Through the Bone and Marrow - Re-examining Theological Encounters with Dance in Medieval Europe 9782503594965, 9782503594972

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

STUDIA TRADITIONIS THEOLOGIAE Explorations in Early and Medieval Theology

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

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Through the Bone and Marrow Re-examining Theological Encounters with Dance in Medieval Europe

Laura Hellsten

F

Cover illustration: Tabula Peutingeriana © ÖNB Vienna Cod. 324, Segm. VIII + IX © 2021, Brepols Publishers n.v., Turnhout, Belgium. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher. D/2021/0095/186 ISBN 978-2-503-59496-5 eISBN 978-2-503-59497-2 DOI 0.1484/M.STT-EB.5.123742 ISSN 2294–3617 eISSN 2566–0160 Printed in the EU on acid-free paper.

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Table of Contents

Introduction 11 1. Background 13 2. Task 19 3. Methods and Materials 21 3.a. Hermeneutics 21 3.a.1. Hermeneutics of Suspicion 27 3.a.2. Hermeneutics of Charity 29 3.a.3. Practice 32 3.b. The Semiotic and Symbolic in Art 41 3.b. 1. The Collection 44 4. Synopsis 50 Earlier Research and its Shortcomings 1. Social Imaginary 2. The Body of Works 2.a. The Missing Mother 2.a.1. Lilly Grove’s legacy 2.a.2. Bones 2.b. More Missing Links 2.b. 1. Broken Bones 3. Unaddressed Topics 3.a. Joints and Ligaments 3.a.1. Nationalism 3.a.2. Western Christian Cultural Hegemony 3.b. Muscles and Faulty Categories 3.b. 1. Sacred vs Secular 3.b. 2. Pagan vs Christian Practices 3.b. 3. Muscles 4. Healthy Body

53 55 57 60 62 66 68 74 77 78 79 88 106 108 117 128 133

Dancing in and around Churches 1. Christian Dance Practices? 1.a. Dance and Liturgy? 2. What Deep Tissue Massage Reveals 2.a. Ceremonial Game Plays 2.a.1. Sacred Space 2.a.2. Reverentia

137 142 143 148 157 172 187

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2.b. Healthy Muscles 191 2.b. 1 Corpus Christianum 192 2.c. Corpus Christi 210 2.c. 1. The Liturgies of the People 218 2.c. 2. Agency and Matter 227 2.d. Feast of Fools 236 2.d. 1. Pre-festal Considerations 240 2.d. 2. Liturgical Dramas 261 2.d. 3. The forms of the New Feast 269 2.d. 4. Battle for the Right to Dance 290 3. Conclusions 324 Dancing Bodies Today and Then Results

329 335

Bibliography 341 Database 341 341 Dictionaries and Encyclopaedia Ancient and Medieval Sources 342 Modern Sources 344 Websites 358 Index 361 1. Index of Scripture 361 361 2. Index of Ancient and Medieval Authors 3. Index of Modern Authors 362 4. Index of Places 365 5. General Index 366

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List of Plates and Illustrations

Illustration 1a Illustration 1b Illustration 1c Illustration 2a Illustration 2b Illustration 3a

Coccyx bone. 73 Part of the pelvic bone. 73 Pelvic region and lower spine. 73 Hand with missing bones. 74 Hand with all bones intact. 74 Distorting joints joining bones of the hands, the upper arm-bone (deltoid) turned up-side-down is joined to the partial pelvic bone (encountered earlier) and attached to the ‘eye’ of the pelvic is something that looks like a clavicle or the radius of the forearm. 103 Illustration 3b Distorting joints joining bones of the ribcage together with the skull and attached to this package is a scapula and what might be a finger bone. 103 Illustration 3c Distorting joints joining bones of the femur from the leg with the ribcage and on top of it we can find the coccyx. 104 105 Illustration 4 Triceps and biceps moving the arm. Illustration 5 An imbalanced body with bones and unhealthy muscles. 130 Illustration 6 Whole body in full balance in relation to how healthy muscles work in pairs. 130 131 Illustration 7 bones, ligaments, muscle and fascia around the knee. 132 Illustration 8 The texture of fascia. 132 Illustration 9 The deep tissue massage that is needed. 134 Illustration 10 The texture of fascia in a dancing body. Illustration 11 Map with the sites of labyrinths and manuscripts describing a Celebratory Ball Game 168 Illustration 12a Symbols to differentiate the spaces within a church complex. 174 Illustration 12b Map out the space of the church where dancing is described to have occurred. 174 Illustration 13 The map of places in Europe where dancing has been encountered during the season of Feast of Fools. 238 Plates Plate 1 Plate 2a&b Plate 3

Frankish Casket with scenes from the life of Christ (1100), Unknown artist. Triptych from the second half or the end of the 10th century and detail from the same. Five Dancing Angels (1436) Giovanni di Paolo.

160 161 177

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Plate 4 Plate 5 Plate 6 Plate 7 Plate 8 Plate 9 Plate 10 Plate 11

Plate 12a Plate 12b Plate 12c Plate 13 Plate 14 Plate 15 Plate 16 Plate 17 Plate 18 Plate 19 Plate 20 Plate 21 Plate 22

The Assumption of the Virgin (1330/35) Lippo Memmi. 178 The Coronation of Virgin with Angels and Saint (1340/45) Puccio di Simone. 178 Mary and the Christ child together with St John and St Francis, Alessandro Turchi (1578–1649). 180 Glorification of the Virgin (1490–1495) Geertgen tot Sint Jans.180 Albrecht Altdorfer depicting Anna and Joachim in: The birth of the Virgin Mary (1520). 181 Fra Angelico, Last Judgement commissioned by the Camaldolese Order (1425–1430) sited in the church of Santa Maria degli Angeli, Florence, Italy. 183 Jean Fouquet for the Etienne Chevalier’s Book of Hours (after 1452). 185 Fra Angelico and his famous image of how the Saints were led in dance into the eternal life at the Resurrection. The altarpiece consists of four panels where the dancing is depicted in the upper panel to the left. 200 Whole fresco of The Church Militant and the Church Triumphant, (1365–1368) by Andrea da Firenze in Santa Maria Novella, Italy. 202 Detail on the worshipping saints and dancing angels to the right and left of Christ seated on the throne. 203 Detail of the top part of the profane side of the Corpus Christianum where we can see the depiction of dancing maidens in the bottom right corner. 205 This black and white picture is a copy of the artwork found painted on the walls in the choir of the church. The paintings are made by Tassin (1905–1907). 213 Messerschmied-fechten is described as a dance of swords 221 performed during the feast of the cutlers. Umzug der Zirkelschmiede is described as a Festival of dance and processions during Carnival. 222 228 Ivory back of mirror from Paris in the early 14th century. Gedicht von Christus und der minnenden Seele, Codex 710(322), fol. 6r–20r (1490) Stiftsbibliothek, Einsiedeln. 228 The ecstasy of the three founders of the Corpus Christi feast in the Collegiate church of Saint Martin (1690) Englebert 234 Fisen (1655–1733). Detail of musicians and dancers in a market scene and streets of Naples, second half of 18th century. 264 The marriage feast of Cana depicted for a family in Tirol in 265 the mid 18th century. The Adoration of the Shepherds (1539–1540) Angelo Bronzino. 278 280 La Nativité (1275–1280) Guido da Siena.

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l i s t o f plate s and i llu strati o ns

Plate 23a&b Plate 24 Plate 25 Plate 26 Plate 27 Plate 28 Plate 29 Plate 30a Plate 30b Plate 31 Plate 32 Plate 33 Plate 34

Angels, Lindenholtz, München, end of 19th century, Unknown artist.  281 295 Das Goldene Zeitalter (1530) Lucas Cranach the Elder. 296 Das Goldene Zeitalter (1530) Lucas Cranach the Elder. Annunciation to the Shepherds: country dance, Heures de Charles d’Angoulême, BNF, Lat. 1173, folio 20, (1475–1500). 297 David: Fetching of Ark, Psalter-Hours of Guiluys de Boisleux, MS M.730 fol. 109r, France, Arras, after 1246. 299 David dancing before the Ark, Picture Bible, MS M.638 fol. 39v, France, Paris, c. 1244–1254. 300 Danse Macabre (1435–1509) in St Nicholas’ Church, Tallinn, Estonia by Bernt Notke. 305 Virgin Mary and Christ Child, Book of Hours, MS M.157 315 fol. 119v, France, c. 1440. Detail of Virgin Mary and Christ Child, Book of Hours, MS M.157 fol. 119v, France, c. 1440.316 Shepherds Annunciation, Book of Hours, M.287 fol. 64v (c. 1445) Northern France or Flanders. 317 Shepards Annunciation, Book of Hours, MS M.19 fol. 50v (c. 1440) Belgium, perhaps Bruges. 319 Christ Nativity, Book of Hours, MS M.1001 fol. 44r (c. 1475) France, Poitiers. 320 Shepherds: Annunciation, Book of Hours, MS M.1001 fol. 48r, France, Poitiers, c. 1475 322

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Introduction

The journey The journey to Vadstena takes hours. The scenery is full of agricultural landscapes, random little villages dropped down here and there with an old stone church smackdown in its middle. Arriving as I did, by bus, leaves you on an empty little lane on the outskirts of the city centre. Every person travelling in this direction from afar is called by the majestic dome of the cathedral – either by its sound, or the mere sight of it – as there are no other high buildings or competing constructions as far as the eye can reach. Once you get closer to the city centre and enter the heart of the lands upon which St Bridget of Sweden and her daughter St Catherine built what came to be the monastery of the Bridgettine sisters, the impact of the castle and its surrounding only grows. One of the reasons for this is definitely that just behind these constructions, Lake Vättern spreads itself out, looking almost like a sea. Another reason might be that the majority of the streets have kept their cobblestone construction, with a minimum amount of car traffic, leaving the whole atmosphere breathing peace and tranquillity. When I enter the space where our circle-dance schooling is held, I am stunned. The vastness of the blue sky and the light and movement of the surface of the lake, almost fills the room itself, as one side of the dance floor is made of large windows, bringing the scenery in. After dancing my first ever sacred circle-dances and receiving the sensation that I am being linked to a tradition far older than me, I am not entirely sure if this ‘magic’ is due to the place or due to the dancing. The sensation is only strengthened, two days later, when we celebrate my first danced Vesper in the monastic cathedral: Twelve bodies circling the light-globe with living candles and feet touching the ancient tombstones of dead patrons beneath us. Much later, once I have had these experiences more frequently – being carried by the slow and meditative pace, sensing the impact of the repetitive movements in my body and mind – I start to gravitate towards the conclusion that there is something in the dance itself. Further, I hear my own experience echoed in the words of others: ‘it is as if our bare feet touching the ground function like roots through which I connect’; ‘once I let go and I am carried by the group it is as if something dances within me’; ‘when the movements reach a place of synchronicity it is as if time itself slows down or speeds up so that a whole hour sped by, in what felt like mere minutes’; ‘dancing lets me connect, to myself and to something more than me’.1



1 LD 1.1.2; LD 2.4.0; LD 2.4.2; LD 3.3.0; LD 4.3.2; LD AI4.

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Some of these experiences are familiar to me from my earlier dance practices. They have also scientifically been explained as altered states of consciousness, reaching a place of flow or the oneness known from practices of deep meditation.2 However, at the same time, the sensation of being connected to a more ancient tradition of sorts was an entirely new experience to me. I could sense and intuit how these exact steps and this rhythm of movements, were at home in a long line of meditative practices that would have been the most natural pattern of monastic life.3 Was this only my imagination playing tricks on me, due to the choreographies being put to music from the Taizé community or old monastic chants? Or was it so that the simple repetitive motions, done over and over again, bringing me into deeper levels of relaxation, reminded me of a rhythm known to my body only from retreats in monastic settings? Was it so that the monotonous continuity, sometimes in silence, sometimes with my voice partaking in the lyrics, while my body repeated the slow and easy patterns, moving me to a place of rest; a space where my breathing and my movements became one, activated the same kind of sensory and motor connections as chanting and prostrating do during the different stops – vigil, laudes, matins, vespers and compline – of the common prayers? Still, there was in this inexplicable sensation some part of a story that has been left untold, and which finally fell into place. Could there be any real substance to this sense-emotory4 feedback that felt almost like a distant memory of some sort of communal experience? At least I know this is the closest I have ever come to what I presume is – what Jungian psychology calls – the collective unconscious.5 An experience that every cell of my body tells me – we have arrived, at the same time, as they say, now we are back on track.6 After my first weekend course of the schooling to become a Sacred Circle Dance leader, I was confronted with the question, both by myself and my fellow dancers: Have we danced in the traditions of the Christian churches in the West? If so, who danced and why? These questions brought me on a journey, out of which this thesis grew. Initially, my idea was to be a participatory observer at two different schoolings where dancing was practised in church settings and write about these experiences. The schoolings were Kropp och Rörelse i gudstjänsten as well as a more traditional kind of dancing within Church of Sweden: Sacred Dances, also known as Circle-dancing.7





2 See more on this in Bolte Taylor (2009); Csíkszentmihályi (1990); Newberg, Waldman (2009). I am, however, in no way inclined to agree that psychological or neurological descriptions are all there is to these kinds of phenomena. See also the congruence of my personal experience and that of my fellow dancers with that of a study on circle dance conducted in England. Borges Da Costa, Cox (2016). 3 LD 1.1.2. 4 A combination of sense, emotional and movement input. 5 Defined by Encyclopaedia Britannica as: ‘the part of the unconscious mind which is derived from ancestral memory and experience and is common to all humankind, as distinct from the individual unconscious’. 6 LD 1.1.2. 7 This schooling was not officially arranged by the church but by an independent ‘Folkhögskola’ that functions as a partner together with the Church of Sweden for different educational purposes. The ‘Heliga danser’ concept (slightly differing from the Sacred Dance tradition known on the continent

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i ntro d u cti o n

Quite soon, my presence as a researcher within these circles of dancers brought forth questions of legitimacy and historic inquiries. Similar to what Ruth Illman8 describes in her doctoral thesis, Music and religious change among progressive Jews in London (2018), the dancers at these schoolings, just like the progressive Jews in London, showed signs of wanting a tradition into which they could root their practices.9 Being part of a tradition, according to Illman’s study, seems to have meant not to adhere to specific dogmatic ideas or concepts, but to root their ritual practices in something beyond themselves. Similarly, I was asked if the practice of dancing in churches had historical roots within Christian traditions. In Illman’s case her theoretical starting point was that of vernacular religion,10 describing what these practices looked like today. In my case, though, it soon became quite clear that the more immediate point of tension was found in the historic depictions of the past, or more precisely, in how a tradition of dancing has been constructed, or rather, misconstrued, by earlier theological and philosophical writings.

1. Background Turning towards textual historic materials to find out if a tradition of dancing can be found in the Christian churches of the Latin West, I mainly found authors such as Kimerer LaMothe, in A History of Theory and Method in the Study of Religion and Dance: Past, Present, and Future (2018) – stating that Christianity is not a dancing religion.11 She goes as far as to argue that European Christianity is hostile towards dance traditions, at the same time as she claims that ‘dance’ is integral to ‘religion’.12 LaMothe is mainly speaking from a methodological and epistemic point of view, which I will have reason to come back to later on. Looking at historical records, what is mostly found are long lists of prohibitions against dancing. The article most frequently referred to, gathering these prohibitions, was written in 1914 by Dom Louis Gougaud13 and duplicated from him into various treaties.14 However, it is not only so that earlier research shows how dancing has



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9 10 11 12 13 14

and British Isles) was originally implemented in Sweden through clergy and other workers of the Church of Sweden. Source U. More on the new schooling see Source I; Source J. Throughout this study I will be referring to all major academic contributors with alternating between their given – and surnames or surname. This is my conscious choice to highlight how many competent and expert women researchers actually exist in the fields I work in. It is also one way to work against not only gender biases but the tendency to reduce individuals and their personal contributions to certain privileged family names or academic ‘clans’. Illman (2018), 128–30, 141–42. Illman (2018), 1–9. LaMothe (2018), 1–4. See also Stander, EEC (1997), 317. LaMothe (2018), 2. Gougaud (1914), 10–14. Backman (2009); Rahner (1967); Davies (1984); Horowitz (1989), to name a few.

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been banned from churches. Much that is written about dance practices within the traditions of Christianity in the Latin West is highly polemic.15 On the one hand, writers of history, such as George Gordon Coulton (1858–1947)16 in his Five Centuries of Religion (1979), state that dancing: is condemned with striking unanimity by medieval moralists, whether monastic or secular. It is true that a great deal of dancing went on in the medieval village, just as a good deal of drinking went on when liquor was easily obtainable; it is true also that the clergy sometimes danced and drank with their parishioners. But there is far less record of the former condescension than of the latter; and it would be quite impossible, I think, to find any religious writer who admitted the cleric’s right to join in any dance whatsoever; and the dance itself is more consistently condemned, even for lay folk, than the tavern.17 From this blunt condemnation of dancing in all forms and manners, he then moves on to a long list of depictions from different medieval authors claiming that dancing is a sinful practice.18 His account shows no other stories than that of rejection. Coulton is known for his anti-Catholic attitudes,19 and it is clear from the sentence following the above passage that he seems to have in mind some author who is romanticising over the joys and pleasures of the Middle Ages.20 It is beyond the scope of this study to find out whom Coulton was arguing against, yet it is sufficient to state that his antipathy against dancing seems to be linked with various other themes of discussion.21 On the other hand, there is a pool of writers, who describe the relationship of dance and the Christian tradition together with insight into medieval history, from a completely different angle. Margaret Fisk Taylor (1908–2004) states in her A Time to Dance: Symbolic Movement in Worship (2009) that: The art of symbolic movement is neither a mushroom-type of growth that is springing up in many places, nor an art that is being grafted into Christianity in the twentieth century. It has been a natural expression of man from his earliest days, throughout all civilizations, cultures, and religions, and is essential for man today.

15 Constant Mews’s level of analytical clarity brought forth in Mews (2009), is a rare exception in writings of Church history and dance. 16 Former professor at Cambridge. Source N. 17 Emphasis mine. Coulton (1979), 531. 18 Coulton (1979), 533. 19 Source O. 20 ‘If we tried to get back to the Middle Ages as to a blissful time of dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth, our first struggle would be against the Church’. Coulton (1979), 533. 21 Use of alcohol, moral codes of conduct between the sexes and what proper church is about, to name a few.

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i ntro d u cti o n

The close connection between religious feeling and expressive movement has been coeval with the history of man.22 After this over-all description of the beneficial relationship of dance and Christian faith, Taylor moves into a historic overview, from biblical sources up to the modern period where one piece of evidence after another is piled up to display how favourable the relationship between dance and leaders or communities of the Church has been.23 She also gives examples of how clergy and even nuns were encouraged to take part in dancing during the medieval period.24 A similar pattern is followed by many other authors, with the same examples and reoccurring themes.25 After I had been reading several of these accounts, presenting history as either against or for the wedlock of dance and Christianity, I realised that what arouses above the question whether there had been a tradition of dance in the Latin West, is the question of how we have arrived at such a polarised debate. What particularly caught my interest was that it is not only at the level of dance advocates – creating and claiming space for their practices – but also at more thoroughly academical levels of study, where dancing is presented in these highly polarised forms. Bengt Kristensson Uggla writes in his book on scientific theory, En strävan efter sanning: Vetenskapens teori och praktik (2019) that there is no such thing as only ‘gathering’ empirical evidence or collecting data when it comes to conducting research.26 However, approaching the written historic materials found on dancing and its position within the traditions of Christianity in the West, what I found were

22 Emphasis mine. Fisk Taylor (2009), 67. Margaret Palmer Fisk was one of the passionate pioneers for dance in the church in a period when such things were unheard of. She was the daughter and wife of Presbyterian ministers, who in the 1940s was one of the first people in America, to choreograph dances for Christian worship services of the modern period. She called her dancers a ‘rhythmic choir’ to avoid the negative connotations of ‘dance’. Her book was also titled: The Art of the Rhythmic Choir (1950). Later edited and reissued as A Time to Dance (1967) under the name she had after her second husband: Margaret Fisk Taylor. See also Doug Adams, who founded The Sharing Company as a publisher and clearinghouse for books and articles by members and affiliates of the Sacred Dance Guild. A number of these pamphlets were published together in Dance as Religious Studies (1990) edited by Doug Adams, Diane Apostolos-Cappadona. In the European context, Bernard Wosein and his daughter Maria-Gabriele maintain a similar position within the Sacred Dance tradition. There is no doubt that these people and their works have been important for the encouragement, acknowledgement and spreading of dance in Western churches. Yet their literary contributions to an academic discussion of the kind I am aiming at is of limited use. 23 Fisk Taylor (2009), 67–135. 24 Her examples stem particularly from the mystery plays and dramas that were created in local parishes for different festive celebrations. Fisk Taylor (2009), 88–89. 25 In Adams, Apostolos-Cappadona (2001), it is Taylor’s own article in a slightly edited form that reappears. Further see: Daniels (1981); Davies (1984); Gagne et al. (1984). Even more recent authors like LaMothe’s already mentioned work on dance and religious studies, hold fast to the conviction that dancing is somehow the primordial form of religion, joining authors like William H. McNeill, were a case is presented for the evolutionary idea that dancing is what differentiates humans from other animals. McNeill (1995), 13; LaMothe (2018), 5, 43, 94. For a more critical reading of the same claims, see Ehrenreich (2007), 9–20. 26 Kristensson Uggla (2019), 91–92.

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several accounts where it seems like the researchers have only taken statements out of their contexts, piling them on top of each other to make a particular argument, for or against dancing. The burden of evidence is not laid on understanding a phenomenon but on the amount of ‘gathered’ data. One author who has dealt with similar kinds of patterns in historic accounts is Wouter J. Hanegraaff in his ‘Religion and the Historical Imagination: Esoteric Tradition as Poetic Invention’ (2017). He calls this lack of critical reading and unconscious interpretations of historical sources for a poeticising historical imagination.27 Similar to Hanegraaff ’s arguments, what can be noticed in the historic records I have been examining – accounts describing or indicating actual dance practices in churches or by practitioners of the faith – historic facts are most often left behind, or over-run, by a narrative and more emotional explanation for what role the dancing played in the story of either ‘true’ Christianity or ‘true’ Spirituality.28 The fact that dancing seems to have polarised people, or been caught up in the middle of a story of polarised views on Christianity’s relationship to for example paganism and platonic philosophy, like Hanegraaff exemplifies it, is one of the reasons why I will argue that dance historians will need to handle secondary sources about church practices with more care than has thus far been done. This is also why this study cannot start with only describing the relevant literature in the field by simply pointing to those sources most commonly used. Hanegraaff argues that due to the traces found of strong emotional and narrative storylines within earlier research traditions, historians need to tend to the historical imagination itself, as an object of research.29 In this study, I will deepen the understanding of how earlier researchers around dance in the traditions of Christianity in the West have constructed their various views on dancing. Bengt Kristensson Uggla further states that what every researcher does, is to generate facts out of the activities of reading and writing. To do this, the practices of interpretation and analysing become relevant.30 The enriched understanding of this study will thus arise from me analysing how the arguments of earlier research have been framed.

27 Hanegraaff (2017), 140, 143, 145. 28 Hanegraaff identifies four different narratives: the ‘Pagan Wisdom’, its counter-narrative of ‘Pagan Error’, the story of ‘Enlightenment’ as ‘Rational Paganism’ and its counter story of ‘Romantic Esoteric Paganism’. Each one is complete with heroes and villains, struggle between light and dark forces and ending in some kind of resolution for why one now needs to portray history in a new way. Hanegraaff (2017), 139–47. 29 Hanegraaff (2017), 135. He further explains: ‘It is true that the imagination (like memory) is ultimately deceptive; however, it is ultimately revelatory as well, for it is only through these deceptions that we are able to apprehend reality at all! The imagination discloses the world to us in the form of creative inventions that must be studied for their own sake; and this is true for the world of realities “out there” as well as of realities “back then”. Perhaps most important of all, it is naive to assume that the creative products of the historical imagination simply stand over against the objective facts of history – on the contrary, they find themselves among those facts and can be studied as such’. Hanegraaff (2017), 138. 30 Kristensson Uggla (2019), 91–96, 305–08.

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i ntro d u cti o n

However, this is not the only task nor dilemma of this study. To exemplify further I will turn to one of the prohibitions found from Gougaud’s list of statements against dancing. In the following statutes, written in Paris at the end of the twelfth century, it is stated: It is forbidden for priests to allow dances particularly in three places: in churches, cemeteries, and processions. Etudes de Sully – Eveque de Paris (1208)31 This kind of prohibiting statements have mostly been interpreted as signs expressing that dancing is an unwanted element in Christian celebrations and liturgies.32 At the same time, they can also be interpreted in another way. The sheer number of statements prohibiting different kinds of dancing makes it clear that dancing was a persistent element of earlier societies.33 Thus, other scholars, like Jeannine Horowitz in ‘Les danses cléricales dans les églises au Moyen Age’ (1989), have instead used the lists of prohibitions compiled by Gougaud and others, as an argument for stating that if dancing was condemned so often, and over such an extended period, it must have been a very active force and an important tradition.34 As a result of this, it becomes clear that the first answer to my fellow dancers’ questions about dancing in churches, would be that, yes, there is some kind of a tradition around dancing to be found. If it ever was an entirely accepted tradition is a different question. Simultaneously, Horowitz’s way of posing the dilemma also raised the issue that if dancing, as the Etudes de Sully indicates there to have been, in churches, cemeteries, and processions existed, why is so little written or known about it? Furthermore, one could ask completely different questions in relation to these materials, such as: Who were the people dancing? When did they dance in the church? Why did they dance in the cemeteries, and in what kinds of processions did they dance? What meaning did the dancing carry for them? What more can be learnt from records, such as that from Paris, apart from the fact that dancing was to be forbidden? Can historical records on prohibitions be interpreted and analysed in a way were they reveal something more about the dancing that was conducted? The statement above, by the bishop Odo de Sully (1165–1208) – who was in charge of the worship services at the cathedral of Notre-Dame35 – indicates that those who had been dancing may have been not only ordinary lay people. At least this is the interpretation given by Constant J. Mews, in his ‘Liturgists and dance in the twelfth

31 ‘Communia Synodalia 36: “Prohibeant sacerdotes ne fiant choreae maxime in tribus locis: in ecclesiis, in coemeteriis et processionibus”. (Mansi, XXII 683)’. Gougaud (1914), 12. Translations are mine, when nothing else is stated. For the help of understanding the Latin I am deeply grateful to Joonas Vanhala. 32 Gougaud (1914), 7; Rahner (1967), 79–80. 33 Gougaud (1914), 10–14. 34 Horowitz (1989), 285–86. 35 Harris (2011), 87–97.

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century: the witness of John Beleth and Sicard of Cremona’. (2009) when he claims that Odo de Sully’s statutes were aimed particularly at priests and their liturgical duties.36 Further investigations show that two different statutes from the same time period can actually be found. The first set of prohibitions was issued against priests participating in worldly games, plays and entertainment,37 while the second set of prohibitions were those that have been picked up by Gougaud. Furthermore, the formulation of the second prohibition makes it unclear if the priests were only to forbid dancing or if some part of the clergy also were amongst those who were banned from dancing. What Mews finds to be more relevant is the fact that this second kind of dancing – happening in processions, inside churches and in cemeteries – was part of some type of liturgical practices.38 These discussions raise the critical question, what is the difference between dance as entertainment and dancing as part of a liturgical praxis? How can one differentiate different kinds of dancing from each other and could dance be both entertainment and part of a liturgical ceremony? Furthermore, who has the right to decide when a certain kind of dancing becomes problematic, and when it is considered to be part of a liturgy? How can one come to understand the meaning of dance in a liturgical setting? Some researchers have also ventured to say that dancing can be analysed from the evidence that it was practised not only within the compounds of a so-called secular sphere but also in the sacred places of sanctified space.39 However, this raises the question of how a present-day researcher can access and understand the medieval understanding of space, place and religious observance. Most importantly, when earlier research attempts to answer these kinds of questions, the explanations do not stem directly from the materials themselves. More often, it seemed that some theoretical framework attached to the scientific worldview of the researcher conducting the study defined the agenda for the practices of interpretation. Contrary to Kristensson Uggla’s invitation to write research in such a way that different theoretical frameworks are in dialogue with each other resulting in a deepened understanding of dance, the sources I encountered often ended in harsh judgements or romanticising accounts.40 Raising the question: how could a more nuanced account and increased knowledge of dances of the medieval period be acquired? Also, what would be a good material from which we can understand how the dancing could be interpreted in a way that is aligned to the medieval context? We are now ready to define the three main tasks of this study and to describe its aims.

