of the Ten Commandments for the Frankish realm, a code of conduct that, if followed like the original Law had been, would shield them from the ravages of the devil on earth. At times, the language is direct. In one moment, probably under the influence of Alcuin (d. 804), the Admonitio alluded to Ezekiel 13 by arguing that the Frankish kingdom gathered the sheep within its walls to protect them from the wolves. This sentiment was loosely echoed in the Libri Carolini, which posited a Davidic Charlemagne standing strong against heresy and strong against the Babylonian Byzantium.22 This was not only a theology and politics of text, but one of stone as well. As many have noted, the palace complex at Aachen was designed to function as a meeting place between heaven and earth—­a locus that connected empires both inside and outside of time. Aachen as constructed under Charlemagne was a site that linked the Franks with the Jerusalem first built by the Israelites under King David, rebuilt under 22  o pastores ecclesiarum Christi et ductores gregis eius et clarissima mundi luminaria, ut vigili cura et sedula ammonitione populum dei per pascua vitae aeternae ducere studeatis et errantes oves bonorum exemplorum seu adhortationum humeris intra ecclesiasticae firmitatis muros reportare satagimini, ne lupus insidians aliquem canonicas sanctiones transgredientem vel paternas traditiones universalium conciliorum excedentem, quod absit, inveniens devoret. Admonitio Generalis, ed. Hubert Mordek, Klaus Zechiel-­Eckes, and Michael Glatthaar, MGH Fontes Iuris Germanici Antiqui 16 (Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 2012), 180–2. The editors of the Admonitio note that this is a reference to 1 Peter 5: 8, which it likely is, but the use of sheep, wolves, watchmen, and walls is almost certainly evocative of Ezekiel 13 as well. See also Andrew  J.  Romig, Be a Perfect Man: Christian Masculinity and the Carolingian Aristocracy (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2017), 35–8; Mary Alberi, “ ‘Like the Army of God’s Camp’: Political Theology and Apocalyptic Warfare at Charlemagne’s Court,” Viator 41 (2010): 7–16. On the imagery of Ezekiel in the early Middle Ages, see now Matthew Gabriele, “This Time. Maybe This Time. Biblical Commentary, Monastic Historiography, and Lost Cause-­ism at the Turn of the First Millennium,” in Apocalypse and Reform from Late Antiquity to the Middle Ages, ed. Matthew Gabriele and James T. Palmer (New York: Routledge, 2018), 183–204. The Frankish concern about heresy, likely heightened by a vigilance for the promised false prophets of the End Times, was a concern made acute by the prolonged controversy over Adoptionism in Iberia and iconoclasm in Byzantium that began in the early 780s and stretched into the beginning of the ninth century. See Palmer, Apocalypse in the Early Middle Ages, 146–57; also Wolfram Brandes, “Tempora Periculosa Sunt: Eschatologisches im Vorfeld der Kaiserkrönung Karls des Grossen,” in Das Frankfurter Konzil von 794: Kristallisationspunkt Karolingischer Kultur, ed. Rainer Berndt Jr (Mainz: Selbstverlag der Gesellschaft für mittelrheinische Kirchengeschichte, 1997), 63–5; and Johannes Heil, “ ‘Nos nescientes de hoc velle manere’—‘We Wish to Remain Ignorant about This:’ Timeless End, or: Approaches to Reconceptualizing Eschatology after A.D. 800 (A.M. 6000),” Traditio 55 (2000): 80–1.

Watchmen over the Apocalyptic Ninth Century  55 Constantine in the fourth century, and then to appear once more at the End as described in Revelation 21.23 But Aachen was not, of course, the only structure that participated in this move. Erik Thunø noted how apse mosaics specifically could help the viewer intellectually collapse linear time into God’s timeless, eternal present.24 The famous abbey at Saint-­Riquier, as well as Theodulf ’s chapel at Saint-­Germigny-­des-­Prés (Figure 2.1), both also dating to the late eighth century, were statements in the same vein; their architectural programs and internal decorations primarily evocative as recreations of Israelite understandings of sacred space, back to the original Temple and Tabernacle.25 And the sounds that filled these new structures helped serve as the connective tissue that crossed time and space. The liturgy was, we sometimes forget, a teaching tool that helped its listeners understand history, prophecy, and their own situatedness in time as well as in space (in the physical church but also within a polity).26 The commentary of Amalarius of Metz (d. ca. 850) explained that the liturgy made the biblical past, the Carolingian present, and eschatological future “simultaneous.” Time both repeated and advanced via the liturgy:27 the Augustinian Atemporality built in stone, enhanced by incense and chant, ensuring 23  Allan Doig, “Charlemagne’s Palace Chapel at Aachen: Apocalyptic and Apotheosis,” in Bishop Robert Grosseteste and Lincoln Cathedral: Tracing Relationships between Medieval Concepts of Order and Built Form, ed. Nicholas Temple, John Shannon Hendrix, and Christian Frost (London: Routledge, 2014), 179–200; also generally on the relationship of text, structure, and future, see Michel Lauwers, “Circuitus et figura: Exègése, images et structuration des complexes monastiques dans l’Occident médiéval (IXe–XIIe siècle),” in Monastères et espace social: Genèse et transformation d’un système de lieux dans l’Occident médiéval, ed. Michel Lauwers (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014), 43–109. Mayke de Jong has noted how Aachen functioned atop a hierarchy of palaces across the realm that also included royal monasteries. Indeed, there are suggestions in the sources that the court thought of themselves as a type of “cloister.” See Mayke de Jong, “Sacrum palatium et ecclesia: L’autorité religieuse royale sous les Carolingiens (790–840),” Annales HSS 58 (2003): 1248–51. 24  Erik Thunø, The Apse Mosaic in Early Medieval Rome: Time, Network, and Repetition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), esp. 7–12, 181–98. 25 Collins, Carolingian Debate, 15–16, 123–9; Susan  A.  Rabe, Faith, Art, and Politics at Saint-­Riquier: The Symbolic Vision of Angilbert (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1995), 50, 119. 26  Margot Fassler, “The Liturgical Framework of Time and the Representation of History,” in Representing History, 900–1300: Art, Music, History, ed. Robert A. Maxwell (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2010), 161, 166. 27 Collins, Carolingian Debate, 42–53. See also Graeme Ward, “The Order of History: Liturgical Time and the Rhythms of the Past in Amalarius of Metz’s De Ordine Antiphonarii,” in Writing the Early Medieval West: Studies in Honour of Rosamond McKitterick, ed. Elina Screen and Charles West (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018), 98–111.

56  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse

Figure 2.1  Ark of the Covenant, Mosaic, St-­Germigny-­des-­Prés, France (late eighth century), Wikimedia Commons, user Manfred Heyde (CC BY-­SA 3.0)

the centrality of the Franks in the story they were telling about themselves and their relationship with the divine. That story began as particularly hopeful. Renie Choy has reframed our understanding of monastic prayer, away from an idea of enforced practice and instead towards something more hopeful and participatory that sees the celebrants as having a real stake in the peace of the realm as a whole. This meant that the monks’ alignment of their kings with the rulers of Israel really mattered—­now, in the eighth and early ninth centuries, as living in a new Israel led by virtuous rulers living under God’s law, one modeled on the Pentateuch but also prefiguring the peace of the End.28 The Davidic kingship reborn at the height of its supposed glory in northern Europe. Prayers for peace were particularly important, of course, because this was a kingdom almost constantly at war. And war was understood—­and 28 Renie S. Choy, Intercessory Prayer and the Monastic Ideal in the Time of the Carolingian Reforms (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 134–46.

Watchmen over the Apocalyptic Ninth Century  57 justified—­via this nostalgia for the biblical past, with Charlemagne for example marshalling the universal church (ecclesia) against polytheists and heretics.29 Typology played out in events, rather than texts.30 Alcuin was deeply affected by the sack of Lindisfarne in 793 and so began to apply “biblical structures of meaning” to the event, looking to the Books of Job and Joel (and the latter’s liturgical valences) for hope in the face of  the tribulations of the Northmen. Solace, safety, was found in the Franks and Charlemagne. As the “blessed people” (beata gens) of Psalms, Alcuin defined the Franks as defined by both being an in-­group and an out-­group. What this meant was that Alcuin saw the Franks as perhaps an approximation of Augustine’s Heavenly City, the new chosen people, but also most decidedly not the other peoples (both Christian and non-) who stood against the Franks.31 God was, in other words, theirs—­He was the Franks’ god. This complemented other readings of the relationship between God and the Franks, particularly as it related to their extended war against the Saxons. Angilbert was clear that God was on the Franks’ side not because the Saxons were polytheists but simply because God was dedicated to the Franks as His people, much as had happened for the Israelites.32 Then, after the process of conquest had been (mostly) completed, the Capitulatio de partibus Saxoniae regulated the practice of religion (religio) with a particular eye to apostasy, having “sentenced the Saxons as God had sentenced the people of Israel in the Mosaic Covenant, and for much the same transgressions.” In doing so, once again calling on imagery from Ezekiel, the text enjoined priests and bishops to be watchmen for the house of Israel, guardians against sin for their flocks.33 29  See, e.g., Alberi, “ ‘Like the Army of God’s Camp’,” 1–20. 30  Garrison, “Franks as the New Israel,” 117. 31  Mary Garrison, “The Bible and Alcuin’s Interpretation of Current Events,” Peritia 16 (2002): 70–1, 76–81; and Garrison, “Divine Election for Nations: A Difficult Rhetoric for Medieval Scholars?,” in The Making of Christian Myths in the Periphery of Latin Christendom (c. 1000–1300), ed. Lars Boje Mortensen (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2006), 304–5. 32 Rabe, Faith, Art, and Politics, 61. 33  See the insightful analysis of the phrase morte moriatur in Robert Flierman, “Religious Saxons: Paganism, Infidelity and Biblical Punishment in the Capitulatio de Partibus Saxoniae,” in Religious Franks: Religion and Power in the Frankish Kingdoms: Studies in Honour of Mayke de Jong, ed. Dorine van Espelo et al. (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2016), 181–99, quotation at 186. On Ezekiel, see above at n. 22.

58  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse The intellectual work linking the Franks back to ancient Israel changed after Charlemagne’s death in 814 ce, with a shifting focus on the importance of “empire” (better, imperium, meaning power or authority).34 The famous paintings at Louis’s palace at Ingelheim that showed the path of sacred history, beginning at creation and ending with Charlemagne, passing through the Roman emperors (with their history mostly taken from Orosius), was a physical manifestation of these ideas, visually making clear the lines that connected the Franks to God’s plan for the world.35 Under Louis the Pious, the emperor became an avatar for imperium, the exemplar par excellence for the Franks as a whole. As such, the moral burden of the relationship between the Franks and God began to rest more squarely on the emperor’s shoulders, particularly as the Franks began to accept that relationship as established. But this had follow-­on effects. Most importantly for us here, the focus of the intellectual work related to the Franks’ election shifted from winning God’s favor to keeping it. As such, there was a renewed focus on penance, and atonement for the people’s collective sins. The push for “reform” (correctio) to achieve these goals often came from the kingdom’s monasteries, with monks writing to the ruler and his court.36 This move was not in and of itself new but the explicit use of biblical models for kings, provided via exegesis, was new. They began with Charlemagne (only one commentary, from Wigbod) and ended with Gerberga (d. 984), but most came in the early parts of the ninth century.37

34  On the idea of empire under Louis the Pious, see now Jonathan  P.  Conant, “Louis the Pious and the Contours of Empire,” Early Medieval Europe 22 (2014): 336–60; and the classic Thomas F. X. Noble, “The Monastic Ideal as a Model for Empire: The Case of Louis the Pious,” Revue Bénédictine 86 (1976): 235–50. On imperium, see now also Matthew Gabriele, “Introduction,” in The Cultural History of Western Empires in the Middle Ages, ed. Matthew Gabriele (New York: Bloomsbury, 2018), 1–20. 35 Described in Ermoldus Nigellus, “In Honorem Hludovici Pii,” in Poetry of the Carolingian Renaissance, ed. and tr. Peter Godman (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 1985), 250–5. 36 Romig, Be a Perfect Man, 67–75; and Rutger Kramer, “Teaching Emperors: Transcending the Boundaries of Carolingian Monastic Communities,” in Meanings of Community across Medieval Eurasia: Comparative Approaches, ed. Eirik Hovden, Christina Lutter, and Walter Pohl (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 309–37. 37  Sumi Shimahara, “Charlemagne, premier souverain chrétien commanditaire d’exégèse biblique?,” in Charlemagne: Les temps, les espaces, les hommes: Construction et déconstruction d’un règne, ed. Rolf Grosse and Michel Sot (Turnhout: Brepols, 2018), 102–10.

Watchmen over the Apocalyptic Ninth Century  59 In so doing, these clerics drew from their understanding of ancient Israel, from Elijah reproaching King Ahab, from Daniel speaking truth to Nebuchadnezzar, from Huldah and Jeremiah affirming the work of King Josiah.38 In other words, the clerics enjoined so often to function as watchmen on the walls took that injunction to heart and took those responsibilities seriously. The divine law needed to be monitored and enforced or there would be dire consequences across the realm.39 Spiritual understanding elided with political education.40 Thus, when political cohesion violently fractured after Louis’s death, when the chosen people shed their brothers’ blood on the fields of Fontenoy in 841, it seemed to many a clarifying (if horrifying) sign of God’s displeasure.41 To take just one example, Angilbert’s poem about the battle turns quite significantly after the sixth stanza, after the earth recoils from the shedding of Frankish blood.42 Only after this stanza do the biblical references appear. His lament for the  field of battle echoes David’s lament for Saul and Jonathan, while  Angilbert’s notes about those who fell evokes 1 Maccabees. Then, towards the end, the poet calls for the day to be excised from human memory. Although this might seem ironic appearing in a poem commemorating the event, the poet was using this trope in 38  On the importance of Josiah as a model for the Carolingian kings, see Isabelle Rosé, “Le roi Josias dans l’ecclésiologie politique du haut Moyen Âge,” Mélanges de l’École Française de Rome: Moyen Âge 115 (2003): 683–709. I disagree with Rosé’s point that the model began losing its potency during the reign of Louis the Pious, as the evocations of Jeremiah—­as Josiah’s counselor—­seem to continue apace. See below and Chapter 3. 39 Abigail Firey has noted a particular interest in this period in the Book of Leviticus. Abigail Firey, “The Letter of the Law: Carolingian Exegetes and the Old Testament,” in With Reverence for the Word: Medieval Scriptural Exegesis in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, ed. Jane Dammen McAuliffe, Barry D. Walfish, and Joseph W. Goering (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 204–24. Mayke de Jong reminds us that there was little (if any) distinction made between biblical commentary and the law in the early ninth century. See Mayke de Jong, “Old Law and New-­Found Power: Hrabanus Maurus and the Old Testament,” in Centres of Learning: Learning and Location in Pre-­Modern Europe and the Near East, ed. Jan Willem Drijvers and Alisdair A. MacDonald (Leiden: Brill, 1995), 161–76. 40 Paul  J.  E.  Kershaw, Peaceful Kings: Peace, Power, and the Early Medieval Political Imagination (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 176; Romig, Be a Perfect Man, 156–7. 41  For more on the idea of “horror” in early medieval Europe, particularly as it relates to the later ninth-­century Franks, see Matthew Bryan Gillis, Religious Horror and Holy War in Viking Age France (Budapest: Trivent, 2021). 42  Orrent campi, orrent silve, orrent ipsi paludes. Angilbert, “The Battle of Fontenoy,” in Poetry of the Carolingian Renaissance, ed. and tr. Peter Godman (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 1985), no. 39, 6.3.

60  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse order to signal to his readers the importance of the event within the movement of sacred history. He was actually eliding verses from Jeremiah and Job, so that he could lament his own ill fate in having witnessed what happened. The poem then closes with Angilbert once more taking on the voice of the prophet Jeremiah to bemoan the sinfulness and suffering of the chosen people. It was not, he was saying, supposed to be like this.43 Paul Kershaw has also noted the turn to Jeremiah and the Book of Lamentations in the wake of Fontenoy, the “pessimism” in such a move evident in the work of Nithard (d. ca. 844), Hrabanus Maurus (d. 856), Haimo of Auxerre (d. ca. 878), and Paschasius (d. 865).44 We might now add Angilbert to that list, as well as Waltharius.45 Yet, this wasn’t a universal sentiment. The Israelite prophets offered many types of models for those suffering this latest fratricidal civil war; their “presence” brought with it despair, but it could also bring hope. For instance, the so-­called “Lament on the Division of the Empire,” by Florus of Lyons (d. ca. 860), written not long after Fontenoy, likely in 842 ce, is somewhat different. It follows a prophetic mode through to the end, beginning with lamentation and condemnation, but ending with calls to repentance and a promise of a better future. This poem, like Angilbert’s, also turns after its description of Fontenoy.46 Just after he concludes his discussion of the battle, Florus summons the prophets Ezekiel and Amos (and likely Daniel) to explain the fire of God’s wrath upon the Franks for their sins. The wall protecting the Franks (again, Ezekiel 13) with its foundations of mud (Daniel 2?) begins to crumble

43  Angilbert, “Battle of Fontenoy,” tr. Godman, no. 39, 7.1, 12.1–3, 15.1, respectively. See also Romig, Be a Perfect Man, 112. 44 Kershaw, Peaceful Kings, 198–9. 45 On Waltharius’s critique of kingship after Fontenoy, see Alice Rio, “Waltharius at Fontenoy? Epic Heroism and Carolingian Political Thought,” Viator 46 (2015): 41–64. 46  Description of Fontenoy concludes Quis finis quaeve ira dei mala tanta sequatur, / Quae iam vix aliquis pavitanti corde volutat, / Vix recolit, vix inde dolens suspiria fundit. See Florus of Lyons, “Lament on the Division of the Empire,” in Poetry of the Carolingian Renaissance, ed. and tr. Peter Godman (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 1985), no. 40, ll. 97–110. For more on Florus, now see Gillis, Religious Horror and Holy War; Gillis, “Pleasures of Horror: A Reading of Florus of Lyons’ Querela de divisione imperii,” in Carolingian Experiments, ed. Matthew Bryan Gillis (Turnhout: Brepols, 2022), 259–89; Romig, Be a Perfect Man, 108.

Watchmen over the Apocalyptic Ninth Century  61 and God scourges Israel with famine and thirst (Amos 7–8).47 But Florus’s poem, like Amos’s prophecy then takes a turn. The Book of Amos recounts God’s terrible wrath but explains that although He will wipe the sinful kingdom from the earth (Amos 9: 1–8), the good will be sifted from the evil so that God can raise up Israel once more (Amos 9: 9–14). This is the message Florus was conveying. This is where Florus becomes another prophet, when the biblical past becomes textually present, and he calls the new Israel to repentance. Taking on the mantle of Amos himself, Florus’s poem ends with a prayer, inviting the paternal rod upon the Franks’ backs, so that “winning through to the port of peace by Your guidance, / we may pluck sweet fruit grown from this dismal seed, / and sing again in perpetual praise of Your triumphs!”48 As Florus sat writing in the early 840s, he still believed in the Franks, still had at least a sliver of hope. And he was not alone. At about the same time that Angilbert and Florus were writing, in the aftermath of Fontenoy, the emperor Lothar I (840–55) received a brief document from one of his loyalists, most likely the bishop of Cambrai-­Arras. It appears an odd document, just twenty-­four biblical citations with little apparatus—­almost a bullet-­pointed list. But those chosen citations tell a particular story of hope amidst the ruins. Most of the citations are from the Christian Old Testament, with only four taken from the letters of Paul (1 Thessalonians and 1 Corinthians), one from a canon law collection (but attributed to Solomon), and three others from Isidore of Seville (though not noted as such).49 47  Florus, “Lament on the Division,” ed. and tr. Godman, no. 40, ll. 113–27. The scourging of the Franks for their sins is a common trope in the middle of the ninth century. See, e.g., Simon Coupland, “The Rod of God’s Wrath or the People of God’s Wrath? The Carolingian Theology of the Viking Invasions,” Journal of Ecclesiastical History 42 (1991): 535–54; Palmer, Apocalypse in the Early Middle Ages, chapter 6. 48  Teque gubernante iam portum pacis adepti / Carpamus dulcem tristi de semine frugem / Perpetuaque tuos recinamus laude triumphos! Florus, “Lament on the Division,” ed. and tr. Godman, no. 40, ll. 185–8. My reading of Florus is quite different from Matthew Bryan Gillis, who argues that Florus was an opponent to the Frankish project after Fontenoy. See Matthew Bryan Gillis, “Pleasures of Horror: Florus of Lyons’s Querela de Divisione Imperii,” in Carolingian Experiments, ed. Matthew Bryan Gillis (Turnhout: Brepols, 2022), 259–89. 49  The text exists in two manuscripts and as an edition in Paul Wilhelm Finsterwalder, “Eine parteipolitische Kundgebung eines anhängers Lothars  I.,” Neues Archiv der Gesellschaft für ältere Deutsche Geschichtskunde 47 (1928): 393–415, edition at 394–6. It has been translated in Paul Edward Dutton, Charlemagne’s Mustache and Other Cultural Clusters of a Dark Age (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004), 191–3.

62  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse The manuscript itself does not explicitly connect any of the quotations to the o ­ thers, yet there is a subtle logic to them. They do seem to have been meant to be read together, meant to tell the emperor a story. The story begins with the first quotation, from Genesis. Here, God despairs of the wickedness of man. Then, quotations from Daniel and Amos about the fate of all souls at the End of Time and how God knows the hearts of men. The manuscript claims to cite Daniel again (though actually it is a paraphrase of Job) as well as Ecclesiastes in order to single out the wickedness of the princes of the earth. The horrors of the present time are emphasized and the need to fear the wrath of God summoned from (in order) the books of 1 Thessalonians, Daniel, Jeremiah, Hosea, 1 Thessalonians, Psalms, and Exodus. A lament for the evils of the world’s princes then returns with citations of Ecclesiastes and Isidore. And then finally, as with Florus, a turn, an exhortation. The compiler of the text takes on the voice of Zechariah to tell Emperor Lothar “to love peace and truth.” The books of Wisdom, Isaiah, 1 Corinthians, a saying attributed to King Solomon (though actually an excerpt from a canon law collection), Ecclesiasticus, 1 Thessalonians, then Isidore are strung together here at the end. All of these last citations counsel the ruler towards wise judgment. The citations are a story of the Israelites, echoing forward into the ninth century, rewritten among the melancholy Franks after Fontenoy. Men are wicked, their rulers corrupt, God has punished them. But God still watches over the new chosen people and the way back is through good governance—­through the princes’ return to their responsibilities. Biblical models provided exempla to the ninth-­century present, with exegesis inflecting history to learn not just about tyranny and bad rulership but redemption (correctio) as well.50 This is Florus of Lyons once more. This is hope; but hope mediated and erupting from a very specific spring. Exegesis through Florus’s poem, the lesson, was to be read and felt (most likely) by the court, hopefully to reach the rulers of the Franks. So too the bishop of Cambrai-­Arras summoned the Israelite prophets to speak through him, to become a prophet himself and speak directly to

50  Sumi Shimahara, “Evil Lords and the Devil: Tyrants and Tyranny in Carolingian Texts,” in Evil Lords: Theories and Representations of Tyranny from Antiquity to the Renaissance, tr. Nikos Panou (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), 119–36.

Watchmen over the Apocalyptic Ninth Century  63 the king. The king may rule here on earth but the bishop of Cambrai-­ Arras was asserting that the path to political power and back into God’s favor would only be by understanding the lessons of sacred history, only by heeding the lessons explicated by his exegetes, as new prophets.

The New Watchmen on the Walls The difference in outlook between Angilbert and Florus may be subtle but it is important. Part of that difference was perhaps generational (Florus came of age in the turbulent 830s, Angilbert a bit earlier) but it must also be seen as intellectual and situational. Angilbert was at Fontenoy. His poem about the battle ended with despair. Much like the end of Nithard’s Histories (who was also at the battle), the tone is diagnostic of decline. For both of these aristocrats, having experienced the bloodshed of battle first-­hand, their stance made sense. Theirs was a God who had even turned the natural world against its inhabitants because of the Franks’ sins.51 Florus (and the bishop of Cambrai-­Arras) still lamented the bloodshed but took a much longer, biblical view. They, on the other hand, saw a path forward by returning to the past. The model of sacred history held and the way back to divine favor lay through true repentance. These clerics found their voice as new prophets and wrote back to the kings of the new Israel. Those voices are perhaps best exemplified by the era’s two most prolific biblical commentators: Hrabanus Maurus (d. 856) and Haimo of Saint-­Germain of Auxerre (d. ca. 878).52 Much aligns within their outlook, 51  For a discussion of Nithard and decline at the end of his Histories, see Gabriele, Empire of Memory, 13–15. See also the fascinating piece by Martha Rampton, who argued that “in the ninth century the beings most guilty of malice and causing disaster were not witches or demons, but human beings staggering under the weight of guilt and enmeshed in sin.” The Franks, in other words, had no need for demons because humans were thought to be fallible enough. Martha Rampton, “Why the Carolingians didn’t Need Demons,” in Carolingian Experiments, ed Matthew Bryan Gillis (Turnhout: Brepols, 2022), 245–68, quotation at 263. 52  Although I focus here only on Hrabanus and Haimo, other figures beginning during the reign of Louis the Pious seemed to participate in this type of thinking. See, e.g., the astute observations about Dhuoda in Miriam Czock, “Arguing for Improvement: The Last Judgment, Time and the Future in Dhuoda’s Liber Manualis,” in Cultures of Eschatology: Time, Death and Afterlife in Medieval Christian, Islamic and Buddhist Communities, ed. Veronik Wieser, Vincent Eltschinger, and Johann Heiss, vol. 2 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2020), 510–14; and Miriam Czock,

64  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse both deeply shaped by the events of the 840s, but a slight generational difference alongside quite different authorial circumstances mattered and separate their ultimate conclusions about the path of sacred history. They both agreed that the new Frankish kingdom of Israel seemed to be falling, but where they differed was whether the kingdom could be remade (Hrabanus) with a new Josiah on the horizon, or if they looked forward to Nebuchadnezzar with a new Babylonian captivity about to begin (Haimo). That difference in how Hrabanus and Haimo positioned themselves within the arc of sacred history would have huge implications for how their work was understood not just in their own time, but also in subsequent centuries. It is fair to say, though, that both sprang from the same tradition. As noted in Chapter 1, scholars who have studied Christian biblical exegesis tend to think of commentary in terms of genealogies. This is particularly true for those who study the ninth century. Beryl Smalley’s infamous quip that “to study Carolingian commentary is to study their sources” still weighs heavily on anyone who approaches this material. Although Smalley’s remains an important observation, we now better understand how this was a conscious choice by the ninth-­century Franks—­an attempt at exegesis of exegesis, to bring the Fathers more fully into ninth-­century intellectual life.53 But even then, ninth-­century authors could (and did) go beyond the Fathers. The Franks were the first—­ever—­to offer Christian commentaries on Chronicles, Maccabees, Wisdom, Ecclesiasticus, and Lamentations.54 But even when creating their own texts by ostensibly “copying” patristic commentaries, ninth-­century exegetes were dynamic compilers and subtle interpreters of that tradition in ways that could dramatically alter the understanding of a verse for future generations.55 “Creating Futures through the Lens of Revelation in the Rhetoric of Carolingian Reform ca. 750 to ca. 900,” in Apocalypse and Reform from Late Antiquity to the Middle Ages, ed. Matthew Gabriele and James T. Palmer (London: Routledge, 2018), 104–12. 53  Beryl Smalley, The Study of the Bible in the Middle Ages (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1964), 37–8; and John J. Contreni, “The Patristic Legacy to c. 1000,” in The New Cambridge History of the Bible, ed. Richard Marsden and E. Ann Matter, vol. 2 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), esp. 529–31. 54  Contreni, “Patristic Legacy to c. 1000,” 527. 55  E.g., the brief summary in Frans van Liere, An Introduction to the Medieval Bible (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 148; also Raymund Kottje, “Hrabanus Maurus—‘Praeceptor Germaniae?,” Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters, 31 (1975): 534–45; and Klaus Zechiel-­Eckes, “Ein Dummkopf und Plagiator? Hrabanus Maurus aus der Sicht des Diakons

Watchmen over the Apocalyptic Ninth Century  65 Very simply, ninth-­century exegetes such as Hrabanus and Haimo made choices in who they cited and how they compiled, and those choices conveyed meaning. We must remember that such decisions were never mere intellectual exercises. Frankish exegetes often engaged with (or were themselves could be members of) the highest intellectual circles of the Frankish world. One need only look to the networks within which men like Hrabanus operated, responding to requests directly from the emperor Lothar and Louis I the German (840–76) for biblical commentaries for their own edification. Indeed, Mayke de Jong has written that “exegesis was a duty taken care of by busy administrators of abbeys and bishoprics, who were intimately involved in the affairs of the court and the realm.”56 What was the content of that learning? They were learning about ­history, about the past—­but also about themselves—­because if Garrison is right that the Franks, particularly after 800 ce, created an image of themselves as a new Israel, then it meant that they knew that God was still working in the world for them, “so that the present [was not] merely a re-­enactment, but also in some sense a fulfillment of words and events of the Bible.”57 A famous letter from Emperor Lothar I to Hrabanus, for instance, explains that the ruler wanted lectiones (biblical commentary) for the edification of his soul, for Hrabanus to explicate sacred history and its applicability to the author’s own ninth century (notably citing the apocalyptic Daniel 12: 3 as the example Lothar is following).58 Thus, what happened in the past guided their actions in the present and towards the future. A cycle, again. Florus von Lyons,” in Raban Maur et son temps, ed. Philippe Depreux and Stéphane Lebecq (Turnhout: Brepols, 2010), 119–35. 56  Quotation from Mayke de Jong, “The Emperor Lothar and his Bibliotheca Historiarum,” in Media Latinitas: A Collection of Essays to Mark the Retirement of L. J. Engels, ed. R. I. A. Nip, H. van Dijk, E. M. C. van Houts, C. H. Kneepkens, and G. A. A. Kortekaas (Turnhout: Brepols, 1996), 229. 57  Garrison, “Franks as the New Israel,” 117. The promise of divine election for a people is that everything has meaning. For a similar process at work, see the discussion of Black Americans and providence before and after the American Civil War in Matthew Harper, The End of Days: African American Religion and Politics in the Age of Emancipation (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2016). For example, “Because the biblical stories were, in a meaningful way, about them, Black Protestants could use the narratives to predict their own future and not just recount the ancient Hebrew past” (2). 58  Lothar I, Ad Hrabanum, MGH Epist. 5.49.

66  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse These observations seem particularly applicable to Hrabanus Maurus. His exegetical corpus consists of the first-­ever commentaries on the books of Deuteronomy, Judith, Esther, Wisdom, and Chronicles.59 But in addition, he also compiled/edited commentaries on books that the Fathers had already explicated, including the books of Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Joshua, Judges, Ruth, Kings, Ecclesiastes, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, Daniel, Maccabees, Matthew, as well as the Letters of Paul. It immediately jumps out at the modern reader that the vast majority of these works come from the Christian Old Testament. We can see in this corpus that Hrabanus was clarifying the formal relationship between God and the Israelites for the benefit of the new chosen people.60 But these lessons were pointed for a specific audience. This kind of writing, “historia—­in the sense of biblical commentary and historiography—­ was a matter for kings . . . , for it guided their actions in the present.”61 Indeed, for this former student of Alcuin at Tours, then abbot of Fulda, and eventually archbishop of Mainz, only true (legitimate Carolingian) rulers possessed the wisdom required to glean the appropriate lessons from sacred history.62 * * * * * 59  For what follows, see the list of manuscripts compiled by Burton van Name Edwards. Available at . 60  De Jong, “Emperor Lothar and his Bibliotheca Historiarum,” 231–5. 61 Quotation from de Jong, “Old Law,” 166–7; Sumi Shimahara and Jens Schneider, “Gouverner avec la Bible: Les lettres de dédicace addressées aux souverains à l’époque carolingienne,” Épistolaire Politique 1 (2014): 107–41. See also the more indirect, but complementary comments, in Richard Corradini, “The Rhetoric of Crisis: Computus and Liber Annalis in Early Ninth-­Century Fulda,” in The Construction of Communities in the Early Middle Ages: Texts, Resources and Artefacts, ed. Richard Corradini, Maximilian Diesenberger, and Helmut Reimitz (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 269–321; Marianne Pollheimer, “Of Shepherds and Sheep: Preaching and Biblical Models of Community in the Ninth Century,” in Strategies of Identification: Ethnicity and Religion in Early Medieval Europe, ed. Walter Pohl and Gerda Heydemann (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013), 233–56; Miriam Czock, “Vergangenheit, Gegenwart und Zukunft—­ Konstruktionen von Zeit zwischen Heilsgeschichte und Offenbarung: Liturgieexegese um 800 bei Hrabanus Maurus, Amalarius von Metz und Walahfrid Strabo,” in Zeitenwelten: Zur Verschränkung von Weltdeutung und Zeitwahrnehmung, 750–1350, ed. Miriam Czock and Anja Rathmann-­Lutz (Cologne: Böhlau Verlag, 2016), 113–33. 62  Mayke de Jong, “The Empire as Ecclesia: Hrabanus Maurus and Biblical Historia for Rulers,” in The Uses of the Past in the Early Middle Ages, ed. Yitzhak Hen, Matthew Innes, and Dominic Janes (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 205–6. On exegesis and the imperial project of the Carolingians and Hrabanus specifically, see Lynda L. Coon, Dark Age Bodies: Gender and Monastic Practice in the Early Medieval West (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011), 68, also 42–3; also Matthew Bryan Gillis, Heresy and Dissent in the Carolingian Empire: The Case of Gottschalk of Orbais (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017), 41.

Watchmen over the Apocalyptic Ninth Century  67 Haimo of Auxerre had a different approach. Consider his commentaries.63 He wrote on the books of Genesis, Deuteronomy, the Song of Songs, Isaiah, Ezekiel, Jeremiah, Daniel, and almost all of the Minor Prophets. In addition, Haimo composed commentaries on the books of Matthew, Mark (though the attribution here is debated), John, Revelation, and the Letters of Paul. These had all been done before but he was the first since Jerome to comment on Daniel, Joel, Amos, and Abidas.64 Taken together, the scope of these commentaries tells a different story than Hrabanus had. All of Haimo’s exegesis was messianic, yes. Yet, it also has a more tortured relationship with the Israelite monarchy. None of his commentaries dealt favorably with the height of the Israelite kingdom, but rather moments of tension—(in chronological order) the giving of the Law, the collapse and captivity, the killing of Jesus by governmental actors, the very End. More generally, as a whole these works center on the relationship between God and His chosen people and moments when the divine plan was directly revealed to those on earth. More than that, they diagnose distress and/or call out warnings at acute moments of crisis—­the creation, the giving of the Law, the breakdown of Israel and captivity, the coming of Jesus, the ministry, and the End. This focus made particular sense when Haimo wrote, in the midst of the civil war, during the 840s, 850s, 860s. Haimo grew up not with imperial splendor but rather, it seems he thought, imperial decay. He was a generation after Hrabanus, was the product of a distinct (perhaps Iberian) school tradition, and traveled in quite different social circles.65 Haimo was schoolmaster at the episcopal abbey of Saint-­Germain of Auxerre and ended his career as abbot of the 63 For what follows, I am here dependent on the wonderful Sumi Shimahara, Haymon d’Auxerre: Exégète carolingien (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013). 64 Shimahara, Haymon d’Auxerre, 215. 65  Contreni, “Patristic Legacy to c. 1000,” 531; and E. Ann Matter, “Haimo’s Commentary on the Song of Songs and the Traditions of the Carolingian Schools,” in Études d’exégèse carolingienne: Autour d’Haymon d’Auxerre, ed. Sumi Shimahara (Turnhout: Brepols, 2007), 91–2. Also on the importance of paying attention to generational differences among our subjects, see Walsham, “Migrations of the Holy,” 261–2. Johannes Heil suggests that Haimo came from a “Theodulfian” tradition out of Iberia that conflicted with the Alcuinian court school (embodied in part by Hrabanus). See Heil, “Theodulf, Haimo, and Jewish Traditions of Biblical Learning: Exploring Carolingian Culture’s Lost Spanish Heritage,” in Discovery and Distinction in the Early Middle Ages: Studies in Honor of John J. Contreni, ed. Cullen J. Chandler and Steven A. Stofferahn (Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute Publications, 2013), 88–115.

68  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse small house of Cessy-­les-­Bois. He observed the court closely but was absolutely not a part of it. Unlike Hrbanus, who had been trained by Alcuin and corresponded with kings and emperors, Haimo’s access to Frankish royal courts was limited, if not non-­existent; he lived under Charles the Bald, who was the only Carolingian ruler of his time not to request a biblical commentary for his own edification.66 So Haimo wrote for a different audience. He wrote for his monks, for his bishop, for his count, and for the aristocracy writ large. Haimo was speaking to a new chosen people both before and after the monarchy. The framing said that the new chosen people had fallen into the same trap as their predecessors and needed new voices—­exegetes—­to call them back to repentance and God’s favor. For Haimo, “if the prophets of the Old Testament directly received the word of God, the exegetes of [his] present time received the spirit which allowed them to interpret that word and save their people.”67 For example, consider the ninth-­century exegesis and politics of the verse Daniel 2: 21. The verse reads, “[God] changes times and ages, transforms and establishes kingdoms; He gives wisdom to the wise and knowledge to those who have understanding.”68 The book as a whole was of great interest in the ninth century, thought to have offered a historical model of translatio imperii and the proper role of the prophet in a godly society.69 The verse itself comes in the midst of Nebuchadnezzar’s dream of the statue, when the prophet demonstrates his connection to God and the meaning of the terrible vision that so troubles the Babylonian king. The Latin of the verse is a warning to the king, a summative statement about God’s power over earthly kingdoms and how He moves sacred history.70 Hrabanus, writing his commentary on Daniel in the 66 Shimahara, Haymon d’Auxerre, 121. 67 Shimahara, Haymon d’Auxerre, 379. 68  Latin: et ipse mutat tempora et aetates transfert regna atque constituit dat sapientiam sapientibus et scientiam intellegentibus disciplinam. 69 Sumi Shimahara, “Le succès médiéval de l’annotation brève sur Daniel d’Haymon d’Auxerre, texte scolaire carolingien exhortant à la réforme,” in Études d’exégèse carolingienne: Autour d’Haymon d’Auxerre, ed. Sumi Shimahara (Turnhout: Brepols, 2007), 124–5, and n. 10; also Shimahara, “Daniel et les visions politiques à l’époque carolingienne,” Médiévales 55 (2008): 19–21. 70  For more on the afterlife of this pericope, see Matthew Gabriele, “The Last Carolingian Exegete: Pope Urban II, the Weight of Tradition, and Christian Reconquest.” Church History 81 (2012): 796–814; also Jay Rubenstein  Nebuchadnezzar’s Dream: The Crusades, Apocalyptic Prophecy, and the End of History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019).

Watchmen over the Apocalyptic Ninth Century  69 840s, copied Jerome’s exegesis of the verse verbatim. For Hrabanus, as for Jerome, the verse was rather straightforward; kingdoms decline through the generations, as rulers are succeeded by those who enact more and more evil until the time of the End. The wise know that the  righteous must endure as this is done to punish the wicked. For Hrabanus, as it was for Jerome, the verse is a warning about kings and kingdoms, for kings and kingdoms. Rulers are the only ones who can stop the cycle. They need to learn this lesson so that they can implement correctio. This is explicit in Hrabanus, as his commentary on Daniel was written for, dedicated to, and sent (in ca. 844 ce) to Louis the German.71 Having come of age during the reign of Louis the Pious, at a moment when the burden of keeping God’s favor increasingly fell on the shoulder of the emperor himself, Hrabanus was here playing the good courtier, acting himself like a good Huldah, as counselor to the king.72 Haimo of Auxerre’s exegesis of Daniel 2: 21 also connects this verse to Nebuchadnezzar’s vision of the perilous statue but shifts the focus away from kings and to their subjects. Haimo wrote: “[God] changes the times, that is by His foreknowledge and orderly planning He makes kings succeed kings, and kingdoms follow kingdoms. And sometimes He allows evil men to rule so that evil men would be punished by evil, and through those rulers good men will become worthy (probatiores). Therefore [Daniel] remembered those things because he recognized in

71 “Ipse mutat tempora et aetates, transfert regna atque constituit. Non ergo miremur siquando cernimus regibus reges et regnis regna succedere, quae dei gubernantur et mutantur arbitrio. Causasque singulorum nouit ille qui conditor est omnium, et saepe malos reges patitur suscitari ut mali malos puniant; simulque subostendit, et generali disputatione preparat auditorem, et somnium quod uidit esse de mutationem et succisionem regnorum.” The commentary itself has not yet been edited but the text was provided by Prof. William Schipper in a personal correspondence, October 7, 2009. The dedication of the commentary survives in Hrabanus Maurus, Epistolae (Berlin: MGH, 1899), no. 34. On this text, see James T. Palmer, The Apocalypse in the Early Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 166–7; Sumi Shimahara, “Le Commentaire sur Daniel de Raban Maur,” in Raban Maur et son temps, ed. Philippe Depreux et al. (Turnhout: Brepols, 2010), 275–91. 72 Andrew J. Romig, Be a Perfect Man: Christian Masculinity and the Carolingian Aristocracy (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2017), 67–75; also Courtney M. Booker, Past Convictions: The Penance of Louis the Pious and the Decline of the Carolingians (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009); Mayke de Jong, The Penitential State: Authority and Atonement in the Age of Louis the Pious, 814–840 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009).

70  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse the vision [of the statue] a future change.”73 The analysis is similar to Hrabanus’s but not the same. Kings are still here but they are, in a sense, passive. They enact God’s plan but without agency of their own. They are instruments, but instruments of wrath. Indeed, the only rulers here discussed are aligned with evil.74 This dim view of kingship was indeed a theme throughout Haimo’s work. In his commentary on 2 Thessalonians, he said that all emperors were types of Nero, the impious ruler.75 In Haimo’s commentary on Ezekiel, Haimo similarly blamed the disorder of his time on the sinfulness of both priests and princes. In other words, for Haimo rulers were something to be endured—­a corrupt class sent to punish the chosen people.76 The focus of Haimo’s attention was instead on the people who suffered under those rulers—­the probatiores. In explaining Romans 5: 3–4, Haimo further meditated on tribulation, patience, and being tested (probatio).77 He connected Paul’s injunction to patience in the face of tribulation to the examples of Job and the martyrs. In that testing situation, Haimo assured his reader that good habits and praiseworthy actions 73  Ipse mutat tempora, id est sua prouidentia et dispositione facit reges regibus succedere, et regnis regna. Et interdum permittat malos regnare ut et mali malos puniant, et boni per eos probatiores fiant. Quarum rerum ideo meminit quia mutationem futuram in uisione cognouit. My translation. Haimo of Auxerre, In Danielem. Text courtesy of Sumi Shimahara, personal correspondence, October 3, 2009. Dr. Shimahara is currently preparing an edition of this commentary for the CCCM. 74 This reading seems to have come from Origen, not Jerome. See Régis Courtray, “La réception du commentaire sur Daniel de Jérôme dans l’Occident médiéval chrétien (VIIe–XIIe siècle),” Sacris Erudiri 44 (2005): 133–7. 75  Haimo of Auxerre, In divi Pauli Epistolas Expositio, PL 117: 781. This commentary has been translated in Haimo of Auxerre, “Exposition of the Second Letter to the Thessalonians,” in Second Thessalonians: Two Early Medieval Apocalyptic Commentaries, ed. Steven R. Cartwright and Kevin  L.  Hughes, tr. Kevin  L.  Hughes (Kalamazoo, MI: Western Michigan University Press, 2001), 21–33. 76 Palmer, Apocalypse in the Early Middle Ages, 167; also John  J.  Contreni, “ ‘By Lions, Bishops are Meant; by Wolves, Priests:’ History, Exegesis, and the Carolingian Church in Haimo of Auxerre’s Commentary on Ezechiel,” Francia 29 (2002): 29–56. Shimahara also notes that Haimo is the only Frankish exegete to have written a commentary on the prophet Hosea, which is directly critical of the Israelite monarchy. She also notes how Haimo saw very few positive examples of rulership, only really Philip the Arab, Constantine, and Charlemagne. See Sumi Shimahara, “La représentation du pouvoir séculier chez Haymon d’Auxerre,” in The Multiple Meanings of Scripture: The Role of Exegesis in Early-­Christian and Medieval Culture, ed. Ineke van’t Spijker (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 77–81, 89–90. 77  non solum autem sed et gloriamur in tribulationibus scientes quod tribulatio patientiam operator patientia autem probationem probatio vero spem. Romans 5: 3–4.