36 Mews (2009), 537–38, 540–41. 37 ‘It is completely forbidden for all priests to play with dice or attend spectacles or be present at dances or enter taverns in order to drink, or to enter strange houses without an amice [ecclesiastical garb] and in company with a cleric or layperson or to wander through streams and squares; it is completely forbidden for them to wear winged capes [with wide sleeves] and unusual clothes’. Statute 64. Mews (2009), 541. 38 Mews (2009), 541. 39 Hayes (2003). 40 Kristensson Uggla (2019), 305–08, 315–19.

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2. Task The first task of this study has been attended to already. The task is to understand how earlier research around dance in the traditions of Christianity in the West has argued about dancing being a Christian or non-Christian practice. From this task arises one of the main aims of this thesis: to make an account for what kinds of narrative frameworks have dominated the discussions on dance in theological accounts and historic depictions of the practices of dancing in the churches of the Latin West. What I am referring to is the literature of secondary sources developed during the turn, and beginning of, the twentieth century. Instead of using Hanegraaff ’s examples of four predominant storylines that create the framework for poeticizing historical imaginations, I will build my categories of narrative frameworks through analysing the written sources of earlier research on dance and theology. The writings of a few authors have dominated the discussions of most later research and, thus, this is a doable task. It is important to remember, though that these writers claim to build their accounts on historical sources that stretch across the whole history of Christianity. I will not be able to make any detailed comments on the actual dancing from such a broad framework. When I move into more particular examples, these will all be connected to the medieval period. What I will be focusing on, is how the discussions on dancing have been framed and what happens to the relationship between dancing and theology, when the practice of dance is narrated in these ways. Narrative frameworks creating a poeticizing historical imagination may be one of the reasons why discussions on dance are caught up in a polemic debate around dancing being part of the accepted practices of worship in churches of the Latin West. However, there is more to the narrative frameworks than only giving an account of them. The second task of this study is to show how different narrative frameworks in theology give rise to different epistemological, methodological and conceptual understandings of dance. Phrased in another way I will be asking: How is the lack of in-depth knowledge on dancing in the churches in the Latin West today formed by how earlier research has been conducted? Whether dancing is given value in studies of religious sciences and theology is the concern about epistemology brought forth by Kimerer LaMothe. LaMothe has stated that European forms of Christianity are hostile towards dancing.41 This is a viewpoint she partly shares with the early writers on dance in the field of Philosophy. They have shown that in academic discourses philosophical theories have been imposed on dance.42 Some go as far as Susan Kozel in her thesis As vision becomes Gesture (1994), stating that theories are not just imposed on the dancers and their bodies, but they are hostile to the lived experience of dance.43 Kozel argues that even path-breaking philosophical accounts such as Susanne Langer’s

41 LaMothe (2018), 2. 42 Kozel (1994); Parviainen (1998); Monni (2004); Rouhiainen (2008). 43 Kozel (1994), 111, 227.

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Philosophy in a New Key (1996)44 and Feeling and form (1953) or Maxine SheetsJohnstone’s The Phenomenology of Dance (1966) provide inadequate philosophical frameworks for the consideration of dance. They do not, for example, question the narrow notions of reason and cognitive processes that have been prevalent within traditional Western philosophical frameworks and, thus, render dance merely a metaphoric or symbolic value.45 LaMothe’s critique echoes this, and particularly in her first book Between Dancing and Writing: The Practice of Religious Studies (2004), she engages with a long line of Western philosophers arguing that their sole focus on the acts of reading and writing as pathways to knowledge render their ability to deal with life in all its complexities, problematic. In her later writing, she applies this same claim to the whole field of Religious Sciences.46 LaMothe’s solution to this is that dancing in and of itself should be considered as a specific way of knowing in religious sciences.47 Even though I am sympathetic to her overall project, I am not completely convinced by LaMothe’s claims.48 Thus, this thesis will rather commence by asking what kind of methodological challenges occur when one wants to study dancing historically and which are the concrete epistemic defaults that earlier studies of theology have been found entangled in when studying dance? My aim is to display how questions of epistemology and methodology have interfered in understanding dance as a topic of study within theology. This will include asking: Are there any theoretical and methodological frameworks imposed on dance? Is there evidence of accepted forms of dancing to be found that have been overlooked do to the theoretical and methodological frameworks? Do different narrative frameworks hinder the expression of dance to be understood? What do the epistemological and conceptual frameworks found in theological discussions do to dancing? Finally, the third and last task of this study is to provide a correction to the findings of how discussions about the relationship between dance and theology have been handled by earlier research. Bengt Kristensson Uggla writes that the scientific field always works within the premises that there are multiple possible explanations to different phenomena and various ways how the same event or set of facts can be understood.49 It is an integral part of the scientific project to establish and create room for a dialogue between varying viewpoints.50 Yet, he states that sometimes, scientific research needs not only to explain how we can understand something from multiple perspectives, we also need to correct and disclaim earlier findings.51 In this study, the aim of task one and two is to pinpoint those aspects of earlier research on dance and theology that have been found wanting. Thus, in the third

44 Originally published 1941. 45 Kozel (1994), 91–92, 94–95. 46 In the recap of these arguments presented in A History of Theory and Method in the Study of Religion and Dance, her point in case is made too general and simplistic. LaMothe (2018), 9–23, 43–56. 47 LaMothe (2004), 242, 257; (2018), 81–90. 48 More on this under the chapter 1.3. Methods. 49 Kristensson Uggla (2019), 306. 50 Kristensson Uggla (2019), 315–19. 51 Kristensson Uggla (2019), 304, 308.

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chapter of this thesis, I will move into a more constructive mode where I will suggest a way forward on how historical records portraying dancing in and around churches in the Middle Ages could be understood in more fruitful ways. One of the challenges will be to find an interpretative framework that will be faithful both to the experience of dancing and the medieval setting within which the dancing took place. To this I will turn in the chapter on methods and materials. Furthermore, the third chapter of this thesis aims to answer the last task of this study by using three medieval examples of dancing to suggest an epistemological and methodological framework for how historical studies on dance and theology might be constructed. In contrast to the newly published Ringleaders of Redemption How Medieval Dance Became Sacred (2020) by Kathryn Dickason, which I became acquainted with only after this study was conducted, this is not a study that deals in-depth with the primary sources of the medieval period. Instead, this book argues for finding new ways of approaching primary sources and methods for researching a field that has been muddled with a bias against the interpretative framework of dancing bodies and a diseased social imaginary, unable to imagine dancing as part of the traditions of the Christianities of the West. Before I can display an even more precise structure for this study, a few more things need to be discussed about the question of methods and materials of my research. The overview of methods and materials will mainly deal with the question of how theological inquiries can study dancing, what role social imaginaries play in this study and why incorporating artwork becomes central for studying dance.

3. Methods and Materials The overall task of this study is to scrutinise earlier research on the topic of dance and theology and to offer a corrective to the interpretations that have been given about historic traces of dance in and around churches in the Latin West during the medieval period. For such a task, what is needed is a critical method of inquiry. The method of this study needs to be critical for at least two different reasons, which will be described in the following chapter. 3.a. Hermeneutics

First of all, the theological debate around dancing has tended to be caught up in a polemic debate and be tainted by a poeticizing historical imagination. Tending to the historical imagination itself, as an object of research, requires a particularly critical capacity. The task of studying the historical imagination is linked to what Bengt Kristensson Uggla writes about the importance for universities today to realise what it means that science itself has a history.52 By the creation of the success story of science, universities have tended to create an unnecessary tension between concepts 52 Kristensson Uggla (2019), 57–59, 66–67, 85–86.

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like faith and knowledge, religion and science, theory and praxis as well as the tension between natural and human sciences.53 This leads furthermore, he argues, to the need to question the claims that constitute ‘objective truth’ and to remind ourselves about how knowledge truly is acquired.54 Kristensson Uggla’s remedy is both to become aware of the narratives told about science, and apply a critical hermeneutical approach to all fields of research. He makes a distinction between the use of the hermeneutics of Hans-Georg Gadamer as a method of interpreting texts and Paul Ricoeur’s critical hermeneutics as a method applicable to any kind of study. This is not a distinction Kristensson Uggla agrees with but one that constitutes the use of these frameworks in later theoretical explanations of what Ricoeur and Gadamer were doing.55 As I have already pointed to, my approach follows Kristensson Uggla’s in that I hold there to be no such thing as objective ‘facts’ or an absolute truth that can be ‘proven’ through a scientific inquiry. At the same time it is important to state that, presenting evidence-based knowledge is not, according to Kristensson Uggla, equal to arbitrary thinking and sharing one’s personal opinions about things. As a research community, we cannot claim that we have attained the final Truth about something; yet, we also cannot continue with our practices if we do not think there is some deepened insight and approximation towards truth, to be sought for.56 What all of this implies is that researchers today, more than ever before, need to acknowledge that all kinds of inquiries have a context and that there are limits and specific requirements that need to be attained to in all situations where knowledge claims are made. In more practical terms this means that one of the important aims of this study, which will have critical hermeneutics as its method, is to make the reader aware of the context in which earlier research on dance and theology was conducted. In particular, chapter two of this study is a presentation of the textual material I have read in order to find out what has theologically been written about dance and how the relationship between dance and a Western tradition of Christianity has been portrayed. Several authors could be mentioned, but the core works in this secondary literature on dance, adding to Dom Louis Gougaud’s article, which was already introduced, are: Lilly Grove’s Dancing (1895),57 E. K. Chambers’s The Mediaeval Stage Vol. 1 (1903), W. O. E. Oesterley’s Sacred Dance in the Ancient World (2002),58 G. R. S Mead’s Sacred Dance in Christendom (1926) and Hugo Rahner’s Man at Play (1967).59 When critically reading these texts I have been asking questions like, this: Why has dancing been treated the way that it has in earlier research? What were the narrative frameworks that made researchers view dance in a specific way and place it in a specific cognitive construction? How were the practices of dance able to matter



53 54 55 56 57 58 59

Kristensson Uggla (2019), 37–42, 75–78, 89–96, 100–12, 121–34, 164–70, 179–93, 219–42, 258–71. Kristensson Uggla (2019), 88–94. Kristensson Uggla (2019), 295–304. Kristensson Uggla (2019), 7–24, 289–95, 323–28, 357–67. Originally published 1895. Originally published 1923. One might also add Backman (1952) to this list. For reasons that will become evident later, I will opt for not doing so.

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within those frames and how has dancing been excluded from mattering in theological discussions, due to these narrative frameworks? A key concept for these inquiries will be Charles Taylor’s writings about the importance of a social imaginary60 which will be presented in more detail at the beginning of chapter two. The concept of social imaginary will be essential both for chapter two and chapter three of this thesis. However, the concept is used in slightly different ways in these chapters. This leads me to introduce the concept in more general terms here and with more detail in the beginning of chapter two. Awareness of the social imaginary will be beneficial both to identify the narrative frameworks that have informed earlier research and for suggesting an epistemological and methodological framework within the medieval setting where dancing can be understood anew. A second context for this study that requires a critical hermeneutics is that dancers and the practices of dancing have found themselves to be down-played, or under-valued, in earlier research, due to their lack of logocentric approaches to life.61 Contrary to scientific inquiries informed by the intention to turn all movements into words and assign them symbolic or metaphorical value, dancers such as Kimerer LaMothe aim to create room for dancing as an academic practice in its own right, and she has found the phenomenology of Gerardus van der Leeuw a helpful methodological approach for this.62 Within his framework LaMothe wants to conceive of religion as a kind of dance – as rhythmic bodily movement enacting a logic of bodily becoming and a cultural spiral of discovery and response.63 Within such a process she imagines a scholarly practice of moving between dancing and writing, were dance creates a heightened sense of consciousness, enabling the researcher to experience the world in a new way.64 There are levels on which LaMothe’s analysis of the current state of the art of dance with studies of religion highlights many important issues that need also to be considered when approaching a study on theology and dance historically, like this one. There are other levels on which my solutions to these challenges will differ from LaMothe’s. I will now attend to my comments on LaMothe’s critique. Kimerer LaMothe’s key interlocutor, Gerardus van der Leeuw has been strongly criticised by other dance scholars.65 One of them is Drid Williams in Anthropology



60 61 62 63 64

Here I follow an approach combining materials from Taylor (1989); (2007). Kozel (1994), 91–92, 94–95; LaMothe (2018), 22, 59–60, 62, 79, 90–92, 101. LaMothe (2004), 107–210; (2018), 49–56. LaMothe (2004), 242. LaMothe (2004), 5, 131, 183, 225, 257; Quoting van der Leeuw she writes: ‘To learn to dance is to develop the physical consciousness required to notice movement patterns and recreate them in one’s own movement. If what must be understood is meaning as described above, then perhaps learning the movement patterns characteristic of a given religious tradition can be as illuminating and as critical an activity as learning its verbal forms. The objectivity in this case is given in the attention and discipline required to develop the ability to recreate for himself the kinetic images in which another’s experiences appear to him as having meaning. A trained physical consciousness affords a critical perspective in a manner similar to the practice of reading and writing: by exercising’. LaMothe (2004), 234. 65 LaMothe (2018), 55–56.

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and the Dance Ten Lectures (2004). There she makes a strong case for van der Leeuw’s phenomenology being deeply rooted in a universalising and romanticising account of dance and the primitives.66 This includes the statement that LaMothe promotes, of dance being at the core of all human religious experiences.67 Making such claims, Williams argues, dance looses its ability to say anything at all about religion or theology, as the two fields merge into each other and cannot enter into a proper dialogue.68 I agree with the conclusion Williams draws. I further do not think that resorting to the kind of phenomenology described by LaMothe resolves the challenges that arise when researching dance or involving dance in research. My case is well portrayed in Lena Sjöstrand’s dissertation Mer än tecken: Atmosfär, betydelser och liturgiska kroppar (2011). She picks the phenomenology of Merleau-Ponty as her theoretical starting point, thinking – as many dance scholars claim – that phenomenology can cater to the lived experiences of dance.69 Nevertheless, well into her research on moving bodies and dramatised liturgical performances in churches, she notices that while some aspects of bodily practices are accounted for, she is unable in her writing to give attention to many of the core experiences that were lived in the moment. Most of the challenges lie in the habitual use of language, reason or thought to explicate the body.70 Her move away from dominating language towards a bodily immediacy in explaining an experience is to reach beyond the language of signs and symbols opting for incorporating concepts, such as atmosphere/ambience. Sjöstrand finds this opening through bringing in Judith Butler and her talk of performance and performativity into her theoretical framework.71 Instead of presuming that dance is religion or is antithetical to Christian faith, I will be asking what is it that is performed in the dance and dancing? How can we understand the historic records describing dance from the point of view of dancing being performative? In Sjöstrand’s critique of the limits of phenomenology, I find an echo of what Kristensson Uggla describes as the ‘turn to the subjective’. He described the challenges that emerge within certain traditions of both hermeneutics and phenomenology during the turn of the twentieth century. In finding a corrective to the mathematisation and causality claims of positivistic research, some schools of study started to create knowledge claims based on a new kind of splitting of the world.72 As Kristensson Uggla describes it, both in phenomenology and in the kind of hermeneutics that Gadamer was promoting, space was carved out for humanities to ‘survive’ by claiming that there is a more fundamental experience of being and knowing that can be found



66 67 68 69 70

D. Williams (2004), 96–99. LaMothe (2004), 242; (2018), 5–6. D. Williams (2004), 96–99. Levin in Copeland, Cohen (1983), 90; Bunker, Pakes, Rowell (2013), 1–8. See also Rouhiainen (2003). Karen Barad speaks about this challenge by referring to the implicit idea that reflexivity could solve the tripartite arrangement between objects, representations, and knowers. Barad (2007), 86–87, 274–75, 342. 71 Sjöstrand (2011), 201–04; more on performance in the arts Sjöstrand (2011), 219–24. 72 Kristensson Uggla (2019), 249–63.

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beyond the text or within the worldview of the person experiencing something.73 The consequence of such methodological approaches was that, instead of balancing the over-emphasis on explanatory theories on how the world works, the scientific discussion was reduced to descriptions of particular experiences of life. In doing this, the humanities placed themselves into a dualistic narrative description of the world.74 The consequence of such dualisms is that any research concerning dance, which wants to cater for the experiences of dance and dancers that solves this conflict by merely adding subjective or phenomenological descriptions of dance to a study, runs the risk of substantiating the idea of two separate epistemological and ontological domains. In the worst case, this kind of study ends up recreating the dualism between body and soul, matter and spirit, reason and emotion – ironically the same dualistic order that they originally wanted to distance themselves from.75 This is the second reason I am not convinced by LaMothe’s project. I read her account as a failed attempt to bridge the gap between objective and subjective modes of describing the world. She keeps referring to dancing, over and against the practices of reading and writing, just as she puts emotional experiences over and against reason, while at the same time promoting rhythmic movement as a religious experience beyond that of listening and reading of words or sitting in stillness.76 In promoting the experience of dancers and dance, these nuances can sometimes be difficult to manoeuvre. In her more recent work The Primacy of Movement (2011), dance philosopher Maxine Sheets-Johnstone, instead writes about the primacy of bodily directness. She argues that to know, in the most basic form, is to experience the world and ourselves dynamically, kinetically – language comes later.77 This, contrary to LaMothe’s claims – where only those can know, who have danced – opens up to a shared reality. As I understand it, the making of the world in our doing is also the deeper insight Lena Sjöstrand was referring to, in turning towards Butler’s writing.78 Bengt Kristensson Uggla’s way to express this is that instead of positioning descriptions of experiences or understanding against causal explanations or logical analysing, we need to place 73 Not all methodological approaches chose these same options. Instead, Kristensson Uggla gives a meta-description of the main strands of thought that developed. Kristensson Uggla (2019), 294–95. 74 Kristensson Uggla (2019), 297–99. 75 Kristensson Uggla (2019), 298. 76 LaMothe (2018), 1–9, 34–40, 49–55, 90–93. In her critique of Schleiermacher, she claims that: ‘he discourages rhythmic bodily movement in favour, as noted, of “comfortable inactive rest”’. LaMothe (2004), 60. Furthermore, in her second book, she is particularly hostile towards Christian ascetic practices, following Nietzsche in his critique of ascetic ideals which are represented both specifically by Christianity, and found within the larger culture: ‘Predicating radical distinctions between mind and body, doer and deed, or God and human, ascetic ideals function to reinforce a sense of self as a thinking “I” operating over and against the senses, passions, and instincts of the impotent body in which “I” dwell. They isolate that “I” as the locus of agency and causality. By the logic of the ascetic ideal, then, I am responsible for my suffering. In this way, the ascetic ideal can be used to justify acts in which I inflict suffering on myself (as in asceticism) or on others (as in war) in amputating, extinguishing, or otherwise denying bodily sensibility’. LaMothe (2006), 84–85. See also LaMothe (2006), 220–22, 231. 77 Sheets-Johnstone (2011), 438. 78 Sjöstrand (2011), 220, 223, 242–43.

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both of these practices together, within the overarching hermeneutical process of interpretation.79 In the same way, I will opt for Paul Ricoeur’s reformulation of the dilemma. Ricoeur not only positioned understanding and explanation as two practices that complement and follow each other, according to Kristensson Uggla, explanations are present at the heart of understanding, as they generate new understanding.80 However, there is no possibility of reaching an explanation without a pre-understanding, which will generate the right kinds of questions and awaken the curiosity to explore.81 However, in order not to just generate the same kinds of explanations that our pre-understanding imagined to exist, the critical hermeneutical approach needs to have a ‘crack’ which opens the hermeneutical ‘circle’ into a ‘spiral’, where something truly new can emerge. This is what Ricoeur describes as the productive function of distancing in all kind of hermeneutics, and this is also why Kristensson Uggla calls it critical hermeneutics.82 Instead of looking for a consensus, he explains that when we ‘share’ (in terms of divide) the world – which is what happens when we put words on our experiences – we open it up so that it can be ‘shared’.83 Relating to the first and second task of this study I will show, in chapter two, how earlier research has failed to understand dancing, specifically due to the social imaginary of their period being caught up in different hermeneutical circles of pre-understanding that only strengthen the presuppositions the researcher has about dance. In this study, the presentation of the social imaginary of the medieval world, provided in the third chapter, aims at creating the critical ‘crack’ of opening and sharing the world so that a new understanding of the medieval dance practices could be gained. From the point of view of dancers and dancing, Ricoeur’s description of hermeneutics further implies, just like Sheets-Johnstone expressed it that the experience of dance is no different from any other experience of life. The primacy of bodily directness always comes first and when (or if) we move to the realm of language, with any experience we have, we simultaneously both lose something we had and create something new. Both of these modes of experience are valid and valuable. They may also mutually inform each other. Such an understanding has not always been the case in earlier research and, thus, my task will be to pinpoint when a word-based symbolic structure over-runs and/or distorts the primacy of bodily directness in the writings of earlier research. At times, I will also have reason to pinpoint where the practice of movements may have been lost out of sight in the examples described by a researcher. I will further be inviting the reader to become acquainted with the experience of dancing, by introducing every chapter of this thesis through a Voice from the realm of dance. These vignettes should not be read as capturing the essence of dance – this I

79 Kristensson Uggla (2019), 301–04, 316–19, 356. 80 Kristensson Uggla (2019), 302. Ricoeur’s references in for example Interpretation Theory: Discourse and the Surplus of Meaning (1976) are only in relation to written texts and emphasising writing. Ricoeur (1976), 74. This is why I prefer using Kristensson Uggla’s approach which broadens this structure to other kinds of understanding and analysing, as well. 81 Kristensson Uggla (2019), 34. 82 Kristensson Uggla (2019), 34, 302–03. 83 Kristensson Uggla (2019), 60, 64.

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do not think is possible. They should also not be understood as an altogether different linguistic or cognitive sphere, even though they are written in a more lyrical form, but rather as the ‘opening’ which invites us into a dialogue. To further exemplify how that which I am aiming at here is different from LaMothe’s description of moving between dancing and writing, we will need to take a deeper step into the aspect of critique of critical hermeneutics. 3.a.1. Hermeneutics of Suspicion

The same methodological approach that Bengt Kristensson Uggla names critical hermeneutics, Sarah Coakley described as the hermeneutics of suspicion.84 In her God, Sexuality and the Self: an essay ‘on the Trinity’ (2013), she describes her method of inquiry as Théologie totale. Within Théologie totale the hermeneutics of suspicion plays an important role. She describes hermeneutics of suspicion as ‘an attitude towards texts that is sceptical about their surface appearance and seeks to reveal authors’ unstated and in particular improper motives’.85 As I have been describing, the secondary textual materials I will be dealing with already display hints of unstated motives and, thus, I find the attitude of suspicion a necessary tool to apply in my reading. Coakley further recognises that especially in historic circumstances of patriarchal suppression of women, a hermeneutics of suspicion is needed when reading doctrinal and theological texts.86 It is not only in the case of patriarchal suppression that improper motives have influenced the scientific writings of scholars.87 Coakley highlights particularly questions of race and class as themes that need to be recognised as affecting much of the scholarly work of theology.88 She further states that often researchers are caught in ‘hegemonic’ discourses and/or epistemic frameworks that they are not even aware of themselves. It is particularly for these kinds of reasons that the hermeneutics of suspicion is needed.89 Raising the question: Have questions of gender, race and class influenced the narrative frameworks of earlier research on dance in the theological traditions of the Latin West? Both Sarah Coakley and Bengt Kristensson Uggla describe the need of a distancing move of critical unknowing in order to become aware of both the tradition we are caught up in and the pre-set cognitive structures that have been driving our inquiries.90

84 The term itself is actually found before her use of it. See for example Hans-Georg Gadamer’s Truth and Method (1975) and Paul Ricoeur’s The Conflict of Interpretations: Essays in Hermeneutics (1974). Coakley further uses the term both in relation to art, investigation of social realities and for reading of doctrinal documents. See: Coakley (2013), 77, 84, 180, 192, 249. 85 Coakley (2013), 347. 86 Coakley (2002), 110–11; (2013), 84, 343. 87 Kristensson Uggla brings up gender, nationalism, colonialism, capitalism, to name a few. Kristensson Uggla (2019), 12–13, 67–68, 97–100, 131, 310, 339, 354. 88 Coakley (2013), 47. 89 Coakley (2013), 44–51. 90 Kristensson Uggla (2019), 95, 107–08, 288–90, 302; Coakley (2013), 43–51, 77, 84–85.

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Kristensson Uggla describes the process of knowing as one where we first gather information with our senses but then need to distance ourselves from our immediate experiences and take a leap out into the unknown.91 It is only in this place beyond ourselves where we can reach a deepened understanding. With Michael Polanyi, he states that ‘we can know more than we can tell’.92 This is what has often been described as ‘tacit knowledge’. Tacit knowledge should not be understood as any mystified form of knowing, what instead is at stake are two different things. First of all, there will always be a dimension of our knowing that we will not be able to describe in words. The tacit dimension needs to be recognised in both theology and dance research, and when the two enter into dialogue. Much that is brought forth when studying dancing may be knowledge of this kind. By letting dance be dance – connected to what can be known but not always told – I think much research concerning dance is better off than when trying to squeeze itself into the narrow compounds of language. In this way, I agree that dance can be a method of inquiry for researchers. Through dancing, we can come to know things that cannot be depicted in language. However, then it might also be something that we cannot share in a scientific community. The second aspect of what Kristensson Uggla and Polanyi bring forth has instead to do with the needed leap, which is required for our personal insights to turn into a shared arena where inquiries can happen.93 From this counterpoint of view, reaching towards the unknown might lead to acquiring new and deepened knowledge. It is for the latter that the critical distancing is needed. Described in another way, I agree with LaMothe that the fact that I have been practising dance for a minimum of once a week, for the past 20 years of my life, will have rendered me able to sense and experience the world in a different way than those who have not been committed to a practice of dancing.94 Similarly, somebody who spent a life-time practising to play the violin has developed specific neural pathways that will enable that person to pick up specific sounds and create within them the ability of finger dexterity that is not readily available to somebody who did not do this. This again might affect both the awareness and the thinking of that particular person, enabling specific ways of knowing. Yet, only part-taking in these practices does not give me, or anybody else, access to a privileged position from where one could speak about dancing or religion. Particularly not, from a scientific point of view.95 For this, much more is needed. Furthermore, and maybe more importantly, the way LaMothe displays the insight Søren Kierkegaard had about what can be gained concerning a deepened understanding of religion, through the leap of a ballet dancer,96 may initially



91 92 93 94 95

Kristensson Uggla (2019), 108. Polanyi (1966), 4, 27. Kristensson Uggla (2019), 108–11. LaMothe (2018), 93–104. As the portrayal of dance as religion position does, were religious experiences that do not involve dance are left aside, as secondary or invalid. This may not be the intention of LaMothe, but it is the consequence of her argument being constructed as it is. 96 LaMothe (2004), 85–102; (2018), 18–19.