Watchmen over the Apocalyptic Ninth Century  71 would win good men praise, but more importantly would give them hope and the expectation of eternal life.78 Haimo was shifting registers, not speaking to royalty, not to the princes, but to those who suffered under them—­the new chosen people as a whole, meaning the Franks, meaning the ecclesia. Haimo came of age in a time of troubles, most likely only knowing the end of Louis the Pious’s reign, the depositions and restorations, the machinations of the sons, the crisis of the civil war, the splintering of the new Israel just like the old. Princes—­the highest levels of Frankish politics and religion—­had failed. Hope rested elsewhere. Haimo’s audience were the ones who felt they suffered when the monarchy broke down and society followed. His audience were those who felt adrift after Fontenoy—­those who called out for the monarchy to amend its ways and return the chosen people to God’s favor. If, as John Contreni has observed, Haimo thought himself a “Carolingian Ezekiel,” we should take that seriously. Florus of Lyons, for example, had summoned the Prophet Amos. Amos supposedly lived in the midst of a splintered kingdom of Israel, writing his dire warnings to the kings of Judah and Israel to call them back to the Lord. But Ezekiel was a prophet who lived after the end of the Israelite kingdom, who could only look back on what had been lost, who only knew the captivity. Haimo too, throughout his works, lamented the ways in which the powerful—­lay and clerical alike—­had corrupted human governance and presaged the end times.79 He stood as a watchman on the walls because kings had failed. Authority (auctoritas) rested with his—­and others’—ability to divine God’s will as exegetes, to function as new prophets in a new time of troubles and call the new Israel back to the Lord.80 78  Patientia autem probationem, meritorum et fidei, sicut probati sunt sancti martyres et sicut probatu est Job, non deficiens in tribulatione. Est etiam probatio, honestas morum et laudabilitas actionum, unde probus dicitur laude dignus: probatio vero operatur spem, vitae aeternae. Spes est exspectatio futurorum bonorum. Qui ergo inter tribulationes et adversa per patientiam probabiles existunt in fide, illi securi de praemiis, futuram beatitudinem exspectant. Haimo of Auxerre, In divi Pauli epistolas expositio, PL 117: 402–3. 79  Contreni, “ ‘By Lions, Bishops are Meant’,” 53. 80  Alfonso Hernández Rodriguez, “Auctoritas y potestas en la exégesis bíblica carolingia,” Bulletin du Centre d’études médiévales d’Auxerre, hors series, 7 (2013): 19; Alfonso Hernández Rodriguez, “Anthropologie et ecclésiologie dans l’exégèse biblique carolingienne selon le Commentaire sur le prophète Osée d’Haymon d’Auxerre,” Bulletin du Centre d’études médiévales d’Auxerre 14 (2010), ; and C. Gabriel,

72  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse The Augustinian Atemporality held but just barely. Hrabanus and Haimo understood the pattern of sacred history similarly but though they were at different places upon it. Under Charlemagne and Louis the Pious, the kingdom had been bound together with their exegesis. Under Louis’s sons, some men like Hrabanus had tried to rebind it by writing to its kings.81 But others, such as Haimo who came of age just a bit later, and/or were alienated from court, saw the kingdom as irreparably broken. Israelite history said that the path back now was elsewhere, so Haimo wrote for his fellow churchmen—­monks and bishops—­but also to the aristocracy, to whom those churchmen connected deeply via patronage and preaching.82 His commentary on Daniel, for example, should be read as a pedagogical text for these groups—­a cry from the 840s (during the Frankish civil war) about the dangers of kings. This anti-­monarchical commentary looked out and saw an Israel in captivity, already destroyed, with only an indefinite future of tribulation to come.83 * * * * * We might productively think of the crisis of the 840s and thereafter as akin to Reinhart Koselleck’s Sattelzeit (“saddle time”), a period in transition between old and new ways of thinking, a moment when people began to think differently about the experience of time and their relationship with past, present, and future.84 If so, Hrabanus and Haimo sat on either side of that depression. “Commentaires inédits d’Haymon d’Auxerre sur Isaïe 5,1–6,1,” Sacris Erudiri 35 (1995): 97. On auctoritas, see also above Chapter 1 n. 27. 81 Caroline Chevalier-­Royet, “Le commentaire de Raban Maur sur les livres des rois: Manuel scolaire à l’usage des moines et guide pratique à l’usage des rois,” in Raban Maur et son temps, ed. Philippe Depreux et al. (Turnhout: Brepols, 2010), 293–303. 82  Sumi Shimahara, “L’exégèse biblique et les élites: Qui sont les recteurs de l’église à l’époque carolingienne?,” in La culture du haut Moyen Âge: Une question d’élites?, ed. François Bougard, Regine Le Jan, and Rosamond McKitterick (Turnhout: Brepols, 2009), 206–14. 83 Shimahara, Haymon d’Auxerre, 215; Shimahara, “Prophétiser à l’époque carolingienne: L’exégète de la Bible, nouveau prophète et prédicateur par l’écrit,” in Études d’exégèse médiévale: Offertes à Gilbert Dahan par ses élèves, ed. Annie Noblesse-­Rocher (Turnhout: Brepols, 2012), esp. 53–67; Shimahara, “Le succès médiéval de l’annotation brève sur Daniel,” 143–6. For another example when Haimo subtly changes verb tenses to speak to a present moment, see Matthew Gabriele, “From Prophecy to Apocalypse: The Verb Tenses of Jerusalem in Robert the Monk’s Historia of the First Crusade,” Journal of Medieval History 42 (2016): 304–16. 84  The term “saddle” here is meant in the sense of a mountain pass between peaks. First elaborated in Reinhart Koselleck, Critique and Crisis: Enlightenment and the Pathogenesis of Modern Society (Boston: MIT Press, 1988). Romig hints at this reading of the period with Fontenoy as the turning point. See Koselleck, Be a Perfect Man, 156–7. This concept has also

Watchmen over the Apocalyptic Ninth Century  73 Hrabanus was a historian for an era of kings. He looked backwards, excavated the biblical past in the service of the ninth-­century present, summoned that past like Angilbert’s poem on Fontenoy in order for it to repeat. Those who were forged at the court of Louis the Pious also thought of themselves as prophets. Paschasius Radbertus and Wala, for example, were other Jeremiahs.85 But not all prophets are the same. Jeremiah, according to tradition, lived during the reign of the righteous Israelite king Josiah who restored the law and reformed religion. New Jeremiahs, like the old, wrote to stave off Jerusalem’s destruction. This may explain, for example, some moments in Radbertus’s commentary on the Book of Lamentations when he changes the biblical verse to make clear to kings their responsibilities.86 For these prophets, the kingdom could be rebuilt if kings acted. Haimo of Auxerre also looked backwards, but only so that sacred time could advance. Haimo was a new Ezekiel, his model a prophet who could only look back on an already-­destroyed kingdom, who only knew the captivity. Haimo’s narrative began with the fall of the new Israel’s monarchy, with the new Israel fragmented. The monarchy could not be restored to what it was because the pattern of sacred history had advanced and the new Israel was in the thrall of Babylon. Haimo’s narrative, like that of Florus of Lyons, consciously looked in different directions—­backwards into the Augustinian Atemporality, and then forwards toward a sacred history that would move when the chosen people once more embraced repentance and restoration. Haimo was a different kind of prophet, an Ezekiel who wrote in exile, from Babylon.

been brilliantly dissected for the antebellum United States in Jason Phillips, Looming Civil War: How Nineteenth-­Century Americans Imagined the Future (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), 4–7. 14–15. 85 Mayke de Jong, “Becoming Jeremiah: Paschasius Radbertus on Wala, Himself and Others,” in Ego Trouble: Authors and their Identities in the Early Middle Ages, ed. Richard Corradini et al. (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2010), 185–96; De Jong, “Admonitio and Criticism of the Ruler at the Court of Louis the Pious,” in La culture du haut Moyen Âge, ed. Bougard et al., 315–38. Although, to my knowledge, Hrabanus never calls himself a prophet, Shimahara astutely notes that he is implicitly acting as one. See Shimahara, “L’exégèse biblique et les élites,” 206–7. 86  E.g., Lamentations 4: 13 says propter peccata prophetarum eius iniquitates sacerdotum eius qui effuderunt in medio eius sanguinem iustorum but Radbertus wrote propter peccata populi and iniquitates sacerdotum et principum (my emphasis). Paschasius Radbertus, Expositio in Lamentationes Hieremiae Libri Quinque, ed. Bedae Paulus (Turnhout: Brepols, 1988), 282. See also E.  Ann Matter, “The Lamentations Commentaries of Hrabanus Maurus and Paschasius Radbertus,” Traditio 38 (1982): 137–63.

74  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse His kind of prophet had already witnessed the dissolution of the kingdom. He looked to the past and present and saw tragedy and tribulation. He looked to the future with hopes for a restoration. Although manuscript transmission is never a perfect indicator of popularity (or importance), it does perhaps give us some indication of how texts were received and used in subsequent centuries. Hrabanus Maurus’s distinct commentaries total twenty-­one, and there are about 519 extant manuscripts of those works that survive from medieval Europe. Hrabanus’s most popular text, his commentary on Kings, has fifty-­seven copies.87 This is a significant, large number that indicates wide popularity and transmission. But compare these numbers with the transmission and survival of Haimo of Auxerre’s commentaries. Haimo only wrote twelve (12) distinct commentaries but they survive in approximately 715 witnesses. Moreover, the number of copies per text is at times staggering. Haimo’s commentary on the Song of Songs survives in 147 manuscript copies from the ninth–twelfth centuries, his commentary on Revelation in 161, and on Paul’s letters in 208.88 What this tells us, I think, is that the tenth century has been too often characterized “like a dingy, gritty bus stop on a cross-­country trip between the horizonless aspirations of the ninth century and the bustling purpose of the twelfth.”89 Instead, we might think of it as a time that thought of itself on the cusp of a restoration. As political power devolved, as kings grew distant both physically and intellectually from their monasteries, as the Franks continued to fight one another and peoples from the north invaded to punish them for their sins, works like Haimo’s began to take on a new resonance. If ninth-­century Europe belonged to men like Hrabanus—­to dreams of empire, to new Romes and new Israels—­then the tenth and eleventh centuries belonged to men 87  See the list of manuscripts above at n. 59. 88  Burton van Name Edwards, “From Script to Print: Manuscripts and Printed Editions of Haimo’s Commentary on the Song of Songs,” in Études d’exégèse carolingienne: Autour d’Haymon d’Auxerre, ed. Sumi Shimahara (Turnhout: Brepols, 2007), 59–85. With the help of Madeira Denison, an undergraduate assistant, I have mapped Haimo’s manuscripts for which both date and provenance are relatively secure—280/715 (39% of the total). See . 89  Geoffrey Koziol, “Is Robert I in Hell?  The Diploma for Saint-­Denis and the Mind of a Rebel King (Jan. 25, 923),” Early Medieval Europe 14 (2006): 233.

Watchmen over the Apocalyptic Ninth Century  75 like Haimo. Sacred history had emerged from its slumber, and the implications of his work meant that he and his followers urged the Franks that it was “time to wake” to a new world.90 Between Prophecy and Apocalypse: The Burden of Sacred Time and the Making of History in Early Medieval Europe. Matthew Gabriele, Oxford University Press. © Matthew Gabriele 2024. DOI: 10.1093/9780199642557.003.0003

90  Here I reference the brilliant epilogue of Paul Edward Dutton, The Politics of Dreaming in the Carolingian Empire (Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 1994).

3 The End of the Augustinian Atemporality around the Turn of the First Millennium A tenth-­ century manuscript, most likely from the monastery of ­St-­Maximin of Trier, survives today in the Bibliothèque Nationale de France. The current manuscript of 161 folios purports to be a collection made up of work by Church Fathers,1 but is actually a series of biblical commentaries mostly written in the eighth and ninth centuries. The first part of the manuscript is a mash of commentaries on Genesis by Wigbod (late eighth century) and Haimo of Auxerre (mid ninth century), followed by a second part with commentaries on Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy by (separately) Haimo and Remigius (late ninth century) of Auxerre.2 The third part contains sermons on various topics, with the fourth part a commentary on Joshua and a fifth part on Judges and Ruth, all by Wigbod. The sixth part of the manuscript moves rapidly from the Four Books of Kings and a short selection from the preface to Chronicles by Jerome, to a commentary on Daniel and another on the Acts of the Apostles, both of which are perhaps by Remigius.3 The seventh 1  “Incipit questiunculae super librum GENESIM, ex dictis sanctorum patrum Augustini, Gregrorii, Heironymii, et Ambrosii.” BNF nal 762, f. 1v. The manuscript is divided into eight parts, each containing separate commentaries and with, to my eyes, slightly different hands and slightly different qualities of vellum. The tenth-­century manuscript as it exists therefore may well be a collection that was stitched together after the composition of the individual texts. 2  See the information on this manuscript compiled in the list of Carolingian commentaries by Burton van Name Edwards. Available at . 3  The attribution of both of these commentaries is dubious. On the Daniel commentary, see Sumi Shimahara, “Evil Lords and the Devil: Tyrants and Tyranny in Carolingian Texts,” in Evil Lords: Theories and Representations of Tyranny from Antiquity to the Renaissance, tr. Nikos Panou (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), 131 n. 56. In this section of BNF nal 762, there is also a very brief excerpt from the translatio of St Germannus, which strongly suggests

The End of Augustinian Atemporality  77 part is perhaps oddest of them all—­just seven lines on one folio (f. 134) roughly abbreviating Jerome’s preface to his translation of Isaiah, emphasizing the prophet’s supposed Christological focus and the humility required for interpretation/translation.4 The manuscript as it currently exists concludes with a final part, more heavily decorated and almost certainly added later, dedicated to the Psalms. This is an odd mixture of texts; we find commentaries, excerpts from prefaces to certain books from the Vulgate, and all claiming to derive from the Fathers. The manuscript seems like a florilegium, a type of manuscript that intends to collect items of note for its readers. But these relatively common types of manuscripts were not haphazardly thrown together, instead they were almost always directed collections put together towards a specific end. Some manuscript notations made in autograph by Florus of Lyons, for example, demonstrate how he very consciously selected passages from Jerome and Gregory the Great for copyists to include in a collection, while we see similar processes at work in texts from the ninth-­century Hadoard of Corbie and Heiric of Auxerre.5 So, to what end was this compilation from St-­Maximin directed? Answering this question may help us begin to bridge the ninth century and eleventh. If we look closely at what texts are here and how they sit with one another, we can begin to see how the watchmen on the walls worked after the end of the Carolingian dynasty. The beginning of the manuscript hews to the regular canonical order of the books of the Christian Old Testament, but in the sixth part we jump. The scribe moves, skipping over seventeen books of the Bible, from the end of Kings to Daniel. And it does so because the manuscript is thinking historically. Kings end with the conquest of Jerusalem by Nebuchadnezzar, and Daniel picks up in Babylon with the Israelites in

(alongside the content of the manuscript itself) a connection for the content of the manuscript back to the abbey of St-­Germain of Auxerre. 4  My thanks to Mateusz Fafinski and Eric Wolever for helping me identify this text. See also below. 5 Jacqueline Hamesse, “Florilegia,” in The Oxford Handbook of Latin Paleography, ed. Frank  T.  Coulson and Robert  G.  Babcock (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2020), 893–6; Frans van Liere, An Introduction to the Medieval Bible (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 144–5; and Graeme Ward, History, Scripture and Authority in the Carolingian Empire: Frechulf of Lisieux (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2022), esp. chapter 1.

78  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse captivity under that same Babylonian king. As it was in the ninth century, the Book of Daniel is being read in this tenth-­century manuscript as a history.6 This reveals the intellectual coherence of the florilegium, that it was put together as a work of sacred history. The Daniel in BNF nal 762 is a commentary by Remigius of Auxerre (even if heavily dependent upon earlier commentaries by Jerome and Haimo) and the opening line of Remigius’s commentary—“On the genesis of tyrants, that is of kings”—sets the tone.7 In his brief commentary, Remigius was primarily concerned with the place of kings within God’s plan for humanity. The great statue of Daniel 2, for example, represents the passing of empires—­from Nebuchadnezzar as the head, descending to the Medes and Persians, to Alexander, to the Romans until the statue is shattered by the stone from heaven that is Jesus.8 Remigius hammers this home by seeing the progression of empires again in other of Daniel’s visions, such as those of the four beasts (chapter 7) and the ram and goat (chapter 8). And in all cases, Remigius’s exegesis of the visions is one of decline, all ending with Antichrist looming, waiting for Rome’s power to inevitably wane. It therefore made sense for our copyist to have the commentary on Daniel follow that on Kings. Now we follow an unbroken string of political disappointments through the sacred past and into the prophesized future, all the way until the very End. We can perhaps see a bit better now the structure of the manuscript. The compiler from St-­Maximin was using a historical thread to weave the vellum together. The history being told began with creation (on Genesis by Wigbod and Haimo), moved through the history of the Israelites (the books of laws, Joshua, Judges, Ruth by Wigbod, Haimo, and Remigius), then the formation of the Israelite kingdom (Kings by Jerome), to the Babylonian captivity (Daniel by Remigius). Using Daniel and particularly the exegesis of Nebuchadnezzar’s visions, sacred time 6  See Sumi Shimahara, “Daniel et les visions politiques à l’époque carolingienne,” Médiévales 55 (2008): 21. 7  “De semine tyrannorum id est regum.” BNF nal 762 f. 126. The commentary on Daniel runs from ff. 125v–128. On the shaping of Remigius’s commentary, see Régis Courtray, “La réception du commentaire sur Daniel de Jérôme dans l’Occident médiéval chrétien (VIIe–XIIe siècles),” Sacris Erudiri 44 (2005): 133–45. See also how this builds from Haimo’s teaching on Daniel, above Chapter 2 nn. 74, 80. 8  On the statue, see also above Chapter 2 nn. 66ff.

The End of Augustinian Atemporality  79 moves in an unbroken line forward to Rome. The history of the Israelites developed with the law, expanded with the kingdom, fell into exile with the captivity, and returned spiritually with Pentecost as described by the commentary on the Acts of the Apostles (by Remigius?). As we now look again at this manuscript, we see that Haimo here had won against Hrabanus; the compiler(s) of the manuscript at St-­Maximin saw that they too lived during an exile that stretched out before them towards the horizon. This manuscript still seems caught within the Augustinian Atemporality, with the chosen people in exile and sacred time in a kind of stasis. The seventh part of the manuscript, just after the commentary on Acts and consisting of just one folio (f. 134), functions as a sort of coda—­an author’s note taken from Jerome about the necessity of this kind of manuscript. It’s just a loose copy of seven lines from Jerome’s preface to Isaiah in the Vulgate. But the excerpts are selective and modified at times, focusing on how the “gentiles, that is pagans” have now seen the completion of sacred doctrine, as well as the danger—­yet need—­of the scribe to interpret scripture.9 Entering the tenth century, exegesis was an exercise that looked both backwards and forwards. Empires rose and fell, and still time marched on. After the Babylonians, more would come until the time of the Romans, which would endure for only so long. The monkish scribe(s) had here to keep one eye firmly fixed on the horizon, watching and waiting for the Antichrist that lurked just beyond. This is the necessity of continuing to interpret scripture, of continuing to study its elucidators. In this chapter, we will move towards and beyond the turn of the first millennium and begin to see sacred time come “unstuck” and that 9  “Florem sermonis eius id est speciositatem ethennicis [sic] prodere id est paganis ne sanctum canibus; darent id est doctrinam sanctam et divinitatem Christi absolvunt.” BNF nal 762 f. 134. The reference to the “pagans” would also make sense given St-­Maximin’s close connections to the Ottonian court and its involvement in certain missionary efforts to the East, such as with the monk Adalbert who was sent to Kiev and then later became later archbishop of Magdeburg. See the brief summary on Adalbert in Simon Maclean, History and Politics in Late Carolingian and Ottonian Europe: The Chronicle of Regino of Prüm and Adalbert of Magdeburg (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2009), 54–6. Note too that this florilegium is not unique in constructing a story of sacred history. See, e.g., the early eleventh-­century Barcelona Arxiu Capitular MS 64; and the ca. 1100 Paris BNF Latin 3454. One might also think about this florilegium from St-­Maximin in relation to the list of biblical citations presented by the bishop of Cambrai-­Arras to Emperor Lothar I after Fontenoy. See Chapter 2, at n. 48.

80  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse foretold future come nearer. This era has often been called a fallow period for exegesis in Latin Europe, a valley between the heights of the ninth and twelfth centuries.10 But not so. Ninth-­century Frankish exegesis overwhelmed the sensibilities of Latin authors and manifested itself in any number of ways. Like a ghost, it manifested in vast numbers of manuscripts that were copied at this time and also like a ghost (often unseen) haunted many of the new chronicles and local histories that began to appear. We will see clerics remain astute watchers on the wall, having learned and internalized the message coming from the late ninth century. In the tenth and eleventh centuries, compilers and scribes still had to situate themselves on that looping path of history. One way of doing this was by compiling florilegia like BNF nal 762, using exegesis from ninth-­century masters to reiterate the pattern at work. And as we see with this manuscript, at first these authors and scribes hewed closely to their ninth-­ century forebears, hesitating to forecast forward and interpret for their audience how this or that event mattered within cosmic time. Then, as we move into and across eleventh-­century Europe, we will begin to see more surety. Signs of hope began to appear that this time around on the looping pathways of sacred history would be the last. Some authors began scour events happening in their own times for meaning, searching for signs of God’s activity in the world, writing their own histories—­taking their examples from Gregory of Tours and Bede, but then moving one step further. Sometimes that hope was manifested explicitly but was oftentimes more implicit—­a certainty about how 10 Beryl Smalley said that no exegesis was produced for about 125 years after death of Remigius in 908. Jean Leclercq said that there was “no theology” between the Carolingians and end of the eleventh century. This misperception has been followed in the scholarship. See Smalley, The Study of the Bible in the Middle Ages (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1964), 125; Jean Leclercq, “The Renewal of Theology,” in Renaissance and Renewal in the Twelfth Century, ed. Robert  L.  Benson and Giles Constable (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1982), 68–9; Duncan Ferguson, Lectio Divina: The Medieval Experience of Reading (Collegeville, MN: Cistercian Publications, 2011), 104–5; and note how the period is simply skipped in Le Moyen Age et la Bible, ed. Pierre Riché and Guy Lobrichon (Paris: Beauchesne, 1984). Now see the comments in Christopher Ocker and Kevin Madigan, “After Beryl Smalley: Thirty Years of Medieval Exegesis, 1984–2013,” Journal of the Bible and its Reception 2 (2015): 98, 105–6; and Sumi Shimahara, “L’exégèse biblique de la fin du IXe siècle au milieu du XIe siècle: État des lieux,” in Wissen und Bildung in einer Zeit bedrohter Ordnung: Der Zerfall des Karolingerreiches um 900, ed. Warren Pezé (Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 2020), 103–46.

The End of Augustinian Atemporality  81 events would play out in some political or cultural arena, or a suggestion of a possible future. Augustine and those who followed had laid bare the looping patterns of sacred history and now the Franks, the new Israelites, suffering under a new exile, began to see the way forward, a way back to God’s favor, a way in the present to enact what the new Israel’s new prophets had seen in scripture.

Exile, Return, Speculation, and Surety Another way of saying that sacred time had become “unstuck” would be to say that it was an “apocalypse.” Within the context of the Augustinian Atemporality, this would mean God’s plan for the present had been revealed to humankind and the static cycle broken, allowing time to move towards its inevitable end. This framing, however, presents its own problems. First, we have the tendency, still, to define “apocalypse” as a disaster, as some catastrophic event that pushes or pulls the world into ruin. But of course an apocalypse is really a moment of revelation, a moment in which a hidden truth is revealed to the world. Where once there was uncertainty, now there is surety.11 As we will see, in this sense—­and only in this sense—­I think we can characterize eleventh-­ century Europe as apocalyptic. This is a particularly important distinction in this chapter, because we now find ourselves in the tenth and eleventh centuries—­home to some persistent historiographical debates about the “Terrors” or “Transformations” of the Year 1000. As noted in the Introduction, that debate has really been a debate less about the European Middle Ages and more about the meanings (and anxieties) of modernity, arising from the nineteenth century.12 Jules Michelet began the debate in the immediate aftermath of the 1830 July Revolution in France, when he saw in

11 For definitions of key terms, see e.g., James  T.  Palmer and Matthew Gabriele, “Introduction,” in Apocalypse and Reform from Late Antiquity to the Middle Ages, ed. Matthew Gabriele and James T. Palmer (New York: Routledge, 2018), 1–4. 12  See the Introduction, above. Also, the more expanded argument in Matthew Gabriele, “The ‘Terrors of the Year 1900’: The Eleventh Century and a Debate about the Meaning of Modernity,” Postmedieval 10 (2019): 194–205.

82  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse his sources an origin story for constitutional monarchism (in Robert the Pious in the eleventh century moving towards Louis Philippe in the nineteenth). He was rebutted by conservative historians later in that century, namely by an absolutist Benedictine monk who fled republican France (François Plaine), a Prussian monarchist and anti-­ Catholic (Heinrich von Eicken), and a fascist politician under Mussolini (Pietro Orsi). In every case, these historians were serving their nation’s “practical past” by creating themselves as custodians of their nation’s genealogy and structuring their narratives teleologically towards their own present day.13 This all matters for two reasons. First, this debate initially—­ but persistently—­ centered on the “fervor” of apocalypticism, about the expectation (or lack thereof) of a looming disaster and how that disaster never came. As such, this misapprehension of what apocalypticism meant to medievals themselves continues to flatten our understanding of “apocalypse” as a concept and stop us from seeing in it how apocalypse is also about a continuation of sacred time. Second, the teleology of these nineteenth-­century historians created a sense that the medieval past connected instantaneously to the author’s own time, and therefore gave the impression of foreclosed options, of absent agency—­that actors in the past had to act in the ways they did.14 But as we have seen, the role of the ninth-­century exegete was as both historian and prophet. They scoured the past for examples, then used their exegetical training to offer models for emulation to their readers. They took on the mantle of channeling God’s will, through scripture, and passing it to a wider audience. In doing so, they suggested alternative pathways. Always. The tenth century, thinking itself beset by calamities, was particularly receptive to this message and, as noted in Chapter 2, we have hundreds

13  On this move more generally in the nineteenth century, see Hayden White, The Practical Past (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 2014), 8–10. 14  This is what François Hartog has called “presentism” and I have elsewhere termed a “rainbow connection.” See François Hartog, Regimes of Historicity: Presentism and the Experiences of Time, tr. Saskia Brown (New York: Columbia University Press, 2015), 105–30; Jonas Grethlein, “ ‘Future Past’: Time and Teleology in (Ancient) Historiography,” History and Theory 53 (2014): 310–13; and Peter Manseau, “The Plague, in the Plague: Two Years of Black Death Comparisons. What have we Learned?,” Slate, March 13, 2022, .

The End of Augustinian Atemporality  83 of manuscripts by men like Haimo and Hrabanus that survive from the period. Part of the reason for the massive number of tenth-, eleventh-, and twelfth-­century manuscripts containing Haimo of Auxerre’s commentaries, it must be said, has to do with a monastic network emanating from Auxerre that looked to the East, to Prüm, St-­Gall, Fulda, Corvey, and Hildesheim, among others.15 Another reason for the spread of teaching associated with St-­Germain of Auxerre was the output of the school Haimo established there. Although he became the abbot of a small house towards the end of his life, Haimo was primarily a monastic schoolmaster and his commentaries were texts for teaching. His method was straightforward—­a rehearsing of the biblical verse, followed by elucidation—­usually literal, then typological (Figure 3.1). This was exegesis as education. Altogether just a few sentences, so clear and concise, and theologically safe for novices who might be learning Latin.16 Those hundreds upon hundreds of Haimo’s manuscripts that survive may well have done so because they were unrelentingly used; many of them are decidedly not luxury copies, but rather on solid, worn vellum that seem to have borne repeated handling. In addition, Haimo trained students. Although there were many, Heiric and Remigius were the stars, who in turn directly trained generations of monks who would become abbots and bishops throughout the Frankish heartland during the tenth century and beyond. Remigius went from Auxerre to Paris, and then to Reims, where he helped set up the cathedral school, beginning a tradition that would count Odo of Cluny, Gerbert of Aurillac, Bruno of Chartreuse, and Pope Urban II among that school’s students and masters.17 Those pupils in turn carried 15  Saint-­ Germain d’Auxerre: Intellectuels et artistes dans l’Europe carolingienne IXe–XIe ­siècles, ed. François Avril et al. (Auxerre: Musée d’art et d’histoire, 1990), 274. 16  We ought to remember that at least in the early Middle Ages monks rarely encountered the Bible directly but read through exegetes. See Silvia Cantelli Berarducci, “L’esegesi della Rinascita Carolingia,” in La Bibbia nel Medioevo, ed. G. Cremascoli and C. Leonardi (Bologna: Edizioni dehoniane, 1996), 198. On Haimo’s life and career as schoolmaster, John J. Contreni, “Haimo of Auxerre, Abbot of Sasceium (Cessy-­Les-­Bois), and a New Sermon on 1 John V, 4–10,” Révue Bénédictine 85 (1975): 303–20; Shimahara, Haymon d’Auxerre, 59–81. 17  On the school at Auxerre, see Saint-­Germain d’Auxerre, ed. Avril et al.. For Reims, see Patrick Demouy, “Bruno et la réforme de l’Église de Reims,” in Saint Bruno et sa posterité spirituelle: Actes du colloque international de 8 et 9 octobre 2001 à l’Institut catholique de Paris, ed. Alain Girard, Daniel le Blévec, and Nathalie Nabert (Salzburg: Institut für Anglistik und Amerikanistik, 2003), 13–20; Jason Glenn, Politics and History in the Tenth Century: The Work

84  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse

Figure 3.1  Vision of Ezekiel, from Commentary by Haimo of Auxerre, Paris BNF lat. 12302 1r (early eleventh century), courtesy of the Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Paris

the Auxerrois intellectual tradition with them across Europe. We see overwhelming evidence of this mostly in Europe’s monasteries and their libraries. The great summary of surviving catalogs by Gustav Becker, for example, shows how pervasive manuscripts of ninth-­century exegesis and World of Richer of Reims (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 54–64; Michel Sot, Un historien et son église au Xe siècle: Flodoard de Reims (Paris: Fayard, 1993), 72–4.

The End of Augustinian Atemporality  85 were across the continent in the tenth and eleventh centuries. A catalog from late eleventh-­century St-­Maximin of Trier listed works by Alcuin, Smaragdus, Hrabanus, and several commentaries and homilies by Haimo of Auxerre. From about the same period, St-­Evre of Toul similarly had manuscripts dedicated to Haimo’s homilies, as well as his commentaries on Paul’s letters and Psalms. To the west but also from the eleventh century, the monastery of St-­Peter of Chartres noted commentaries by Haimo and Remigius of Auxerre, as well as Hrabanus, and also some anonymous commentaries that (given context) may have been Auxerrois in their origins.18 There is also evidence of Auxerre commentaries copied during this period at Hirsau and its sister house of Zwiefalten, St-­ Aubin of Angers, Montier-­ en-­ Der, and St-­ Martial of Limoges, among many others.19 The Auxerrois influence was perhaps even greater still because of the fondness for Haimo and his students at some of the great centers of reform in the period, the abbeys of Cluny and Gorze.20 The library at Gorze seems to show the influence of one of their greatest reformers, John (d. 974). He was educated at Metz, then at St-­Mihiel by Hildebold, and finally at Toul, all of which boasted connections back to Paris and/ or Reims and the teachings of Remigius of Auxerre. John’s focus was on grammar, computus, and the Fathers and that seems to have influenced

18  Gustav Becker, Catalogi Bibliothecarum Antiqui, 2nd ed. (Bonn, 1885), 178–81, 149–54, 144–5, respectively. See also the general comments on the survival of ninth-­century exegesis in Dominique Iogna-­Prat, “Lieu de culte et exégèse liturgique à l’époque carolingienne,” in The Study of the Bible in the Carolingian Era, ed. Celia Chazelle and Burton van Name Edwards (Turnhout: Brepols, 2003), 242–3. 19  See respectively Constant J. Mews, “Monastic Educational Culture Revisited: The Witness of Zwiefalten and the Hirsau Reform,” in Medieval Monastic Education, ed. George Ferzoco and Carolyn Muessig (Leicester: Leicester University Press, 2000), 185–8; Jean Vezin, Les scriptoria d’Angers au XIe siècle (Paris: Librairie Honoré Champion, 1974), 32–4; H.  Omont, “Catalogue de la bibliothèque de l’abbé Adson de Montier-­en-­Der,” Bibliothèque de l’École des Chartres 42 (1881): 158–60; and “Catalog of Library of Saint-­Martial,” in Chroniques de Saint-­ Martial de Limoges, ed. Henri Duplès-­Agier (Paris: Société de l’histoire de France, 1874), 323–7. I only just became aware of Sumi Shimahara’s work in this area but it complements much of what I am arguing here. See e.g. the charts at Shimahara, “L’exégèse biblique de la fin du IXe siècle au milieu du XIe siècle,” 130–46. 20  To these great houses, we should also likely add those touched by individual reformers such as William of Volpiano, who was trained at Cluny and then almost certainly brought one of Haimo’s commentaries to Jumièges and similarly seems to have introduced these exegetes to the monks at St-­Benigne of Dijon. See Saint-­Germain d’Auxerre, ed. Avril et al., 66. See also my discussion of Ralph Glaber, below.

86  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse the abbey’s subsequent focus on historia (meaning exegesis) in the lit­urgy.21 And we can see the monks’ interest in exegesis and continuation of the Auxerrois tradition in the library catalog at Gorze, which survives in a version from ca. 1070. Alcuin makes an appearance, as does Hrabanus, but the ninth-­century stars are Haimo and Remigius with commentaries on the letters of Paul, homilies on Easter and Christmas, Isaiah, the Song of Songs (Haimo), Psalms, Genesis (Remigius), and a work on computus (Helperic of Auxerre). Indeed, Anne Wagner has pointed out that the catalog has a whole subsection dedicated to commentaries originating from Auxerre.22 The catalog from Cluny, dating to the abbacy of Hugh of Sémur (d. 1109), so roughly the same time as the catalog from Gorze, similarly shows signs of heavy influence from one of that abbey’s famous tenth-­ century founders—­Odo (d. 942). Hrabanus and Alcuin are well represented in this catalog, but so too are commentaries by Haimo, which can be found in a section of the catalog dedicated to Isidore of Seville (and generally concerned with canon law). Here we find Haimo on Genesis, Isaiah, Ezekiel, Jeremiah, Daniel, the letters of Paul, and Revelation, as well as Remigius on the Minor Prophets (though this is likely by Haimo) and some other commentaries without attribution but from context perhaps Auxerrois.23 These codices, perhaps most importantly, did not remain inert on their shelves. Cluny’s ca. 1040 ce Liber Tramitis had a list of books distributed to the monks for Easter reading. The majority listed were sections from the Bible, but twenty-­ nine of sixty-­ four (45 percent) were commentaries. Augustine was the most read of these, 21  Anne Wagner, “La vie culturelle à Gorze au Xe siècle d’après La Vita Johannis Gorziensis et le catalogue de la bibliothèque de Gorze,” in L’abbaye de Gorze au Xe siècle, ed. Michel Parisse and Otto Gerhard Oexle (Nancy: Presses Universitaires de Nancy, 1993), 217–24; and Lin Donnat, “Vie et coutume monastique dans La Vita de Jean de Gorze,” in L’abbaye de Gorze, 162–70. On historia as exegesis, see Chapter 2 at n. 59. 22  Anne Wagner, Gorze au XIe siècle: Contribution à l’histoire du monachisme bénédictin dans l’empire (Turnhout: Brepols, 1995); and Wagner, “Les manuscrits de la bibliothèque de Gorze: Remarques à propos du catalogue,” in Religion et culture autour de l’an Mil: Royaume capétien et Lotharingie, ed. Dominique Iogna-­Prat and Jean-­Charles Picard (Paris: Picard, 1990), 111–17. 23 See full catalog at Léopold Delisle, Inventaire des manuscrits de la Bibliothèque Nationale: Fonds de Cluni (Paris: H. Champion, 1884), 337–73. On the dating, see Veronika von Büren, “Le grand catalogue de la bibliothèque de Cluny,” in Le Gouvernement d’Hugues de Semur à Cluny: Actes du colloque scientifique international (Cluny: Buguet-­Comptour, 1990), 245–63; and von Büren, “Le catalogue de la bibliothèque de Cluny du XIe siècle reconstitué,” Scriptorium 46 (1992): 256–67.

The End of Augustinian Atemporality  87 but second most was Haimo/Remigius (with some confusion about attribution), followed by Hrabanus, and only then by Jerome.24 There has been much said about the various loci of reform in Benedictine monasticism in the century before the turn of the first millennium and their attempts to recreate the past. Sometimes this is meant in the rather standard (and true) sense of these reformers trying to recapture the purity of ancient, desert predecessors. But we ought also think of these tenth-­century monastic reform movements as eruptions from exegetical “reform reservoirs”25—in this case, reform deployed at particularly acute moments, emerging from latent (but pre-­existing) ninth-­ century ideas. There was, in other words, more continuity between the ninth and tenth centuries than we often credit. At times, these continuities are subtle. Abbot Maiolus (d. 994), for example, commissioned a copy of Hrabanus’s commentary on Jeremiah complete with dedicatory epistle from Hrabanus to Lothar I.26 Later, an early eleventh-­century Bible produced for Abbot Odilo of Cluny (d. 1049) by a monk named Franco opens with a poem. Originally written by Alcuin for Charlemagne, Franco simply substituted in his and his abbot’s names as donor and patron, respectively.27 In both cases, the Cluniacs were looking to the ninth century for answers, recapitulating the past in their own time. Alcuin and Hrabanus, speaking to their kings, offered the abbots models for how to engage in their own day. Much of this desire for continuity seems to have been present from the very beginning. Early Cluny, especially under Abbot Odo, was 24  Some commentaries listed are almost certainly misattributed. Hrabanus did not, e.g., write a commentary on the Minor Prophets but both Haimo and Remigius did and Cluny’s catalog listed a copy of the latter’s. Remigius did not write a commentary on Ecclesiastes but Alcuin did and that is listed in the later catalog. See the summary in André Wilmart, “Le convent et la bibliothèque de Cluny vers le milieu du XIe siècle,” Revue Mabillon 11 (1921): 89–124. The full text is Liber Tramitis Aevi Odilonis Abbatis, ed. Peter Dinter CCM 10 (Siegburg: Franz Schmitt, 1980), 261–4. 25 I take this language of “reservoirs” from excellent new work on the Second Plague Pandemic. See Monica H. Green, “The Four Black Deaths,” American Historical Review, 125 (2020): 1601–31. 26  Now BL Add. 22820. On this manuscript, see Matthew Gabriele, “The Last Carolingian Exegete: Pope Urban II, the Weight of Tradition, and Christian Reconquest,” Church History 81 (2012): 796–7. 27  Now BNF lat. 15176. On this manuscript, see Neil Stratford, “La Bible dite ‘d’Odilon,’ ” in Cluny 910–2010: Onze siècles de rayonnement, ed. Neil Stratford (Paris: Patrimoine, 2010), 92–5.

88  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse heavily influenced by ninth-­century Frankish monastic forms and the commitment to most Carolingian institutions and traditions.28 This was a conscious choice. We do not know much about Odo’s background, save what we have learned in the later hagiography of John of Salerno, but Odo was almost certainly from a Frankish aristocratic family, and may have been connected to Aquitaine and the court of those dukes. This latter filiation may be how he became a canon at St-­Martin of Tours ca. 899 ce. Regardless, from there Odo moved to Paris before 909 to study with Remigius of Auxerre, whence he moved to be schoolmaster first at the monastery of Baume then Cluny, bringing his training and his large personal library to both monasteries. In his teaching (which of course includes his writing) he effectively became “a link between the Carolingian thinkers of St-­Germain of Auxerre and the ‘doctrinaire monks’ of the Year 1000.” Or, to put it another way, “Odo’s works constitute a discourse which utilizes Carolingian frameworks of thought to understand [his own] society in transition.”29 Odo’s writings were not a bland regurgitation of Auxerrois teaching though. All his works were, in the words of Anne-­Marie Bultot-­Verleysen, commentaries on commentaries, following in his masters’ footsteps, but doing so by accreting hermeneutic layers. In Odo’s case, we can see this in that he excerpted Gregory the Great’s Moralia in Job for his fellow canons at Tours, that his Collationes was a meditation on Haimo/Hrabanus on Jeremiah, and his Occupatio a meditation for his Cluniac brethren on Smaragdus’s work on the ideal monastic life.30 None of these works intended to efface the work of his giant predecessors but rather to adapt 28  Adriaan H. Bredero, “Cluny et le monachisme carolingien: Continuité et discontinuité,” in Beneditine Culture, 750–1050, ed. W. Lourdaux and D. Verhelst (Louvain: Leuven University Press, 1983), 50–75; Giles Constable, “Cluny in the Monastic World of the Tenth Century,” in Cluny from the Tenth to the Twelfth Centuries: Further Studies (Brookfield, VT: Ashgate, 2000), 1: 396–9; Isabelle Rosé, Construire une société seigneuriale: Itinéraire et ecclésiologie de l’abbé Odon de Cluny (fin du IXe–milieu du Xe siècle) (Turnhout: Brepols, 2008), esp. 232–9. On Odo’s biography generally, see Rosé, Construire une société; and Christian Lauranson-­Rosaz, “Les origines d’Odon de Cluny,” Cahiers de Civilisation Médiévale 37 (1994): 255–67. For the medieval hagiography, John of Salerno, The Life of St. Odo of Cluny, tr. Gerard Sitwell, in St. Odo of Cluny: Being the Life of St. Odo of Cluny by John of Salerno and the Life of St. Gerald of Aurillac by St. Odo (London: Sheed & Ward, 1958). 29 Rosé, Construire une société, 95, 625. 30 Odo of Cluny, Vita Sancti Geraldi Auriliacensis, ed. Anne-­ Marie Bultot-­ Verleysen (Brussels: Société des Bollandistes, 2009), 6–7.

The End of Augustinian Atemporality  89 them. The Occupatio, for example, with an uncertain date of composition but perhaps the last of his oeuvre to be written, argued for the superiority of the monastic life as a path to salvation. And it did so by forcibly dragging the apostolic age into Odo’s own time, claiming that his subjects (monks) were a continuation of the promise made to the Apostles at Pentecost. He conceded that many monasteries had fallen into decadence and sin and needed restoration and reform, but Odo still had hope that there could be a course correction and this time things would be better.31 We should recognize this framework. The Augustinian Atemporality was here manifested and is woven throughout all of Odo’s works. His Collationes, written from Baume likely around the time of his ordination and dedicated to Bishop Turpio of Limoges, is itself a type of florilegium but revolving around Jeremiah (including Lamentations) and intended as both a consolation and exhortation for his clerical audience. The right­eous of the tenth century here suffer as did Job, requiring not only perseverance but also right action in the world.32 The same could be said of Odo’s Life of Gerald of Aurillac. Written just before 930, while he was at Cluny and not long after the Collationes, the hagiography broadened Odo’s consolation and extended it to the aristocracy. One of the main arguments here was the need to re-­implement ninth-­century Frankish order on a disordered world.33 In both the Collationes and Life of Gerald, remaking the world in a Carolingian image was more imaginative than simple aping. Godly authority in the world belongs here to the bishops, who were to work in concert with the aristocracy (potentes or potentiores) in order to exercise 31  Jean Leclercq, “l’idéal monastique de saint Odon d’après ses oeuvres,” in A Cluny: Congrès scientifique, fêtes et cérémonies liturgiques en l’honneur des saints abbés Odon et Odilon, 9–11 Juillet 1949 (Dijon, 1950), 227–32; Kassius Hallinger, “The Spiritual Life of Cluny in the Early Days,” in Cluniac Monasticism in the Central Middle Ages, ed. Noreen Hunt (Hamden, CT: Palgrave Macmillan, 1971), 33–8. 32  Odo of Cluny, Collationum Libri Tres, PL 133: 517–638. See also Rosé, Construire une société, 130–4, 418; and Barbara Rosenwein, Rhinocerous Bound: Cluny in the Tenth Century (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1982), 66–8. 33  E.g., Stuart Airlie, “The Anxiety of Sanctity: St. Gerald of Aurillac and his Maker,” Journal of Ecclesiastical History 43 (1992): 372–95; and Dominique Barthélemy, “Sainte Foy de Conques et les violences de l’an Mil,” in Ante el Milenario del Reinado de Sancho el Mayor: Un Rey Navarro para España y Europa, ed. Ángel J. Martín Duque (Pamplona: Govierno de Navarro, 2004), 73–4.