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sound like Coakley’s and Kristensson Uggla’s writings about opening oneself to the unknown. Once LaMothe’s claim is scrutinised further, it instead seems to be stating two completely different things. First of all, she claims that the practice of reading and writing will make a person incapable of understanding the experience of faith.97 However, as I have already shown and will continue to describe in chapter two of this thesis, the problematic aspects of earlier research lie with the narrative frameworks that supported their reading and writing. We may know very little about the engagements of earlier scholars with dancing and even less about how such practices may have formed or challenged their narrative frameworks to be critically open to new understanding. Secondly, following the path that Coakley and Kristensson Uggla have been projecting, LaMothe would indirectly be stating that nothing of newness and exploration can be found through the practice of reading and writing, as only the dancer’s leap of faith gives access to the realm of the unknown. I can embrace neither of these viewpoints. The reason is that I believe there is a need for an ‘opening’ or suspicion in all three forms of action that have been described – in writing, in reading and in dancing – in order for something ‘new’ to be gained. Furthermore, for our personal experiences to become public knowledge claims that can be shared with the world, they need to have gone through a double process of inner and outer interpretations. Kristensson Uggla writes that even our ‘inner’ truths need to be not only experienced but simmered, shared, distanced, analysed and verified, in one way or another, before we can create a robust self-understanding. For this to approximate itself to what we call scientific truth, the experience also needs to be put in relation to ‘outer’ truths where other systems of abstract interpretation models and institutionalised structures of reference acknowledge that it makes sense. This is why everything we may relate to as truths, in scientific discourse, needs to be redefined into interpretations that are open and willing to be confronted with other interpretational frameworks.98 As I see it, it is the act of distancing, both ‘within’ and ‘without’, which is at the core of a hermeneutics of suspicion. 3.a.2. Hermeneutics of Charity

One way in which Coakley’s viewpoints on this differs from that of Kristensson Uggla is that she speaks of the need for more than a hermeneutics of suspicion. She also suggests the explicit wording of a hermeneutics of charity.99

97 She writes: ‘As such, de Silentio, the man “of silence”, enacts a position in relation to faith to which practices of reading and writing bring a person: close enough to see what one can neither do nor understand. Because de Silentio is a reader and a writer, because he finds his pleasure channeling the flow of words, he does not have the sensibilities or lived experience that would enable him to leap alongside one who has faith’. LaMothe (2018), 19. 98 Kristensson Uggla (2019), 317–18. 99 Coakley (2013), 90. See also N. T. Wright on the epistemology of love. N. T. Wright (1998); (2007), 83–86, 251–52.

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It is not so that Bengt Kristensson Uggla would be oblivious to the need for charity and hope.100 Rather, he portrays the critical hermeneutics of Paul Ricoeur as an integral move equal to breathing. I would portray it as a breath in which brings with it an empathic and attentive ability to listen, while the breath out requires the critical suspicion of explanations. These actions cannot be separated from each other without critical hermeneutics distorting into something else.101 Inspiration does not happen without both sides of the breathing process. Nevertheless, Coakley and others have stressed that an over-emphasis on suspicion and one-sided criticising has brought with it certain flaws.102 In the way that the hermeneutics of suspicion has been used to read texts and interpret social settings, she warns that suspicion can also render itself idolatrous in presuming scepticism always has the last word.103 Particularly in an emerging field, like that of dance and religious sciences or dance and theology, where the tendency of always pin-pointing how dance is missing or how the experience of dancers has been left unnoticed, the move towards overcriticising is always close at hand. Coakley is not one to foster an attitude of hostility or cynicism104 and neither am I.105 For this reason, and as a counterpoint to the hermeneutics of suspicion, Coakley speaks about the hermeneutics of charity and hope.106 Another author, with whom I have found similar arguments, is Lisa Felski in her Limits of critique (2015). She writes in relation to suspicion in art and the literary genre, yet brings forth important questions for theology to ponder as well, stating: Perhaps it is time to start asking different questions: ‘But what about love?’ Or: ‘Where is your theory of attachment?’ To ask such questions is not to abandon politics for aesthetics. It is, rather, to contend that both art and politics are also a matter of connecting, composing, creating, coproducing, inventing, imagining, making possible: that neither is reducible to the piercing but one-eyed gaze of critique.107 She claims that although hermeneutics of suspicion is needed, it trains certain kinds of habits and tunes us into a certain kind of mood. In this mood, we are limited in our ability to know and understand.108 Acquiring other sets of practices is the only



100 101 102 103 104 105

Kristensson Uggla devotes a whole chapter of his book to the hope he sees for academia. Kristensson Uggla (2019), 302. Coakley (2013), 79, 85, 267. Coakley (2013), 85. Coakley (2013), 84. I am the first to admit that it is sometimes rather too easy to start an article or review by just looking at what is missing. Furthermore, acknowledging the misuses that have been done in the name of science are also so severe that rage is always close at hand to fuel one’s ‘righteous’ writing process. Still, neither of these attitudes reap good science as their fruit. 106 Coakley (2013), 90. 107 Felski (2015), 17–18. 108 Felski (2015), 18–22.

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way to find other ways of thinking. If academia loses its ability to train the habits of charity, we will also lose the space where creativity, healing and love are fostered.109 Dance, like many other forms of art, can express vulnerable aspects of life. It deals with connection, with intimacy, coproduction and creativity.110 Thus, the need for charity when approaching materials where dancing is accounted for is crucial for the researcher who wants to identify and engage with the topics that are depicted. Charity is not needed only for understanding dancing. Particularly when it comes to the most vulnerable texts, thoughts, insights, experiences and descriptions of sources within my study, I apply a hermeneutics of charity towards what they are expressing. With vulnerable texts, I mean, in the context of this study, documents that have earlier been slandered or treated as secondary materials, due to the different social imaginary they stem from. One example of this is for example Jacobus de Voragine’s The Golden Legend, a literary document from the medieval period, which was widely used in that time and age. However, it later came under much suspicion as an unscientific document promoting miracles and stories of the unlearned. Reading this text with charity does not mean that I am ready to promote everything it states as truth, nor that everything that is stated within its pages was taken as scientific truths of the time in which it was read. Rather, just like Kristensson Uggla writes about the necessary ability to join Newton’s passion for physics and mathematics with his use of alchemy and writing of biblical commentaries, I argue that something of importance is lost, if or when researchers ignore those aspects of their study that they do not agree with or have problems understanding.111 Reading the stories of The Golden Legend will also provide insights into the social imaginary of a medieval world, which will be crucial for finding the interpretative framework that will help us understand dance in the historical setting where it was practised. Thus, the practice of charity is vital in the third chapter of this study, where the aim is to close the distancing gap between our time and that of the medieval world. In the second part of this study I want to engage with those materials that help us understand the medieval social imaginary. Not only those materials that fit the current view of what is scientifically knowable. Furthermore, charity in this study becomes a way to stay open, curious and awestruck by what I encounter. At times, as an expression of chosen self-discipline, I have further opted for a hermeneutics of charity, particularly to the sources that most annoy me or have rendered themselves challenging for me to embrace. I use the practice of charity in the hope that each cited author would find themselves given the benefit of the doubt in what they argue for. Also, as Kristensson Uggla has pointed out, it is in the possibilities that are opened just before something breaks down that a specific tension of wonder and reservation can be found.112



109 110 111 112

Felski (2015), 24–39, 46–51. See more of this in sub-chapters: Dance; The Dancer. Kristensson Uggla (2019), 162–63. Kristensson Uggla (2019), 257, 288.

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This emphasis on both suspicion and charity is the needed movement between closeness and distance that I think is necessary for a genuine ‘meeting’ to happen. For a dialogue between varying viewpoints to be ‘opened’ a space needs to be created. For the creation of this space – be it within myself or between me and another – both a hermeneutics of charity and a hermeneutics of suspicion need to be practiced. The understanding that I apply in this study to critical hermeneutics as a method is that at the core of interpretation is an equal amount of emotional, sensory and imaginative listening, at the same time as a critical suspicion of explanations is brought forth, creating a space where new knowledge can be revealed. Furthermore, a researcher needs to be somewhat comfortable with or at least willing to move into the unknown space of critical distancing from whatever he or she wants to know and understand. It is only in that conflicting space where many different theories and explanation processes are in dialogue with each other, merging and diverging, where we can reach a place of better understanding something, with the help of a broad spectrum of plausible explanations.113 This is very well put by Esther Lightcap Meek in Loving to Know: Covenant Epistemology (2011), when she clarifies that it is in neither the hermeneutics of charity nor the hermeneutics of suspicion where the key event occurs. Learning happens in the practice of moving between these two, while gaining completely new knowledge happens in the ‘opening’ of a ‘third’ which is more than the sum of the two.114 It is in relating to this ‘third’ position that I see both Sarah Coakley and Bengt Kristensson Uggla, finalising the discussions on method with one vital remark. They emphasise the importance of practices – practices that are not always discussed in the writing of a thesis itself – nevertheless they cannot be ignored either. It is precisely how both of these authors have chosen to recognise the importance of practices that their methodological approaches find relevance in a study working with dance. Thus, I will need to treat this topic with some attention to detail. It is also here that the method of critical hermeneutics deepens or reaches a new hight, whichever metaphor one wishes to employ. 3.a.3. Practice

Coakley and Kristensson Uggla approach praxis from very different viewpoints. Still, I see that their statements merge in their common aim to pinpoint what it is, in research work and for scientific communities, that holds the possibility of an opening towards the space of the unknown. In Sarah Coakley’s case, this has a deeper reference point in what she describes as a need for practices that will ‘purge’ our desires.115 She speaks about the need to practice a contemplative method of inquiry. From her point of view, such a practice is needed because not all of our attitudes towards what we read and write are conscious

113 Kristensson Uggla (2019), 60–64, 302–03. 114 Meek (2011), 54, 89, 280. 115 Coakley (2013), 19–20.

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choices. Without an active practice, we are caught up in the untangled desires that guide our actions, behaviour and thinking even into directions we would not want to go.116 What Coakley means by a contemplative practice can be traced throughout her writings. Some of it is found in her Gifford lectures,117 where she engages in a dialogue with natural sciences, and other parts can be found in her theological works about the contemplative method.118 She explains that the contemplative method ‘is an undertaking of radical attention to the Real’.119 It is also a ‘commitment to the discipline of particular graced bodily practices which, over the long haul, afford certain distinctive ways of knowing’.120 Here, Coakley’s and LaMothe’s words seem to be echoing each other. However, upon asking Coakley, she was not ready to embrace the idea that dancing is necessarily a contemplative practice.121 Neither is LaMothe willing to state that dancing should have anything to do with ascetic Christian practices.122 It is within this gap that I find important distinctions need to be made. To make these distinctions I also need to present the kind of idea about dance and dancers that I am elaborating within this study. These should not be understood as traditional definitions of the terms, as I will not be able to elaborate one distinct understanding of dance or dancers throughout this thesis. In this thesis, my main emphasis will be on reading and re-reading historic depictions and, thus, using the following descriptions from the arena of the performing dance arts and our time and age would be a highly anachronistic move. Instead, these depictions should be read only as a starting point for the current discussion. Dance

Returning home from the artistic collaboration Spheres (2016) between choreographer Marjan Raar and painter Baukje Spaltro I became strongly aware that enjoying dance is a skill, like any other that requires practice and use. To partake fully in a dance performance my sensory apparatus needs to be in a state of receiving – it is not only about seeing, watching or looking at movements in space. As José Gil explains it in his essay ‘Paradoxical Body’ (2006),123 dancing does not only summon the gaze. It is true that one ‘sees’ dancing, but it is also true that one ‘listens’, and even more profoundly, one ‘senses’ dancing. In our receptivity of dance, we also ‘touch’ and 116 Coakley (2018), 2–4, 10–15. 117 Coakley (2012a); Coakley (2012b); Coakley (2012c); Coakley (2012d); Coakley (2012e); Coakley (2012f). 118 See especially Coakley (2002), 4–5, 34–37, 55–57, 82–83; (2013), 16–17, 35, 43, 46–48, 88; (2015). 119 Coakley (2013), 88. 120 Coakley (2013), 19. 121 Personal correspondence at Bjärka-Säby, Sweden 25–27.10.2015. In email correspondence, Coakley further told me that she has not planned on dealing directly with dance in her series incorporating arts, but that it might be accounted for in some way in the last book on Christology (09.06.2014). 122 LaMothe (2006), 84–85, 220–22, 231. 123 Gil’s essay was first published in Portuguese as ‘Corpo Paradoxal’ in Movimento Total: O Corpo e a Dança (2001) but is more widely known in the English translation ‘Paradoxical Body’ in TDR The Drama Review 50:4 (2006) by André Lepecki. I use the texts in parallel.

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‘experience’ the movement: the reflexivity of the body is total. José Gil contrasts dance to the performance of an actor, where one’s attention is divided among other elements, beyond the body, such as the play of voice and word, while with the dancer the attention is fully concentrated in corporeal presence.124 Gil explains that what the dancer and theatre performer alike are able to do, is to create a space that extends itself beyond the surface of the skin.125 Gil names this space the space of the body and describes that it extends the body’s limits beyond its visible contours. When compared with the habitual tactility of the skin, it is an intensified space.126 He explains: it is a scene invested with affects and new forces – the objects that occupy it gain different emotional values according to the actors’ bodies, etc. Although invisible, the space, the air, acquire a diversity of textures. They turn dense or rarified, invigorating or suffocating. It is as if the things of the space are enveloped by a surface similar to the skin.127 The energy in motion that is brought in has the capacity to change how we perceive the objects within the space of the body. Gil explains that the space of the body is not only produced by gymnastics or artists who use their bodies. It is a general reality, present everywhere, born the moment there is an affective investment by the body.128 The difference is that a dancer becomes highly skilled in carving out, moulding, expanding or even restricting this space through his/her movements.129 My experience of receiving a dance is that I am capable of turning on or off, how these formations touch my bodily space by, for example, being physically tense or closing my sensory receptors. Thus, experiencing a dance performance will be dependent not only on the space of the body created by the dancer, but also the ability of my ‘skin’ to expand and be open to interact. Dance is often differentiated from the other arts due to its unique actualisation in the here and now, its ability to never be ‘caught’130 or presented twice.131 In the performance mentioned above, Baukje Spaltro painted stains of colour on the moving bodies transferred to the white floor and the transparent walls of the dance studio, and in so doing enhanced for me, not only the here and now, but actually also the multiple layers that dance is able to bring forth in the present moment. The dance is not only the moving body right in front of me, but it is also the series of movements

124 125 126 127 128

Gil (2006), 24. Gil (2006), 21–22. Gil (2006), 22. Gil (2001), 57. Gil actually goes on to explaining that the body ‘proper’ has the ability within this new ‘territory’, to extensions of itself and, thus, creating a virtual body. Yet I will not bring in this dimension of virtual bodies into this discussion. Gil (2006), 22. 129 Gil (2006), 26. 130 The already given description of the space of the body should be an indicator that even our most high-tech video and other recording devices have not yet been able to ‘pick up’ the totality of a performance as it is experienced live. 131 Of course, to some extent this is true for any performance, yet it is often held particularly true for dance. See for example: Sparshott in Copeland, Cohen (1983), 95; Kozel (1994), 228.

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that came before and continue after this movement. If I have trained my eyes, I can experience this triple gaze: what was, what is and what is to come. The colour-stain patterns, left behind by the dancers, help me to become aware and attune my awareness. Milla Tiainen and Jussi Parikka in ‘The primacy of movement’ (2013) extend Gil’s claims into a description, where although what we may perceive is a body in motion – the body moving through consecutive spatial displacements or variations – it is in the connective and vaguely but insistently felt in-between of those ‘results’ where bodies as movement, and change, really take place.132 They explain that moving is not decomposable into an ‘a priori’ body and the motions it then performs. Nor is it possible to break down the movements into a series of fixed points in space that the body allegedly inhabits along its ‘kinaesthetic journeys’.133 Instead, borrowing from Masumi, Tiainen and Parikka explain that the nature of movement is a dynamic, indivisible unity. José Gil adds to this that once a dancer is on the stage all of the body’s movement, or all movement coming out of the body, smoothly transports the spectator across space. No material obstacle, object or wall, impedes the spectator’s trajectory. No movement ends in a precise location within the objective scene (even though the physical body might come to a halt) – just as the limits of the dancer’s body never prohibit his gestures from extending beyond his skin.134 Thus, for me, on top of the space of the body, the movements themselves create a secondary space. I would name this second ‘space’ the realm of movement. The double exposure – of the space of the body and the realm of movement – that dance brings with it creates a sense of infinity. The body is creating a space within which the unseen is both able to be born and continue to move into eternity. The Dancer

Adding to the description of dancing, the perspective of the dancer complexifies dancing even more. Gil writes that the space of the body described as a lived experience of the dancer is most often conceived as a sphere or egg. From the perspective of the dancer, the space of the body is experienced as moving within a kind of container that supports movement. Instead of splitting reality into an internal and external space – where the dancer would be either an object or a subject in relation to space – the dancer’s body unfolds movements.135 The dancer senses his/her dancing and does not see him/herself as an object in motion across space. José explains that, on the one hand, the danced movements pull the body back upon itself while, on the other hand, it projects the movements out into the space, beyond the body proper.136 The dancer is simultaneously in relationship with, space, parts of itself, others, what is to come, etc. Milla Tiainen and Jussi Parikka explain that within the space of the



132 133 134 135 136

Tiainen, Parikka in Barrett, Bolt (2013), 210. Tiainen, Parikka in Barrett, Bolt (2013), 213. Gil (2006), 26–27. Gil (2006), 23. Gil (2006), 24.

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body where this unfolding of energy happens, there is an ontology of becoming. As the dancing body is moving in front of our eyes, all the time, the dancer is already becoming other than it was.137 Tiainen and Parikka borrow the distinction from Boundas where he states that ‘real transformation and change seem to require that the distinction between movement (the process) and moving (the agent or patient) be abandoned’.138 In a similar way, the experiences of dancers show that we also need to abandon the distinction between being and becoming. When the dancer is moving, in one sense, the dancer is always already outside of him/herself. The present keeps passing into the past while simultaneously opening up to what the body will become.139 Being and becoming are not two distinct separated things. Gil explains further that this gives the dancer, and our bodies as dancers, the special capacity of both being in space and becoming space. He writes that the dancer’s body is one that opens and shuts, connecting with other bodies and elements without ceasing.140 At the same time: inhabited by – and inhabiting – other bodies and other spirits, a body existing at the same time at the opening towards the world provided by language and sensory contact, and in the assembling of its particularity through silence and non-inscription.141 The dancing body is capable of becoming animal, plant, mineral, ocean, pure movement, containing clusters of forces; an emitter of signs and trans-semiotic, carrying an organic interior that is ready to dissolve as soon as it reaches the surface. The dancer’s experience of the body and being is one of multiple space forms, porous space and paradoxicality.142 Yet, with the flux of life, there is simultaneously an intense capacity for creation, through the capacity for desire.143 Gil explains that there is no fixed and autonomous space of the body, because it varies according to the velocities of its unfolding. Time, once again, depends on the texture – more or less dense, more or less viscous – of the space of the body, which is born from the energy involved. Thus, when I as a spectator experience something like ‘a dilated slowness’, or ‘a sudden enlargement of space’, in relation to the gestures of the dancer, José Gil explains that because energy can create space-time unities there is a sense of truth in this description of the dancer’s capacity to mould space.144 In spite of this lack of autonomy or solidity, in the midst of an existence that might even sound quite vulnerable and unpredictable, the space of the body actually harbours an enormous potentiality; the capacity to desire and



137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144

Tiainen, Parikka in Barrett, Bolt (2013), 213. Tiainen, Parikka in Barrett, Bolt (2013), 213. Tiainen, Parikka in Barrett, Bolt (2013), 214. Gil (2006), 28. Gil (2001), 68. Gil (2006), 28. Gil (2006), 29–31. Gil (2006), 27.

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through desiring the ability to assemble, transform and the power to actualise new flows of life and movement.145 As I already commented, the depictions presented here come not only from our time and age, but they are also developed within the world of dance arts. There are four reasons why I want to share these depictions of dance and the dancer. The first one is to convey how dancing may be perceived and experienced, in the case that you have never danced. Dancing is a whole body and whole-person experience which affects both time and space. Dancing engages emotion and sensations, but most of all, it is connected to desire – to creative life-force. This is the narrative framework within which dancing may happen. Thus, I will argue that dancing, indeed, does carry the power to transform matter, people and space. The second reason I share these depictions is that once we encounter interpretations of dance in this study, these small glimpses into the experience and practice of dancing may highlight and communicate how the arguments of a dancer – presuming they share the depictions of Gil – will approach common philosophical concepts challenging how earlier research has been portraying the world. Epistemologically, dancing challenges and breaks down scientific distinctions sometimes made between the subjective and the objective, being and becoming as well as future, present and past. These are the kinds of challenges that need to be accounted for when engaging with dance and wanting to understand and interpret the meaning and effect of dancing. Particularly when analysing earlier research on dance, these depictions will clarify the stance from which my critique arises. However, thirdly, one also needs to be very aware that these depictions of dance and dancers may not be similar to what was experienced inside a church in Medieval Europe. How dance was perceived in that period, we will and cannot know, as detailed descriptions of dance are scant and/or records written in a personal manner by dancers from the medieval period are yet to be found. The little that can be found – which I will present in the discussions of chapter three when I turn to examine primary historical accounts – will give some small indications. However, what was described in one place or situation may not be applicable in another one. Thus, the only remark that can be put forward here is that the affective and space dimensions seem to be essential components that will re-appear and are worth paying attention to. Finally, the performativity of dance already hinted at by Lena Sjöstrand is further illustrated in these depictions. The performativity of dance also implies that no easy categorisation of dance will be a possibility for those who want to understand dancing. The performativity of dance needs to be understood within the social imaginary where it was practiced. This my unwillingness to use any set definition of dance and dancing is also applied and argued for, in standardised works on dance, particularly in historical settings.146 Dancing always needs to be analysed not only with the particular historical context in mind, where it was performed. It also needs

145 Gil (2006), 29. 146 Lee Eden&Winniford (2000), 213–15.

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to be related to social, political, cultural, economic, religious and gendered realities that it was part of. The Practice of Coming to Know

Recapitulating what has been said so far, I want to return to the ideas of what it means to know, to be caught up in the process of critical hermeneutics and Coakley’s depictions of a need of a contemplative practice to ‘purge’ our desires in order to move beyond our prejudices and unconscious starting points of knowledge acquisition. The description of the dancer as somebody caught up in the process of simultaneous being and becoming as well as the opening up and shutting down, seems to indicate that the dancers are embodying all aspects of what Bengt Kristensson Uggla has been aiming to describe as relevant for knowing. Actually, Kristensson Uggla writes that the three metaphors used by Gadamer to describe the hermeneutical experience are: dancing, playing and participating in a game that all end up in a big feast.147 Does this mean that purely by dancing, a person steps into a practice of critical suspicion? Furthermore, when, for example, Sarah Coakley speaks about formative practices that enable one to give radical attention to the Real, these are very close to, if not identical with, the capacity formed within the dancer of moulding the space of the body and becoming in vulnerability. Despite several of these similarities, I will argue that what Coakley’s insistence on the need for a ‘purging’ of our desires has to offer to this discussion, is the key-point upon which more clarity to these topics can be afforded. To exemplify, I will turn back to the depictions of dance and dancers. From my own experience and through discussions with other dancers, I know that dancing is not always as ‘pure’ as what has been described by José Gil and the above writers. Sometimes dancing can be both self-absorbing and linked to a pattern of unconscious movements where desires are let loose in a way that might be destructive both to the dancer and those around him/her.148 In reading LaMothe, I have yet to find these kinds of descriptions of dance, which might be the reason she does not embrace the need of asceticism. Contrary to her, I do find that dancing – like any human activity involving desire – may even be used in situations that are more closely linked to manipulation, than to an opening up to the vulnerability of becoming and being embraced by a transformational power of new flows of life. While I want to pin-point this fact, I am also aware that speaking of the need of asceticism or ‘purging’ of our desires, might awaken the reaction that what I am concerned with, is a question of anthropology. With this I mean that speaking of the need of asceticism might be interpreted as a question interested in human beings ontological status as ‘good’ or

147 Kristensson Uggla (2019), 388. 148 This also came up during the schoolings I participated in. KR 2.2.2; KR AI 1.

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‘bad’ or drawn to actions that bring with them more ‘good’ than ‘bad’.149 Yet, this is not the point I want to make here. When I speak about the need of some kind of ‘purging’ of the Self in relation to one’s dance, it is not only in psychological terms of ‘Ego’ and desires or desire and ‘sin’ that I am thinking. Rather, the emphasis I want to lay here is on pneumatology. Coakley’s suggestion of using contemplative methods to ‘purge’ desire are connected to questions of sin and the unconscious, but they are also concerned with the movement of the Spirit.150 She claims that contemplative methods are open to all who seek to foster them.151 In Powers and Submissions: Spirituality, Philosophy, and Gender (2002) she writes that wordless prayer is a practice which opens up a space.152 Within this space we can practice what she calls ‘pneumatological dispossession’ to truth where the hermeneutical ‘stories’ that sustain different branches of scientific inquiry are ‘revealed’, together with the metaphysical and meta-ethical choices that those options enshrine.153 What this means is that positioning oneself in a practice of being open to the ‘purging’ of the Self – be it in dance, reading or writing – this is one step further from just a critical stance of suspicion. However, when José Gil describes dance as a play between the space of the body and the realm of movement where a sense of infinity is born and the dancer is depicted as a body moving within an ontology of becoming, this is to constantly move beyond oneself. Such depictions give, in my opinion, room for dancing to be a practice of ‘pneumatological dispossession’. Therefore, I argue that there are modes of dance and particular forms of dancing where what happens is a movement ‘out’ from oneself, where a distinction is created and a heightened sense of self-actualisation does appear to occur, thus, opening up the possibility for there being a ‘contemplative practice of dance’ – a practice where a person comes into the transformational space of a ‘third’ – through dancing. Simultaneously, I would argue that dancing is neither a guarantee for arriving in this space nor the only possible practice that may bring a person into such new spaces of being and becoming.154 Simultaneously, analysing history from the viewpoint of dancing may end up being an approach that will challenge earlier perceptions of theology and even alter the way scientific research is done. Dance has much to offer, but also dance needs the process of distancing and closeness that is found in the hermeneutics of suspicion and charity. Interestingly, when Bengt Kristensson Uggla was referring to games, play, dance and feasting as a description of the hermeneutical experience, the precise wording was the following: We do not only partake in playing, something plays in us. We do not only join in the game, something is gaming in us. We also do

149 Especially in feminist circles, Coakley’s writing on the need of ascetic contemplative practices is often interpreted either as a privileged position or as a sign of her appliance to the structures of a patriarchal system. See Tonstad (2015) and Nyman (2015). 150 Coakley (2015), 40–45. 151 Coakley (2013), 88. 152 Coakley (2002), 5, 32–35. 153 Coakley (2012a), 6. 154 More on dance as a contemplative practice in Hellsten (2021a).