90  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse justice and protect those in need (pauperes). Their enemies are the greedy, lawless, petty soldiers (milites, or also often raptores) wreaking havoc across the countryside. This framework is significant for a couple of reasons. First, at a basic level, Odo is making clear that ninth-­century royal prerogatives have de facto devolved to the aristocracy. Whereas Hrabanus had written for kings, now for Odo the new prophets serve the potentes, a class of armed men who must therefore listen to their bishops and monks for guidance. This is Haimo manifested (but with a twist). Note too that Odo is also making a class distinction that deviated from his predecessors. Since Gregory the Great, and continuing through the later ninth century (particularly during and after the Frankish civil war), the term potentes had been used extensively to denote those who oppressed the poor. These had always been the bad guys. In his commentary on Paul’s Letters, for example, Haimo had positioned “philosophers and the powerful” (philosophos et potentes) as those opposed to the work of the Apostles.34 But Odo changed things. The potentes were his good guys. They were now men like Gerald of Aurillac, who assumed formerly royal power and inherited the sword of justice.35 We should note that Odo’s position is both intellectual and practical. His assertion here that power has devolved seems to fit with a commonly held scholarly conception that tenth-­century continental Europe was one between significant expressions of royal power. That said, kings were never absent and as such kings seem to have been primarily a first among equals (the first of these potentes in Odo’s thinking).36 It is also, 34 E.g., Videamus quomodo per ista infirma mundi ostendebat mendaces, potentes, et fortes hujus saeculi, et quomodo faciebat eos erubescere . . . et dum eos per invocationem filii dei crucifixi suscitabant, apparebant philosophi et potentes mundi mendaces, et illi veraces. Haimo of Auxerre, In divi Pauli Epistolas Expositio, PL 117: 517. 35 Rosé, Construire une société, esp. 419–80; and Rosé , “Les origines de Cluny, le Cluny des origines: Réflexions sur la construction d’une domination monastique au premier âge féodal,” in Cluny: Les moines et la société au premier âge féodal, ed. Dominique Iogna-­Prat et al. (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2013), 44. 36  This development is perhaps a (but not necessarily “the”) logical conclusion of broader trends in Frankish historiography that talked about the collective as a populus christianus, with kings as avatars of that collective. See, e.g., the comments in Simon Maclean, “The Carolingian Past in Post-­Carolingian Europe,” in “The Making of Europe”: Essays in Honour of Robert Bartlett, ed. John Hudson and Sally Crumplin (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 11–29; but then also Matthew Gabriele, An Empire of Memory: The Legend of Charlemagne, the Franks, and Jerusalem before the First Crusade (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), esp. 130–8.

The End of Augustinian Atemporality  91 however, worth thinking about how much of this intellectual change was driven by a de facto difference in the way bishops operated during the tenth century. As others have noted, bishops began to develop new networks with other bishops outside the royal court and even taking for themselves peace-­keeping and other previously royal prerogatives.37 The second larger point is simply to recognize how Odo justified this modification. Both the Collationes and Life of Gerald drip with biblical citations, produced by Odo’s training in earlier biblical commentaries and then pushed out into the (supposedly) secular world.38 Gerald’s warfare in the world is justified by Odo with comparisons to the Israelite kings David, Hezekiah, and Josiah, which were stock models throughout the ninth century. And Gerald’s perseverance in the face of un­re­ pent­ant raptores was compared over and over to Job, which was of course a favorite topic of Odo’s via his attentiveness to Gregory the Great’s Moralia.39 In Odo’s Collationes, this connection between the events of the world around him are perhaps even more explicitly illuminated by exegesis. In this work, noted by his hagiographer as Odo’s “three books on Jeremiah” and explicitly requested by Bishop Turpio to explain the disorder of their own time, Odo used Ezekiel—­but a specific reading of the prophet taken from Haimo’s commentary and then ­modified to so that he could rail against the raptores and exhort them to

37  On the de facto change, see e.g. Geneviève Bührer-­Thierry and Laurent Jégou, “L’épiscopat du premier âge féodal (Xe–milieu XIe siècles),” in Cluny: Les moines et la société au premier âge féodal, ed. Iogna-­Prat et al., 79–83. 38  On the effervescence of biblical citations in these texts see, e.g., Odo, Vita Sancti Geraldi, ed. Bultot-­Verleysen, 32–6; Rosé, Construire une société, 88–9, 486–9. In addition, we ought to remember that biblical citations were never “naked” but rather always carried with them exegesis for their readers. See C. H. Kneepkens, “There is More in a Biblical Quotation than Meets the Eye: On Peter the Venerable’s Letter of Consolation to Heloise,” in Media Latinitas: A Collection of Essays to Mark the Retirement of L.  J.  Engels, ed. R.  I.  A.  Nip et al. (Turnhout: Brepols, 1996), 89–100; Gabriele, “The Last Carolingian Exegete.” 39 E.g., “Illo nimirum Davitico spiritu iam, ut reor, afflatus, quo ille feruens non dabat sompnum oculis donec;” “Cum uero inexplebilis malicia quorundam pacificum pocius hominem irrideret, iam tun, cordis acrimoniam exerens, conterebat molas iniqui ut, iuxta illud Iob, de dentibus eorum auferret predam;” “Nimirum – ut de Iob dicitur quod simplex erat et rectus – et iste vir, quamuis pauperibus multum consuleret, tame ad puniendum reos non usquequaque dormitabat;” and “Quamuis igitur seculari gloria fastigiatus fuerit, non debet incredibile uel incongruum uideri si Deus illum signis glorificat qui hunc in obseruantium mandatorum eius glorificauit. An non potentes et bellicosi fuerunt rex Dauid, Ezechias, et Iosias?” See Odo, Vita Sancti Geraldi, ed. Bultot-­Verleysen, 1.6, 1.8, 1.18, 1.42, respectively.

92  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse change.40 In the ninth century, exegetes had absolutely thought about how biblical history illuminated their contemporary world. This is different than that though. Odo is doing something perhaps closer to a Bede but still his own thing, applying exegetical lessons not to the far past but to the present day. Let me be clear here; what we see with Odo’s work is a fidelity to ninth-­century exegesis that asserted the place of the Franks in sacred time that is now being carried forward into the tenth, used to help understand contemporary circumstances. Hrabanus and especially Haimo had tracked hope and disappointment as the new kingdom of Israel floundered. By the tenth century, that dream of restoration survived, but without its kings. Odo looked to his bishops and potentes (distinct, we remember, from raptores/milites) such as Gerald and this caused him to shift his focus, to intensify the exegetical gaze beyond the bounds of the monastery and into the secular world. Instead of reading the Bible out into the world as had been done before, Odo was finding and interpreting events happening around him to help him understand the commentaries, which helped him understand God’s plan for the world. And he was, of course, not alone. Thietland of Einsiedeln’s (d. 964) commentary on 2 Thessalonians is an atypical, but nevertheless interesting, example of this move when he argued that events in the world proved that the devil would be loosed in 1033 ce.41 In a letter from the early tenth century addressed to Bishop Dado of Verdun (d. 923), a monk at St-­Germain of Auxerre explained to the bishop the meaning behind the recent incursions by the Magyars/Hungarians. The letter connects the invaders to Gog and 40 See the analysis in Matthew Gabriele, “This Time. Maybe This Time. Biblical Commentary, Monastic Historiography, and Lost Cause-­ ism at the Turn of the First Millennium,” in Apocalypse and Reform from Late Antiquity to the Middle Ages, ed. Gabriele and Palmer, 183–7. 41  Thietland of Einsiedeln, “In Epistolam II Ad Thessalonicenses,” in Second Thessalonians: 2 Early Medieval Apocalyptic Commentaries, ed. and tr. Steven R. Cartwright and Kevin L. Hughes (Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute Publications, 2001), 41–76; and Steven  R.  Cartwright, “Thietland’s Commentary on Second Thessalonians: Digressions on the Antichrist and the End of the Millennium,” in The Apocalyptic Year 1000: Religious Expectation and Social Change, 950–1050, ed. Richard Landes, Andrew Gow, and David  C.  van Meter (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 93–108; Kevin  L.  Hughes, Constructing Antichrist: Paul, Biblical Commentary, and the Development of Doctrine in the Early Middle Ages (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2005), 174–6.

The End of Augustinian Atemporality  93 Magog, linking Ezekiel 38–9 to Revelation 20 to show the cosmic s­ ignificance, and threat, posed. Although in doing so the author was pulling from earlier commentaries by Haimo and Jerome, the application of these exegetical understandings to very recent events was a creative attempt to integrate a new phenomenon (an unforeseen invasion) into the arc of sacred history.42 Again, these authors were not reading commentaries out towards events, but rather reading events back in towards previous commentaries. This is the same line of thinking found in the famous mid-­tenth-­century tract by Adso of Montier-­en-­Der (d. 992) on the Antichrist. Adso rejected Odo’s focus on the aristocracy as leading the Franks back to God’s and instead focused on their kings. Although dependent on Haimo of Auxerre’s exegesis, Adso was conservative in following out Haimo’s conclusions. Haimo had argued that the “falling away” (discessio) from imperial power that was to precede the arrival of Antichrist had already occurred. Yet, writing directly to Queen Gerberga of West Francia (d. 969?), Adso argued that sacred time remained paused. Compiling an argument from fourth- and ninth-­century exegetes, Adso’s understanding of events in the world led him to this conclusion because he reasoned that the Antichrist was being held off by the continuation of imperium in the Frankish royal line (Gerberga’s husband).43 Adso’s was

42  For the text of the letter, R. B. C. Huygens, “Un témoin de la crainte de l’an 1000: La Lettre sur les Hongrois,” Latomus: Revue d’Études Latines 15 (1956): 229–35. See also the analysis in Saint-­Germain d’Auxerre, ed. Avril et al., 274–5; and esp. Maximilian Diesenberger, “Die Steppenreiter aus dem Osten: Eine Exegetische Herausforderung,” in Im Schnittpunkt Frühmittelalterlicher Kulturen: Niederösterreich an Der Wende vom 9.zZum 10. Jahrhundert, ed. Roman Zehetmayer (St. Pölten: Niederösterreichisches Institut für Landeskunde, 2008), 150–68. More generally on Gog and Magog in the early European Middle Ages, James T. Palmer, “Apocalyptic Outsiders and their Uses in the Early Medieval West,” in Peoples of the Apocalypse: Eschatological Beliefs and Political Scenarios, ed. Wolfram Brandes, Felicitas Schmieder, and Rebekka Voss (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2016), 307–20. 43  Adso Dervensis, De Ortu et Tempore Antichristi, CCCM 45 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1976); and English translation in Adso Dervensis, De Antichristo, tr. Bernard McGinn, in Apocalyptic Spirituality (New York: Paulist Press, 1979), 89–96. On Adso’s dependence upon and revision to Haimo’s work, see Hughes, Constructing Antichrist, 147–72; Gabriele, “This Time. Maybe This Time,” 188–9; Hannes Möhring, Der Weltkaiser der Endzeit: Entstehung, Wandel und Wirkung einer Tausendjährigen Weissagung (Stuttgart: Thorbecke, 2000), 145–6. On Adso’s ties to the West Frankish royal house, see e.g. Robert Konrad, De Ortu et Tempore Antichristi: Antichristvorstellung und Geschichtsbild des Abtes Adso von Montier-­ En-­ Der (Kallmünz: Lassleben, 1964); Bernd Schneidmüller, “Adso von Montier-­en-­Der und die Frankenkönige,” Trierer Zeitschrift für Geschichte und Kunst des Trierer Landes und Seiner Nachbargebiete 40–41

94  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse an act of imagination—­one with precedent absolutely but nonetheless a reading of a ninth-­century authority adapted to a different world. The common thread among these three brief examples is clearly a concern about the events of the End. But in all cases, these texts were standing staunchly against any argument that the end of the world was imminent. Instead, they are one and all about reform.44 Thietland, the anonymous monk of Auxerre who wrote about the Hungarians, and Adso were all invoking the future in order to (try to) restore equilibrium in the Augustinian Atemporality—­to assuage potential concerns about misreading movement in sacred time, to reassert their authority as (monks and) watchers on the wall. The thousand years spoken of in Revelation was still some way off, the Hungarians were akin to Gog and Magog but more like heretics and ought to be understood allegorically, the Frankish kings needed to be supported to hold off the Antichrist. Christendom was stable, for now. They were looking to the future but only from, they thought, an unmoving point in their present. Yet none of them could avert their gaze from the future. Paradoxically by refocusing (or perhaps better intensifying) their focus on local and near term, events could—­and did—­expand the purview of these monastic authors. Events required interpretation. The world beyond the page needed an exegetical hermeneutic. History was pregnant with meaning, the loop of the Augustinian Atemporality about to break, and sacred time was ready to restart. During the eleventh century, the future seemed to arrive.

(1977): 189–99; Daniel Verhelst, “Adso of Montier-­en-­Der and the Fear of the Year 1000,” in The Apocalyptic Year 1000: Religious Expectation and Social Change, 950–1050, ed. Richard Landes, Andrew Gow, and David C. van Meter (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 81–92; Sylvain Gouguenheim, “Adson, la reine et l’Antichrist: Eschatologie et politique dans le de Ortu et Tempore Antichristi,” in Les moines du Der, 673–1790, ed. Patrick Corbet, Jackie Lusse, and Georges Viard (Langres: D.  Guéniot, 2000), 135–46; James  T.  Palmer, The Apocalypse in the Early Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 194–8; as well as the argument against in Simon Maclean, “Reform, Queenship and the End of the World in Tenth-­ Century France: Adso’s ‘Letter on the Origin and Time of the Antichrist’ Reconsidered,” Revue Belge de Philologie et d’Histoire 86 (2008): 645–75. 44 On the way that apocalypse and reform are intertwined, see the essays collected in Apocalypse and Reform from Late Antiquity to the Middle Ages, ed. Gabriele and Palmer.

The End of Augustinian Atemporality  95

Restarting Sacred Time In a 1995 article, Mayke de Jong noted that the relationship between Frankish kings of the civil war and their clerical advisors was built upon biblical commentary. Scripture served as a model for them to base their actions. The kings of Israel, both groups thought, could lead the new Israel. Moreover, critically, de Jong was clear that there was barely a breath between exegesis and historiography—­both dealing with the sacred past, both called historia.45 That said, the ninth century generally kept these genres distinct from one another. Both types of texts could inform the king, with annals, for example, mapping out recent events and commentaries clarifying the relevance of the deep (Israelite) past. In the tenth century, as ninth-­century commentaries were prodigiously copied and read, especially in “reforming” houses, a couple of things happened. First, as noted above, the audience to which their exhortations were directed changed. Now, models pulled from sacred history were meant not for kings but the nobility. Second, although few new direct works of exegesis were produced, there was an efflorescence of commentaries on commentaries. Florilegia stitched together works in new, history-­minded ways. Treatises, poems, letters, and hagiographies situated their authors and subjects within sacred time. It was as if the meaning and pattern of God’s plan for the world seemed settled and the watchmen on the walls needed instead to turn their attention to what lay beyond, to the countryside, looking for disruptions. During the eleventh century, exegesis and historiography began to come together in ways that grew logically (but again not necessarily) from the developments of previous centuries. Ninth-­century exegesis continued to be prolifically copied, while new textual production was directed elsewhere, more focused on recent events. But the tone of these latter works noticeably changed. Historiography itself became, in some ways, a form of exegesis—­not only a way of reading the pattern of sacred history in recent events, but explicitly talking about the implications of 45 Mayke de Jong, “Old Law and New-­Found Power: Hrabanus Maurus and the Old Testament,” in Centres of Learning: Learning and Location in Pre-­Modern Europe and the Near East, ed. Jan Willem Drijvers and Alisdair A. MacDonald (Leiden: Brill, 1995), 166–7; and now Ward, History, Scripture and Authority, 202–5.

96  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse those events, of offering a new/updated commentary. In some ways, historiography began (tentatively at first) predicting the future.46 Ademar of Chabannes was a monk of St-­Cybard of Angoulême but spent a large part of his monastic career at St-­Martial of Limoges. His Chronicon, which underwent three recensions by his own hand, was completed shortly before his death while on pilgrimage to Jerusalem in 1034 ce.47 Throughout the work, Ademar plays a subtle game, structuring the narrative around the Franks but linking them clearly to the biblical past and continuing their history forward into his own early eleventh-­century Aquitaine.48 Structured in three books, the Chronicon first tells a story of Frankish ascent to the time of King Pepin the Short (d. 768). The second book is about Charlemagne (d. 814). Book 3 is a bit of an odd duck. It follows the end of the Carolingian dynasty and rise of the Capetians and Ottonians. Then, around chapter 35 the focus becomes more intensely local and calamitous. Heretics (Manichaeans) abounded and ruined good Christians, the Jews plotted with Muslims to destroy the Holy Sepulcher, and invasions by Muslims, Northmen, and Danes ravaged the countryside.49 As a whole, the Chronicon could credibly be read as Ademar’s retelling of the Book of Kings.50 46  Gabrielle Spiegel argued that chronicles actually “secularized” typology but this misses the fact that, as I have argued throughout this book, all history was at least potentially sacred history. See her argument in Gabrielle  M.  Spiegel, “Structures of Time in Medieval Historiography,” Medieval History Journal 19 (2016): 28–31. 47  Ademar of Chabannes, Chronicon, ed. R. Landes and P. Bourgain, CCCM 129 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1999). On Ademar’s text, Daniel F. Callahan, Jerusalem and the Cross in the Life and Writings of Ademar of Chabannes (Leiden: Brill, 2016); Richard Landes, Relics, Apocalypse, and the Deceits of History: Ademar of Chabannes, 989–1034 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995). Note too that St-­Martial was closely connected to Cluny. See Mathew Kuefler, “Dating and Authorship of the Writings about Saint Gerald of Aurillac,” Viator 44 (2013): 49–97. 48  Linking biblical past and Aquitanian present can be found throughout Ademar’s writings. See, e.g., James Grier, “Biblical and Classical Imagery in the Liturgical Poetry of Ademar of Chabannes (989–1034),” Journal of Medieval Latin 16 (2006): 76–94. 49 Ademar, Chronicon, 3.47, ed. Landes and Bourgain, 3.49, 3.52–3, 3.55, 3.59. 50  Although Ademar’s Chronicon is formally divided into three books, I would tentatively suggest that the section after 3.35 could be read as a separate section/book. As the modern editors observe, the capitulation in the edition is practical and does not correspond to Ademar’s own schema. See Ademar, Chronicon, 3.47, ed. Landes and Bourgain, lxxxv–lxxxvi. On the numbering of the Book of Kings (four) in medieval European Bibles, Frans van Liere, An Introduction to the Medieval Bible (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 54–6. As a reminder, 1 Kings (1 Samuel) is the story of Saul’s fall and David’s ascent, 2 Kings (2 Samuel)

The End of Augustinian Atemporality  97 This is where it gets interesting. 4 Kings (2 Kings in modern editions) ends with the destruction of Jerusalem by Nebuchadnezzar. It ends with calamity. In Ademar’s Chronicon, however, things at this moment instead begin to improve. The Franks as New Israelites turn back towards God. In 1026, Count William of Angoulême returned from Jerusalem and was stricken by witches. Pulling explicitly from Jerome’s Commentary on Daniel, Ademar explained that one could find precedent for what happened in Antiochus’s allowance of witchcraft. Why, Ademar asked? Because God allows evil to test the faithful, just as He did for Job and Paul.51 And Ademar is clear that the Franks passed the test and the challenges were met. The witches were killed. Pilgrims flooded the path to Jerusalem. A council condemned the Manichaeans. The kings of Navarre and Galicia attacked the Muslims in Iberia.52 A rewritten final Book of Kings continued here with the New Israel on a different path. The looping cycle of the Augustinian Atemporality did not continue. Ademar saw deviation from the pattern. Hesitantly, he suggested that ca. 1030 the new chosen people were on the cusp of something new. Rodulfus Glaber (d. ca. 1045), a fellow monk and contemporary of Ademar, spent time at St-­Germain of Auxerre, St-­Bénigne of Dijon, and Cluny, and wrote his Five Books of the Histories at them all.53 Rodulfus is much more concerned with recent history than Ademar, beginning with imperial Rome in book 1 but ending that same book with the division of the Frankish empire and invasion of the Normans and Muslims ca. 900. The period covered by subsequent books shrinks after that. Book 2 about David’s reign, 3 Kings (1 Kings) is the reign of Solomon and division of the Israelite kingdom, and 4 Kings (2 Kings) the destruction of the kingdoms despite some righteous rulers. 51  Nec mirum, si Deus permittit christianum prestigiis maleficorum corpore aegrotare, cum beatum Job sciamus a diabolo percussum gravi ulcere et Paulum ab angelo Domini colaphizatum, nec timenda sit corporis perituri aegrotatio, gravior que sit animarum quam corporum percussio. Ademar, Chronicon, ed. Landes and Bourgain, 3.66. See also the discussion of this episode in Landes, Relics, Apocalypse, and the Deceits of History, 191–2; and on the importance of heresy to Ademar, Michael Frassetto, “Heretics, Antichrists, and the Year 1000: Apocalyptic Expectations in the Writings of Ademar of Chabannes,” in The Year 1000: Religious and Social Response to the Turning of the First Millennium, ed. Michael Frassetto (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002), 73–84. 52 Ademar, Chronicon, ed. Landes and Bourgain, 3.68–70. 53  Rodulfus Glaber, Historiarum Libri Quinque, ed. and tr. John France (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989), xxxiii–lix.

98  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse dwells in the tenth century and famously invokes Revelation 20: 7 and the loosing of the devil after a thousand years.54 The next book centers on the turn of the first millennium, with a glint of hope and his other famous passage about the world cladding itself in a “white mantle of churches” and rediscovery of relics. That hope crumbles in that same book when great men are killed, Jews plot against Christians, and heresy fills the world.55 Then, the Histories turn in book 4. There are noticeably more biblical allusions here than in any of the previous books, and those allusions speak of disorder around the millennium of the Passion (1033 ce). More heresy appears—­spread by demons at work in the world—­and famine chastises Christendom.56 The chaos Rodulfus sees, he asserts, had been foretold across the sweep of the Bible—­in Isaiah, Proverbs, Deuteronomy, Ecclesiastes, and 2 Peter, for example. Rodulfus at one point evokes the prophet Hosea, as that book’s lamentations about the dire state of Israel’s kings seemed particularly apt in the contemporary world.57 Things are so bad that the Antichrist’s arrival might be on the horizon.58 The final book of Rodulfus’s work, composed ca. 1046 not long before his death, is both historiographical and reflective.59 More importantly for our purposes, the book is an exegesis of the events of eleventh-­ century Europe. Saying he intends to explain how it can be proven that God still is at work in the world, Rodulfus invokes Exodus and the Gospels to explain that Christendom is being purified so that they can “serve as foundations for the Kingdom of Christ.” And he is explicit 54 Glaber, Historiarum, ed. and tr. France, 93. For more on the long tail of that reference and the so-­called “Terrors of the Year 1000,” see Gabriele, “Terrors of the Year 1900,” 196–8. 55 Glaber, Historiarum, ed. and tr. France, 117, 127. 56 Glaber, Historiarum, ed. and tr. France, 177–93. 57  E.g., Glaber, Historiarum, ed. and tr. France, 199. 58 Glaber, Historiarum, ed. and tr. France, 211–13, 205. At the outset of book 4, Glaber also notes that the discessio (“falling away” of imperial authority from Rome) of 2 Thessalonians may have already occurred. Quoniam, licet potestas Romani imperii, que olim in orbe terrarium monarches uiguit, nunc per diversa terrarium innumeris regatur sceptris. Glaber, Historiarum, ed. and tr. France, 175. The discessio was critically important for both Haimo of Auxerre’s and Adso of Montier-­en-­Der’s understanding of the arrival of Antichrist. See Gabriele, “This Time. Maybe This Time,” 187–8. 59  On the dating of this book of the Histories, Glaber, Historiarum, ed. and tr. France, xxxvii, xlv; and Dominique Iogna-­Prat and Edmond Ortigues, “Raoul Glaber et l’historiographie clunisienne,” Studi Medievali 26 (1985): 566–7.

The End of Augustinian Atemporality  99 about why he is doing this; Rodulfus writes, “there is plentiful evidence in Holy Scripture that the [metaphor of purifying water] prefigures this world of ours.”60 If we could see Ademar’s Chronicon as a retelling of Kings, we might also see Rodulfus’s Five Books of the Histories as his retelling of the Pentateuch, mapping out sacred history writ large within the confines of early eleventh-­century Europe.61 Then, again, the author makes a turn. The last book of the Pentateuch (Deuteronomy) ends with Moses’s death, before the Israelites reached the promised land. Like Ademar though, Rodulfus will not allow that to sit—­to end on a note of unfulfilled promise. Instead, Rodulfus ends his work with a historical note, a brief summary of the actions of Emperor Henry III (d. 1056) ca. 1045. Henry reforms the Church, crushing simoniacal heretics, setting the bishops in order, and installing Pope Gregory VI (d. 1048).62 In doing so, Rodulfus reports the emperor as saying “just as God, without thought of reward . . . conferred upon me the crown of imperial authority [coronam imperii], so I shall exert myself without thought of reward in all matters relating to His religion.”63 Just as Deuteronomy is followed by the Book of Joshua, Henry is here preparing the Franks—­the New Israel—­to return to God’s favor, to enter as it were the new promised land. We should be clear that in their histories neither Ademar nor Rodulfus were formally predicting the future. But they were hopeful and they were comfortable setting that tone. They subscribed to the (by this time) well-­established pattern of sacred history discerned by exegetes of generations past but saw a cycle on the cusp of either return or movement to a new phase. This is a significant change we can even see in eleventh-­century hagiography. For example, The Miracles of Ste Foy, 60  sed quid hoc facto fidelibus universis innuitur nisi quod, subactis gentibus universis et non funditus perditis vel extirpatis, ex eisdem stabilietur Christi regnum per secula mansurum? Est enim frequens adtestatio divini sermonis quod videlicet mare figuram great presentis seculi. Glaber, Historiarum, ed. and tr. France, 229–31. 61  See the excellent discussion in Iogna-­Prat and Ortigues, “Raoul Glaber,” 541, 566–7; also Dominique Barthélemy, The Serf, the Knight, and the Historian, tr. Graham Robert Edwards (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2009), 296–7. 62 Glaber, Historiarum, ed. and tr. France, 251–3. 63  Spopondit insuper promissum huiusmodi, dicens: “Sicut enim Dominus mihi coronam imperii sola miseratione . . . dedit, ita et ego id quod ad religionem ipsius pertinet gratis impendam.” Glaber, Historiarum, ed. and tr. France, 253.

100  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse begun by Bernard of Angers (d. ca. 1020) but continued by others after his death, also suggests a new frontier for eleventh-­century Europe that even perhaps surpassed the biblical past.64 In this work, the Christian Old Testament continuously intrudes into Bernard’s present. The devil was at work but Psalms spoke directly to the millennial Rouerge and offered devotees of Foy a way forward. Christians were tested like Moses and Samson were but they would succeed as the Israelites had before.65 This is a pretty standard hagiographic trope and seems to align with, for example, what Odo had said about Gerald of Aurillac in the previous century. But not so—­Bernard continues that the miracles performed by Foy were analogous, but superior, to those described in the Gospel of John.66 Reliquaries were “more precious” than the Ark of the Covenant.67 This was a new age and one that surpassed the old. Analysis of the patterns of sacred history—­exegesis—­explained what Bernard saw, but only partly. What came next would be somehow different. * * * * * The intellectual change that I am ultimately attempting to illuminate here is I think different from the actual changes in power structures across the turn of the first millennium.68 Instead what these eleventh-­ century examples presented above reveal is the presence of a ghost. A specter of the ninth century, a legacy of a Frankish new Israel, haunted the clerics of successive generations as they adapted to the realities of a 64 Kathleen Ashley and Pamela Sheingorn, Writing Faith: Text, Sign, and History in the Miracles of Sainte Foy (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999), 5. 65  Bernard of Angers, Liber miraculorum Sancte Fidis, ed. A. Bouillet (Paris: Picard, 1897), 1.10, pp. 37–38; also 1.7, pp. 29–33; and 1.33, pp. 79–84. See also the excellent translation of the work in Bernard of Angers, The Book of Sainte Foy, tr. Pamela Sheingorn (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1995). 66  In quo nihil eo inferius gestum est miraculum, quod in Evangelio de ceco nato legitur, et etiam multo mirabilius, cum siquidem ipsa Veritas sequaces suos major utique quam se facturos esse promiserit. Bernard, Liber miraculorum, ed. Bouillet, 1.1, p. 15. 67  Vel quod prudentissimum est intellegi, sanctorum pignerum potius hec capsa est ad votum artificis cujusvis figure modo fabricata, longe preciosiore thesauro insignis, quam olim archa testamenti. Bernard, Liber miraculorum, 1.13, ed. Bouillet, p. 49. 68  This is part of the debate on the feudal revolution around 1000 ce. For example, scholarship such as this that explicitly compares the types of violence and justice evinced in the texts of Odo and Bernard of Angers, Barthélemy, “Sainte Foy de Conques,” ; and the general rethinking of this transformation in Charles West, Reframing the Feudal Revolution: Political and Social Transformation between the Marne and Moselle, c.800–c.1100 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013).

The End of Augustinian Atemporality  101 changed world. Haimo and Hrabanus, for example, wrote during the splintering of the kingdom. Odo and Adso built upon their ninth-­ century predecessors and wrote after the destruction of those kingdoms by Assyria and Babylon. In so doing, the watchmen on the walls across both centuries were apocalyptic (in a Holsingerian sense) historians. They looked backwards with certainty about how the pattern worked.69 Ademar and Rodulfus, among others, used the interpretive tools at their disposal to read the world—­to position themselves, tentatively, as new prophets and see a path back to God’s favor, back to Jerusalem. The way for these monastic authors to do this was to move the hermeneutic of the cloister out of the cloister, to engage the world more fully. Certainly, as we saw in Chapter 2, ninth-­century authors saw themselves as reformers who wrote towards a world beyond the monastery. But Ademar, Rodulfus, and the rest were carrying Haimo of Auxerre’s more directed approach further.70 The Augustinian Atemporality had established a pattern within sacred history, a way of understanding how events could repeat in substance but not specifics but also how sacred time had become “stuck” in a space between Pentecost and the events of the End. The particular historical/theological understanding of the ninth century reinforced the repetition of patterns and events, with the Franks as the New Israel replicating the old. But the commentaries produced during the civil war of the 840–60s, in trying to explain such a (perceived) sudden breakdown in cultural and political unity had to push their analogies beyond the Israelite kingdom to the times beyond, even into the Babylonian captivity. Hrabanus thought the kingdom could be saved by another Josiah. Monks like Haimo demurred. They saw themselves in the “after” and needed to call out a different type of (collective) reform that would allow the new Israel to return to God’s favor. The maybe unforeseen danger of positioning sacred time in this way was that people in the following centuries would believe them. And those people did. Frankish exegetes became authorities to rival the 69  See Introduction, at nn. 35–6. 70  On monks beginning to engage the world more directly in the late tenth and eleventh centuries, see e.g., Sébastien Legros, Moines et seigneurs du Bas-­Maine: Les prieurés bénédictins du Xe au XIIIe siècle (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2010), 305–6.

102  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse Fathers, a first point of reference for those in the tenth and eleventh c­ enturies.71 Their manuscripts were copied and read and filled libraries across the old Frankish imperial territories. By the tenth century, with the pattern of sacred history now fully elucidated, what remained was to apply that knowledge, looking outwards into the secular world for signs that could signal movement. At first, their readings were conservative, attempting to move the world by inches, to reboot things to how they once were. Essentially, these tenth-­century authors were attempting to integrate new phenomena into the pre-­existing template they had inherited. At first, they looked out and saw stasis. But there were suggestions of something more just beyond. Some authors in the eleventh century began to follow through the logic of the pattern. Radically, they saw hope in what has too often been characterized as the darkest of the “dark ages.”72 The storm of God’s wrath was thunderous and destructive but the sky was clearing and things were, somehow, getting better. Ademar, Rodulfus, Bernard, and others looked out and saw Christians striking back against their enemies—­rooting out heresy, defeating external foes on the battlefield. Monastic authors perceived that elements of the aristocracy embraced their new partnership with monasteries, listening to their watchmen on the walls and reordering society. Most directly one might, for example, see the so-­called “Peace of God” as part of this, with an abundance of miracles and victory over the peace’s enemies indicative for observers as a moment of Robert Orsi’s “presence.”73 But one might also see this movement in less obvious elements, such as some eleventh-­century aristocratic courts adopting forms and terms evocative of the Last Judgment to establish moral authority and make clear a partnership between ecclesiastical and lay authority.74 God seemed to be guiding events, 71  Berarducci, “L’esegesi della Rinascita Carolingia,” 198. 72 On the long tail of this term and its dangers, see now Matthew Gabriele and David M. Perry, The Bright Ages: A New History of Medieval Europe (New York: Harper Books, 2021), 245–53. On the tenth century as one of hope, Constable, “Cluny in the Monastic World,” 395–6. 73  See, e.g., Kathleen Cushing, Reform and the Papacy in the Eleventh Century: Spirituality and Social Change (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2005), 45–7. On “presence,” see Chapter 2 n. 19. 74 M.  W.  McHaffie, “The ‘Just Judgment’ in Western France (c.1000–c.1150): Judicial Practice and the Sacred,” French History 33 (2019): 1–23.

The End of Augustinian Atemporality  103 manifesting His favor, speaking once again. Medieval Europe’s horizons of expectation shifted and they began to look forward at what was to come. Or, to put it another way, “precisely because things would remain as they had always been, it was possible for someone to foretell the future.”75 We remember, however, that looking towards the future is not the same as apocalyptic expectation. There can of course be overlap; the End always loomed in Latin Europe’s far distance. But the movement of sacred time told people that there could always be another cycle standing between the observer and that end.76 What happened in eleventh-­ century Europe was that two different types of prolepsis began to merge—­a sense of literary anticipation with an ontological sense that brought the future into the present.77 The refusal of exegetes like Ademar and Rodulfus to see an upturn in events, to say—­boldly in some ways—­ that things seemed to be changing for the better, was radical. Bernard’s assertion that a statue reliquary of a child was more important than the Ark of the Covenant was even more radical. This was not a formal rejection of Augustine but it certainly seems to come quite close. The atemporality began to crack and the future seemed to come near. And such a rhetorical move by primarily monastic authors, coupled with their increasing connection to the aristocracy, pushed for action. The time seemed to be right. A trend towards righteousness had begun. The signs

75  Reinhart Koselleck, Futures Past: On the Semantics of Historical Time, tr. Keith Tribe (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1985), 271–82, quotation at 280. 76 See the important comments in James  T.  Palmer, “The Ordering of Time,” in Abendländische Apokalyptik: Kompendium zur Genealogie der Endzeit, ed. Veronika Wieser et al. (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2013), 605–18; Palmer, The Apocalypse in the Early Middle Ages; and Stefano Manganaro, “Eschatological Awareness without Apocalyptic or Millenarian Expectations: Facing the Future in the Ottonian World (from the 10th to the Early 11th Century),” International Journal of Divination and Prognostication 1 (2019): 204–50. Remember too that explicitly “apocalyptic” texts on the so-­ called “Last Emperor,” such as Pseudo-­ Methodius and Tiburtine Sibyl were a “recapitulation of, and discourse on, world history.” Christopher Bonura, “When did the Legend of the Last Emperor Originate? A New Look at the Textual Relationship between the Apocalypse of Pseudo-­Methodius and the Tiburtine Sibyl,” Viator 47 (2016): 61–2. 77  On the distinction, see Roland Betancourt, “Prolepsis and Anticipation: The Apocalyptic Futurity of the Now, East and West,” in A Companion to the Pre-­Modern Apocalypse, ed. Michael A. Ryan (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 177–205, esp. 197. Betancourt distinguishes between the former (literary) prolepsis as a Western trait, while Byzantium engaged the latter (ontological). As I note, however, I see the early eleventh century as a moment of synthesis.

104  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse were pointing towards change.78 All that was left was for monks to reform their houses, bishops to reform their dioceses, kings to reassert godly authority, nobles to take up arms and defeat the enemies of Christ. A new age of prophecy had begun. Between Prophecy and Apocalypse: The Burden of Sacred Time and the Making of History in Early Medieval Europe. Matthew Gabriele, Oxford University Press. © Matthew Gabriele 2024. DOI: 10.1093/9780199642557.003.0004

78  See, e.g., the idea of “chaos rhetoric” in Leslie Dorrough Smith, Righteous Rhetoric: Sex,  Speech, and the Politics of Concerned Women for America (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 5–6, 59–94. For something similar but labeled “apocalyptic” rhetoric, see Stephen D. O’Leary, Arguing the Apocalypse: A Theory of Millennial Rhetoric (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994); Tom Thatcher, “Empty Metaphors and Apocalyptic Rhetoric,” Journal of the American Academy of Religion 66 (1998): 549–70; Palmer, “Apocalyptic Outsiders,” 319–20.

Epilogue Making a New World

In 1095 ce, Latin Christians in Europe launched a holy war to take the city of Jerusalem and defeat the “enemies of Christ” in the East. This so-­ called “First Crusade” was—­shockingly—­successful. At the behest of Pope Urban II (d. 1099), unconnected armies led by various nobles across Francia, Italy, and parts of the empire went east to support the Byzantines and then march south through Syria and into Roman Palestine. In July 1099, they entered Jerusalem by force and slaughtered many of the inhabitants. For them, victory was once again a sign of God’s favor. And such an event that was, for them, clearly an important milestone in sacred time needed explanation. So, they wrote.1 A cleric named Fulcher joined the holy war to take Jerusalem, likely after attending the Council of Clermont in 1095. We do not know much about him, save that he seems to have been a canon at the cathedral of Chartres and was linked to the famous Bishop Ivo of Chartres (d. 1115). Fulcher traveled to the East in the entourage and army of Count Stephen of Blois, moving south across the Alps, through Italy and Rome, crossing into the Balkans at Dyrrachion (modern Durazzo), then finally to Constantinople. Fulcher stayed with the unified army until just before Antioch, at which time he broke off and went with Baldwin of Boulogne to take the city of Edessa. After 1099, Fulcher went to Jerusalem and remained there with Baldwin, as his chaplain, after Baldwin became king of Jerusalem in 1100. It was at about that time that Fulcher started 1  The literature on the First Crusade is vast. On the event and the subsequent need to write about it, start with Jay Rubenstein, Armies of Heaven: The First Crusade and the Quest for the Apocalypse (New York: Basic Books, 2011); Susanna Throop, The Crusades: An Epitome (Leeds: Kismet Press, 2018); Writing the Early Crusades: Text, Transmission and Memory, ed. Marcus Bull and Damien Kempf (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 2014), among many others.

106  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse writing the three books of his Historia, which he continued until his death in 1127.2 If we look closely at this work, we can see some interesting changes in his outlook that illuminate both his surety and insecurity in interpreting events within sacred time. Early in book 1, which begins with Clermont and ends with the capture of Jerusalem, Fulcher said that the army “beheld a certain sign in the sky which appeared in brilliant whiteness in the shape of a sword with the point towards the East. What it portended for the future we did not know, but we left the present and the future to God.”3 Yet, despite his professed uncertainty, the narrative structure of Fulcher’s work shows that he knew full well that the comet signified conquest, specifically Baldwin’s conquest of Edessa. Fulcher was narrating his surety about God’s will, as manifested by the comet. A second, later, passage from Fulcher’s work about another comet shows something quite different. This comes from book 3, written just before Fulcher stopped writing (and perhaps died) in 1127. Here, “in the middle of the month of July a comet began to appear between the east and the north. . . . We strove to discern it for eighteen days but left its meaning to the Creator of us all.”4 At first, this statement does not seem so different from the earlier one. In both, we are told of a celestial sign and uncertainty about its meaning. But here the narrative context cannot help us. The Franks suffer victory and defeat. There is not only an uncertainty but a sense of floundering that was not present earlier. Note that Fulcher said the Christians tried to interpret the comet—­ for eighteen days—­ ­ and failed. Here, Fulcher admitted trying to read 2  Verena Epp, Fulcher von Chartres: Studien zur Geschichtsschreibung des Ersten Kreuzzuges (Düsseldorf: Droste, 1990), 24ff. 3  Cum autem ad Eracleam urbem ventum est, vidimus in caelo signum quoddam, quod alburno splendore fulgens apparuit in modum ensis figuratum, cuspide versus Orientem protento sed quod futurum promittebat nesciebamus, sed praesentia et futura Domino committebamus. Fulcher of Chartres, Historia Hierosolymitana (1095–1127), ed. Heinrich Hagenmeyer (Heidelberg: Carl Winters Universitätbuchhandlung, 1913), 203–5. English translation from Fulcher of Chartres, A History of the Expedition to Jerusalem, 1095–1127, tr. Frances Rita Ryan, ed. Harold S. Fink (New York: W. W. Norton, 1969), 88–9; on this miracle see Elizabeth Lapina, Warfare and the Miraculous in the Chronicles of the First Crusade (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2015), 138. 4  tempore tun aestivo, mediante mense Iulio, apparere coepit cometa inter Orientem et Septentrionem, qui ante lucanum nascens et versus horam nonam radium suum emittens, mediocri lumine se monstrabat. Illum autem per dies ter senos cernere studuimus, significantiam cuius Conditori omnium commisimus. Fulcher, Historia, ed. Hagenmeyer, 802; History, tr. Ryan, 295.

Epilogue: Making a New World  107 f­orward from the present and, ultimately, had to admit failure. The options were too many. The difference between Fulcher’s book 1, written just after the conquest of Jerusalem and elevation of King Baldwin I, and book 3, written with the Franks and Muslims in a stalemate and the Islamic leader Zengi (d. 1146) gaining power, is immense. Whereas in the earlier part of his work God’s will seemed clear to Fulcher because He had manifested his satisfaction via Frankish victory, now at the end of Fulcher’s life God’s plan for the world seemed increasingly inscrutable. This difference in authorial position comes into clearer focus when we look a bit more at Fulcher’s Historia. His prologue worries that the deeds of those who took Jerusalem in 1099 might be forgotten. As such, he reminds the reader that: “Although I dare not compare the . . . labor of the Franks of the Israelites or Maccabees . . . whom God has honored by frequent and wonderful miracles, still I consider the deeds of the Franks scarcely less inferior since God’s miracles often occurred among them.” They overcame great adversaries only through the help of God, Fulcher concludes in his Prologue, citing Psalm 32: 12 (“Blessed indeed is the nation whose God is the Lord”).5 Certainly, throughout book 1, God’s meaning seems clear to Fulcher. For example, he used Psalms 12: 7 to explain theodicy in the context of the suffering the Christian warriors were enduring. The “elect” (praeelecti—­a telling term to use) have been purified of their sins by fire, he asserts. Then he clarifies that, “in truth [God] has permitted the Christians to be slain for the augmentation of their salvation, the Turks, however, for the damnation of their souls. But those of the Turks predestined to salvation, it pleased God to have baptized by our priests.”6 After the battle of Ascalon, and at the moment of the (belated) arrival of Bohemond and Baldwin to Jerusalem, Fulcher 5  licet autem nec Israeliticae plebis nec Machabaeorum aut aliorum plurium praerogativae, quos Deus tam crebris et magnificis miraculis inlustravit, hoc opus praelibatum aequiparare non audeam, tamen haut longe ab illis gestis inferius aestimatum, quoniam Dei miracula in eo noscuntur multipliciter perpetrata. Fulcher, Historia, ed. Hagenmeyer, 116–17; History, tr. Ryan, 58. Note that the Prologue was written later, around the time of book 2. As Lapina notes, Fulcher is here conflating the Maccabean warriors and martyrs. See Lapina, Warfare and the Miraculous, 106. 6  Christianos quidem ab ipsis Turcis permittit occidi ad salvationis augmentum, Turcos autem ad animarum suarum detrimentum, quorum quosdam iam saluti praedestinatos placuit Deo tunc a sacerdotibus baptizari. Fulcher, Historia, ed. Hagenmeyer, 227; History, tr. Ryan, 96.

108  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse invokes Psalm 131: 7 (“We shall worship in the place where His feet have stood”) when they first arrive at the city, and concludes “truly we saw that prophecy fulfilled in us at that moment, however much it likewise pertained to others.”7 Overall, book 1 was a retelling (in its own way) of how Jerusalem had been taken before—­first during the conquest of the Holy Land by the Israelites, then later by the Maccabees, and now by the Franks. Fulcher’s persistent language of “predestination” in book 1 is no accident. This had all been foretold, cloaked in shadow, until the appointed time had come and God’s plan had been revealed to men.8 The pattern of sacred history was clear. The chosen people—­ Israelites, Maccabees, now Franks—­had retaken the Holy Land, again. Book 2 of the Historia continues to demonstrate that intellectual certainty. For instance, at the very end of the book, a portent of the sun appeared in December 1117 that Fulcher and his compatriots said signaled the blood to be shed in a coming war. But it also meant something more. Fulcher writes: some people, prophesying, declared that this was a portent of death for those who were to die during the next year. And subsequently these did die: Pope Paschal . . . ; Baldwin, king of the people of Jerusalem . . . ; also his wife in Sicily . . . ; Arnulf, the patriarch of Jerusalem; Alexus, the Emperor of Constantinople; and many others of the great men of the world.9 7  o quotiens ad memoriam reducebamus illam Daviticam prophetiam qua dicit: adordbimus in loco, ubi steterunt pedes eius! quod nimirum in nobis tunc impleri vidimus, quamvis aliis multis similiter pertineat. Fulcher, Historia, ed. Hagenmeyer, 331; History, tr. Ryan, 131–2. 8  More generally, we should also remember that the Franks themselves on the expedition lived, and as Jay Rubenstein has reminded us enacted, biblical history as they marched through Anatolia, Syria, and Palestine. See Jay Rubenstein, “Crusade and Apocalypse: History and the Last Days,” Quaestiones Medii Aevi Novae, 21 (2016): 159–88; See also Daniel T. Reff, Plagues, Priests, and Demons: Sacred Narratives and the Rise of Christianity in the Old World and the New (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 122–236, who describes a very similar phenomenon with Jesuits literally attempting at times to recreate the stories of early Christian/ late antique missionaries. 9  quod etiam portentum ad defunctionem personarum, quae anno ipso obierunt, significantes aliquanti sortiti sunt. subsequenter enim mortui sunt; Paschalis papa  .  .  .  Balduinus rex Hierosolymorum . . . necnon uxor eius in Sicilia, quam dereliquerat. Hierosolymis etiam patriarcha Arnulfus, imperator quoque Constantinopolitanus Alexis et alii quamplures proceres in mundo. Fulcher, Historia, ed. Hagenmeyer, 608; History, tr. Ryan, 221.