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not only dance, something is dancing in us. Finally, we do not only feast, something is feasting in us.155 This indicates that the practice of coming to know lies not in the dance, play or game. Instead, it is in the movements between charity and suspicion that the ‘third’ space is created and if we have done our practice well, knowledge can emerge. This suggests, as I see it that there is a possibility of a ‘pneumatological dispossession’ to truth where we do not only read, but something is reading in us, we do not only write, but something is writing in us. Most importantly for this study, albeit there being enormous potentiality in dance and dancing, it is only when one is danced with – in the dance – that a transformational power is set to work. Acknowledging the ‘third’ space and the distinctive descriptions of it given here, potentially also resolves the conflict between LaMothe’s and Coakley’s descriptions of the place of practice in coming to know something. If what is sought for is the dancing that happens within the dancer in his/her dancing, dancing can be a practice that enables the dancer to give radical attention to the Real, as well as prepare a person for being more open to the unknown. What these methodological and epistemological remarks about dance and dancing have shown is not only that a hermeneutics of suspicion and charity is needed in a study where discussion of dance meets with theological research, since dancing has been down-played, or under-valued, in earlier research. It is, instead, so that dancing genuinely challenges more traditional text and logocentric centred ways of constructing knowledge. However, just because dancing has been pushed to the margins, this does not mean that only by applying dance, research will somehow miraculously turn into a more open, critical and understanding form of knowing. What my presentation on dancing and dance research shows, is that there might be some underlying reasons for why dancing historically has come in conflict with religious authorities. The following remarks are no conclusions on this topic. They are merely plausible reasons that can be kept in mind to why such a polemic situation has emerged in earlier scholarly work. I will summarise them shortly before it is time to move to the third and last question of critical methods needed in this study. First of all, the description of dancers given indicates that understanding the role of dance and dancers in any given situation, may be related to questions of desire. Desire can further be related to what place or role one gives to transformation and creativity in life. However, it can also lead to potential situations where desire turned awry. Secondly, dancing carries the potential of being a practice which moulds space, time and matter in distinct ways. Furthermore, dance is described as dealing with affects. All of these aspects of dance indicate that dance carries a certain kind of potency. Such potency, put in the hands of certain people, might be something that stirs up a whole social setting or makes leaders of a community sceptical towards dancing. Kimerer LaMothe, thus, goes as far as stating that dancing in relation to

155 Kristensson Uggla (2019), 388.

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religion is always a political question.156 Such claims need to be examined in each particular case, just as these depictions of dance and dancers which I have given now, may become irrelevant as we move into another historical and cultural setting. Still, knowing that these are the experiences connected to dance today will at least help us in the critical examination of the secondary sources of this study, as the writers of these are not so far removed from our time and age. Finally, the discussion of the role of dance as a practice that might bring its practitioners into the ‘third’ space related to ‘pneumatological dispossession’, which also indicates the possibility of transformation, means that I will need to keep a particular eye open for dancing also historically being a transformational practice. In the Christian traditions, ‘pneumatological dispossession’ is not only connected to transformation. It is first and foremost a pattern for communing with God, thus indicating that conflicts around dance may have been conflicts relating to how one communes with God. Again, just like with the above examples of relating to emotions, desires, moulding of space and matter, what has been described here as potential transformational use of dance, cannot be directly applied to the historic records I will examine. For re-examination of historical depictions of dance, which is the third task of this study, I will still use the hermeneutics of suspicion and charity in how I read texts and research concerned with the medieval period. However, I will also need a slightly altered approach for the constructive approach to understanding and interpreting the practices of dance found in the medieval period. What the encounters with how dancing may function and what role dancing may play has shown is that analysing dance needs to be a flexible and fluid practice. Once I move away from the scrutiny of earlier research, I do not only want to engage with the question if dancing was an accepted practice, or not. Instead, I want to understand what roles in medieval society dancing may have played. Presuming, as these indications have shown, that dancing may have played many and various roles, I want to explore the context within which dancing made sense. Posed in another way, the third chapter of this thesis will ask the question: In relation to what symbolic structures and experiences of life did dancers find meaning in their dancing? For that understanding I will not only deal with textual materials. I will also turn towards the social imaginary of the medieval world and pieces of art as a material resource for gaining a deeper understanding of dance in the medieval period. To the latter I will turn next. 3.b. The Semiotic and Symbolic in Art

When studying dance, particularly from a historical point of view, one of the main challenges is one’s sources. How does one discuss something that has disappeared

156 LaMothe (2018), 5.

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and that unlike music, does not even leave notations to look at?157 One way to do this is to turn towards images.158 Visual arts are of course not the same thing as live recorded events of something that has happened. However, they do indicate what might have been the experienced, idealised or factual circumstances of a certain setting. A. William Smith describes in his ‘Dance Iconography: Traditions, Techniques and Trends’ in Picturing Performance – The Iconography of the Performing Arts in Concept and Practice (1999), that there are three different approaches that can be used when interpreting historic images of dance. These images can be read with the snapshot approach, where one understands the image to have been a ‘photographic’ depiction of an actual dance. However, this is a very problematic approach, particularly to historical images of dance. The second approach is that of composition, where the interpreter presumes that some aspects of the image refer to actual dancing, while other parts are more related to questions of aesthetics and what is the ‘story’ one wants to convey. This approach is one which highlights how the historical context of the period when a particular picture was made and to whom it was created, will play a significant role for understanding the image.159 Finally, A. W. Smith brings forth the third approach which he has called the fantasy image and plays with imagination, literary sources and iconographic tradition. To these images Smith categorises biblical references to dancing, miracle stories and images of nymphs or gods. It is this group of images on dance, that most of my materials will be representing. However, A. W. Smith clearly states that ‘the problem with works of artistic imagination is that they cannot easily be dismissed as not representing at least some aspect of reality’.160 He further argues that it is quite possible that an artist made sketches at a mystery play performance or theatrical re-representation of a biblical story and later created the details of whatever fresco or oil-painting he was working on. This makes it particularly important for the researcher to become acquainted with the specific historical period in question, the source materials that could have been used and the genre or school the artist was representing.161 In the materials I will be using an important detail is the fact that these pictures have been in use in churches and devotional setting. Furthermore, the majority of them have been commissioned for religious purposes. In a recent study by Ally Kateusz, Mary and Early Christian Women – Hidden Leadership (2019), the author shows in a poignant way how examination of images can 157 The first written notations of dance in Western Europe are to be found only from Italy in the early fifteenth century. Jennifer Nevile writes: ‘These treatises contain not only a large number of choreographic descriptions (and some music) but also a theoretical section that provides the philosophical justification for dancing, lists the principles necessary for a good dancer, and briefly describes the steps used’. Nevile (2004), 6. 158 ‘While there was a change in the style, technique, and development of dancing during the Middle Ages, it is difficult to provide more than the barest description of the whole period. The reason is the absence of primary dance sources. Most dance information must be gathered from iconographic sources, literary references, and musical evidence’. Lee Eden, Winniford (2000), 214. 159 A. W. Smith in Heck (1999), 120–25. 160 A. W. Smith in Heck (1999), 126. 161 A. W. Smith in Heck (1999), 125–27.

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reveal what has gone missing or been forgotten about female leadership in the Early Church.162 In a similar way, in the third chapter of this thesis, I want to investigate what devotional images may tell us about dancing in the medieval period. In her work, Kateusz reads visual images as interpretations of something that was perceived. However, images can also be read in another way. In Sarah Coakley’s Théologie totale, she approaches art as a theological source that cuts through ‘hegemonic’ discourses and/or epistemic frameworks that might have been distorting the ability to see historic events or patterns of understanding from a new point of view.163 Promoting the semiotic ability of art to unsettle the beholder, she argues that the social and political misuse of earlier periods can be destabilised and redirected by incorporating artistic work into studies of systematic theology.164 Borrowing thoughts from Paul Ricoeur she writes: art does not simply illustrate doctrine as a kind of anodyne teaching aid for something already settled theologically elsewhere. No, theological art at its best can enable – in a way that on this supposition only the arts can – doctrine’s creative new expression, animus, and efficacy.165 Even though this study does not primarily deal with any questions of theological doctrine, the artworks that I have gathered from the medieval period are devotional pieces, which means that they do carry theologically relevant materials for interpretation. In the interpretations of both images of dance and the actual dancing, I will thus be looking not only for the art as an illustration, but scanning for any indications of the semiotic aspect of dance in these images. I will further expand on what I mean by the term semiotic in chapter 3.b.1. The Collection. What is important to note here is that both Coakley’s and Ricoeur’s ideas about artworks as a source for theology also goes beyond Dickason’s reading of dance as a figura in the medieval texts. As I understand her work on dance typologies, it is still dependent on a more logocentric understanding of dance which reads images and movements as textual materials.166 To clarify, the artwork will play two different roles in this study. In one role, the visual arts have a similar position in this study as they have in Sarah Coakley’s Théologie totale. In that role, they will challenge the reader to think anew, how the art

162 Kateusz combines readings of early texts with a rich variety of pictures from church interiors and catacombs to conclude that female leadership is widespread and found in many different areas of Church organisation. Kateusz (2019), 183–93. 163 God, Sexuality and the Self was the first in a series of a four-volume-band. Each of the volumes to come by Coakley, will incorporate different forms of the arts into the theological inquiry. She will deal with poetry, music and (combining all of them with the theme of the first volume on visual arts) liturgy. Some parts of Coakley’s writings on the position of the arts in her methodology are expanded by personal conversations and through relating to the conversations following the release of the book in Journals such as ‘Modern Theology’ and ‘Syndicate Theology’ (Source M). 164 Coakley (2013), 44–51. 165 Coakley (2013), 191. 166 Dickason (2020), 13-48. Dickason’s use of semiotics is linked to the tradition of literary scholars more than the Lacanian understanding that Coakley brings forth as theologically significant. For the critique of the use of semiotic readings of dance see Sjöstrand (2011), 76-78, 95-96.

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may have expressed creatively new thoughts and beliefs. In another role, the visual arts are brought into this study as artefacts that directly tell something to us about the worldview167 that was dominant during a specific historic period. These two aspects play into each other, yet are not exactly the same. In the case of Théologie totale, the power of the visual arts lies in the Lacanian idea that they are able to say something about what is hidden. In the second case, the artefacts reveal something that, at the historic time when and where they were made, was in plain sight, even though it may have become hidden for us today. One could speak about these two aspects as the ‘image’ and its ‘shadow’. Before moving on to a short description of both of these aspects, I want to describe why and how specific artefacts have been chosen for this study. Far from all the materials gathered are presented in this work. However, the totality of artefacts have informed my presentation of those that are displayed in the different chapters of this study.168 3.b. 1. The Collection

Before anything else comes the question of collecting materials. Put simply, I headed out looking for dance. There was no official collection to be found on all the works of art in the Western tradition of sacred art that depict dance or dancing.169 Some works, such as Maria-Gabriele Wosien’s Sacred Dance (1974), gathered images of dance from different parts of the world. Still, it is far from a complete collection. Further, work such as Kathi Meyer-Baer’s study Music of the Spheres and the Dance of Death – Studies in Musical Iconology (1970), are quite comprehensive. However, her collection is not specialised in sacred art and dance, so I could not know how much more there might be ‘out there’ to be found.170 After I had completed this study, Kathryn Dickason’s Ringleaders of Redemption was published. It also does not contain a complete collection of sacred images and dance. However, she has gathered a vibrant collection of dance sources in book illuminations, complete with textual references, for the medieval period.

167 James K.A Smith argues that there is a distinct difference between worldview theories and the use of social imaginaries, where the former is connected to how we think about things more than how we act, what we love/desire and which narrative of a good life we are enmeshed by. J. K. A. Smith (2009), 65–71. Yet, for the purpose of this study these two terms are used quite synonymously. This is due to the fact that what I mean with worldview is connected not to the theories J. K. A. Smith criticises but to N. T. Wrights descriptions presented shortly. 168 For a complete list of the 33 plates that are displayed and discussed in more detail, see the end of the thesis. 169 A. W. Smith identifies different online collections of dancers found in museums and literature. Suggesting for example, New York Public Library’s International Index to the Performing Arts. A. W. Smith in Heck (1999), 127–29. Unfortunately, though, these focus on dance after the period I am researching. 170 A. W. Smith also mentions Robert McGrath as one who has collected and analysed images of dance in a similar way as Meyer-Baer. However, his study focuses on the renaissance and thus does not cover the period I was interested in. A. W. Smith in Heck (1999), 115.

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The first step I took on locating sources for this study was to make a sample study. This means that I entered del Prado museum in Madrid in the winter of 2015, with the curiosity of a four-year-old. My journey then continued to Münich. After a day spent at Bayerisches Nationalmuseum and Alte Pinakothek, I had seen enough to have my intuition tell me I needed to create my own collection of artworks. There were much more images of dance to be found than I had initially expected. The next step was to restrict the scope. I have restricted my search for dance to the period starting from the beginning of Christendom to the Renaissance.171 My quest was to note every and any artefact that presented dancing or dancelike moves. The definition of what is a dance-like move is, of course, not that easily accounted for. Here I will give a broad overview of how I have reasoned and, at each image, I will describe the details of that particular piece of art. When an artefact is given the name of dance or dancing or described as depicting dance or dancing, I have called it an artefact of dance. At other times no direct references to dance are found in the title or description. Instead, the motif, for example of Salome with the head of John the Baptist, lets us know that there was dancing involved in the ‘story’. Further, there might be motifs of a feast or procession where the gestures of the people depicted embracing each other or holding hands in a manner that is customary for a specific kind of dance, renders the interpretation that this is dancing. These are also counted as dance. At other times, the gestures or bodily composition show a range of motion that goes beyond normal walking or standing. However, they are not clearly dancing. There might also be images that actually show a more static leap, jump or skip. All of these are rendered dance-like motions. This study does not aim at giving a complete description of visual art containing dance and dancing from the year 0 bc. to the sixteenth century, in Latin Christendom. At the same time, the sample I now have from over 20 museums and many churches, in Belgium,172 British Isles,173 France,174 Germany,175 the 171 To make breaks or make up sections in art history is not without problems. The distinction used here is from H. W. Janson and A. F. Janson, where the end of the Counter Reformation is placed in relation to the Renaissance and beginning of the Baroque period. Janson, Janson (2004), 558. 172 Collegiate Church of Saint Gertrude (2018) Nivelle; Couvent des Récollets de Nivelles and the Church of St John & St Nicholas (2018) Nivelle; Museum Le Grand Curtis (2018) Liège; Collegiate church of Saint Martin (2018) Liège; Musées Royaux des Beaux-Arts de Belgique (2019) Brussels. 173 Canterbury Cathedral (2019); The British Museum (2019) London; Christ Church Cathedral (2019) Oxford; St Belyau’s church in Llanfilo (2019) Wales; Cathedral church of St John, Brecon (2019) Wales; Hereford Cathedral (2019). 174 Palais des Beaux-Arts (2016) Lille; Musee Conde (2016) Chantilly; Muse du Clony/Musee national du Moyen Age (2016) Paris; Sainte-Chapelle (2016) Paris; Le Louvre (2016) Paris; Musee des artes decoratives (2016) Paris; Notre-Dame de Paris (2016) Paris; Museum of Fine Arts (2016) Strasbourg; Museum of Middle Ages (2016) Strasbourg; Cathédrale Saint-Étienne (2019) Auxerre; SaintGermain (2019) Auxerre; Musée de Sense (2019); Cathédrale Saint-étienne de Sens (2019) Sense. 175 Bayerisches Nationalmuseum (2015) München; Alte Pinakothek (2015) München; Wallraf-RichartzMuseum (2016) Köln; Germanisches National Museum (2016) Nürnberg; Fembohaus Municipal Museum (2016) Nürnberg; Gemaldegalerie Alte Meister (2016) Dresden; Gemäldegalerie, SMPK (2016) Berlin; Kunstgewerbemuseum (2016) Berlin; Bode-museum (2016) Berlin; Monastery of

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Netherlands,176 Northern Italy,177 Scotland178 and Spain179 and containing over 400 photographed artefacts, can stand at least as an indication. The museums visited were chosen from depictions of them as carrying especially valuable collections of medieval, gothic, Byzantine and early Christian art.180 Most often, I further restricted my explorations to the parts of the museum that contained art up to the Renaissance and/or Barock period.181 The artefacts include not only paintings but also sculptures, handicrafts, illuminated manuscripts, architectural details, altar-pieces, reliefs and decorations. In order not to restrict this study to what is often described as ‘fine arts’ or elitist depictions, I have paid specific attention to visiting museums and parts of the museums described as ‘decorative arts’ or ‘folk’ art. Of course, this selection cannot undo the inherent bias of art that is found in our national heritage collections, depicting the life of the wealthy and privileged parts of society. Nevertheless, my conscious choice of including handicrafts, books, furniture, jewellery, musical instruments and small decorative artefacts such as cups, cutlery, tiles, board-games as well as artwork found at holy shrines and cemeteries, does at least extend the scope of artwork to include the culture of monastic life, merchant guilds as well as the growing group of middle-class bourgeois. Let us now continue with the two ways that I have engaged with and will be referring to the artefacts in this specific study. Artefact as Image

The first route of engagement is that of gazing at the revealed or the ‘image’ found in the arts. This is the flip side of the shadow, wanting to describe the ‘symbolic place’ of a specific piece of art. In this way of relating to the artworks, I have gained my insights from what N. T. Wright calls an intertwining of narrative, praxis and symbol. In his Paul and the Faithfulness of God (2013), he describes – just like I have – that studies of history cannot rely on simplistic gathering of facts.182 To obtain the complexity and multi-layered understanding of a specific historical situation which is aimed at in a scientific inquiry, one also needs to dive into the worldview of that period. He writes: Those who engage in this work increasingly insist on the centrality of what may be called a ‘symbolic universe’, a world of artefacts (buildings, coins, clothes, ships) and habitual actions (what I have called praxis) in which people sense themselves at home and without which they would feel dangerously disorientated. Helfta (2018) Lutherstadt Eisleben; Benedictine Abbey of St Hildegard (2019) Rüdesheim am Rhein. 176 Rijksmuseum (2018) Amsterdam; Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen (2018) Rotterdam. 177 Castelvecchio (2016) Verona; Galleria dell’Accademia di Venezia (2016) Venice; Galleria Giorgio Franchetti alla Ca’ d’Oro (2016) Venice. 178 Scottish National gallery (2016) Edinburgh. 179 Museo Del Prado (2015) Madrid; Monserrat (2015). 180 Source P. 181 There were also occasions where a part or the whole museum was under construction so that I was unable to see the whole collection. 182 N. T. Wright (2013), 44.

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Worldview-study has also insisted, with strong support from some recent work in linguistics and its sociological, cultural and political implications, on the importance of underlying narratives, the scripts by which people order their lives, the ‘plays’ in which they assume themselves to be actors.183 Simplistically put, in the matrix that Wright depicts, there is an entanglement of artefacts, actions and stories adding up to a tentative description of the worldview of a specific historical setting. Wright looks at symbolic artefacts, descriptions of praxis and narrative scriptures in order to understand the worldview. What I will do in my re-reading of primary historical texts is to aim at doing the reverse of what Wright has described. This is the place where and in which manner this study will imagine this reversed structure to function. A philosopher of history such as Charles Taylor gives an indicative worldview for the medieval world. The key concepts of that worldview will be described by the end of chapter two. Social imaginary, plays an important role both in chapter two and chapter three of this study. However, for the medieval period some added concepts of significance, such as use of sacred space, reverentia, Corpus Christianum and agency of matter, will expand Taylor’s somewhat simplifying depiction of the period.184 Once the social imaginary of the medieval period is more fleshed out, I will start re-examining extracts from primary sources from the medieval period through reading them side by side with specific narratives (biblical story or hagiographic legend) that were widely used during the same time period as the examples are derived from. Further, my research in museums and churches often found artefacts or architecture with strong symbolism, nonetheless lacking direct description of the praxis. What I will be suggesting, throughout, is that this does not hinder a researcher from gaining knowledge of the praxis. It is possible that praxis can be revealed by adding together the other parts of the matrix of artefacts and underlying narratives with a prevailing worldview. This is the place and way this study will engage with artistic artefacts as images. Wright further writes that works of art and music, being part of the culture, live in the spaces between story, praxis and symbol.185 It is not only in wanting to describe a culture that this matrix of narrative, praxis and symbol intertwined with a worldview is of importance. Wright says that what is true of culture is also true, in a different dimension, of worship.186 As by the end of this thesis I want to give a corrective and constructive contribution to how we could better understand what role dance might have historically had in a Christian worship service, the importance of relating stories, worldviews and symbols to the praxis becomes even more evident.

183 N. T. Wright (2013), 26. 184 I will describe and use Taylor’s concepts Enchanted world, High Time and porous self extensively and these are presented in the end of chapter two. My critique is not against those terms but Taylor’s overall romanticising view, which will be discussed further ahead. 185 N. T. Wright (2013), 34–35. 186 N. T. Wright (2013), 35.

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N. T. Wright describes it by saying that worship is a specific activity in which elements of the worldview are caught up, colouring praxis, shaping and influencing narrative and generating symbols. In this activity of worship, we offer answers to key questions of our belief and narratives.187 Within the sphere of worship, it is thus possible that a praxis or symbol changes its ‘meaning’ as it is caught up in a new story and a transformed worldview. It is here that the two sides of art merge. On the one hand, artefacts can reveal what we take for granted, believe to be true and how we act in different situations. On the other hand, artefacts can challenge existing ideas and beliefs, raise questions and problems in our worldview in a language that speaks through or beyond articulates speech,188 thus uniting the hidden with the seen. There is one study by Jeffrey F. Hamburger, Nuns as Artists – The Visual Culture of a Medieval Convent (1997), which has managed to do something similar, in terms of creating a dialogue between artefacts, religious practices and theological imagination, as is my aim here. Thus, I will be returning to Hamburger’s findings further ahead. Artefact as Shadow

The second route of engagement with artefacts in this study is gazing at the hidden or the ‘shadow’ found in the arts. Sarah Coakley writes in her Théologie totale that she wants to include art in her project, for its capacity to open us up to the unconscious realm.189 She brings into her inquiry a whole chapter with visual art representing the Trinity and asks the reader to allow oneself to be caught off guard, disturbed, intrigued, irritated and freshly inspired or even reduced to mirth.190 The aim of the art is to have a semiotic interlude. Coakley uses this term to refer to the post-Freudian school of thought created around Jacques Lacan. There the term semiotic means ‘the realm of diffuse thought and creative imagination repressed by the male symbolic, and especially associated with “femininity”’.191 One way to understand what is at work within a Lacanian terminology is to return to the term complementarity created by physicist Niels Bohr.192 This is a term used in quantum physics that describes that ‘Under one set of circumstances, electrons behave like particles, and under another, they behave like waves’,193 which was probably never meant to be used in gender discussions but has gained immense importance there.194 In the quantum physics example, complementarity is used for describing that humans can never know and describe what things are, in themselves. Instead, what can be said is that once a person focuses on one set of behaviour, we are unable to, at the same time, focus on another set of behaviour. The same principle is carried into different feminist schools of



187 188 189 190 191 192 193 194

N. T. Wright (2013), 35. N. T. Wright (2013), 34–35. Coakley (2013), 192–93. Coakley (2013), 193. Coakley (2013), 351. This example is taken from Barad (2007), 24, 29, 174, 264–68. Barad (2007), 29. See Allen (2016), 366–68, 463.

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thought, where it is applied into discussions on the male and the female, masculine and feminine; sometimes rendering them opposites, dualities dependent on each other, while at other times, representing structures where one totally excludes or negates the other. There are various degrees of dogmatism within the Lacanian school of thought.195 In Coakley’s use of the term, it is a moderate form of Lacanian thought that is at work, one which wants to shed light on the undeniable cultural dominance of ‘male’ thinking, and its repressive and distorting effects on both women and men. By bringing art into her Théologie totale she aims at undoing those voices which want to keep a system where the so-called ‘feminine imaginary’ is accorded no worth.196 Coakley argues that excluding the semiotic not only makes the psychic distorted and stultifying for all but also loses a way of knowing God, found nowhere else.197 When artworks, in this study, are presented in the form of shadow, they stand as they are, irreducible and cannot be ‘translated’ into words.198 These images can bring forth something about dancing that we cannot find in any written form. Thus, the same images that are ‘symbols’ of dance also speak to us in the semiotic, revealing something about the dancer, the experience of dancing and theology that cannot be expressed in any other way. In the instances of referring to dance as semiotic I consciously resist ‘reading’ the dancing bodies as texts or even with an idea of interpreting the ‘body language’ of the images. Furthermore, as all of the images used in this thesis are potentially devotional artefacts, they also reveal semiotic significance about God and his Kingdom and the experience of the community of believers and their relationship with the divine. Potentially, the semiotic character of the image also moved and transformed the person engaged with it as a devotional piece of art. What makes it even more interesting is that also the actual historic dancing may have played this semiotic role in its cultural setting. Coakley combines the semiotic with the movements of the Holy Spirit. Along the lines of her arguments one could state that if dancing historically was part of a Spirit-filled prayer practice, the semiotic aspect of dance was activated and dance potentially turned to a powerful devotional act. Presuming it did, this would have been an upsetting and challenging art-form for the dominant cultural ‘male’ system to deal with. Furthermore, one way to downplay or ‘abort’ the semiotic role of dance, would be to give it only symbolic value. It is at this juncture that I will be tracing the way dancing is described in the historical textual materials as well as the earlier research. Asking questions like: Is dancing portrayed in the symbolic only, or is dancing given free semiotic range? Has dancing been restricted due to it harnessing a semiotic and potentially spirit-filled capacity to upset or interrupt the ‘male’ symbolic order? What happens if dancing is described as a liturgical practice – does it then incorporate both the symbolic and semiotic?



195 196 197 198

Coakley (2013), 49–50. Coakley (2013), 50. Coakley (2013), 50, 91. Coakley (2013), 191–92.

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We have now seen how artefacts play a dual role in this study. In totality, they are only a minor – but essential – part of the whole disposition. Finally, I am now ready to give a general outline of this whole research.

4. Synopsis In this chapter, I have described the three main tasks of this study and exemplified the kinds of questions I will be asking from my materials. Furthermore, I have defined the materials that I will be using in the following chapters. For my two critical tasks of examining earlier research, I will be dealing only with textual materials. The method used for those readings will be a hermeneutics of suspicion and charity. For the third and final task of this study, my approach is more constructive. Based on what was revealed through answering task one and two, I will provide a correction to the findings of how discussions about the relationship between dance and theology have been handled by earlier research. In that part of the study, I will still engage with a hermeneutics of suspicion and charity. However, I will also deepen my understanding of the context of three particular dance practices found in Medieval Europe by engaging with materials that reveal the social imaginary of the medieval world and by analysing artwork that depicts dancing from the same period. The three tasks of this study will be examined in two chapters. In the chapter entitled; Earlier research and its Shortcomings, I commence the task of understanding how earlier research around dance in the traditions of Christianity in the West has argued about dancing being a Christian or non-Christian practice. To provide for the need to tend to the historical imagination itself as a topic of research, I will present how Charles Taylor describes that our social imaginary defines not only what we take for granted as truths, but also how we see the world. After this, I will turn towards finding the key sources of a discussion on dance and theology. They will be presented in the sub-chapter entitled: The Body of Works. Once the materials for earlier studies of dance and theology are established, I will turn to a critical reading of these sources. In the sub-chapter; Unaddressed Topics, I will describe the narrative frameworks that have dominated the discussions on dance in theological accounts I find and show how they have presented the historical traces of dancing that can be found from the churches of the Latin West. Through my critical reading of the earlier research, I will not only display the dominant narrative frameworks found in the writing of Lilly Grove’s Dancing (1907), E. K. Chambers’s The Mediaeval Stage Vol. 1 (1903), Dom Louis Gougaud’s ‘La Danse dans les eglisés’ (1914), W. O. E. Oesterley’s Sacred Dance in the Ancient World (2002) and G. R. S Mead’s Sacred Dance in Christendom (1926). I will also show how those narrative frameworks have continued to influence research into our time and age, distorting the ability of scholars to move beyond dichotomising depictions of dance as those described in the beginning of this chapter. With the help critical dance scholars such as Joann Kealiinohomoku in her ‘An Anthropologist looks at Ballet as a form of Ethnic Dance’ (1979), Drid Williams in Anthropology and the Dance Ten Lectures (2004) and Kélina Gotman in Choreomania:

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Dance and Disorder (2018), I will then turn to the second task of this study. I will show how the different narrative frameworks that have been used in earlier research give rise to different epistemological, methodological and conceptual understandings of dance. The description of these conceptual frameworks and how they have hindered the expression of dance from being understood is further addressed in the sub-chapter: Muscles and Faulty Categories. Finally, I will end chapter two by presenting what I imagine to be a Healthy Body of Works on dance, describing the criteria for how historical accounts of dance can be displayed without distorting or misunderstanding dancing in a theological study. Commercing the chapter entitled Dancing in and around Churches, my aim is still to exemplify how particularly the scholarly work of E. K. Chambers, Louis Gougaud and Hugo Rahner with their particular epistemological and methodological frameworks have portrayed the historical accounts of dancing in and around churches in medieval Europe, in a specific manner. Through comparing and contrasting their interpretations of dance in the theological settings of three different events with that of more recent scholarship, I aim at showing why there is an urgent need of re-interpreting these scholarly claims in a new light. The three medieval examples of when dancing has been described and discussed by Gougaud and Rahner but deemed as un-liturgical are Ceremonial Game Plays, the feast of Corpus Christi and the celebration of the Feast of Fools. By re-examining the depictions of the historical records of these events and the evolution of the ceremonies of these occasions during different times of the medieval period, I will show an alternative interpretation of how dancing mattered in these situations. It is important to remember that my aim is not to give a complete account of the liturgical manuscripts or historical archives of the three feasts. Instead, it is to exemplify how future research could approach these events from a more dance-sensitive point of view. For describing the medieval world and its practices in a new light, I have not only turned to the descriptions of the social imaginary of the medieval period explained by Charles Taylor. I have also engaged in scholarly work that emphasises a turn to matter, popular practices and non-judgemental understandings of the medieval worldview. The authors enriching my knowledge of how religious practices in the medieval setting can be understood anew are Peter R. L. Brown’s The Cult of the Saints – Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity (1981), Charles Zika’s ‘Hosts, Processions and Pilgrimages: Controlling the Sacred in Fifteenth-Century Germany’ (1988), the entire collection of works by Caroline Walker Bynum and Max Harris’s Sacred Folly: A New History of the Feast of Fools (2011). Notably, Peter Brown, Caroline Bynum Walker and Nicholas Terpstra in his Religious Refugees in the Early Modern World: An Alternative History of the Reformation (2017) brought to my attention the conceptual importance of sacred space, reverentia, Corpus Christianum and the agency of matter, which have played a significant role in the way I have engaged with the historical examples of dancing that I have encountered. Furthermore, encouraged by the way Jaques Le Goff engages directly with the medieval accounts I also have, in the chapter on Ceremonial Game Plays, Corpus Christi and Feast of Fools, engaged with the primary sources of liturgical manuscripts from the medieval period as well as more interpretative works like; Mystical Mirror

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of the Church by Hugh of St Victor and The Golden Legend by Jacobus de Voragine. Together with these stories, legends, myths and symbolical depictions of the medieval practices, I have analysed artwork depicting dancing in ways that mirror the textual resources discussed. Thus, I present, as my conclusions will show, a variety of ways that dancing can be understood to have mattered in the medieval liturgical and non-liturgical context. Ending my final task of re-imagining the dance practices in and around churches of medieval Europe by implying that dancing – even when engaging with scarce material resources – can be understood, when the study applies the method of analysing symbolic artefacts, descriptions of praxis and narrative scriptures, as its framework. Finally, in chapter four, Dancing Bodies Today and Then, I will return to the present time and world, wondering how what we have learnt about dancing in the medieval world may matter in the churches today?