Epilogue: Making a New World  109 Note that Fulcher here is explicit about he and his companions trying to interpret God’s will. And they were correct. He “dared not” predict the future in book 1, even though he implicitly did. By book 2, implicit had become explicit. Fulcher believes he so understands God’s will that he forecast out into the future and those predictions came true. Book 3 is a different story entirely though. Fulcher’s clarity about the pattern started to break down. The narrative that should have held together, did not. Events started to not make sense. Consider, for example, the capture of King Baldwin II by the Turks in 1123. Fulcher wrote: Blessed be the universal God who so regulates His will and His power that when He wishes He casts down the mighty from on high and raises the lowly from the dust. So in the morning Baldwin ruled as king; in the evening, however, he served as a slave . . . It is quite clear that nothing in this world is certain, nothing stable, and nothing agreeable for long . . . [N]ever have I seen a king confined as this one. Whether it signifies anything I know not, only God knows.10

Compare the almost existential angst of the statement “whether it signifies anything, I know not” with the surety of book 1, with Fulcher’s ability to prophesy at the end of book 2. Indeed, in book 3 things seem to just happen, one after another, without any seeming rhyme or reason. As Tyre is besieged in 1124, the Muslims make a foray and kill a number of Christians, then the Venetians pillage some Islamic houses, then the citizens of Tyre steal one of the Venetians' boats. What did all this mean? Fulcher writes, “In struggles of this kind such things often happen. One fails, one succeeds, one rejoices, and one weeps.”11 His surety is gone. The very end of Fulcher’s work, the last six chapters of book 3, are on their face quite odd, but do bring the transformation of the whole work 10  Benedictus autem sit universalis Dominus, qui voluntatem suam et potestatem ita modificat, ut potentem de excelso, cum vult, praecipitet et de pulvere pauperem sublimet. mane itaque Balduinus rex imperavit, sero autem servus servivit . . . liquet utique nihil in hoc saeculo esse certum, nihil stabile, nec etiam diu gratum . . . Regem non vidi velut hunc in carcere plecti. Significet si quid ignoro quidem, Deus hoc scit. Fulcher, Historia, ed. Hagenmeyer, 687; History, tr. Ryan, 251–2. 11  in huiusmodi enim certaminibus talia fieri saepe obtingunt. Hic cadit, hic surgit, hic gaudit, plorat et ille. Fulcher, Historia, ed. Hagenmeyer, 730; History, tr. Ryan, 265.

110  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse into focus. In chapter 57, Bohemond the Younger puts out from Apulia for Antioch. In chapter 58, Fulcher describes how dangerous sea travel was (with several references to the Book of Acts and the experiences of the Apostles). In chapter 59, he describes the Mediterranean, with a digression about how antidotes can be made. Chapter 60 is all lizards—­ literally a list of mythological lizards, mostly taken from Pliny’s Natural History. In chapter 61, Bohemond the Younger arrives in Antioch. Then, in chapter 62, the final chapter of the Historia, rodents suddenly appeared in Palestine, suffocating and eating an ox and seven sheep. After causing much destruction in and around Acre and Tyre, they were driven into the valleys by a torrential rain and died there. That region, the narrative ends, “remained badly infected by the rotting of their dead bodies.”12 There the Historia ends. The rodents are the key to the meaning of the passage, the key to book 3 as a whole. Although they have traditionally translated as being rats, they are actually said to have been mice (mus). On a practical level, this distinction might not seem particularly important, as both Latin and Greek made no distinction between mice and rats, using the same word for both (mus or mys).13 But details are important because mice play important roles in a couple of Fulcher’s sources. In 1 Samuel (or 1 Kings as medieval Europeans would have known it), the Ark of the Covenant is captured by the Philistines. What convinces them to return the Ark are two plagues—­one of hemorrhoids, and the other of mice.14 The 12  ebulliit multitudo murium inmensa in regione Palaestina in tantum, ut bovem unum a clunibus opprimentes comederent et suffocantes eum cum VII vervecibus devorarent. denique cum satis penitus in territorio Acconitarum vastassent, petentes aquationem montana Tyriorum conscenderunt, unde tunc continuo ingruente vento pestilenti et truculento cataclysmo in vallestria confinia milibus innumeris repulsantur. de quorum putore cadaverum regio illa remansit valde infirma. Fulcher, Historia, ed. Hagenmeyer, 822–3; History, tr. Ryan, 303–4. 13  Indeed, there was no separation of terms in Europe until the early eleventh century in Old High German and Old English, and nothing in French until nearly the end of the twelfth century. See Michael McCormick, “Rats, Communications, and Plague: Toward an Ecological History,” Journal of Interdisciplinary History, 34 (2003): 4–5 and n. 5; and Michael MacKinnon, “Pack Animals, Pets, Pests, and Other Non-­Human Beings,” in The Cambridge Companion to Ancient Rome, ed. Paul Erdkamp (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 119–21. 14  Aggravata est autem manus Domini super Azotios, et demolitus est eos: et percussit in secretiori parte natium Azotum, et fines ejus. Et ebullierunt villæ et agri in medio regionis illius, et nati sunt mures et facta est confusio mortis magnæ in civitate. 1 Samuel 5: 6. Fulcher was certainly familiar with this particular book, as he specifically referenced 1 Samuel in book 2 of the Historia to tell his readers which cities used to belong to the Philistines. Fulcher, History, tr. Ryan, 160 and n. 1.

Epilogue: Making a New World  111 Philistines finally lift the curse by returning the Ark and offering proper sacrifice to the god of the Israelites in the form of idols of five golden mice and five golden hemorrhoids. In addition, in Pliny’s Natural History (which Fulcher had used to talk about all the lizards), we read that “mice flee from impending doom,” and that mice “are not to be despised in considering public prodigies” because they generally foretell doom.15 So, was this conclusion to his book 3 Fulcher’s final warning to his readers? Were the mice fleeing the kingdom of Jerusalem, responding to the impiety of the Frankish Christians, now transformed from Israelites to Philistines? If Godfrey was Saul, Baldwin I was David, Baldwin II was Solomon, could that mean that the next kings of Jerusalem would be like Rehoboam and Jeroboam—­the petty, impious, feuding rulers who allowed ancient Israel to splinter between north and south? Was the arrival of Bohemond the Younger to fracture the kingdom of Israel once more? Fulcher doesn’t say. He lets the meaning hang But, I think that the uncertainty we see is not just ours as modern historians but rather derives from the fact that Fulcher was not sure either. The options were too many. The relationship between past, present, and future had become unmoored. The movement of sacred history no longer seemed clear. * * * * * The events of 1099 hit Europe like a hammer blow. It cemented certain intellectual trends into place but knocked loose other intellectual currents. The unprecedented outpouring of history-­writing of the early twelfth century was, as it was in the previous century, a form of ­exegesis.16 But now the hesitant forward-­looking historiographical exegesis that characterized monks like Ademar and Rodulfus transformed into a new surety after the taking of Jerusalem in 1099 ce. No longer was

15  ruinis inminentibus musculi praemigrant: Pliny, Natural History, tr. H.  Rackham, Loeb Classical Library 353 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1983), 8.42; and Quo in genere multi et hos incolas domuum posuere mures, haut spernendum in ostentis etiam publicis animal: Pliny, Natural History, tr. Rackham, 8.82. 16 See more in Matthew Gabriele, “From Prophecy to Apocalypse: The Verb Tenses of Jerusalem in Robert the Monk’s Historia of the First Crusade,” Journal of Medieval History 42 (2016): 304–16. See also Katherine Allen Smith, The Bible and Crusade Narrative in the Twelfth Century (Rochester, NY: Boydell & Brewer, 2020).

112  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse it simply that sensitive readers could understand past events (as they had in the ninth century) but that they so fully understood the plan for sacred history that they could in some ways know the future. As Jay Rubenstein so deftly observed about the march to Jerusalem ca. 1100, “the world was transubstantiating. Not the shape, but the substance was new.”17 Prophecy had been fulfilled, perhaps for the last time, in the completion of the holy war. More work needs to be done in this area but I would suggest, just as an example, that the surety that suffused twelfth-­century Europe can be seen in new developments in church decoration at the time. Certainly, and as we saw in Chapter 2, church decoration has always had a connection to the intellectual production occurring in and around those churches and developments in this area were oftentimes linked by movements of “reform.”18 The early eleventh-­century crypt murals at St-­ Germain of Auxerre, for instance, seem to have been inspired by that community’s fidelity to Haimo’s commentary on Revelation. The late eleventh-­century sculptural program at Fleury seems to have made an argument about the use of allegory in exegesis, linking figures and fulfillments.19 More explicitly, drawings like the ninth-­century Plan of ­St-­Gall evoked the pattern of sacred history in connecting biblical types (past), physical structures (present), and allegories of the Heavenly 17  Jay Rubenstein, Nebuchadnezzar’s Dream: The Crusades, Apocalyptic Prophecy, and the End of History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019), 63. See also on a profound shift in outlook during the twelfth century, Giles Constable, “Renewal and Reform in Religious Life: Concepts and Realities,” in Renaissance and Renewal in the Twelfth Century, ed. Robert  L.  Benson and Giles Constable (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1982), 39–40, 62–5. 18 E.g., see Dorothy  F.  Glass, The Sculpture of Reform in North Italy, ca 1095–1130 (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2010); Michel Lauwers, “De l’église primitive aux lieux de culte: Autorité, lectures et usages du passé de l’église dans l’Occident médieval (IXe–XIIIe siècle),” in L’autorité du passé dans les sociétés médiévales, ed. Jean-­Marie Sansterre (Rome: École française de Rome, 2004), 297–323. 19  Barbara Franzé, “Du texte à l’image ou de l’image au texte: Réflexions autour de quelques peintures murales des XIe et XIIe siècles,” in Cluny: Les moines et la société au premier âge féodal, ed. Dominique Iogna-­Prat et al. (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2013), 209–14; Éliane Vergnolle, Saint-­Benoît-­Sur-­Loire et la sculpture du XIe siècle (Paris: Picard, 1985). To this we could add the apocalypse imagery at St-­Savin sur Gartempe, which could be linked to the commentary by Beatus of Liébana. See Itsuji Yoshikawa, “L’Apocalypse de Saint-­Savin” (Ph.D. diss., Paris, University of Paris, 1939). On this phenomenon more generally, see Yves Christe, “Traditions littéraires et iconographiques dans l’interpretation des images apocalyptiques,” in L’Apocalypse de Jean: Traditions exégétiques et iconographiques, IIIe–XIIIe siècles, ed. Christe Yves (Geneva: Librarie Droz, 1979), 109–34.

Epilogue: Making a New World  113 Jerusalem (future). And an anonymous ca. 1120 monastic treatise on art offered a commentary on Isaiah to defend the use of the visual arts in churches, and used the structure of the book (and a viewer’s engagement with visual culture) to demonstrate proper spiritual development—­akin to what a monk would get through textual study.20 With this in mind, it should perhaps not surprise us to see some changes to the subjects depicted on churches after 1100. In other words, this new surety in the pattern of sacred history, created by the success of the taking of Jerusalem in 1099, was in some cases cemented, literally, into place with stone. Scholars have long noted that depictions of the Last Judgment (Revelation 20: 4–15) on tympana only began to appear with frequency in the Latin West in the early twelfth century, with Moissac maybe being the first, appearing ca. 1115.21 But others soon followed, with Autun ca.  1130 (Figure 4.1), and Vézelay, Beaulieu, St-­Denis, and Ste-­Foy of Conques all before ca. 1150, for example.22 The choice of subject was not, of course, an innocent one and neither was the placement of such an image on the western front—­in effect a public face for the cathedral or monastic church. Where once there was often very little sculptural decoration, now viewers were confronted by visions of the inevitable future. That this material change happened after 1100, after the fulfillment of prophecy in 1099, was surely no coincidence. Indeed, there are several instances in which the explicit success of the Christian holy war

20  On St- Gall, Michel Lauwers, “Circuitus et figura: Exègése, images et structuration des complexes monastiques dans l’Occident médiéval (IXe–XIIe siècle),” in Monastères et espace social: Genèse et transformation d’un système de lieux dans l’Occident médiéval, ed. Michel Lauwers (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014), 88–9; and the general comments about this collapsing of time in Erik Thunø, The Apse Mosaic in Early Medieval Rome: Time, Network, and Repetition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 12, 63, 181–2. On the later treatise, Heidi C. Gearhart, Theophilus and the Theory and Practice of Medieval Art (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2017), 15–39. 21 Yves Christe, Les grands portails romans (Geneva: Droz, 1969), esp. 105–33; Henri Focillon, The Art of the West in the Middle Ages, tr Donald King, 2 vols. (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1980), 1: 103–4, 123–4. I distinguish here between depictions on vellum and carved in stone. The former has many exemplars in the Latin West before 1100. 22 Linda Seidel, Legends in Limestone: Lazarus, Gislebertus, and the Cathedral at Autun (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999), 7–13. On Vézelay, see Adolf Katzenellenbogen, “The Central Tympanum at Vézelay: Its Encyclopedic Meaning and its Relation to the First Crusade,” Art Bulletin 26 (1944): 141–51.

114  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse

Figure 4.1  Last Judgment Tympanum by Giselbertus, St-­Lazare of Autun, France (early twelfth century), Wikimedia Commons, user Moreau.Henri (CC BY-­SA 3.0)

inspired new church decoration.23 But more generally, if the Augustinian Atemporality was broken and a new stage in sacred history arriving, it would make sense for the watchmen on the walls to look outwards once more to the world and, in stone, try to turn the reproved New Israel’s mind towards what was to come.24 23  Anne Derbes, “A Crusading Fresco Cycle at the Cathedral of Le Puy,” Art Bulletin 73 (1991): 561–76; Elizabeth Lapina, “The Mural Paintings of Berzé-­La-­Ville in the Context of the First Crusade and Reconquista,” Journal of Medieval History 31 (2005): 309–26; among others. 24  Guy Lobrichon is the only scholar I have seen who makes this connection between architectural and intellectual change in this way, and then only tentatively. Guy Lobrichon, “Making Ends Meet: Western Eschatologies, or the Future of a Society (9th–12th Centuries). Addition of Individual Projects, or Collective Construction of a Radiant Dawn?,” in Cultures of Eschatology: Empires and Scriptural Authorities in Medieval Christian, Islamic, and Buddhist Communities, ed. Veronika Wieser, Vincent Eltschinger, and Johann Heiss, 2 vols. (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2020), 1: 25–44. On the sudden (re)appearance of sculpture on the outside of churches and meaning of visual placement, which is often associated with papal reform, see e.g. M. F. Hearn, Romanesque Sculpture: The Revival of Monumental Stone Sculpture in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1981); Marie-­Thérèse Camus and Élisabeth Carpentier, Sculpture romane du Poitou: Le temps des chefs-­d’oeuvre (Paris: Picard,

Epilogue: Making a New World  115 But then that surety faded. Predictions did not work out. It became unclear what would come next. We can see, for example, that question slowly suffusing Fulcher’s writing as we move from book 1 to book 3. As we read across his Historia, we can feel—­in almost real time—­Fulcher’s dawning realization that God’s will had once again been obscured from the eyes of man. Is it any wonder then that the middle of the twelfth century, concurrent with the change in Fulcher’s outlook, saw an explosion in the production of new biblical commentaries? The world no longer seemed to make sense. What was supposed to happen (the rapid collapse of Islam, the rapid reconstruction of a new Israel, etc.), did not happen and so it was time to return ad fontes to reorient themselves. Among other developments, the early twelfth-­century school at Laon under Anselm developed the gloss as a mode of commentary, focusing in large part on allegorical readings but in a manner that served as a reaction to earlier monastic hermeneutics.25 Later in the century, the monastery of St-­Victor in Paris became the center of a flourishing intellectual community directed towards literal/historical readings of scripture and against more predominant allegorical readings. As ­Marie-­Dominique Chenu recognized, this newfound centering of literal/historical readings of Christian Old Testament events was meant to eliminate a profound sense of ambiguity about the text of the Bible, but that also meant eliminating ambiguity about the events of the (sacred) past. Then this mode too, as it had before in the tenth and eleventh centuries, moved out of the cloisters and into the world, spawning a concurrent explosion in the writing of new histories.26 2009), 312–47; Willibald Sauerländer, “Romanesque Sculpture in its Architectural Context,” in The Romanesque Frieze and its Spectator (London: Harvey Miller, 1992), 22–9; Calvin B. Kendall, The Allegory of the Church: Romanesque Portals and their Verse Inscriptions (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1998). 25  Cédric Giraud, Per Verba Magistri: Anselme de Laon et son école au XIIe siècle (Turnhout: Brepols, 2010). Giraud notes (see pp. 242–4) that, in some of Anselm’s work, there seems to be a conscious attempt to reconcile new twelfth-­century exegesis with the Fathers (thereby bypassing the ninth-­century Franks). On the anti-­monastic thread at Laon, see Theresa Gross-­ Diaz, “From Lectio Divina to the Lecture Room: The Psalm Commentary of Gilbert of Poitiers,” in The Place of the Psalms in the Intellectual Culture of the Middle Ages, ed. Nancy van Deusen (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1999), 92–9. 26  On the need to rethink what was happening with twelfth-­century biblical exegesis, start with the suggestive comments in Sita Steckel, “From Crisis to Reconfiguration: Cultural Change around 900 and Beyond,” in Wissen und Bildung in einer Zeit Bedrohter Ordnung: Der Zerfall des Karolingerreiches um 900, ed. Warren Pezé (Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 2020), 421–2.

116  Between Prophecy and Apocalypse We might tentatively say that Joachim of Fiore (d. 1202) was the synthesis to these new developments of the twelfth century, as a sense of ambiguity led to new hermeneutics and new certainty once, then it did so again. The Calabrian abbot was both historian and exegete, with the “and” in that descriptor being fundamentally conjunctive rather than disjunctive. Past, present, and future, scripture and history, all cohered in his schema of the Three Stages, a new Trinitarian pattern that could account for new developments in the world (such as the loss of Jerusalem to Saladin in 1187) and necessitated close attention and concerted, thoughtful action from its adherents to advance the timeline and move sacred history along. He and his followers were always clear about where the present moment was in that span, how events fit into the grand scheme of God’s plan. Surety had returned.27 This brief sketch of the twelfth century is woefully incomplete but does, I hope, help to account for some of the changes that have long been noted as occurring in that period. The intellectual moves made as Christian Europe moved from surety to uncertainty about the ­movement of sacred time, led them to seek new answers to old questions. As I have For example, we can see the connection between “new” twelfth-­century exegesis and history in such well-­known authors as Guibert of Nogent, Hugh of Fleury, and Orderic Vitalis. On the Victorines and history-­writing, M.-D. Chenu, Nature, Man, and Society in the Twelfth Century: Essays on the New Theological Perspectives in the Latin West, tr. Jerome Taylor (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968), 192–4, 310–16; Matthew Kempshall, Rhetoric and the Writing of History, 400–1500 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2011), 429–32. On the change in history-­writing in the twelfth century, Peter Classen, “Res Gestae, Universal History, Apocalypse: Visions of Past and Future,” in Renaissance and Renewal in the Twelfth Century, ed. Robert  L.  Benson and Giles Constable (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1982), 387–417. On the Victorines, see e.g., Beryl Smalley, The Study of the Bible in the Middle Ages (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1964), 83ff.; Jean Châtillon, “La Bible dans les écoles du XIIe siècle,” in Le Moyen Age et La Bible, ed. Pierre Riché and Guy Lobrichon (Paris: Beauchesne, 1984), 163–97; Gilbert Dahan, Lire La Bible au Moyen Âge (Geneva: Droz, 2009). On these specific medieval historians, Jay Rubenstein, Guibert of Nogent: Portrait of a Medieval Mind (New York: Routledge, 2002); Julian Führer, “Hugues de Fleury: L’histoire et la typologie,” in La typologie biblique comme forme de pensée dans l’historiographie médiévale, ed. Marek Thue Kretschmer (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014), 97–118; Elisabeth Mégier, “Divina Pagina and the Narration of History in Orderic Vitalis’ Historia Ecclesiastica,” in Christliche Weltgeschichte im 12. Jahrhundert: Themen, Variationen und Kontraste (Frankfurt, Germany: Peter Lang, 2010), 283–99. 27  On Joachim as historian and exegete, Brett Edward Whalen, “Joachim the Theorist of History and Society,” in A Companion to Joachim of Fiore, ed. Matthias Riedl (Leiden: Brill, 2018), 88–108. See also Whalen, Dominion of God: Christendom and Apocalypse in the Middle Ages (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2009), 107–19; Rubenstein, Nebuchadnezzar’s Dream, 189–205; Lobrichon, “Making Ends Meet,” 38.

Epilogue: Making a New World  117 noted in previous chapters, Alexandra Walsham has profitably suggested that we think of the intellectual currents washing over our pre-­modern subjects as fundamentally cyclical. Doing so can help us, as modern scholars, escape the trap of teleology.28 In addition, we should remember too the messiness that stands between the idea and its enaction, the tentative steps to make that concept/sense of history concrete, to make that ambiguity disappear.29 Things could have turned out otherwise, because humans make decisions, and humans are complicated and messy. Early medieval Europe was never, inevitably, heading towards holy war, or political centralization, or a “twelfth-­century renaissance” more generally. Those may have been things we, driven by our nineteenth-­ century forebears, have been looking for, but they were most certainly not what our subjects were looking for. As we have seen throughout, the tradition of exegesis in the early European Middle Ages and its relationship to both the past and to history attempted to offer its community some sort of surety, some way to grasp the present and by that grasp the future. Emerging from late antiquity, they found a pattern and held it tight through the ninth century. The pattern seemed to fit so comfortably, the green light seemed so close, that they could hardly fail to grasp it. But then events conspired once more and confounded their reach. The waves crashed and drove them back. So, our authors tried again in the ninth century, then again in the eleventh, and still again in the twelfth. They thought harder, stretched their arms further. But still they were beaten backwards. Always moving against the current, they were borne back ceaselessly, trying to understand their world, to find a pattern to sacred history—­to understand both present and future by looking to the past. Between Prophecy and Apocalypse: The Burden of Sacred Time and the Making of History in Early Medieval Europe. Matthew Gabriele, Oxford University Press. © Matthew Gabriele 2024. DOI: 10.1093/9780199642557.003.0005

28  Alexandra Walsham, “Migrations of the Holy: Explaining Religious Change in Medieval and Early Modern Europe,” Journal of Medieval amd Early Modern History 44 (2014): 261–4. 29  See my discussion of “Instrumental History” in the Introduction, above.

Between Prophecy and Apocalypse: The Burden of Sacred Time and the Making of History in Early Medieval Europe Matthew Gabriele https://doi.org/10.1093/9780199642557.0 01.0001 Published: 2024 9780191860232

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Between Prophecy and Apocalypse: The Burden of Sacred Time and the Making of History in Early Medieval Europe Matthew Gabriele https://doi.org/10.1093/9780199642557.0 01.0001 Published: 2024 9780191860232

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Index  Published: February 2024

Subject: History of Religion, Medieval and Renaissance History (500 to 1500), Intellectual History Collection: Oxford Scholarship Online

141Index Because the index has been created to work across multiple formats, indexed terms for which a page range is given (e.g., 52–53, 66–70, etc.) may occasionally appear only on some, but not all, of the pages within the range. Aachen, Germany 54–55 abolitionism 6 Acre 109–110 Ademar of Chabannes 96–104111–112 Admonitio generalis 53–54 Adomnan of Iona 51 Adso of Montier-en-Der 93–94100–101 Alcuin 53–5456–5766–6883–87 Alexander the Great 3478 Alexandrian school (theology) 22–23 Alexios I Komnenos, Byzantine emperor 108 allegory 23–2794112–113115 Amalarius of Metz 55–56 American Civil War 5–8 Andrew of St Victor 22–23 Angers, France 83–85 Angilbert 56–5759–616373 Anglo-Normans 1–2 Angoulême, France 96 Anselm of Canterbury 115 Antichrist 3650–5178–7993–9498 Antietam, battle of 5 Antioch, Syria 22–23105–106109–110 Antiochene school (theology) 22–23 Antiochus 97 Antony of the Desert 27 apocalyptic (genre) 12–1416–17 apocalypticism 168–91929–3037–3843–446581–82100–101103–104 apostasy 56–57 Aquinas, Thomas 21–23 Aquitaine 87–8896 architecture 17–1854–55 Aristotle 21–22 Ark of the Covenant 5699–100103–104110–111 Arnulf, patriarch of Jerusalem 108 Ascalon, battle of 107–108 asceticism 26–2830–33 atemporality 1637–4648–5055–5672–7476–104113–114 Athanasius of Alexandria 27 Augustine of Hippo 2024–252835–5280–8186–87103–104 City of God 37–3944–4556–57 Confessions 42–43 Autun, France 113–114 Auxerre, France

Saint-German, abbey of 67–6882–8587–8892–9497–98112–113 school of 83–89 Babylon, comparisons with 53–5463–6473–7478–79101 Baldwin I, king of Jerusalem 105–108111 Baldwin II, king of Jerusalem 109111 Baume, France 87–89 Beaulieu, France 113–114 Bede 50–5280–8191–92 Bernard of Angers 99–100 Bohemond 107–111 Bruno of Chartreuse 83–85 Bryan, William Jennings 6–8 Burr, George Lincoln 35–1012–14 Byzantine Empire 1–23453–54105 p. 142

Cambrai-Arras, bishop of 61–63 Cathwulf 53–54 Capetians 1–49–1096 Carolingian Renaissance 1–2 Cassian, John 24–2527 Cessy-les-Bois, France 67–68 Charlemagne 1–44953–58728796 Charles the Bald, king of France 67–68 Chartres, France 105–106 St Peter, abbey of 83–85 Chenu, Marie-Dominique 21–22115 Christology 2376–77 Clermont, Council of 105–106 Cluny, abbey of 85–8997–98 comets 106–107 commentary, biblical 16–1720–2628–3035–3655–5664–7072–7476–777982–8991–9395–97101112– 113115 computus 85–86 Congar, Yves 21–22 Conques, France 113–114 Constantine, emperor 19–2030–3154–55 Constantinople 105–106 Corvey, Germany 82–83 Crusades 6–8 First 105 cycles, temporal 16364143–44496568–69819799–100103–104116–117 Dado, bishop of Verdun 92–93 Daniélou, Jean 21–26 David, king 4954–5559–6091–92111 demons 26–2798 Dijon, France 97 Durrës (Dyrrachion), Albania 105–106 Edessa, Turkey 105–106 Edwin, king of Northumbria 51–52 Eicken, Heinrich von 81–82

Elijah 31–3259 Enlightenment 6–8 Eusebius of Caesarea 30–31 Evagrius Ponticus 26–27 exegesis 16–3638–394143–444649–525862–7278–8082–8791–9698–104111–113116–117 expectation, horizon of 10–1214102–104 Fleury, France 112–113 orilegia 778095 Florus of Lyons 60–6373–7577 Fontenoy, battle of (841) 59–637173 Franco (poet) 87 Frankish civil war 6771–729095101 Fulcher 105–111115 Fulda, Germany 6682–83 Garrison, Mary 5365 Gaul 47–48 geography, sacred 40–41 Gerald of Aurillac 90–9299–100 Gerberga, queen of West Francia 5893–94 Gerbert of Aurillac (Pope Sylvester II) 83–85 Gilson, Étienne 21–22 Go art, Walter 48 Gog and Magog 3692–94 Golden Age, idea of 15–16 Gorze, abbey of 85–87 Gregorian reform 1–2 Gregory the Great 7788–92 Gregory of Tours 47–505280–81 Gregory VI, pope 99 Hadoard of Corbie 77 hagiography 87–8991–929599–100 Haimo of Auxerre 6063–6567–7982–94100–101112–113 Heiric of Auxerre 7783–85 Hellenism 20–2128–29 Helperic of Auxerre 85–86 Henry III, emperor 99 heretics 17–1829–3238–3953–5456–579496–99102–103 hermeneutics 19–202638–3988–8994101115–116 p. 143

Hildebold 85–86 Hildesheim, Germany 82–83 hindsight 10–14 Hirsau, Germany 83–85 historiography 81425–2651–526681–8295–9698–99111–112 history, sacred 16–1719–2034–353840–5158–6062–6668–6972–7577–7880–8192–9395–9698– 102108111–114117 Hrabanus Maurus 6063–7072–7578–7982–9092100–101 Hugh of Sémur, abbot of Cluny 86–87 Huguenots 30–31 Huldah 5968–69

imperium (‘empire’), idea of 1632–335893–94 Ingelheim, Germany 58 Instrumental History 14 Isidore of Seville 61–6286–87 Ivo, bishop of Chartres 105–106 Jerome 24–3667–6976–7986–8792–9397 Jerusalem 16–1740–4149–5154–557377–7896–97101108111 conquest of (1099) 17–18105–108111–113 loss of (1187) 116 Holy Sepulcher 96 Jesuits 21–24 Jews 1722–2338–395196–98 Joachim of Fiore 116 John of Gorze 85–86 John of Salerno 87–88 Jong, Mayke de 6595 Judgment, Last 194144–4547–48102–103 depictions of 113–114 Juillet, Révolution de (1830) 4–58–981–82 July Monarchy (France) 9–10 Justinian, emperor 1–2 Koselleck, Reinhart 10–111472 Laon, France 115 ‘Last Emperor’, legend of 33–36 Leipzig, Germany 5 Liber Tramitis 86–87 libraries 83–88101–102 Libri Carolini 53–54 Limoges, France 83–8596 Lincoln, Abraham 6 Lindisfarne, England 56–57 literalism, Biblical 22–3082–83115 liturgy 4155–5785–86 Lothar, emperor 61–626587 Louis I ‘the German’, emperor 6568–69 Louis Philippe, king of the French 8–981–82 Louis the Pious, king of the Franks 4958–6068–6971–73 Lubac, Henri de 21–27 Luther, Martin 9–10 Lyons, France 21–24 Maccabees, the 107–108 Magyars 92–93 Maiolus, abbot 87 Manichaeans 96–97 Markus, R. A. 43–4447 Martin of Tours, St 47–48 martyrdom 31–334170–71 Marxism 22–23 Merovingians 1–249–5053

messianism 29–3067 Metz, Germany 85–86 Michelet, Jules 3–1012–1481–82 modernity 1–211–1215–1681–82 Moissac, France 113–114 Montcheuil, Yves de 23–24 Muslims 1796–98107109 Mussolini, Benito 81–82 Nazism 23–25 Nebuchadnezzar 465963–6468–7077–7997 neo-scholasticism (neo-Thomism) 21–24 Nithard 6063 Normans 97–98 p. 144

nostalgia 116–1837–3856–57 Nouvelle Théologie 21–22 Odilo, abbot of Cluny 56–57 Odo of Cluny 83–9499–101 Collationes 88–92 Life of Gerald 8991–92 Occupatio 88–89 Origen 22–29 Orosius, Paulus 4658 Orsi, Pietro 81–82 Orsi, Robert 52102–103 Ottonians 96 Pachomius 27 pagans 1731–3234–3544–4553–5456–5779 Palestine 2840–41105109–110 Paris, France 3–522–2383–88 St-Victor, abbey of 115 Paschal II, pope 108 Paschasius Radbertus 6073 Pepin the Short, king of the Franks 4996 pericopes 28–30 Plaine, François 81–82 Platonism 26–27 Pliny the Elder 109–111 polytheism  See pagans predestination 108 presentism 10–11 Priestley, Joseph 12 prophecy 12–1416–183438–394449–5155–5659–6368–697173–747880–8289–92101103–104107– 109111–114 Prüm, Germany 82–83 Pseudo-Methodius 33–3643 Ratzinger, Joseph (Benedict XVI) 21–22 reform, idea of 6–816–1724–255885–8994–9599101103–104112–113 See Gregorian reform Reformation 6–8 Reims, France 83–86

relics 97–100103–104 Remigius of Auxerre 76–7983–88 Renaissance 6–10 revelation 19–203543–4548–4952–5381 Robert II the Pious, king of France 3–48–981–82 Rodulfus Glaber 97–104111–112 Roman Empire 1–41630–3537–38465878–7997–98 Rome, Italy 2830–314648–4978–79105–106 sack of (410) 37–38 Saint-Denis, France 113–114 St Gall, Switzerland 82–83 Saint-Germigny-des-Prés, France 54–56 St Mihiel, abbey of 85–86 Saint-Riquier, abbey of 54–55 Saladin 116 Salians 1–2 Scholasticism 24–25 Second Coming 46 Second Empire (France) 9–10 Second Republic (France) 9–10 Second Vatican Council 21–22 Seven Seals 35–36 Shenoute 27 simony 99 Smalley, Beryl 21–232564–65 Smaragdus 83–8588–89 Solomon, king 4961–62111 Stephen of Blois 105–106 Stubbs, William 6 superstition 14–59–10 teleology 1810–1215–163581–82116–117 ‘Terrors of the Year 1000’ 3–59–1081–82 theodicy 3107–108 Theodulf 54–55 Thietland of Einsiedeln 92–94 Third Republic (France) 9–10 p. 145

Thomism  See Aquinas, Thomas time, sacred 4447–5073–7478–8292–106116–117 Toul, France 83–86 Tours, France 47–486687–89 translatio imperii 4668–69 Trier, Germany 76–7783–85 Turks 107–109 Turpio, bishop of Limoges 8991–92 Tyconius 35–3638 typology 234156–5782–83 tyranny 30–3362–6378 Tyre, Syria 109–110 Urban II, pope 683–85105

Venetians 109 Vézelay, France 113–114 Vichy France 23–24 Vico, Giambattista 3 Victorinus of Pettau 35–3638 Vikings 156–5796 violence 6–830–3138–39 Wala 45 Walsham, Alexandra 116–117 Waltharius 60 White, Andrew Dickson 5 Wigbod 5876–79 William, count of Angoulême 97 witchcraft 97 World War II 21–24 Young, Frances 25–2638 Zemon Davis, Natalie 30–3138–39 Zengi 107

Between Prophecy and Apocalypse: The Burden of Sacred Time and the Making of History in Early Medieval Europe Matthew Gabriele https://doi.org/10.1093/9780199642557.0 01.0001 Published: 2024 9780191860232

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9780199642557

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END MATTER

Index  Published: February 2024

Subject: History of Religion, Medieval and Renaissance History (500 to 1500), Intellectual History Collection: Oxford Scholarship Online

141Index Because the index has been created to work across multiple formats, indexed terms for which a page range is given (e.g., 52–53, 66–70, etc.) may occasionally appear only on some, but not all, of the pages within the range. Aachen, Germany 54–55 abolitionism 6 Acre 109–110 Ademar of Chabannes 96–104111–112 Admonitio generalis 53–54 Adomnan of Iona 51 Adso of Montier-en-Der 93–94100–101 Alcuin 53–5456–5766–6883–87 Alexander the Great 3478 Alexandrian school (theology) 22–23 Alexios I Komnenos, Byzantine emperor 108 allegory 23–2794112–113115 Amalarius of Metz 55–56 American Civil War 5–8 Andrew of St Victor 22–23 Angers, France 83–85 Angilbert 56–5759–616373 Anglo-Normans 1–2 Angoulême, France 96 Anselm of Canterbury 115 Antichrist 3650–5178–7993–9498 Antietam, battle of 5 Antioch, Syria 22–23105–106109–110 Antiochene school (theology) 22–23 Antiochus 97 Antony of the Desert 27 apocalyptic (genre) 12–1416–17 apocalypticism 168–91929–3037–3843–446581–82100–101103–104 apostasy 56–57 Aquinas, Thomas 21–23 Aquitaine 87–8896 architecture 17–1854–55 Aristotle 21–22 Ark of the Covenant 5699–100103–104110–111 Arnulf, patriarch of Jerusalem 108 Ascalon, battle of 107–108 asceticism 26–2830–33 atemporality 1637–4648–5055–5672–7476–104113–114 Athanasius of Alexandria 27 Augustine of Hippo 2024–252835–5280–8186–87103–104 City of God 37–3944–4556–57 Confessions 42–43 Autun, France 113–114 Auxerre, France

Saint-German, abbey of 67–6882–8587–8892–9497–98112–113 school of 83–89 Babylon, comparisons with 53–5463–6473–7478–79101 Baldwin I, king of Jerusalem 105–108111 Baldwin II, king of Jerusalem 109111 Baume, France 87–89 Beaulieu, France 113–114 Bede 50–5280–8191–92 Bernard of Angers 99–100 Bohemond 107–111 Bruno of Chartreuse 83–85 Bryan, William Jennings 6–8 Burr, George Lincoln 35–1012–14 Byzantine Empire 1–23453–54105 p. 142

Cambrai-Arras, bishop of 61–63 Cathwulf 53–54 Capetians 1–49–1096 Carolingian Renaissance 1–2 Cassian, John 24–2527 Cessy-les-Bois, France 67–68 Charlemagne 1–44953–58728796 Charles the Bald, king of France 67–68 Chartres, France 105–106 St Peter, abbey of 83–85 Chenu, Marie-Dominique 21–22115 Christology 2376–77 Clermont, Council of 105–106 Cluny, abbey of 85–8997–98 comets 106–107 commentary, biblical 16–1720–2628–3035–3655–5664–7072–7476–777982–8991–9395–97101112– 113115 computus 85–86 Congar, Yves 21–22 Conques, France 113–114 Constantine, emperor 19–2030–3154–55 Constantinople 105–106 Corvey, Germany 82–83 Crusades 6–8 First 105 cycles, temporal 16364143–44496568–69819799–100103–104116–117 Dado, bishop of Verdun 92–93 Daniélou, Jean 21–26 David, king 4954–5559–6091–92111 demons 26–2798 Dijon, France 97 Durrës (Dyrrachion), Albania 105–106 Edessa, Turkey 105–106 Edwin, king of Northumbria 51–52 Eicken, Heinrich von 81–82

Elijah 31–3259 Enlightenment 6–8 Eusebius of Caesarea 30–31 Evagrius Ponticus 26–27 exegesis 16–3638–394143–444649–525862–7278–8082–8791–9698–104111–113116–117 expectation, horizon of 10–1214102–104 Fleury, France 112–113 orilegia 778095 Florus of Lyons 60–6373–7577 Fontenoy, battle of (841) 59–637173 Franco (poet) 87 Frankish civil war 6771–729095101 Fulcher 105–111115 Fulda, Germany 6682–83 Garrison, Mary 5365 Gaul 47–48 geography, sacred 40–41 Gerald of Aurillac 90–9299–100 Gerberga, queen of West Francia 5893–94 Gerbert of Aurillac (Pope Sylvester II) 83–85 Gilson, Étienne 21–22 Go art, Walter 48 Gog and Magog 3692–94 Golden Age, idea of 15–16 Gorze, abbey of 85–87 Gregorian reform 1–2 Gregory the Great 7788–92 Gregory of Tours 47–505280–81 Gregory VI, pope 99 Hadoard of Corbie 77 hagiography 87–8991–929599–100 Haimo of Auxerre 6063–6567–7982–94100–101112–113 Heiric of Auxerre 7783–85 Hellenism 20–2128–29 Helperic of Auxerre 85–86 Henry III, emperor 99 heretics 17–1829–3238–3953–5456–579496–99102–103 hermeneutics 19–202638–3988–8994101115–116 p. 143

Hildebold 85–86 Hildesheim, Germany 82–83 hindsight 10–14 Hirsau, Germany 83–85 historiography 81425–2651–526681–8295–9698–99111–112 history, sacred 16–1719–2034–353840–5158–6062–6668–6972–7577–7880–8192–9395–9698– 102108111–114117 Hrabanus Maurus 6063–7072–7578–7982–9092100–101 Hugh of Sémur, abbot of Cluny 86–87 Huguenots 30–31 Huldah 5968–69

imperium (‘empire’), idea of 1632–335893–94 Ingelheim, Germany 58 Instrumental History 14 Isidore of Seville 61–6286–87 Ivo, bishop of Chartres 105–106 Jerome 24–3667–6976–7986–8792–9397 Jerusalem 16–1740–4149–5154–557377–7896–97101108111 conquest of (1099) 17–18105–108111–113 loss of (1187) 116 Holy Sepulcher 96 Jesuits 21–24 Jews 1722–2338–395196–98 Joachim of Fiore 116 John of Gorze 85–86 John of Salerno 87–88 Jong, Mayke de 6595 Judgment, Last 194144–4547–48102–103 depictions of 113–114 Juillet, Révolution de (1830) 4–58–981–82 July Monarchy (France) 9–10 Justinian, emperor 1–2 Koselleck, Reinhart 10–111472 Laon, France 115 ‘Last Emperor’, legend of 33–36 Leipzig, Germany 5 Liber Tramitis 86–87 libraries 83–88101–102 Libri Carolini 53–54 Limoges, France 83–8596 Lincoln, Abraham 6 Lindisfarne, England 56–57 literalism, Biblical 22–3082–83115 liturgy 4155–5785–86 Lothar, emperor 61–626587 Louis I ‘the German’, emperor 6568–69 Louis Philippe, king of the French 8–981–82 Louis the Pious, king of the Franks 4958–6068–6971–73 Lubac, Henri de 21–27 Luther, Martin 9–10 Lyons, France 21–24 Maccabees, the 107–108 Magyars 92–93 Maiolus, abbot 87 Manichaeans 96–97 Markus, R. A. 43–4447 Martin of Tours, St 47–48 martyrdom 31–334170–71 Marxism 22–23 Merovingians 1–249–5053

messianism 29–3067 Metz, Germany 85–86 Michelet, Jules 3–1012–1481–82 modernity 1–211–1215–1681–82 Moissac, France 113–114 Montcheuil, Yves de 23–24 Muslims 1796–98107109 Mussolini, Benito 81–82 Nazism 23–25 Nebuchadnezzar 465963–6468–7077–7997 neo-scholasticism (neo-Thomism) 21–24 Nithard 6063 Normans 97–98 p. 144

nostalgia 116–1837–3856–57 Nouvelle Théologie 21–22 Odilo, abbot of Cluny 56–57 Odo of Cluny 83–9499–101 Collationes 88–92 Life of Gerald 8991–92 Occupatio 88–89 Origen 22–29 Orosius, Paulus 4658 Orsi, Pietro 81–82 Orsi, Robert 52102–103 Ottonians 96 Pachomius 27 pagans 1731–3234–3544–4553–5456–5779 Palestine 2840–41105109–110 Paris, France 3–522–2383–88 St-Victor, abbey of 115 Paschal II, pope 108 Paschasius Radbertus 6073 Pepin the Short, king of the Franks 4996 pericopes 28–30 Plaine, François 81–82 Platonism 26–27 Pliny the Elder 109–111 polytheism  See pagans predestination 108 presentism 10–11 Priestley, Joseph 12 prophecy 12–1416–183438–394449–5155–5659–6368–697173–747880–8289–92101103–104107– 109111–114 Prüm, Germany 82–83 Pseudo-Methodius 33–3643 Ratzinger, Joseph (Benedict XVI) 21–22 reform, idea of 6–816–1724–255885–8994–9599101103–104112–113 See Gregorian reform Reformation 6–8 Reims, France 83–86

relics 97–100103–104 Remigius of Auxerre 76–7983–88 Renaissance 6–10 revelation 19–203543–4548–4952–5381 Robert II the Pious, king of France 3–48–981–82 Rodulfus Glaber 97–104111–112 Roman Empire 1–41630–3537–38465878–7997–98 Rome, Italy 2830–314648–4978–79105–106 sack of (410) 37–38 Saint-Denis, France 113–114 St Gall, Switzerland 82–83 Saint-Germigny-des-Prés, France 54–56 St Mihiel, abbey of 85–86 Saint-Riquier, abbey of 54–55 Saladin 116 Salians 1–2 Scholasticism 24–25 Second Coming 46 Second Empire (France) 9–10 Second Republic (France) 9–10 Second Vatican Council 21–22 Seven Seals 35–36 Shenoute 27 simony 99 Smalley, Beryl 21–232564–65 Smaragdus 83–8588–89 Solomon, king 4961–62111 Stephen of Blois 105–106 Stubbs, William 6 superstition 14–59–10 teleology 1810–1215–163581–82116–117 ‘Terrors of the Year 1000’ 3–59–1081–82 theodicy 3107–108 Theodulf 54–55 Thietland of Einsiedeln 92–94 Third Republic (France) 9–10 p. 145

Thomism  See Aquinas, Thomas time, sacred 4447–5073–7478–8292–106116–117 Toul, France 83–86 Tours, France 47–486687–89 translatio imperii 4668–69 Trier, Germany 76–7783–85 Turks 107–109 Turpio, bishop of Limoges 8991–92 Tyconius 35–3638 typology 234156–5782–83 tyranny 30–3362–6378 Tyre, Syria 109–110 Urban II, pope 683–85105

Venetians 109 Vézelay, France 113–114 Vichy France 23–24 Vico, Giambattista 3 Victorinus of Pettau 35–3638 Vikings 156–5796 violence 6–830–3138–39 Wala 45 Walsham, Alexandra 116–117 Waltharius 60 White, Andrew Dickson 5 Wigbod 5876–79 William, count of Angoulême 97 witchcraft 97 World War II 21–24 Young, Frances 25–2638 Zemon Davis, Natalie 30–3138–39 Zengi 107