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Earlier Research and its Shortcomings

The Sacred Dance tradition In the Sacred Dance tradition, the circle is a holder of space – sacred space. To choose to step into the circle is a choice of connection. To stand in the silence of the beginning, stand in the stillness of where it all starts. The feet connected to the ground, the floor, the earth – creation. The touch of bones to muscles and skin to air. Hands connected to other hands, a community of saints, both present and past. Each song and dance is presented with the honouring of those who have danced before; This dance I learnt from…, who got it from… who had danced it with the creator… or, This song I heard …, then the steps came to me at a certain place or in a certain space. Sometimes, what is shared is a story of where the dance stirred a specific emotion or healed a particular wound. The touch of me to you and the sound to move. Finally, there is the connection of the heart, for the circle is the holder of space beyond ourselves. Each heart is turned towards the centre, open to the unknown, the void. The empty space that at the same time is ‘Full’ – full of a presence – the embrace of the Divine. Sometimes, symbolised by the Christ candle or a word, sometimes enacted with the flowers or colours of the Spirit or the water of baptism, or even an occasional icon or statue of Mary with the child. The focal point that draws us together, the soft kernel that brings us back, once we lose our way. The opening and giving of oneself to be touched. With these three points of connection – the feet, hands and heart – we slowly start the movements and with the rhythmic bodily motion, the community holds space: hold space for those who dance now, hold space for those who have danced before, hold space with those who are dancing in other places. Once we fumble or fall, lose a step or tumble over somebody else’s feet, the community brings us back, the Heart pulls us in. We can rest in the flow – carried by what is and keep the connection going. In the Sacred Dance tradition, the creation of sacred space is a space that holds memories and holds possibilities; creating a space for the transformation of what was, what is and what is to come! Could the theological tradition be presented in a similar way as the spiralling circle of the Sacred Dance tradition: Where each generation builds on and honours their teachers, where each individual contribution strengthens the whole and where equal amounts of value is given to bodies, emotions, mind, heart, spirit, imagination, re-examination, creation, and the known and unknown?

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The methodology of critical hermeneutics with its pattern of charity and suspicion offers this kind of approach to the examination of historical sources and the study of theological ideas. However, such an attitude and these practices have not always been the norm in theological or historical research. Already in the introduction of this thesis, I wrote that Wouter J. Hanegraaff has examined how historical imagination has distorted and misinformed many depictions of historical accounts related to theology, religious sciences but also western history, more generally. He writes that on the one hand, imagination is what discloses the world to us in the form of creative inventions. This means that one cannot comprehend history, without some level of imagination involved. Furthermore, imagination is what forms the concepts and ideas with which we analyse whatever we read. On the other hand, what has tended to be the structure of these inventions, is a very strong, pre-set narrative framework that has completely over-run the ‘objective facts’ of history found in primary sources. Nevertheless, Hanegraaff insists that studying the fantasies – distortions, misunderstandings, and creative inventions – about a specific person or event in themselves, tell us important things about the historical impact of that person or thing. Thus, I have opted for scrutinising the historical imagination itself, as a topic for understanding the role dance has played in the theological discussions of Latin Christendom. Kélina Gotman in her Choreomania: Dance and Disorder (2018) has attempted a similar disclosure of how the idea of excessive dancing has been portrayed in Western European discourses as a form of disease or dance mania. Gotman explicitly writes that there is no historical claim to be made for actual dance manias, she instead follows the development of the concept of the idea of such revelry and the fantasies portrayed around dancing disease spreading across Europe.1 Still, her study – complex and intricate in details as it is – leaves the reader assuming that there also must be some ‘real’ relationship between dancingg, disease and mania. This uncertainty or unwillingness to actually correct and disclaim earlier findings, is the main problem of her study. As I see it, one could both examine the historical imagination of the portrayal of a specific topic and at the same time also make corrections to those areas were clear cases of narrative misinformation and conceptual distortion, takes place. Such will be the aim of this thesis, and in this chapter, I will commence that scrutiny by turning to the secondary sources of stories depicting dance and theology in the Christian traditions of the Latin West. I aim to find out what narrative accounts, concepts and ideas have dominated the discussions on dance in a theological setting. Such work will also reveal narrative frameworks, concepts and ideas that have dominated the historical depictions of theology, more broadly speaking. In order to display the historical imagination that has dominated earlier research, I will use Charles Taylor’s writing on social imaginaries. To the task of describing how social imaginary, is used in this study, I will turn now.



1 Gotman (2018), 2–4.

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1. Social Imaginary The writing of Charles Taylor, in A Secular Age (2007), on the idea of a social imaginary, will play two different roles in this study. On the one hand, the social imaginary will work as a theoretical frame, which enables me to localise the narrative frameworks and conceptual constructions that have guided the historical accounts of secondary sources written on dance in the Western European theological traditions. Such work will primarily be done in this chapter but also at the beginning of chapter three. On the other hand, recognising the social imaginary in another time period, like that of the Middle Ages and how social imaginaries function, will also be an essential tool for how I will build my re-interpretation of how we could understand dancing in the medieval period. In chapter three, when I offer my corrective to how dancing could be understood differently then earlier studies have suggested, this new understanding hinges primarily on reading praxis in a new light, together with analysing the symbolic artefacts I have found combined to the new social imaginary presented. For this, second role, that social imaginary plays in this thesis I will delve deeper into Taylor’s presentation of the social imaginary the medieval period. However, presenting that aspect here, would be to step ahead of time. My aim is instead that by the end of chapter two we will be prepared to re-examine medieval sources and understand, not just what tools will be needed for such re-examination, but also why such tools are essential. It is now time to introduce Charles Taylor’s depiction of the term social imaginary and to describe how it is such an essential concept for this study. In A Secular Age, Taylor shows how readings of the modern period have distorted many of our understandings of earlier times and eras. In order to portray this, he speaks about social imaginary.2 Taylor says that he has chosen the concept of social imaginary rather than social theory, as there are important and manifold differences between the two. He writes: I speak of ‘imaginary’ (i) because I’m talking about the way ordinary people ‘imagine’ their social surroundings, and this is often not expressed in theoretical terms, it is carried in images, stories, legends, etc. But it is also the case that (ii) theory is often the possession of a small minority, whereas what is interesting in the social imaginary is that it is shared by large groups of people, if not the whole society. Which leads to a third difference: (iii) the social imaginary is that common understanding which makes possible common practices, and a widely shared sense or legitimacy.3 The term social imaginary includes the ideas, stories, images, legends and practices of a community of people, which they take for granted. The social imaginary is more than just peoples worldview, even though these terms are going to be used almost synonymously throughout this thesis. Contrary to some definitions of a worldview,



2 He acknowledges the influence of Benedict Anderson’s writings on the political imaginary as one of his sources. Taylor (2007), 793. 3 Taylor (2007), 171–72.

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a social imaginary is nothing you can choose. It is how you perceive the world, and it cannot be changed by will. The social imaginary we were born into seems the only possible one, the only one which makes sense, at least until we encounter another one.4 Nevertheless, when the social imaginary changes, even though it might come like a ‘revolution’, this change is not fast, and it does not shift with every whim of fashion. Instead, the change of a social imaginary takes time, moves slowly and can be detected only in retrospect over a more extended time period.5 When Charles Taylor speaks about the time and age we live in now, he names this social imaginary a Secular Age which can only be seen and described with/through the ‘backdrop’ of the previous period. Some researchers argue that as we can speak about a Secular Age, we have already passed into the next era. This is a discussion I leave for others.6 In this study, the focus is not on defining our time and age. Instead, I want to scrutinise how the social imaginary of earlier scholars has placed historical findings of dance practices into a particular theological and religious construction. The interesting tension that I want to investigate in this chapter is that even though earlier scholars share the social imaginary of a Secular Age, they will apply different narrative frameworks to how they read, understand and interpret the place of dance and theology in a historical tradition. The critical distinction here is between the stories, ideas, images and practices that the researchers at the beginning of the twentieth century had about the role and form science played in their world. They had a shared sense of legitimacy over what science could do, how it was done, and why it needed to be used in certain situations and for specific causes. From this shared understanding, will stem both their scientific methods, their ways of posing questions, what they find worth studying, and how such research is to be presented in order for it to be legitimate. In tandem with this shared sense of how the world works, the scientific field is always divided into different research traditions. Contrary to the social imaginary concerning science, during a particular era, were most practices and ideas are just taken for granted, a particular research tradition will pose opposing narrative frameworks for interpreting particular historical ‘facts’. The latter is what Hanegraaff ’s four poeticizing historical narratives offer. The narrative frameworks that Hanegraaff ’s study brings forth can compete with each other and open up for differing strands of interpretation.7 Contrary to them, the social imaginary of that period, is instead what takes for granted that historical records could or should portray a struggle between true Christianity and true Spirituality, pagan wisdom and pagan errors as well as understanding the task of a researcher as a person who needs to ‘preach’ truth or ‘educate’ reason to his readers.8



4 5 6 7 8

Taylor (2007), 168. Taylor (2007), 542. See for example: Lassander, Granholm, Nynäs in Lassander, Nynäs, Utriainen (2012). Hanegraaff (2017), 139–47. Hanegraaff (2017), 147–50.

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On the one hand, I am, just as the researchers I am going to study, caught up in a social imaginary which makes me prone to specific biases in my understanding of what I see, read, imagine and think. On the other hand, it is my firm belief that if I practice the hermeneutics of suspicion and charity together with a conscious aim of wanting to understand the social imaginary of the medieval period – rather than applying my interpretative frameworks on that period – I will be better equipped then my predecessors for gaining a more truthful understanding of the role dance played in the medieval society. Before I can get to that point though, what needs to happen, is that the biased shortcomings of earlier researchers are examined and revealed so that a Body of Works is created, out of which dance in a theological setting can be studied.

2. The Body of Works Setting out to find sources for this study, I wanted, on the one hand, to find a community of academic authors and researchers to whom I could belong. On the other hand, I kept bumping into disputes and scientific writing that I found highly problematic. I found that much of the earlier research done concerning dance within the field of theology is strongly formed by both pre-set narrative frameworks of interpretation and the social imaginary in which they were created. In Kimerer LaMothe’s first book on dance and religious science, she readily celebrates the beginning of the twentieth century for all the scholarly and non-scholarly research it brought into the field of dance and religion.9 In her later works, a more critical strand also comes forth.10 However, as I stated already at the start of this study, she tends to be gracious with those voices that reproduce her mantra that dancing is a spiritual and religious practice, independently of what else their writings bring into the discourse. I, on the contrary, follow the line of critique found in Drid Williams’s Anthropology and the Dance Ten Lectures (2004), where she shows how many descriptions of dance in western history and studies in religion are built on unsubstantiated generalisations as well as a patchwork of sub-categories of ‘dance theory’ that have very little to offer any deeper investigations into particular examples of dancing. Further, many authors seemed to want to invent the wheel on their own and lacked the ability to see dance research as a particular community of scholars working together.11 Drid Williams’s work, itself, written already in the 1960s and 70s, is a good example of this.

9 LaMothe (2004), 8–10. 10 See for example how her critique of Oesterley has shifted in LaMothe (2018), 41–43. Her insights strongly resemble my conclusions in Hellsten (2017), without stating any awareness of or credit to this article. 11 D. Williams (2004), 1–2. She writes: ‘I contend that the lack of growth of knowledge and cumulative theorizing about the dance stems from a lack of knowledge of past writers plus the lack of systematic examinations of what their theorizing consisted. Furthermore, we seem to be faced with a dedicated refusal on the part of dance educators and other academics interested in the dance to recognize that their constant emphasis on re-discovery (as if the dance exists in a vacuum, not as an integrated part

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Thorough and comprehensive as it is, with its critical reading of dance history, it has, unfortunately, been largely ignored, in academic writings on dance and religion or historical studies of dancing in church settings.12 One exception to this rule, worth mentioning, is Kélina Gotman’s work. As already described, she opens a new venue of critique against how dancing has been portrayed in an academic context after the medieval period. Hers is significant pioneering work, just as Drid Williams’s. In a way, I see my work following along the same lines of a critical strand of historical inquiry as Williams’s and Gotman’s before me. Even though much of what will unfold in this thesis will be supporting claims made by both Gotman and Williams, neither of those authors works specifically with dance in a theological setting, which makes this contribution unique. They further do not aim at re-imagining the medieval practices in a new way, in light of the critique of earlier scholarly work that they unravel.13 Thus, what I have to offer, builds further on all that these authors have offered. Here is the starting point of building the community I envisioned. To commence, I will describe the critique these authors have offered in more detail and add my further observations. Also, my critical standpoint towards LaMothe’s attitude concerning the explorations from the beginning of the twentieth century still needs to be attended to. What will follow is a kind of autopsy of the Body of Work that has been done until now. The authors and books which LaMothe is ready to celebrate have not only been noted by her. Many of them can be found as references in standard encyclopaedias14 and dictionaries15 on both dance and art and religion.16 The first author on Kimerer’s list is W. O. E. Oesterley’s Sacred Dance in the Ancient World (1923).17 From there follows in order of publishing dates, R. R. Marett, Faith, Hope and Charity in Primitive Religion (1932); musicologist Curt Sachs’s compilation World History of the Dance (1937); Johan Huizinga, Homo Ludens (1938); Margaret Palmer Fisk The Art of the

12 13



14 15 16 17

of a wider social context) simply vitiates attempts to deal with a fragmented, often dubious set of theoretical materials that through neglect continues to grow like crab grass in more cultivated fields of Western scholarship’. D. Williams (2004), 2. An exception to this is Kimerer LaMothe’s latest work. There she refers to it, albeit mostly in a critical tone, for its lack of referring to dance as religion. LaMothe (2018), 62–63. As one example, Gotman writes about the accounts of dance frenzy in Utrecht and Molenbeek outside of Brussels, where a bridge collapses. This is portrayed as a story where the accident is caused by the fact that the people celebrating, were dancing. Gotman (2018), 62–64, 146–48. Contrary to this story, the first narrative I have found about a collapsing bridge, is from Arles in the fifth century. There the dancing depicted was a result of joyful praise and thanksgiving that was part of celebrating the fact that the local Saint had saved people from drowning. Thus, the idea of dancing on bridges it not always portrayed as a consequence of frenzy or ‘madness’. Lambert, Cult of Saints, in CSLA: E05724 – Sermo seu narratio de miraculo s. Genesii martyris Arelatensis (BHL 3307, CPL 504). EJ (2007) 409–11; ER (2005) 2134–67; IED (2004), 164, 166, 169. TDOT (1998). ODLD (1982); OHRA (2014). Reprinted as late as 2002.

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Rhythmic Choir (1950), later published as A Time to Dance (1967); Louis Backman Religious Dances – in the Christian Church and in Popular Medicine (1952);18 Paul Tillich, Systematic Theology: Volume Three (1963) and J. G. Davies, ‘Towards a Theology of the Dance’ in his edited volume, Worship and Dance (1975), whom we already have been introduced to through his later Liturgical Dance: A Historical, Theological and Practical Handbook (1984). Kimerer also brings forth the proponents of Sacred Dance in America, including Ruth St Denis and her husband Ted Shawn who, in 1958 gathered to establish the Sacred Dance Guild.19 LaMothe’s overview ends with more pamphlet-like publications, including articles and books20 providing practical advice on how to defend and incorporate dance in Christian contexts.21 The Sacred Dance tradition starting in Europe, with Bernard Wosein and others, is rarely mentioned in the North American accounts.22 Not all of these writings are as widely known and circulated as others, and this list is not a comprehensive one. Nonetheless, at first glance, it seems as if there is, at least, a tradition to engage with – i.e. a body of works. If we add Johannes Quasten and Hugo Rahner, one might be led to believe that there is even an ongoing theological discussion to fall back on.23 Looking at more recent works within theology, such as David Brown’s God & Grace of Body – Sacrament in Ordinary (2007), where Oesterley is referred to, or Constant J. Mews’s thorough article ‘Liturgists and dance in the twelfth century: the witness of John Beleth and Sicard of Cremona’. (2009), where much is made of Backman’s accounts, and equally, Elina Gertsman’s doctoral thesis The Dance of Death in the Middle Ages – Image, Text, Performance (2010), as an example within art history, where Backman is the main source of the historical overview, one might be led to believe that this body of works is alive and well. Backman and Oesterley, with the historic points they refer to, are so often cited that one would almost be inclined to speak of a Canon within dance and theology.24 Upon more critical scrutiny, however, several types of problems can be identified.25 Problems of this calibre, caused by the creation of such a Canon, need to be prevented. This body is not healthy, and we need to find out what is ‘causing’ the dis-ease. In

18 First edition from 1945, in Swedish is used in this thesis except when quotes are taken in English. 19 For a history of the Sacred Dance Guild see: Fisk Taylor (2001); C. Reed (1978); Intravaia (1994); (2008). 20 Rock (1978); Rock, Mealy (1988); Adams, Apostolos-Cappadona (2001); Gagne et al. (1984). 21 LaMothe (2004), 9–10. 22 The Wosiens are know though the literary work by Bernard’s daughter but not mentioned as a movement practise in churches. See examples in Davies (1984), 13, 33, 109; Gagne et al. (1984), 184. In the American context of Sacred Dance the focus seems to be on modern dance pioneers as the founding fathers and mothers of the movement. More thorough work on these see Schwan (2017); (2019). 23 Quasten (1930) is a classic within patristic studies. 24 Backman is frequently brought up in the encyclopaedic works on religion and dance mentioned above as well as used as the primary source in for example: Daniels (1981). I will further pinpoint throughout this study when authors are using Backman in a manner where the critique I have presented has been left unnoticed. See: Hellsten (2016). 25 Hellsten (2016), 57–58, 65; (2017), 117–18, 131–33.

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the following, I focus on three main aspects of the problems of the historical sources used in theological and religious dance research. The first aspect I call ‘missing links’, and it is found under the heading the ‘missing mother’ (chapter 2.2.1.). The second is intertwined with the missing mother, yet pertains more to unaddressed questions or topics (chapter 2.3.). The third and final one is a return to the scientific paradigms of modernity, narrative frameworks and how these have shaped the way dance is categorised. The third aspect will be discussed both under the subtitle: Joints and ligaments (chapter 2.3.1.) as well as Faulty Categories (chapter 2.3.2.). What I will show is how dance has been distorted in order to fit into the discussions of a specific social imaginary. I will argue that this way of seeing, portraying, understanding, dealing and narrating dance is a stumbling-block for the flow of dance and flow of life. The first of these problematic patterns comes in the form of a missing mother. 2.a. The Missing Mother

I choose to tell this story in the way of the Sacred Dance tradition; Once upon a time, there was a woman, named Elizabeth Lilly Grove. The tale I’m about to tell, I got from her. It is a her-story of dance. Lilly was born Elizabeth de Boys,26 somewhere in France in 1855.27 Like too many other women in the history of Western thought and academic work, she has been left mostly ‘unheard of ’.28 Lilly 5is, however, not totally forgotten.29 After the sudden death of her first husband – and being left with two teenage children to support – she took to one of the few things women at that time and age could do, writing. We can get to know Lilly Grove through her writing. She and her husband had travelled widely in Latin America, and upon his death, she was stuck in London. This led her to approach the Badminton Library of sports and recreation in order for them to commission her to compile an encyclopaedic survey of dancing.30 During her period of research, she came upon the name of a certain Mr James Frazer, from whom she decided to ask for help. This was in 1894.31 It is left unknown if Lilly Grove ever attained the help she asked for, but Mr Frazer describes her work to a friend, as ‘in comprehensive and philosophic way, taking in savage dances in connexion with war, death, hunting, initiation, etc.’32 LaMothe also

26 Birth name found in the index of Fraser (1990), 235. While LaMothe names her Elisabeth Johanna de Boys Adelsdorfer, without references on where she found this. LaMothe (2018), 25. Also named de Boys Adelsdorfer in Source X. 27 Calculated from the statements by Ackerman (1987), 124–25. 28 An excellent article on work done to reverse this trend within philosophy is Hutton (2015). 29 The only previous work I know of, dealing with her writing more comprehensively, is LaMothe (2018), 24–29, 40–42, 55, 58. 30 Ackerman (1987), 124–25. 31 Ackerman (1987), 124. 32 According to a letter sent by Frazer to his friend Baron Anatole von Hügel on 1 December 1894, asking for assistance on the topic. Ackerman (1987), 124.

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pinpoints that Grove’s engages with, and sometimes even argues against Mr Frazer’s theories.33 Robert Ackerman’s biography; J. G. Frazer: His Life and Work (1987), lets us further know that within a year and a half, on 22 April 1896, Lilly Grove became Mrs Frazer.34 Ackerman also writes that Lilly Grove’s book, Dancing (1895), is now regarded by historians of dance as a pioneering classic.35 The book was reprinted in several issues and can even be found now, in the curious form of each chapter being separately issued into small pamphlets.36 Nevertheless, Lilly Grove or Lady Frazer, as she was called by some,37 has no page on Wikipedia and can only rarely be found even in tales of history of dance.38 Lilly Grove, whom I would consider the mother of dancing, has gone missing. Her famous, second husband, J. G. Frazer, author of the pioneering work for both cultural anthropology and religious sciences; The Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion (1923),39 never engages with her writing in his own academic work. At first one might think that this is due to him publishing The Golden Bough before her book Dancing. Once one is acquainted with the fact that his masterpiece went through several revisions, and has three full-length editions made later, the picture changes. Additionally, James Frazer actually seldom re-wrote significant parts of the editions. Instead, they were only revisions in the sense that he accumulated more and more examples to the claims he already made in the first version.40 This makes it even more curious that none of Lilly Grove’s findings on dance merited even a footnote or two.41 Some have argued that upon marrying Frazer, Lilly Grove fully turned her life towards him and his career.42 So, maybe she did not care much for 33 LaMothe (2018), 28. 34 Ackerman (1987), 124. Her name was Lilly Grove (nee Johanna de Boys Adelsdorfer), and after her marriage to James Frazer, she was first known as Mrs Frazer and after his knighthood she became Lady Frazer. For the sake of clarity, throughout this work I refer to her as Lilly Grove or Ms Grove before her marriage and the author name Lilly Grove also after her marriage to Mr Frazer. 35 Ackerman (1987), 125. 36 I will be using the version found on the internet archive from 1907 except when referencing to the chapter called IV. The Ritual Dance which was reprinted as The History of Dance – Ritual Dance (2013). 37 See Oesterley (2002), 4; and Fraser (1990), 47, 156–57. Who is keen on pointing out that she only got that name after her husband had been dubbed Lord. 38 In IED many pioneering founding figures in dance have gotten their own entries into the work, while Lilly Grove is only to be found as reference in articles dealing with folk-dance. IED (2004), 2:570; Friedland (2004), 31, 33; LeeEllen Friedland is the only author to bring up Lilly Grove as a pioneer. Friedland (2005), 2145. Drid Williams however, has found Grove’s influence on dance research, yet remains critical to her. D. Williams (2004), 7, 25–28. LaMothe’s latest work might be a turning point in this trend. LaMothe (2018), 24–29. 39 The first version was published already 1890. 40 Fraser (1990), vii, 188, 204. 41 The Golden Bough deals with many exotic types of dances, in various cultures, so the question is not that her work could not be applied to his topics. For bringing forth Mr Frazer as an early voice on recognising dance as part of folk traditions see; Friedland (2004), 31; (2005), 2145, 2147; D. Williams (2004), 7. 42 Ackerman (1987), 124–25; LaMothe (2018), 29.

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promoting her work? What is the problem with that? This might be so. However, there is more to the story than that. 2.a.1. Lilly Grove’s legacy

What I have found, is that even though Mr Frazer does not refer to his wife’s work, others do. There are primarily four men who give credit to Lilly Grove’s research in their writing. Further, these men were distinguished scholars/writers of their time. She is first mentioned in what turned into a ‘classic’ scholarly book for anybody interested in the study of theatre, the arts and culture of Medieval Europe; E. K. Chambers The Mediaeval Stage Vol. 1, first issued in 1903. As will be shown in chapter three, Chambers is also widely used as a source when people research dancing in the Middle Ages. In Chambers, Lilly Grove’s work is given in both the reading list and referred to in specific footnotes, even though he does not engage with her writing in a direct dialogue, as he does with that of Mr Frazer.43 Curiously, it is not Lilly Grove’s long engagements with folk-customs that grabs Chamber’s attention, but her chapter on ritual dances.44 There is also mentioning of Lilly Grove in an article ‘The Sacred Dance of Jesus’, published in the journal The Quest in October 1910 by G. R. S. Mead.45 We will have reason to return to this, later on. What is of importance here is that Mead remarks in a footnote both that he has used her work as background material and that he agrees with Lilly Grove’s interpretation over and against that of E. K. Chambers.46 This indicates that both of them seem to have been read, in their time and age. Possibly even side by side. The idea that Lilly Grove’s work was read is further strengthened by the third note I unearthed on Dancing. In the article ‘La Danse dans les eglisés’ (1914), already mentioned in the introduction, by Louis Gougaud, E. K. Chambers and Lilly Grove are once more found within the same work. Gougaud, who seems to have been a Dominican scholar who wrote extensively on the topic of Christianity in Ireland,47 frequently refers to Chambers’s work. However, on the very last pages, in the second part of the article, one footnote with various listed authors can be found, where Grove’s work appears.48 Her writing is further referred to with a footnote on the following page.49 In this particular instance it is a quotation from a song that she had retrieved musical notes for and used in her writing as well as some artwork.50 One might consider these details superfluous, but this is not the case, for three reasons.



43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50

Chambers (1923), mainly in book 2; Folk drama. Chambers (1923), 163, fn 3; Chambers (1923), 163, fn 4. I use the reprint, were this article is found in the following place: Mead (1926), 45–67. Mead (1926), 50; fn 1. See Maud Joynt’s review from 1911. Joynt (1911). Gougaud (1914), 243, fn 3. Gougaud (1914), 244, fn 1. Grove (1907), 108–16.

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First of all, Gougaud comes to be one of the most frequently quoted authors in any academic work on dance. Secondly, even though Gougaud names Lilly Grove only in two footnotes, he is the first serious academic scholar of theology to have read Grove’s work and he subsequently used sources she mentions in his academic endeavours.51 Gougaud does this, directly, in the case of the lyrics of the song, as well as indirectly, by, for example, picking up the same article ‘Dancing in churches’ which Father Morris published in The Month (1892), and which Lilly Grove was the first one to mention.52 Thirdly, Gougaud’s knowledge of Lilly Grove might be the reason that so many of her findings are re-produced in later scholarship without them referring back to her original work. In charity to Gougaud, however, I do want to state that his article is the first one to appear with complete lists of sources, pages, encyclopaedic references53 as well as academic scholarly works cited.54 Nevertheless, the credits to Lilly Grove in his footnotes do not reveal the extent to which many of his findings mirror her work. Once a male authoritative author gave ‘legitimacy’ to her pattern, her name could be omitted without anybody noticing. The influence of Grove’s writing on artists and academics alike has also been noted differently, by Kimerer LaMothe. She argues that Lilly Grove’s ideas about dance and religion are picked up by dancers such as Isadora Duncan (1877–1927) and Ruth St Denis (1879–1968), as well as academic thinkers such as Nietzsche, Durkheim, and van der Leeuw. Unfortunately, LaMothe shows no factual references of these people reading Grove’s directly.55 Contrary to these examples, my final author, on the list of people referring to Lilly Grove’s work, is a huge fan, of both Mr and Mrs Frazer; William Oscar Emil Oesterley (1866–1950) and his Sacred Dance in the Ancient World (1923). Oesterley refers to The Golden Bough so often that it is given an abbreviation, at the beginning of the book, while other works of J. G. Frazer are quoted directly in the texts. Lilly Grove also gets as many as four footnotes and even a short introduction on page 4. Even though Oesterley travels through history, into Backman (2009), Gruber (1980), Davies (1984), LaMothe (2004) and Brown (2007),56 just like Chambers does, references to Lilly Grove’s work are largely left unnoticed. Thus, we have two

51 I will shortly return to why, in my research, Mead does not fully live up to the status of ‘serious academic scholar of theology’. 52 Father Morris is found in Grove (1907), 102, 104; picked up by Gougaud (1914), 242, 243. in a passage just next to the footnotes where Lilly Grove is marked. 53 Jeanroy’s Chansons are for example an often referred to source for knowledge on songs and carols of the time. Gougaud (1914), 14, 15, 16, 21. See also De Cahusac. Gougaud (1914), 6; Julian, Dictionary of hymnology. Gougaud (1914), 8, 237. 54 It is from Gougaud one can find the details missing in Lilly Grove’s Dancing, as well as new sources such as Auber. Gougaud (1914), 10, 232, 240; Villetard. Gougaud (1914), 7, 232, 234, 240; Lecerque. Gougaud (1914), 9; Dushessnes. Gougaud (1914), 9; Hammon – Dance of Death texts. Gougaud (1914), 231. 55 LaMothe (2018), 35, 55, 58. 56 As well as the handbooks of Gagne et al. (1984), 182; Daniels (1981), 10–11; Frisk Taylor (2009), 68–69, and in Adams, Apostolos-Cappadona (2001), were the 1980 article by Mayer I. Gruber is reproduced as chapter 4.

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authoritarian theologians who have picked their marks from the work of Lilly Grove, after which her findings continue to live, while her name is no-longer transferred in the chain of citations and commemorations. This strengthens my suspicion that it was possible to overlook and even forget Lilly Grove because she was not a male academic. Her story ends; history takes over. Is this so? Or, was the work she left behind, actually not good enough to stand the test of time? The question of the quality of Lilly Grove’s work is worth looking at more closely. After reading the chapter on ritual dances in her encyclopaedia it is not far-fetched to think that her book does lack from academic works, due to the manner in which it is written. It is not a text with clear references after each quotation or statement. When she gives the example of the dancing sect of ‘Therapeutae’ described by Philo of Alexandria in his Contemplative Life, she writes: The Essaer, a Jewish sect, formed two choruses, one of men and one of women, and sang hymns of praise, accompanying them with slow dance movements and finally uniting in one chorus in memory of Miriam’s dance.57 She mistook the name of the group to be called Essaer. At the same time, what she states about them is clearly taken from the accounts of Philo, where he likens the dancing ‘Therapeutae’ with the ‘Essenes’.58 This leaves it unclear as to whether she knew about both groups yet chose to name just one? Did she read about them in secondary literature, where another author had mistakenly credited the dance practice to the ‘Essaer’ instead of the ‘Therapeutae’? Or, was it so that she did not care to write out all of the details as they were ‘Jewish curiosa’ and this was the chapter on Christianity?59 We cannot know for sure. There are no page references or footnotes for most of her gathered sources. Sometimes she does give the name of an author, in brackets, as was customary of that time. There is, however, a lengthy index, from where one can find a list of authors and topical references. It is good to remember that even her contemporary academics, including her husband Frazer, as well as Chambers, applied a standard which differs to the rigorous way an argument is carried and validated today. At first glance, therefore, even though her study has its faults, it would be unfair to argue that Lilly Grove’s work does not live up to scholarly standard, as we see them today. If we investigate the topic further, we find more.

57 Grove (2013), 2–3. 58 Hadas-Lebel (2012), 174–75. However, Paul L. Gavrilyuk, explains the difference in the following manner: ‘In the beginning chapter of the treatise known under its Latin title De vita contemplativa, Philo introduces two Jewish groups: the Essenes, who pursue the active life and the Therapeute, who pursue the contemplative life. The Essenes are commonly identified with the community that produced the Dead Sea Scrolls. The identity of the mysterious Therapeute, their historicity, as well as their relation to the Essenes, is a moot point’. Gavrilyuk (2019), 7. 59 As this account will show further along there was thriving anti-semitism in academic circles in this time. In CHAPTER II The Dances of Antiquity, Dances of Egypt, she does give attention to some Jewish practices. Grove (1907), 15–65.

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She writes in the introduction that: A fraction of my knowledge of the dance has been derived from personal observation during my travels in various parts of the globe. Most of it is due to research work. I have studied books, pictures, and statues in many libraries and museums of Europe; besides the few treatises specially devoted to dancing, I have resorted for information to works on the history of music, encyclopaedias, works on manners and customs, on popular lyrics and on popular beliefs, histories of the drama, of art, of costume, of the domestic life of various peoples, glossaries of provinces, journals of folk-lore and anthropology, accounts of travellers and missionaries, and I have arrived at the conclusion that much is yet to be gathered and to be learnt, and that an exhaustive history of the dance would be the work of a lifetime.60 From Lilly Grove’s description it is clear that she devoted both time and energy to her work. Her collection of sources spanned the range of various disciplines and fields. It demonstrates that she was a privileged woman of her time and age. She had access to materials that only a rare few could attain.61 That does not conceal the fact, however that she was never schooled as an academic.62 Very few women at the time were. Today, we might expect more thorough attention to details. At the same time, I believe, she offered us the best she could, at the time, according to the standards she was taught to work within. Furthermore, what becomes clear when one makes an index of the topics, themes and people or places mentioned in the chapter on ritual dances, comparing it with future research, is that all the pieces are there. In one sense, one could say that her research was good enough to become a pattern for others to mimic. What Grove created, could be described as a choreography after which the male researchers have adapted their moves. In the beginning, they even talked with her to learn the steps. However, later on, the choreography became their own. It may be that, because she was a woman, nobody needed to give heed to where they got their moves from. It is also possible, to perceive her writing as a blueprint, a skeletal structure that was meant to give dancing stamina. As she was not part of the academic establishment, she was never given and perhaps did not even strive for, what was needed to create a fully fleshed body. Bare bones are essential, but the body also consists of joints, ligaments and muscles. Some might even argue that the body is not a real body if it is only a skeleton. Be it as it may, few people today would find it good manners to honour a building without mentioning the architect. As this has gone missing, in the following I take a short look at the choreography Lilly Grove created and honour the bones. For this research, bones are just as crucial as joints, ligaments and muscles.

60 Grove (1907), 14–15. 61 LaMothe (2018), 25. 62 Ackerman (1987), 124–25.

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2.a.2. Bones63

Lilly Grove’s creation seems to have been good enough for others to build upon. What then were the bones of her construction?64 The Hellenised Syrian rhetoric Lucian,65 biblical references,66 quotes from Dante,67 the already mentioned Philo of Alexandria,68 Acts of John,69 texts from specific church fathers both being for and against dancing,70 references to liturgical books71 and practices in the Middle Ages72 and the games and plays produced up to the seventeenth and eighteenth century,73 all feature in her work. She also gives the works of Jean Beletus ‘Liber Divinorum Officiorum’74 (1150–1160), Jehan Tabourot’s ‘Orchesographie’75 (1589), and father Menestrier’s ‘Les Ballets Ancient et Modernes’76 (1682), as crucial sources for early references to dance. All these are subsequently mentioned, over and over again, without full credit given to Lilly Grove. Her sources run from German, French to English. In some cases, such as Bohme’s ‘Geschichte des Tanzes Deutschland’77 (1886), and Father Morris article ‘Dancing in churches’78 (1892), she is the first author to bring these frequently quoted works into the spotlight. As Lilly Grove stated in her introduction, her textual materials are expanded by lyrics and musical notations of, for example, popular Christmas carols.79 Others follow her in this

63 The way I speak about the body comes from my personal dance practice: The Nia technique, created by Carlos Rosas and Debbie Rosas Stewart. Source Z. 64 When referencing to bones I always mean historic details that sometimes can include parts of chronicles, whole annals or extend into the entire production of a specific author. 65 Grove (1907), 14–15; picked up by Gougaud (1914), 17. 66 Grove (1907), 15; (2013), 2. 67 Grove (2013), 2. 68 Gougaud picks it up in (1914), 7. 69 Grove (2013), 2; picked up by Mead (1926), which I will return to shortly. 70 Grove (2013), 2–5; picked up by Gougaud (1914), 10. She wrote about St Augustine calling dancing a pagan custom: Grove (2013), 5; picked up by Mead (1926), 55. 71 Grove (2013), 5–6. 72 Grove (2013), 8–11. 73 Grove (2013), 4–5, 8–9. 74 Picked up by Gougaud (1914), 6, 20, 233, 235; also know under the names; Jean Beleth’s Divinorum Officiorum ac eorundem Rationum Explicatio, in Mead (1926), 104; De ecclesiasticis officiis of John Beleth, in Mews (2009); also Backman (2009), 51–52. 75 Grove (1907), ii, 167, 245, 249, 252, 253, 254, 255, 263, 264; picked up by Gougaud (1914), 6. 76 Grove (1907), 26, 97, 371; picked up by Gougaud (1914), 236; Mead (1926), 51–52; Backman (2009), 74–75. 77 Bohme is found in Grove (1907), 14–15; picked up by Gougaud (1914), 6, 18; Mead (1926), 50; Backman (2009), 7, 169. 78 Morris is found in Grove (2013), 102, 104; picked up by Gougaud (1914), 13, 241–43, 245; Mead (1926), 51. 79 She brings forth: Day, ‘The Music of Southern India’, (1891); Rowbotham, ‘History of Music’ Bentley, (1885, 1893); Ambros, ‘Geschichte der Musik’. Breslau, (1862); Chorley, ‘National Music of the World’, Sampson Low & Co, (1880);’The Harmonicon’, (1823); Engel, ‘Introduction to the Study of National Music’, (1866); Smith, ‘Through Romany Songland’, David Stott (1889); Burney, ‘History of Music’.; Chappell, Woolridge, ‘Popular Music of the Olden Time’, Chappell & Co; Stainer and Barrett,

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pattern, most notably Mead and Backman, again without explicitly acknowledging her influence.80 It is not merely that her encyclopaedic work gathered together a variety of sources, which were subsequently expanded upon. There are also actual descriptions and phrases which are more or less directly carried into the work of, for example, Mead, without being accredited to Grove – either as a quotation or citation.81 Of course, one could argue that Mead and others just happened to have found the same classic sources as she had, and then quoted them directly. As they often are primary sources, this is entirely possible. Over time, one could further argue that the similarities between Grove’s text and later authors who do not mention her are the consequence of the accumulative aspect of science. Notably, in the case of Mead, however that would be a too generous reading of his work. We already know that Mead was acquainted with Grove’s writing. He chose to appreciate her interpretations over and against those of a scholarly giant such as Chambers.82 Nonetheless, in the articles that followed Mead’s first introduction to her work, he omits her entirely from the detailed references. In October 1912 The Quest publishes ‘Ceremonial Game-Playing and Dancing in Medieval Churches’83 and in January 1913, ‘Ceremonial Dances and Symbolic Banquets in Medieval Churches’,84 both of which follow the outlines given by Lilly Grove in Dancing.85 Furthermore, there is even a quotation in the second article, from a third party source, which makes their texts disturbingly similar.86

80 81 82

83 84 85 86

‘Dictionary of Musical Terms’, Novello & Co; Playford, ‘The Dancing Master’, (1652) and later editions; Schubert, F. L, ‘Die Tanzmusik’.; Ungewitter, ‘Die Tanzmusik’.; Grove’s ‘Dictionary’, with valuable articles by Dr Parry, Mr Barclay Squire, Mr Corder, and others, on this subject (Macmillan). Mr Sandy is mentioned in relation to Christmas carols by Grove (1907), 131; and in Mead (1926), 47. See Sandys (1860). Gougaud also follows the pattern of finding carols and lyrics of songs interesting for dance and this is the only place were he does give Grove credit for findings these sources. She writes about Pope Gregory I and the English bishop Meletius: Grove (2013), 5; Mead (1926), 51, 57; She speaks about dancing in Antioch: Grove (2013), 4; Mead (1926), 56; She speaks about the six boys of Seville and Corpus Christi celebrations: Grove (2013), 14–16; Mead (1926), 51. Chambers (E. K.), The Mediaval Stage (Oxford, 1903), i. 161 f. Mrs Lilly Grove is nearer fact in the first part of her statement, but mistaken in the last part of it, when she writes (op. eit. p. 8): ‘In the first centuries of our era the Church allowed dancing within the sacred walls; then came a period of degradation of the art, till it found its renaissance in Italy in the period of Catherine de “Medici”’ Mead (1926), 50, fn 1. Mead (1926), 91–123. Mead (1926), 249–74. She writes about the game pelota. Grove (2013), 7–8, Mead corrects those who associate pelota with tennis. Mead (1926), 91. The Bergeretta of Besancon is brought forth by Grove (2013), 8–9; this becomes the starting point of the third article for Mead. Mead (1926), 249–74. She writes: ‘In a Latin manuscript of the sixteenth century an account is given of ball-playing in the church of Sens. It was the duty of the minor canon of Sens to provide a ball and to present it to the highest Church dignitary present, who tossed it to one of the senior canons. A dance would then be performed by canons, priests, and deacons, singing the prose “Victimae Paschali laudes”, to the accompaniment of the organ. Proof of this practice is furnished by a regulation of the Chapter of Auxerre, dated April 18, 1396, called “Ordinatio de pila facienda”’. Grove (2013), 7–8; He writes: ‘When the dean had ceremoniously taken over the ball, he supported it, as the canon had done, on

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As Grove’s text sometimes falls below the desired in terms of academic accuracy and meticulous details, as well as the discrepancies of the genre – Lilly Grove writing an encyclopaedic work and Mead aspiring to scientific readability, I do not go as far as accusing him of plagiarism. As previously mentioned, Gougaud also chooses a choreography that seems emanate from Lilly Grove. Both Gougaud and Mead lived in a paradigm – no longer acceptable today – where it was sufficient only to let one’s references stand as one or two footnotes, provided they were not made by established scholars with whom one wanted or needed to create an argument. What is even less praiseworthy is that following generations of academics seem not to have bothered to question what already was recognised by the establishment as ‘the facts’ or ‘truth’. The result is that this leaves female writers unseen and unnoticed for future generations. That kind of story ends here. This is not the paradigm I want to continue supporting and, thus, I will end with acknowledgements that were left un-given. Lilly Grove, later known as Lady Frazer, was a pioneering writer with a passion for making dancing known as a sacred and important practice for people both past and present. In her own words: To me, who have tried to study the history of the dance in all its aspects, it seems extraordinary that it should be looked upon by so many people in the present day as incompatible with reverence and piety, for in the early account of most civilised nations we can find the dance combined with music and with song as a leading element of the religious rites.87 Even though I cannot say with certainty whether Lilly Grove ever danced herself or not, her writing sounds like words from a dancer.88 A dancer who wishes for her art to find recognition; a recognition that is long overdue, both for her and for her art. Thank you missing mother, for not being lost altogether. There are more bones to attend to. The story of being left out, does not only apply to Lilly Grove. In a similar, albeit different, manner Mead himself is also somewhat of a missing link. 2.b. More Missing Links

George Robert Stowe Mead was not just a writer, but also functioned as a publisher for the Theosophical Society’s journal The Quest Society, founded in 1909. The scholarly work he did, with regard to digging in historic archives and following up

his breast with his left arm. And thereupon he immediately caught hold of one of the canons by the hand and began a dance, which was followed by the dancing of the other canons in a circle or in another mode. Then the sequence “Praises to the Paschal Victim” was chanted, accompanied by the organ, in order to make the singing more regular and more in time with the dance-movement. (…) in the cathedral of Sens’. Mead (1926), 98 (emphasis are mine). 87 Grove (2013), 31. 88 This acknowledgement is also given by LaMothe, in her reading of Lilly Grove. LaMothe (2018), 25–26, 29.

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the choreography given by Lilly Grove is very thorough. He reveals problems of earlier research,89 scrutinises the details of primary historical records90 and brings forth new archives that have hither to been left unnoticed91. Each of his three articles end in theosophically tainted arguments, drawing on esoteric knowledge where the agenda is clearly to promote Gnostic views.92 It might be argued that the work he did, does not hold up to a certain criteria of scientific objectivity.93 Moreover,

89 Mead (1926), 50. 90 ‘I have searched in vain through the literature of the history of dancing, for the proper patristic indications of liturgical dancing in the Early Church’. Mead (1926), 52. 91 This is just one of his many thorough footnotes: ‘Op. cit, pp. 911–25; the Letter is dated from Auxerre, Feb. 5 of the same year. Jean Lebeuf was a learned and prolific writer of wide interests. As a philologist he was especially interested in late Latin terms, which were then being studied with much zeal in connection with Dufresne’s famous glossary. In the Challe-Quantin edition (2 vols, Auxerre, Paris, 1848) of Lebeuf ’s Mémoires concernant l’Histoire civile et ecclesiastique d Auxerre et de son ancien Diocese, will be found a biography and bibliography of this distinguished writer. His literary activity included 15 special works or collections of essays; 143 letters to the Mercure de France (from Nov., 1723, to July, 1748); 36 Memoires in the Journal de Verdun, and 29 in Acad. d. Ins. et B. Lettres; 3 treatises on music, and other fugitive writings; in all 236 pieces. The title of the above Letter runs: 4 Explanation of a Low Latin Term: A Letter written from to M. D. LR. about an ancient Ecclesiastical Dance abolished by Decree of Parliament’. The chief data of this Letter are reproduced in Dufresne’s Glossarium ad Scriptores med. et inf. Latintatis (1st ed. Paris, 1678; Bened. ed., Paris, 1733, etc.; last ed., emended by L. Favre, Niort, 1886, etc.). The Letter is also reprinted in Constant Leber’s Collection des meilleures Dissertations, Notices et Traites particuliers, relatifs a l’Histoire de France (Paris, 1826), torn. 9, under the title: ‘Curious Letter on the Game of Pelote and the Dance of the Canons of the Chapter of Auxerre’. In his French Translation of Durandus’s Rationale Div. Of. Rational ou Manuel divins Offices de Guillaume Durand, Paris, 1854), C. Barthelemy, with his habitual impropriety’, lifts’s almost the entire Letter verbatim, without the acknowledgment of quotation marks (in Note 8; vol. v., pp. 447 ff.)’ Mead (1926), 92. 92 ‘Of this I cannot as yet find any evidence. The traces must be sought for, if happily they can be found, in the influence of the astral lore of Babylon and of such ideas as dominated the Wisdom and Apocalyptic literature of Jewry. We thus enter the domain of Hellenistic religion and the widespread territory of the general Gnosis. In the present outline there is space to note only the most general indications, The sidereal religion or astral cult that was a fundamental element of both Hellenistic theology and Gnostic ecstasis posited the “harmony” (both song and dance) of the celestial spheres and the supposed “correspondence” between the constitution and soul of the universe and the life and composition of man. In the soteriology or salvation-doctrine of the many cults of the Gnosis, the human soul was regarded as being in exile from its heavenly home; it was mythologised in the Christianised forms as the fallen Sophia or Wisdom, who was rescued or redeemed by the Saviour, the Christ, her heavenly spouse. Or, again, the incarnated soul must dance in harmony with the stars and so become a star, a god. On its way above it gradually shed its earthly tendencies, and so, reclothed with celestial virtues, or reendowed with the movement of the celestial harmony, it rejoined the choirs above. The bride of the Christ was either the whole Church of the faithful or the individual perfected Christian soul’. Mead (1926), 119. See also Hellsten (2016), 57. 93 Faivre writes about Mead’s work on Hermetism ‘…it was mostly George R. S. Mead’s enterprise that paved the way for deeper and more extensive scholarly research. Three years before breaking with the Theosophical Society, of which he was a prominent member, the society published in three volumes his Thrice Greatest Hermes: Studies in Hellenistic Theosophy and Gnosis (London and Benares, 1906; German trans., Leipzig, 1909). Never before had such a complete ensemble of the C.H. been gathered together, accompanied by copious notes, excerpts from testimonia of the Fathers of the Theosophical Society, and serious historical studies. Mead distanced himself markedly from

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the narrative framework on history, Mead upheld might not have been popular in every academic corner of the world and even less within the church. Further, he was published by what we today might call an ‘independent publisher’, not a mainstream publishing house. The tilt towards arguing against the hierarchies of the church94 and the conscious or unconscious choice of not entering the ‘standard’ academic patterns of publicity, might be some of the reasons why Mead also goes missing in some accounts of dance in the Christian traditions.95 If Lilly Grove’s academic journey of acknowledgments stopped with Chambers, Gougaud, Mead and Oesterley, Mead’s works does become know in both a broader and more lasting sense. His three articles were re-published on popular demand, into Sacred Dance in Christendom (1926), and are frequently used by pioneers in dance, including Margaret Palmer Fisk’s The Art of the Rhythmic Choir (1950), later published as A Time to Dance (1967). Mead’s arguments seem to have provided a breathing hole in the otherwise hostile environment towards dancers in church settings. Through Margaret Fisk Taylor, Mead was also bought into J. G. Davies Liturgical Dance: A Historical, Theological and Practical Handbook (1984), and Doug Adams and Diane ApostolosCappadona’s Dance as Religious Studies (2001), reaching a broad public of practising dancers.96 On reading these, I find that these scholars have failed in always stating the apparent differences made between Mead’s scholarly handicraft and his idealistic conclusions.97 The latter are, from an academic viewpoint, best to be left as fantastic speculations.







the English-speaking occultists by displaying a great deal of objectivity in dealing with his material. That said, he did not disguise the fact that he was an esotericist (To translate “Hermes” in Greek, he writes in the introduction, requires not only a good knowledge of Greek, but also a Knowledge of . . . gnosis.)’. Faivre (2005), 3952. 94 ‘In his letter to the Spanish Bishop Ceretius, Augustine, who so relentlessly persecuted the Priscillianists and destroyed their scriptures, says that this “Hymn” was widely used by many of the heretical schools, besides the followers of Priscillian that is to say by those who did not come up to Augustine’s standard of orthodoxy. I have carefully analysed this marvellous “Hymn” and have shown that it is no hymn, but an ancient mystery-ritual of Early Christendom, indeed by far the earliest Christian ritual with which we are acquainted. It is nothing else but the sacred dance of the unio mystica, wherein the newborn disciple is united with the Master, the repentant and purified human nature with the Divine Presence, in the mystery of spiritual atonement’. Mead (1926), 65. 95 In IED (2004) Mead cannot be found at all. In EC (2005), he is found not under the topic of dance but mentioned in Volume 6, Hermetism, EC (2005), 3952. 96 For example at Whitworth University Collage, Spokane WA, the academic courses combining dance and Christianity I attended, 2008–2009 with Judy Mandeville, had Dance as Religious Studies in the reading requirements. Yet, as noted above, in works on dance history or in the encyclopaedia of religion he is not noted to have written about dance. 97 Faivre writes about Mead’s scientific work: ‘Like his contemporary Arthur E. Wake, he was both a scholar and a full-fledged esotericist. His work, even more than (other members of the Theosophic Society) heralds the development of twentieth-century critical research’. Faivre (2005), 3952. Yet, in Adams and Apostolos-Cappadona one can find conclusion made without a critical reading of Mead, such as Adams, Apostolos-Cappadona (2001), 16–17, 21–22, as well as recommended him the reading list. Adams, Apostolos-Cappadona (2001), 220.

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Mead’s writings have also been noticed and given space in more strictly academic work. Hugo Rahner in Man at Play (1967),98 has him listed amongst scholars such as Aquinas, von Balthasar, Gougaud, Huizinga, Nietzsche and Quasten. The way Rahner addresses Mead’s work is not one where his scholarly valour would have been questioned. He is brought up in the context of E. K. Chambers, Gougaud, Gillis P. Wetter ‘La Danse rituelle dans l’Eglise ancienne’ (1922), and Robert Strumpfl Kulturspiele der Germanen als Ursprung des mittelalterlichen Dramas (1936), as an authority on liturgical dancing in the Christian churches.99 It is obvious that Mead is not missing in the same way as Lilly Grove is. At the same time, in his presentation of dance and play, Rahner’s work does not get the same kind of wide-spread usage in theological circles as, for example, Quasten’s work. Within classic systematic theology or liturgical studies, Mead remains as unknown as Lilly Grove.100 G. R. S. Mead goes unnoticed in the oft-quoted articles of Louis Gougaud in Revue D’Histoire Ecclesiastique101 (1914), Gillis P. Wetter ‘La Danse rituelle dans l’Eglise ancienne’102 (1922), and the books by Johannes Quasten Musik und Gesang in den Kulten der heidnischen Antike und christlichen Frühzeit (1930),103 and Louis Backman Religious Dances – in the Christian Church and in Popular Medicine (1952). As already seen, in relation to Lilly Grove, Gougaud’s writing is surprisingly similar to Mead’s: it follows the same background choreography up to the point that one might think one is following the other. In this manner it becomes even more interesting that neither of them seems to have known about the other’s work – the only link between them is the foundation laid by Lilly Grove. At the same time, their conclusions do keep them apart from each other both in style and their overall vision of the Church. Even though Gillis P. Wetter does not name Grove or Mead anywhere, he is yet another male scholar who follows Lilly Grove’s lead. He starts his paper with dances from ancient mystery cults and points out a majority of the findings that Mead had

98 At first I was a bit surprised that Rahner has not mentioned Louis Backman, yet then I found out that Chapters I–IV were first published under the title ‘Der spielende Mensch’ in the Eranos-Jahrbuch already 1949, by which time Backman could only be found in Swedish. I doubt that Rahner read Swedish or knew the work of a physician, which explained this matter. Further, as we will see, leaving out Backman altogether is, in my opinion, not a bad choice. 99 Rahner (1967), 86. 100 Also authors such as Margit Sahlin, that move within theological topics, even though emphasising a strong folkloric tradition, rely more on Chambers, Gougaud and Hecker and seem to be quite unaware of both Lilly Grove, Mead, Oesterley and even her fellow Swede Wetter. Sahlin (1940). 101 In academic work Gougaud is much in use, but in dance handbooks such as: Daniels (1981); Adams, Apostolos-Cappadona (2001); Frisk Taylor (2009), he is not. An exception to this is Gagne et al. (1984), 63, were his work provides the majority of references to a chronology of liturgical dance. Gagne et al. (1984), 81–90. 102 Even though Gillis P. Wetter writes his texts on liturgy in German and French, he actually was a Swedish theologian. 103 Published as his dissertation already 1927.

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expanded upon, but which were first mentioned in Lilly Grove’s work. The major difference is that Wetter writes like an academically trained theologian, using references that are customary in the field. In Wetter’s case, as his interest is in the period of the Early Church, there are mostly footnotes and quotes only from primary sources, such as the Church Fathers and their homilies. Thus, he leaves out references not only to Grove and Mead but also Gougaud. This makes it almost impossible to trace whether Wetter was acquainted with any of these sources. Quite independently of who read whom, it is apparent that men get the honour for grounding a tradition that they only inherited. Be it as it is, from the scrutiny of my research, I have some concluding remarks concerning the bones of the body of dance in theological traditions of Western Europe. Even though my initial remark concerning Kimerer LaMothe was that I am less eager than her to celebrate the scholarly work that began in the beginning of the twentieth century, this does not mean that I do not value the work that has been done. Lilly Grove, Mead, Gougaud and Wetter, in particular, have provided the academic community interested in dancing in churches with a rich chamber of bones. Furthermore, the later author Rahner has given theological interpretations of these bones that I will have reason to return to in chapter three. My analysis is that Wetter, in combination with Gougaud, provides an incomplete yet usable ‘index’ for primary sources. Mead is to be read with suspicion towards his conclusions, yet many of his sources seem to be healthy bones. Regarding healthy bones, my intention with this statement is to indicate historical sources that are trustworthy as archives to be examined, analysed and interpreted. As Wetter does not stray beyond the time of the Early Church, I do not engage in detail with his work in this study. Nonetheless, he will still need subsequent mentioning (chapter 2.3.2.1. Sacred vs Secular), as he follows a particular narrative pattern for his interpretations that I will have reason to comment upon. Quasten can fulfil a similar demand, listing many patristic sources that are valuable for a study on dance in the Early Church. Nevertheless, it is quite interesting that he chooses to reference neither Gougaud nor Wetter, and is entirely oblivious to the work of Grove and Mead. This could be since Quasten fails to mention almost all patristic sources that have something positive to say about dancing. I will return to this point later. The overview so far, has provided a whole reliquary filled with valuable primary sources that a researcher can grab on to and examine. In the following illustrations we can see that even when only parts of a structure of bones can be found, it is still possible for somebody who knows the body well, to make informed statements about what bones have been localised and from which part of the body they originate.

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Illustration 1a,b,c.104

Illustration 1a. Coccyx bone. Illustration 1b. Part of the pelvic bone.

Illustration 1c. Pelvic region and lower spine.

Illustration 1a – showing the coccyx – and 1b – showing part of the pelvic bone – can still be localised to the lower section of the middle of the body or hip and pelvic region, as portrayed in Illustration 1c. Similarly, even when bones have gone missing, the bones that are there can make up for the bones that have been shattered into pieces or disappeared. This is well shown in the illustrations on the following page. In illustration 2a, we see a hand where some of the smaller pieces have disappeared. Still, as a skilled researcher, I can make out that the bones in illustration 2a are part of a hand, such as the one found in illustration 2b. Thus, gathering incomplete bones in this manner, is not something I find problematic for research. Instead, the skill to understand a broken body, in this manner, is a prerequisite for path-breaking research. However, there is another reason to why I have brought suspicion to the bones that for LaMothe seems to have been a source of joy. Throughout this chapter, my concern is not primarily with missing bones – particularly not healthy bones where parts have gone missing. Instead, I am weary about the way these bones are handled and how the authors that are mentioned as LaMothe’s source of joy, choose to be uncritical to earlier interpretations as well as careless in handling the bones themselves. In the following, I will describe the most problematic of these concerns.

104 Illustrations by Aalto (2020).

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Illustration 2a,b.105

Illustration 2a. Hand with missing bones.

Illustration 2b. Hand with all bones intact.

2.b. 1. Broken Bones

At times, my criticism towards earlier scholarly work demands a more radical shift. This concerns particularly Louis Backman, who really is the most curious author of them all. Backman was a doctor of pharmacy, who decided to write about religious dancing. As I have pointed out elsewhere, he is frequently used in academic circles,106 even though J. G. Davies, in Liturgical Dance from 1984, had already questioned the reliability of Backman. Davies laments that unfortunately many accounts of dance pertaining to the era of the Early Church derive directly from Backman, whose work is conspicuous for its inaccuracies.107 Davies states that: his translations are questionable, his interpretations highly suspect and many of his references are wrong. It is a sad fact that he has been reproduced time and again without any checking of the material he is purporting to survey and of which he conveys a false impression.108 As Davies puts it: Backman is not to be followed when it comes to the patristic era, even though he claims to build on both Wetter, Quasten and other theological studies.109 Particularly, in books where Early Church history is treated through an overview, such as Marilyn Daniels’s The Dance in Christianity – A History of Religious Dance Through the Ages (1981), Elina Gertsman’s The Dance of Death in the Middle

105 Illustrations by Aalto (2020). 106 Hellsten (2016), 57–58. Backman is also found in the suggested reading lists in: Brooks (2004) 166; Davies (2004), 164; Friedland (2004), 33; Wagner (2004) 169; Hanna (2005) 2143; Friedland (2005), 2151, as the source on dance in the Christian tradition. 107 Davies (1984), x. 108 Davies (1984), x. 109 Curiously though, Davies continues to reference Backman in his writings on the Early Church. Davies (2004), 162–64.

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Ages – Image, Text, Performance (2010), or Eva Helen Ulvros’s Dansens och tidens virvlar – om dans och lek i Sveriges historia (2004), the single referencing to mainly Backman is highly problematic.110 Davies does regard Backman reliable with regard to the period of the Middle Ages.111 Even here, I beg to differ. Backman is problematic not only when it comes to Early Church sources.112 At times, Backman shows signs of following the patterns of Grove and Mead without ever mentioning them. Of course, this could be merely the accumulation of earlier research as well as the fact that Backman does cite Gougaud, who as this chapter has shown, also takes his pattern from Grove. I do not have sufficient evidence for stating that Backman read Lilly Grove, but in addition to Gougaud he read both Chambers and Oesterley, both of whom have given indications of the existence of Grove’s work. Backman further makes similar mistakes to Grove. In one instance, Backman reads one of John Chrysostom’s quotes in a particularly problematic manner that I have only found in Lilly Grove.113 Backman further has the tendency to write from encyclopaedic works on chorals and lexical descriptions on etymology, without giving heed to the authors of these books, there either.114 More importantly, however, each chapter of Backman’s inquiry is tainted by his aim of offering a description and explanation of what has been called ‘dance epidemics’ of the Middle Ages. In this, his work is neither unique nor exemplary. As Kélina Gotman has shown, the idea of a dance mania, is very much a creation by the German medical doctor Justus Friedrich Karl Hecker (1790–1850). Hecker published his first article ‘The Dancing Mania’ in 1832. By 1859 this piece had been accompanied by a couple of other articles; ‘The Black Death’, ‘The Dancing Disease’, ‘The Sweating Sickness’ and ‘Child Pilgrims’ into the book The Epidemics of the Middle Ages, which was a starting point of telling the History of Medicine.115 The way Hecker complied and promoted this path-breaking book, has very little to do with history writing as we know it today. Gotman describes it in the following manner: Hecker presented a compelling case of comparative medical history emphasizing dramatic forms. The anecdotal quality of his writing suggested historical progression 110 Ulvros uses a variety of other historic references. What I am aiming at here is that her particular treatment in the chapter called: Den kristna kyrkan, starting with Greek mythology and ending in the seventeenth century has 14 out of 29 footnotes going back to Backman. Ulvros (2004), 52–61, fn 119–48. 111 Davies (1984), x. Which is a judgement repeated by Adams, Apostolos-Cappadona (2001), 216–17. 112 Partly some of these concerns have also been pointed out in an article in the IED. See particularly La Rue (1998), 193–95. 113 Grove writes: ‘St Chrysostom, who excused himself from joining the festal dance on the score of illness’. Grove (2013), 5. Which is taken up like this: ‘…we have here in various places danced comely ring-dances under the guidance of your leader, but on this occation sickness happens to compel us, and others who were invited, to stay at home’ in Backman (2009), 33. Backman states that this is from John Chrysostomos Hom. ad Agricolas, found in Christian Heinrich Brömels’s Fest-Täntze Der ersten Christen Und darauf erfolgte alte und neue Mißbräuche bey den S. Johannis, Veits, Elisabeths etc. Täntzen (1701). I have been unable to locate such a sermon, and to read the book by Brömels. 114 Backman (2009), 5, 6, 15, 48–49. 115 Gotman (2018), 28.

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mattered little: his scenes jumped between eras, emphazising the Middle Ages but also drawing from classical precedents and gesturing towards early modernism, Enlightenment, and modern occurences of ‘choreomania’ in Germany, Italy, France, America, and Abyssinia. Human upheavals illustrated one principle: underlying modernity was a spectacular disinhibited primeval age.116 The sources Hecker used for creating his tale of jerking human bodies and scenes of people frothing, falling and raving, came from ancient medical treatises, travelling tales and occasional case studies described in medical journals. His aim was ultimately to – consciously or unconsciously – legitimise both the growing new field of medical science as well as the political and cultural structures of a western white colonial supremacy over earlier historical eras and competing ‘popular practices’.117 There is no ground for the historical accuracy of the depictions Hecker is making, nor for his interpretations or analysis. What, furthermore, makes the tale Hecker has created, even more, complicated is the fact that it became immensely popular as it spread over popular media to a large audience, almost immediately after its publication.118 Thus, only strengthening the imaginary of the dancing mania as a historical fact and verified piece of archival findings.119 It is this piece of historic fiction that Backman picks up and develops into his theory. This leaves any researchers with the interest of reading Backman in a similar position as those reading Hecker – none of the tales can be taken as historically valid sources – healthy bones – before further verified by other investigations.120 Giving Backman a generous reading I think he might have a few important remarks worth consideration concerning the key events of the Hungarian pilgrims in Germany in 1374.121 However, I have not been able to verify his sources on these examples. When he ventures into describing each unusual dance occurring in Europe, starting from the dance of the children in 1237122 up until the seventeenth century123 and even situations in Sweden a hundred years later124 as somehow being related to muscle spasms coming from eating bad food, the reliability of his survey is strongly diminished. It is not just that Backman chooses to explain a variety of places, situations, time-frames and phenomena through the single lens of muscle spasms, but it is also the over-arching idea that a medical account can be the answer to religious dances, which I find highly questionable. Concluding, thus that references to Backman alone do not provide for a reliable academic account. Stating like LaMothe does: ‘Christians since the time of Jesus have

116 117 118 119 120



121 122 123 124

Gotman (2018), 31. Gotman (2018), 28–33. Gotman (2018), 28. Gotman (2018), 28–33. It is quite disturbing to note that even a renown historian like John Waller, does not stop to question Backman and Hecker as historically reliable sources. See chapter XIV Backman (2009), 213–31. Backman (2009), 177 ff. Backman (2009), 252–54. Backman (2009), 310–11.

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practiced dancing as a form of religious worship, prayer, and mystical communion’.,125 with a single reference to Backman and Davies as experts on the history of Christianity and dance, is highly problematic. In the case of thorough articles such as Jeannine Horowitz’s ‘Les danses cléricales dans les églises au Moyen Age’ (1989), Constant J. Mews’s ‘Liturgists and dance in the twelfth century: the witness of John Beleth and Sicard of Cremona’. (2009), or Donatella Tronca’s ‘Restricted movement: dancing from late antiquity through the early Middle Ages’ (2016), where Backman is not the only source of reference, I see that his space may be valid. Another, preferred approach, is that of Gregor Rohmann in ‘The Invention of Dancing Mania: Frankish Christianity, Platonic Cosmology and Bodily Expressions in Sacred Space’ (2009), were he engages in a critical dialogue with Hecker and Backman. At the same time, my approach in this study will be to end referencing to both Hecker and Backman as reliable sources. This is also the approach followed by Ruth Webb in Demons and Dancers: Performance in Late Antiquity (2008), albeit not stated explicitly so. Finally, statements such as the following, from LeeEllen Friedland, need, completely to be revised. In her article on ‘Popular and Folk Dance’ (1987), in Encyclopedia of Religion126 she writes: A good historical study of literary references to dancing and Christianity, especially focusing on the dance epidemics, is Eugene Louis Backman’s Religious Dances in the Christian Church and in Popular Medicine.127 To call Backman’s work a good historical study, is an overstatement. His study is not only full of broken bones, it attempts to create a Body of Works that is distorted. The bones have been put together in a way that make the Body of Works within dance research unhealthy. After having gathered some bones, sorted them and determined which are healthy and which need tending to, I now move onto the next step: important, unaddressed topics within dance and theological or religious inquiry.

3. Unaddressed Topics The theme of unaddressed topics brings us back to Lilly Grove and her contemporaries. Here I assess the social imaginary she grew up in. There are specifically two distinct ways in which dancing are described and used for topics we cannot leave unnoticed. The first unaddressed topic concerns nationalism with its links to social and economic class and the second western Christian cultural hegemony. Both of these topics are too vast to be dealt with in any lengthy manner. Nonetheless, the

125 LaMothe (2018), 3. 126 Similarly in the bibliography of Youngerman from (1987), Backman is used as an unquestionable source for Early Church and the medieval period in Youngerman (2005), 2165. 127 Friedland (2005) 2147.

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ways they have profoundly influenced how dancing has been portrayed is such that they cannot remain unaddressed. 3.a. Joints and Ligaments

If the entire collections of writings by specific authors, historical treaties, letters, codexes and liturgical accounts brought forth by Lilly Grove and others are the bones of the structure of the Body of Works, What are the joints and ligaments of dance history? Joints and ligaments are connective tissue, and in this instance the stories of the in-between. Joints and ligaments can stand on their own as narrative frameworks and are also part of the social imaginary that defines how the bones are joined together. The social imaginary clarifies why one specific bone is joined to another and how that bone attaches to the next. As has already been demonstrated, in the period when Lilly Grove started to gather the bones together there was a specific manner in which this was done. She does not describe, for example, how she herself danced nor does she share experiences that others have had while dancing. Instead, her ‘evidence’ for dancing is gathered from museums and libraries across Europe. In the social imaginary of this time period, authority was rendered to her work and her voice gained authority, by the places she travelled to and the museum collections she visited.128 No attention was given to questioning primary sources such as these. In Rationality and Cultural Understanding (2007), Tove Österman states that both nationalism and anthropology, amongst other movements, began in the eighteenth century.129 The establishment of ideas concerning nations and ethnic groups was partly done by creating national museums of ethnography and similar places where the culture of a certain region could be studied.130 These monuments of knowledge – be they library collections, encyclopaedia, or archeological archives – are what Grove and her contemporaries took for granted as being an ‘objective’ accumulation of facts. Questions of power, or who had the privilege of choosing what to display and how, did not cross their mind. R. M. Keesing in ‘Theories of Culture Revisited’ (1994), writes that the cultural heritage of a nation was believed to be represented by its fetishised material forms and performances. This specifically included ‘traditional’ dress, dances and artefacts. He argues that such semiotic of cultural identity has its roots in nineteenth-century cultural nationalism in Europe. Primordial and cultural traditions were used in the intense search for ethnic and folk origins.131 The link between dance and folk-tradition is well-addressed by one of the early dance-scholars who has brought also Lilly Grove’s work into the accounts of dance history: LeeEllen Friedland in ‘Popular and Folk Dance’ (1987 first ed.), in Encyclopedia



128 129 130 131

See Gotman for the importance of museums and archives for this period. Gotman (2018), 32. Österman (2007), 88. Österman (2007), 92. Keesing (1994), 307. See also D. Williams (2004), 31–32.

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of Religion132 and ‘Folk dance history’ (2004), in International Encyclopedia of Dance.133 Without ever mentioning the household relationship between the Frazers, Friedland subscribes a founding mother and father status to them for bringing dance forms and customs into the descriptions of European folk communities.134 Mirroring the tendency to look at cultural nationalism in her contemporary society, Lilly Grove chose to structure her encyclopaedic work by references to different countries, regions and peoples.135 After the introduction and a historic overview of the dances of Antiquity136 there are chapters devoted to England137 and the British Isles,138 Eastern Europe,139 her home country France.140 Germany combined with Scandinavia141 and the Iberian peninsula paired with Italy,142 as these were seen to be related to each other through similar languages. Finally the ‘Orient’ is given a chapter of its own, including only India, Persia, China and Japan.143 Other parts of the world are dealt under the heading of ‘The Dances of Savages’,144 which I will return to further ahead. From these examples we can see that the social imaginary of nationalism affected both what kind of material was gathered and how it was structurally presented.145 There is, however, more to the social imaginary of nationalism than this. 3.a.1. Nationalism

Nationalism was not only a topic that influenced dance in the time and age of Lilly Grove and her contemporaries. Nationalism has continued to determine the way dance has been portrayed right into the twenty first century. There are historical accounts that show how dance was used, for example, by the Nazi regimen in the Third Reich to create ‘pure’ and ‘unpolluted’ forms of truly German art.146 Already in Grove’s time, there were strong views of what constituted pure forms of dance and how such could be found. It was among the oppressed and exiled nations, such as the Irish, the Jews or Basque people where authentic dancing could be witnessed. Grove explains that this was due to these people clinging firmly to 132 Volume 4, ER (2005), 2143–51. 133 Volume 3, IED (2004), 29–38. 134 Friedland (2004), 31; Friedland (2005), 2145; Drid Williams has noted the link of their marital status and interest in dance. D. Williams (2004), 7, 264, just as LaMothe (2018), 23–29. 135 LaMothe argues that Grove goes against the grain of her contemporaries, but I am not convinced, as will be shown. LaMothe (2018), 25–28. 136 Chapter II. Grove (1907), 15–65. 137 Chapter V. Grove (1907), 124–79. 138 Chapter VI. Grove (1907), 179–213. 139 Chapter VII. Grove (1907), 213–42. 140 Chapter VIII. Grove (1907), 242–89. 141 Chapter IX. Grove (1907), 289–306. 142 Chapter X. Grove (1907), 306–44. 143 Chapter XI. Grove (1907), 344–36. 144 Grove (1907), 65–93. 145 What is taken for granted is that certain language groups create ‘sibling’ relationships between countries and that customs and cultural traits stay within and/or are defined by national boarders. 146 Karina, Kant (2004).

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their old rites, but more importantly because they stay racially and culturally clean by intermarrying and being faithful to the customs of their forefathers.147 It is as if the possibility of encountering and capturing the authentic dances of the past is what propels her entire writing project.148 Tove Österman explains that the romantic movement had brought with it a quest for the national character of each nation, which was built on the view of a unitive culture.149 In line with this kind of thinking, Grove writes about the possibilities of finding the pure dancing even of England. She explains: We are sometimes apt to think that dancing-spontaneous dancing, dancing from pure lightness of heart on all occasions of festivity, such as we see among the people of certain other nations-is foreign to our clime and race. We are said to be a phlegmatic people, not given to any violent display of our feelings, and very sparing always in the use of gesture. We are self-contained and self-conscious to a degree, and are astonished, not to say scandalised, at the sight of a Sicilian expressing every feeling as it passes over him by vigorous gesticulation, varied often by laughter and tears. These things are not natural to such a sober and serious-minded nation (…) But there is no nation, however staid, which does not possess some really national dances, and to discover these in England we must go back to early times-to dances which have long ago disappeared from our English ball-rooms-or we must penetrate into our country districts, where we shall find our native dances still surviving.150 The view that the dances of a particular nation display the climate, personality, character and race of its inhabitants is not only found in the work of Grove but is taken up by Oesterley in his descriptions of Roman and Greek customs.151 Further, the social imaginary of her time not only displayed a belief in pure cultures but also harboured the view that the unspoiled roots of a culture could be found among rural people and those who had stayed ‘isolated’ from civilisation.152 Another level to how nationalism has distorted dance studies is thus the way it is presumed that there were ‘genuine’, ‘pure’ and ‘unspoiled’ cultural customs to be found and preserved. This romanticised view of culture has tainted much of the writings, research and practices to be found around dance.153 In the Sacred Dance tradition in Europe, Bernhard Wosien spent the majority of his career as a dancer travelling and collecting dances from remote regions in Eastern Europe, the Balkans and the Middle East. His daughter, Maria Gabriele Wosiens, has followed in his footsteps with the continuous

147 Grove (1907), i. 148 LaMothe also notices the urge to preserve something that otherwise will be lost, in Grove’s writing even though she does not describe the same reasons to this, as I do. LaMothe (2018), 25–26. 149 Österman (2007), 92. 150 Grove (1907), 124. 151 Oesterley (2002), 132–33. 152 Österman (2007), 91. 153 Friedland (2004), 29–32; Friedland (2005), 2144–6; the most critical scholar is by far Williams (2004).

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aim of variously finding and/or reclaiming the ‘lost’ Sacred Dance tradition.154 Similar projects concerning not only dance but the music and song traditions of extinct groups of people are also found. One such group often referred to in the Sacred Dance schooling I attended was Gurdjieff and his ensembles of dancers and musicians.155 Honouring cultural heritage or folkloric customs is a kind of nationalism in disguise and which is often seen as praiseworthy or at least positively acceptable. As this is such a frequently communicated trait of the Sacred Dance tradition in Sweden, it merits further investigation. Folk-dance as Healing Wounds?

The assembling of the cultural memories of persecuted people in particular and reclaiming the heritage of peoples or nations that have been forced into diaspora and displaced is of immense value. In the case of, for example, the people of Armenia, Serafim Seppälä shows in his article ‘The “Temple of Non-Being” at Tsitsernakaberd and remembrance of the Armenian genocide’ (2016), that such remembering can help to heal the wounds of the past.156 Similar reconciliation processes have also been practised among natives in different parts of the world.157 At the same time, however, the acts of gathering cultural customs together are not always as ‘pure’ and/or ‘original’ as we might be led to believe. I will exemplify this in the following. Quite often, nationalism is a construction, and dance may play a part in the pattern of how and why we tell a particular story of our people/nation/culture. Angela M. Yarber writes in Liturgical Studies, Volume 1: Embodying the Feminine in the Dances of the World’s Religions (2011), that Israeli folk-dances are a mere construction of the 1920s and 1930s Zionist movement.158 The prime creator of Israeli folk-dance was Gurit Kadman, accompanied by Rivka Sturman, Sara Levi-Tanai, Yardena Cohen, and Leah Bergstein.159 These were Jewish women, imbued with Zionist ideology, who had trained in the German school of modern Expressionist dance. They had all emigrated to the newly formed Israel from Austria and Germany, in the hope of a new future. The dancing started in the kibbutzim and was a deliberate search for Hebrew ceremonial festivals to express a new cultural and religious way of life for Jews. Yarber writes: These dancing ritualists were inspired by the various cultural communities who emigrated to Israel, the rituals of Judaism, and the lifestyles of those native to Israel. Often times, their dances corresponded to the nature and harvest festivals of Biblical times.160



154 155 156 157 158 159 160

Borges da Costa, Cox (2016) 198; Source A; Source B. Wosien (2006). Source 1. Seppälä (2016), 27–28, 36. See for example Lear (2006). Yarber (2011), 64. Yarber (2011), 65. Yarber (2011), 64.

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From Yarber’s accounts, it is possible to read that these women were national heroes who built the nation and brought disparate peoples together through dance. However, what is also clear from these accounts is that many of the dances built on Biblical stories and passages were completely new choreographic creations, deliberately made to connect the people, the culture, the land and the religion.161 There is nothing historically ‘original’ in these creations, which also raises the question of how ‘original’ any of the traditional dresses, dances and artefacts, gathered in museums or displayed as ‘folkloric’ customs, are. To complicate the issue further Ruth Eshel in Encyclopaedia Judaica states that contrary to many artistic endeavours that were supported by the Israeli state during this time, artistic dance was viewed as elitist, while folk-dances were considered acceptably socialist.162 The movement of the folk-dance tradition thus soon expanded and grew all over Europe, through festivals that were supported and arranged by the same nationalist interests. Yarber describes the tremendous impact of this movement on the empowerment of women. She writes: Throughout Europe, the Middle East, Asia, Africa, and the Americas, Jewish women were not known as the pillar of power and authority in the 1930s and 1940s. Quite the contrary. But in Eretz Israel, women were inspired and empowered by their communities to create dances that would provide solidarity, unity, and cultural and religious identity for Jewish women and men. Women created the dances. Women organized the festivals. Women led the dancing rituals. Women joined the national committees of leadership in the arts and dance. Women helped form the very Hebrew language to describe the dances. Women created a movement that helped build the Israeli nation.163 On the one hand, this shows what kind of power lies in the creation, practice and shared experiences of dance. The example mirrors the ability of dance rituals to empower individuals and the capacity of dance practice to unite, strengthen and expand a whole movement of people from diverse backgrounds. On the other hand, it shows that when movements such as nationalism are the driving motive to display, portray and arrange how we talk about dance, specific claims to authenticity need to be regarded with suspicion. Further, any insinuations in the traditions of Christian dances with genuine ‘biblical’ or Jewish roots need to be re-evaluated in the light of

161 ‘While Kadman and others noted that the focus of the dances was not specifically on teaching Judaism, but instead on creating a national identity, it is important to remember the importance of both cultural and religious Judaism. Some of these dance creators claimed that the so-called “religious” tenets of Judaism were not of concern, yet their folk dances still explicitly and implicitly utilized Biblical themes, were created around Jewish rituals and festivals, and even used words for dance described in the Torah as their foundation for creating movements’. Yarber (2011), 79, 77. 162 EJ (2007), 412–13. 163 Yarber (2011), 80.

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the historical framework that has intentionally aimed at creating a cultural heritage in retrospect. Furthermore, Yarber shows how the tradition of folk-dances in Israel also became subject to the intentions of creating a ‘pure’ Israeli dance tradition, extracting all markers of unwanted influences. Under the coverage of creating a ‘melting pot’ some ethnic dance groups had the goal of suppressing traditional and ‘primitive’ Arab-like ethnic characteristics of the dances of the Oriental Jews. This movement was quenched with the help of public demonstrations and legal regulations in the 1970s.164 A closer examination of the promotion of cultural heritage or folkloric customs through dancing and dance practices turns out to be infected with other interests over and above merely promoting the remembering of lost traditions and the healing of old wounds. To further complicate matters, other challenges affect the relationship between dance, cultural customs and community-building efforts. Today, the powerful structures of capitalism show their dominion over the folk-dance tradition more strongly than ever before. To this argument brought forth by Yarber, I will turn now. Yarber explains that the women who led the folk-dances from its initial formulation were replaced in the 1980s by second and third generation choreographers who were primarily men of Oriental Jewish origin. With this shift, folk-dances moved away from promoting the collective dances of the kibbutzim – where everybody knows one another, the dancers overlap generational categories and dancing is bound to the holding of hands.165 Yarber writes that the new dances are: Impersonal activities performed by groups of strangers or recognized events for those looking for romantic partners. Electronic music and equipment has replaced live music. Once an idealistic and voluntary activity, Israeli folk dancing has come to be dominated by calculated economic interests.166 Not only the meaning but also the form for the dances changed as soon as commercial interests started to play an important role in the spreading of the folk-dance movement. Furthermore, the women who once were in the centre of this movement of solidarity were replaced by all-male orchestras and dance groups. These male-dominated groups interpreted the commercialisation of a project as a chance for fame and a path to material gain. What is encountered on the CD-shelves and within many Israeli folk-dance group performances today, is thus twice removed from the upholding of age-long customs and religious traditions.167 The Sacred Dance tradition’s founding figure in Sweden, Maria Rönn, shared a similar shift in attitudes with me in my interview with her. Reflecting on the differences in



164 165 166 167

Yarber (2011), 77. Yarber (2011), 78. Yarber (2011), 78. Yarber (2011), 109.

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culture when the movements started in the 1980s and seeing the practices of some circle dance courses held in Stockholm today, she says: When we started dancing in the churches in Stockholm, there was a strong sense of pioneering spirits, doing something important, something new and exciting. Moreover, it was not just that we were excited, but people flooded the churches. When we organised our Sacred Dance circles, there would be 40–50 women and men of all ages attending the service. We also experimented with dance rites and worship services such as ‘Maria-mässor’ and ‘Sofia akten’.168 I am not at all, claiming that everybody was pleased, they did send in a complaint to the central authorities (Domkapitlet) arguing that we were practising Gnostic views. Nevertheless, no fault was found with anything we had done. Instead, there was a spread of creativity, explorations of the traditions, and reclaiming a heritage of dance in the Church. Today it is another story. We have people insisting they teach something out of the Jewish tradition that is instead a hidden form of antisemitism. Alternatively, we have teachers that come from Germany or whatnot, supposedly giving ‘authentic’ classes in Roma cultural dances. These teachers ask for significant amounts of money for attendance; the practitioners are euphoric about dancing to ‘genuine’ music and upholding the customs of extinct cultural traditions. However, when they meet the real Roma people in the streets of the capital, they cross the road in order not to face the beggar’s hand… This is not the fruits of a prayerful bodily practice but something completely different.169 As the various examples past and present have shown, the urge for a search for genuine cultural heritages through, in and with dance, displayed by Lilly Grove in the early times of dance history, are still present today. Yarber’s challenging work shows us that it is not just nationalism – in the outspoken form presented by Grove and her contemporaries – but also the more subtle – cultural heritage or folkloric tradition – form that affects dance. Nationalism constitutes the joints and ligaments of how the bones of dance are joined together. Nationalism has defined how dance is displayed, what kinds of dances have been promoted, where we search for traditions of dance, and what value we give to them. Further, dancing itself has the capacity to feed into nationalist and cultural heritage traditions by participating, promoting and creating different sets of values and displaying certain kinds of awareness. Dance also has the power to bond, strengthen and promote different kinds of communities, both emotionally and physically. Thus, it becomes increasingly crucial that dancers examine critically the practices they uphold, re-create, and in which they

168 All of which are well documented in the following books: Edgardh Beckman (1995); (2001). For similar traditions in Denmark, see Skovsbøl (2015). 169 EI MR 27.04.2015. For more on how dancing started in churches in the Swedish context see Source K; Source L.

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participate. Today, even the age-long practices are further entangled by capitalist interests. When nationalism, in all its forms, is joined together with economic interests, a matrix of distortions occurs. I find it essential that dancers and dance communities become aware of these distortions on the body of dance tradition. Dance in the Light of Economic and Social Class

One side of promoting ‘pure’ and undiluted forms of a cultural heritage is to gain a sense of national identity, promoting the uniqueness of a specific nation or people. As shown, unfortunately this is often combined with an image of superiority and, in the case of the Frazers, even talk of inherent, racial differences. Another side to the promotion of a folk custom is the social imaginary – also seen in the earlier statements by Lilly Grove – where the ‘unspoiled’ roots of a culture can be found among rural people and those who live in the backwaters of civilisation.170 The theme of the peasants in folk-dance traditions has been explored by LeeEllen Friedland, who writes about the development of different concepts within dance research. Friedland’s focus is on describing folk-dance and its relation to popular dance. She writes that the development of the concepts of folk-dance and popular dance is critical of a broader understanding of dance and religion. She further emphasises how Western ideas about the history of religion and human culture are linked to judgments about social and economic class.171 Both these topics are increasingly important not only for research in folk-dance traditions but also for understanding dance in a religious tradition. Unfortunately, I have yet to come across a study on dance in the traditions of Christianity where these links are developed and explored. There is, alas, no scope to go into more in-depth scrutiny of this here. Suffice to highlight the findings of Friedland and show what kinds of implications they might have for a study on dance within theology. Friedland’s description of concepts within dance history is dealt with in the next chapter. (2.3.1.2. Western Christian Cultural Hegemony) Here, however, I will speak shortly about how the romanticised social imaginary of rural areas and the history of folk-dance customs are related to questions about social and economic class. Friedland writes: According to the nineteenth-century models on which they are based, folk-dance is the dance performed by the folk, and popular dance is the dance performed by the working class, or bourgeoisie. These intellectual constructions are so romantically idealized and oversimplified, however that they do not reflect the cultural reality of the time. Even if nineteenth-century peasants had been the pristine, homogeneous group the folk were supposed to be, there was constant interaction between folk and popular culture.172

170 Österman (2007), 91. 171 Friedland (2005), 2146. 172 Friedland (2005), 2146.

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The intellectual construction of a folk-dance tradition has several implications for dance in a Church tradition. First of all, any kind of over-simplified view that a ‘genuine’ Sacred Dance tradition can be rendered from folkloric customs is problematic not merely for the reason that Yarber brought forth, i.e. they are often idealised constructions of later periods, it is also problematic from the point of view that peasant or folk customs are not as solid, homogeneous and un-altered as has been assumed.173 We need to be wary when folk-dances are promoted as ‘original’ in all senses of the word. Secondly, as the borders between what is folk or popular culture are shown to be more fluid than the social imaginary of the Frazers, and their contemporaries thought it to be, it becomes increasingly difficult to make these sharp distinctions. To claim that folk customs are more ‘traditional’ and popular dance is less so, and more prone to commercialised tendencies is faulty logic.174 What becomes fashionable or popular, in any certain historical period, seems to have less to do with separation from tradition175 than it has to do with material interests and intellectual ideals.176 Friedland claims that fashion, too, is linked to traditional aesthetics and the upholding of cultural patterns.177 This means that traditions of dance within Christian cultural practices also need to be scrutinised with the awareness of how economic interests and intellectual ideals of each specific historic circumstance influence what is promoted and why. Finally, the social and economic class structure does not only define what is popular. It also has the power to describe what is acceptable. Any historical account of dance practices in the Christian traditions needs to become aware that religious practices within the elite, middle and working classes or peasants may vary even within the same historical period. Just because a particular historical account may render a certain kind of dance ‘backward’ or label it as an old ‘heathen’ custom, it might not have been experienced as such by of the majority of the population at the time.178 Even though questions of the social and economic class define what is neglected within a tradition, the borders between social classes have been more and less fluid in



173 174 175 176

Friedland (2005), 2146. Friedland (2005), 2145–6. Friedland (2005), 2146. As has been shown by Pierre Bourdieu in the example on boxing being a practice of the aristocracy or the working-class. Bourdieu (1978). 177 Friedland (2005), 2146. 178 Friedland (2004), 29–30; (2005), 2144–5. See also foreword to Peter Brown’s The Cult of the Saints: ‘Increasingly scholars are turning their attention to the religious lives of women, the poor, and other groups often omitted by past scholarship. Although some of them bear the tell-tale marks of apologetic writing, many of these works have contributed significantly to our understanding of the wide range of human religious experience. They have helped make comprehensible what was often unknown or, where known, misunderstood. And the best of them have helped us to understand not only the religious phenomena themselves but the ways in which they arose within and contributed to a particular economic, political, and social situation’. P. Brown (1981), ix–x.

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specific historical circumstances. In the same way as the peasants of the nineteenth century were not monolithic, homogenous wholes, neither were the clergy of the Middle Ages or the Church Fathers of the Early Church. Practices and traditions change, even within the lifetime of one writer, and this needs to be taken into account when histories of dance are written.179 Thus, not only cultural heritage, nationalism and commercialised interests need to be identified as joints and ligaments in our body of dance: economics and social class also play a significant role in how research joins together the gathered bones of dance. In the methodological language of a hermeneutics of suspicion and charity, Angela Yarber, LeeEllen Friedland and Tove Österman have so far helped me identify and articulate some of the hidden forces that are at work in earlier research accounts on dance. What these critical remarks have shown, is that the study of dancing bodies are never ‘purely’ aesthetic, religious or ‘free’ from cultural, economic, social, racial and even political agendas. Moving bodies seem to be entangled with many different forces that further theological studies also need to consider. These authors primarily discuss the forces mentioned above as cultural or mental ‘logics’ referred on bodies. However, further ahead, I will consider if and how questions of power relations also may be created and strengthened with the help of dancing bodies – as the ritual practices of the Jewish women showed that dancing practices could do. The first unaddressed topic that constitutes distorted joints and ligaments of the Body of Works on dance in this study is nationalism. As demonstrated, nationalism can take more explicit and implicit forms. However, even the tradition of folk-dances and cultural heritage bring their own problematic patterns of interpretation for accounts of dance history. In some instances, the remembering and celebration of ritual and liturgical dance practices have brought forth empowering action, especially in encouraging women to be part of movements that matter in the world; movements that brought forth justice and peace. At the same time, when these interests are joined with economic gain, class and cultural hegemony, the same tradition also has produced practices of exclusion and supremacy. Even though the accounts by Angela Yarber and LeeEllen Friedland show an increasing awareness of these unaddressed topics, more such good scholarly work is needed. When it comes to the relationship between dance and the theological tradition, in particular, the far-reaching implications of ignoring forces such as nationalism, economic and social class may be one of the reasons accounts of dance in the church have created distorted conclusions. The patterns displayed of how nationalism and some traditions of folk-dance and cultural customs have interacted with particular dance practices show that both the tendency to categorise dancing and materials on dance, as well as the tendency to use specific interpretative frameworks for analysing dance are affected by these limiting patterns

179 I will have reason to return to this in chapter three.

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of thought. Researchers need to become aware of these ligaments and joints and stop reproducing such distorted patterns. The second unaddressed topic of earlier research now needs to be discussed. Like nationalism, it has its roots in the social imaginary of the period when dance research started. Compared to nationalism, it had a more structural effect on dance, which brings us to the concepts used in dance research. The second unaddressed topic is western Christian cultural hegemony. This is a subject closely related to nationalism, yet with distinct characters of its own. 3.a.2. Western Christian Cultural Hegemony

We return to Lilly Grove and her contemporaries one last time. In addition to visiting museums and national heritage collections, Grove also acquired knowledge about dance through accounts and tales from people, including herself, who travelled the world and encountered ‘the Other’, those who ‘still’ dance. It is notably the tale of ‘us’ and ‘the other’ that has constituted the joints and the ligaments of the Body of Works of dance history.180 It is not only in the contents of Grove’s encyclopaedia that we find ‘The Dances of Savages’ as a distinct chapter.181 ‘The savage’ is brought up also in the chapter on ritual dance as well as many other places.182 Grove’s writings are rich with insinuations of the supremacy of the European culture. Supremacy is most widely displayed in what is presumed to be the mental,183 emotional184 and spiritual185 capacities

180 The connection between Lilly Grove’s influence on dance history in this manner is also shown by D. Williams (2004), 7, 25–28, 31. 181 Grove (1907), chapter III, 65–93. 182 The word savage appears 57 times in Grove (1907). 22 time outside the chapter on ‘The dances of the Savage’. Further, the word ‘primitive’ which might denote ‘primitive races’ or maybe less provocatively ‘primitive art’, appears 29 times. 183 ‘They are sometimes a preparation for war, corresponding to the Pyrrhic dance of classic period, and to our drill. Such, for instance, is the “No Flight” dance of Dakota. Men are instructed in its movements by a sort of drill, accompanied by the recital of heroic deeds. These dances are rare, for they denote a foresight which the savage seldom possesses; but dances preceding the battle, and having for their object the incitement of the warriors to a state of frenzy, are described by various travellers’. Grove (1907), 65. 184 ‘But, again, the religion of the savage, like that of the little child, is essentially egotistical. He invokes his deity so that he may get what he wants, or that the evil which threatens may be warded off ’. Grove (1907), 67. 185 ‘That savage tribes should have death dances is surprising, because it is inconsistent with their nature to represent in pantomime abstract ideas. There must be a practical meaning attached to their custom. (…) The savage, however, has by no means an ascetic turn of mind, and his object in this lugubrious occupation must be one diametrically opposed to that of the mediaeval devotee. In all probability, therefore, primitive man practises the death dance as a form of exorcism, hoping to drive death away by what Mr Frazer so aptly calls “sympathetic magic”’. Grove (1907), 67.

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of ‘the savage’ compared to ‘us’. It can also be noticed in more openly hegemonic186 or racialized187 statements. It is a conscious choice of mine to replicate as little as possible of these statements and descriptions of the ‘inferior’ people and their customs in my own Body of Works, as such strategies of ‘exposure’ tend only to strengthen and legitimise cultural superiority. Instead, I reference passages and place needed quotations of examples into the footnotes, well aware that even such strategies do not completely resolve the problem of narrating a problematic history as somehow legitimate.188 The social imaginary of Gove and her contemporaries is displayed at its most subtle yet clear form in the structure of the tale. Sometimes ‘the other’ can, as we have already seen, be the peasant of the rural area, while more often it is the Gipsy189 or the people from Lapland190 or any other remote region. Emilie Cameron in her Far off Metal River – Inuit Lands, Settler Stories, and the Making of the Contemporary Artcic (2015), calls this storied way of portraying indigenous and narrated others as a creation of ‘type’. By referring to the socially constructed types of different racialised groups, a hegemonic story can be constructed. Such stories carry the power to form how bodies, emotions and reactions to extra-ordinary events are ordered. These stories again strengthen the social imaginary which implicitly states who and what behaviour is civilised and what kinds of bodily action are in line with imperial strategies of naturalised domination and/or inferiority.191 Based on a similar line of arguments Grove’s portrayals of dance also describes the completely ‘other’, who is so different and far removed from ‘us’ that they do not even have to be given a specific land or place or context, but can be dispersed freely into the text at whatever point where an example of something extra-ordinary or ‘magical’ needs to be shared.192 It is precisely this sense of a commodity, dispelled at

186 ‘To recall by means of gestures the actions of brave men must always have been part of the triumph, yet it is alleged that the savage is too practical a being to waste his efforts in representing the past; he lives in the present and looks to the near future, leaving the past unregarded. It might, therefore, be supposed that dances held as a commemorative ceremony belong to those natives who are on their way to a higher sphere of culture’. Grove (1907), 66. 187 ‘The dance among savages may be considered a just indication of their character; it plays a very important part in their daily life so important that there are races who have special dances for every day in the year and for every occasion in the day. There are people, moreover-some African tribes might be instanced-who could not live a single week without their dances. Nations which are in their infancy dance with the greatest ease and pleasure; the Negro, for example, begins to skip at the mere sound of the most rudimentary music, even under a broiling sun’. Grove (1907), 65. 188 For further references on the power of narration and replication of oppressive stories. Cameron (2015), 20–29. 189 Grove (1907), chapter VII, 213–42. 190 Grove (1907), end of chapter IX. 191 Cameron (2015), 54–62. See also how she links the types to Linnaeus ‘five taxa of Homo sapiens in his 1769 Systema Naturae (Europeans, Americans, Asians, Africans, and the “monstrous”) and bases this typology on the reports of his colleagues and other travellers’. Cameron (2015), 53–54. 192 Or lumped together independently of contextual differences and then associated with animals, like here: ‘Among us music and dancing are two distinct arts, but in the Australian plain, in the wild forests of Brazil, along the swampy shores of African rivers, or on the American prairie, dancing and

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whim or summoned whenever one wishes it that distinguishes a former slave from a cultural or ‘national’ other. The personal encounters Grove shared, especially about ‘the savage’, were valued as signs of authority. Grove was one of those few who had the privilege of travel and went to the borders of what was known, both directly and indirectly, through the tales of people she knew.193 Her husband James Frazer widely used examples from the practices of ‘the primitives’ to give credentials to his theories – even though he himself actually never visited any of these tribes.194 Instead, the people and their practices were always brought to him through people he knew or which he read about from secondary sources. Through the work of W. O. E. Oesterley, we can see how this kind of engagement with ‘primitive’ dance sources affected directly writings in theology.195 Neither Frazer nor Oesterley were accountable to the primitives themselves. Instead, each scholar composed all of his fabulous tales from the comfort of his armchair in a Victorian home, somewhere in England.196 LaMothe made me aware that Oesterley actually was brought up in India being a son of a British consul. Even though Oesterley left India at a young age to get his schooling in England, his background in this sense is slightly different from Frazer’s. However, I would not argue, like LaMothe does that Oesterley’s way of portraying dancing in his writing, shows signs of an initial positive encounter with religious dances which then is changed by his schooling.197 For me, Oesterley is altogether formed by the social imaginary of his time, which is embedded, as I will shortly show in detail, with racialised comments. Writing, from the comfort of his armchair, was not seen as being problematic: the academically trained white male bore the right to interpretation.198 Grove’s accounts show that this ‘privilege of interpretation’ also prevailed amongst non-academically trained white females.199 In the previous sub-chapter (Dance in the Light of Economic and Social Class), I made a case for the authority to define, being given to Lilly Grove, through being part of the ‘elite’ or bourgeois. Her birthright of being a participant of the western

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song are still one single art expressive of concord and peace. We are taught our steps by dancingmasters; they show us how to form the figures; but the untutored savage moves in rhythm naturally, and he copies his figures from the world around him-from the emu, the kangaroo, the bear, the frog, the butterfly’. Grove (1907), 80. It is not always clear if her sources have had firsthand or secondary contact with the other as she writes: ‘Mr Brough Smyth states that; Chateaubriand, speaking of savages, says’ Grove (1907), 71. While at other times she states: ‘Catlin was witness of a scene where…’ Grove (1907), 73. Ackerman holds the positive view that Mr Frazer’s work would have changed drastically if he had ever engaged with fieldwork beyond Europe. Ackerman (1987), 147. I have written elsewhere about Oesterley and how his study remains unchallenged by later research. Hellsten (2017). An exception to this is again D. Williams (2004), 37, 48, 86, 87, 89, 195. LaMothe follows both D. Williams and me, in her later work, on this account. LaMothe (2018), 41–43. Friedland (2004), 31. LaMothe (2018), 41–43. For more on the topic see: Tuhiwai Smith (1999). Specific example on how Frazer came to define the contexts of encyclopaedic work can be found in Fraser (1990), 61–63. This critique is also brought forth by LaMothe. LaMothe (2018), 25–28.

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Christian cultural hegemonic tradition, also gave her this second kind of privilege or rather, blindness. The social imaginary of the turn of the century did not question the supremacy of European culture and/or the position of Christianity at the top of the hegemony. Theologians, such as Willie James Jennings in The Christian Imagination: Theology and the Origins of Race (2010), and Sarah Coakley in the lecture series: ‘Knowing in the Dark: Sin, Race, and the Quest for Salvation’ (2015), have pointed out that what is at the core of academic endeavours like the ones Grove and her contemporaries took part in, was that both their gaze as well as the social imaginary they lived within was oblivious to which kind of narrative framework they took part in reproducing.200 Fascination with the uncivilised ‘other’ entered the European scene following colonialization.201 As with the gathering of narratives of national and cultural belonging, so also with ‘the savage’; there was an urge to capture and preserve everything before it disappeared. Lilly Grove writes: The advance of civilisation tends to weaken the picturesque aspect of life and to reduce everything to a smooth uniformity. Old rites are everywhere fast vanishing, without leaving a trace behind, and when this applies to the dances of savage peoples their disappearance is all the more to be deplored. For it is my firm belief, as I have already explained in the introduction that all dances were originally a form of worship, and therefore the dance of the savage has great significance as an indication of his primitive religion. Where we can clearly prove that the dance has a purely secular character, we may conclude that the race possessing such a dance has outgrown its very primitive history.202 Combined with the hegemonic stance, there is a kind of ‘longing’ for the lost past present in Grove’s writing. Charles Taylor in Sources of the Self – The Making of the Modern Identity (1989), names this an intuitive moral reaction. He says it was developed by Rousseau and others, where ‘the other’ is not something we stray away from, but instead find affiliation with.203 Tove Österman further explains that the followers of the romantic ideal saw the natural state of ‘the savage’ as an ideal that should be regained.204 It is this romanticising view of the intimate connection between dance and religious life together with an urge to ‘save’ such knowledge, which I find that LaMothe admires in Grove’s writing, while I find it highly problematic.205

200 Coakley states ‘race remains one of the most difficult areas to confront, discuss, and think through for Christians, and especially for theologians. The central reason for our difficulty is that the Western Church has yet to grasp fully its deep involvement in the formation of the modern racial condition’. Quoting Jennings she adds, race is fundamentally ‘a way of seeing the world’. Coakley (2015b), 111. Jennings further speaks of a diseased social imagination. Jennings (2010), 6–7,9. 201 Österman (2007), 89–90. 202 Grove (1907), 66. 203 Taylor (1989), 3–5. 204 Österman (2007), 90–91. 205 LaMothe (2018), 25–28.

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As I understand it, the romanticising tendencies described so far both towards nonwhite-western European cultures and so called national folkloric customs, show a cultural appropriation that actually may be described as a concealed form of racism. Even though there are hints of this romanticism in Grove’s writing, there is also another kind of interest in ‘the primitives’ that emerged during her life-time: social Darwinism or the evolution of cultures. Social Darwinism in the Creation of a Tradition

In The Making of The Golden Bough: The Origins and Growth of an Argument206 (1990), Robert Fraser shows that after Darwin’s Origin of Species207 (1859), together with Edward Burnett Tylor’s Primitive Culture208 (1871), a new wind was blowing not only within cultural anthropology but also in the religious sciences and even theology.209 Friends of Frazer, such as William Robertson Smith in his work Kinship and Marriage in Ancient Arabia (1885), and The Religion of the Semites210 (1889), together with The Golden Bough flooded the academic arena with new patterns of interpretations. The evolution, not only of the species, but also of man and religion, gained ‘prime-time’ in cultural studies across Europe.211 ‘The primitives’ became interesting not merely as an exotic other, but as those who could give insight into our own religious and cultural past.212 In these early forms of social Darwinism the cultural hegemony was closely related to racism.213 Österman explains that there are several parallel strands in the history of racism. In one of them ‘the savages’ are seen as another species, to ‘civilized’ humans.214 However, in the narrative framework that came to prevail in the English context, ‘the savage’

206 Not to be confused with The Golden Bough by James George Frazer. 207 Reprint from 2018 used as source. 208 Fraser (1990), 14–15. Friedland writes: ‘In the nineteenth century the anthropologist E. B. Tylor pointed to folklore, especially old customs and beliefs, as providing evidence of the historical development of primitive culture into civilized society. Folklore materials were seen as the vestiges of primitive culture, somehow preserved by the folk memory in the midst of an otherwise relatively civilized society’. Friedland (2005), 2144. 209 This is also brought forth by Kimerer LaMothe. She adds the following people into a similar account as I am making here: Max Müller (1823–1900) and Marett (1914). LaMothe (2018), 23–24, 45–46. 210 Fraser (1990), 27, 69, 92. 211 ‘The theory of cultural evolution was based on Darwin’s biological theory. It proposed that all human cultures evolved through the same unilinear stages, from primitive savagery to civilization. The writings of two English theorists, Herbert Spencer and Edward Burnett Tylor, were particularly influential in the second half of the nineteenth century, and the evolutionary theme they espoused permeated contemporary intellectual thought. European scholars believed that Africans and Australian Aborigines, for example, illustrated the primitive end of the spectrum, whereas educated European society illustrated civilization’. Friedland (2004), 30. 212 Österman (2007), 90; D. Williams (2004), 25–32. 213 To show how close these relations really were we can notice that the ‘father of eugenics’ Francis Galton (see Chitty (2009), 27) was one of J. G. Frazer’s patrons whom he and Mrs Frazer corresponded with throughout their life. Ackerman (1987), 22, 36, 65, 208–09, 221. 214 Österman (2007), 92–93.

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became the untaught ‘children’ of humanity, instead.215 Critical remarks about this narrative framework in Grove’s writing is brought forth by LaMothe, however I do not see her being critical enough.216 In Roger Copeland and Marshall Cohen’s compilation on important writings within dance research What is Dance? Readings in Theory and Criticism (1983), the ground-breaking article ‘An Anthropologist looks at Ballet as a form of Ethnic Dance’ Joann Kealiinohomoku shows how similar stories about ‘the primitives’ continue to go uncontested. Through a thorough reading of Curt Sachs’s WHD, amongst other compilations on dance,217 Kealiinohomoku shows the prevalence of many inaccurate and shocking misunderstandings on the subject of primitive groups. Drid Williams acknowledges this to be due to an over-dependence on the words and outdated source material of James Frazer.218 Kealiinohomoku states that there is no such thing as primitive dance and those who still teach such classes are perpetuating a dangerous myth.219 She also writes that: No living primitive group will reveal to us the way our European ancestors behaved. Every group has had its own unique history and has been subject to both internal and external modifications. Contemporary primitives are not children in fact, nor can they be pigeonholed into some convenient slot on an evolutionary scale.220 However, it was precisely ‘the primitives’ at the bottom of the evolutionary hierarchy, as untaught children, which fascinated Lilly Grove and her contemporaries. LaMothe seems to argue that Gove’s evolutionary narrative around dance and religion can be divorced from its trajectory of development. Instead, LaMothe wants to keep Grove’s insights of ‘the beginning dance and religion are one and the same’221 as well as the essence of dance being ‘a universal human capacity for ecstatic experience’.222 However, supporting such ‘cosmetic’ changes is not enough, when what is at stake here, is a whole social imaginary with all of its conscious and unconscious narrative frameworks. For Grove and her contemporaries, engaging with the study of ‘the savage’ held the ‘key’ for philosophical, psychological, cultural and religious interpretations of our common history.223 Changing such a gaze and all encompassing social imaginary requires more than merely erasing one aspect in the conclusions of the storyline. I will exemplify

215 Österman (2007), 94–96; D. Williams (2004), 25–28. 216 She writes: ‘While ahead of her time, Grove was also of her time. Her argument hews to an evolutionary model, comparing “savages” to children who do not fully understand what they do or why. Yet even here, Grove twists the implications: “we” who understand what they are doing know why they should keep dancing, and why we should too. She calls her contemporaries to revisit the question of what people who dance are doing and why’. LaMothe (2018), 28–29. 217 She lists: DeMille, Haskell, Holt, the Kinneys, Kirstein, La Meri, Martin, Sachs, Sorell and Terry. Kealiinohomoku (1970), 533. 218 D. Williams (2004), 6, 63–68. 219 Kealiinohomoku (1970), 541. 220 Kealiinohomoku (1970), 541. 221 LaMothe (2018), 58. 222 LaMothe (2018), 58. 223 Österman (2007), 94–96.

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this, by further expanding how the thinking of Grove and her contemporaries, is tainted, on every level, by problematic patterns. Grove writes: The religion of the savage, like that of the little child, is essentially egotistical. He invokes his deity so that he may get what he wants, or that the evil which threatens may be warded off. Mr J. G. Frazer, the author of ‘The Golden Bough’, tells me he believes that the more closely savage dances are looked into, the more prominent will appear their magical character.224 From the ‘magical’ beliefs and acts of ‘the primitives’, the Frazer’s constructed explanations on how to understand Christianity as well. These descriptions of dance, religion, magic and cultural rites are not only found in the books by Mr and Mrs Frazer and their friends, but the majority of the entries into Encyclopaedia Britannica, written at this time, were made by Robertson Smith and his academic friends.225 Thus, we find ourselves in the situation where the entire field of religious sciences,226 the ruling paradigm of the development of theology as well as culture, hinges on the image of ‘the savage’ and their customs carrying the ‘hidden roots’ of Western civilisation. The Problems of Definitions

In practice, there is not only a distinction in academic accounts between ‘us’ and ‘them’ but a whole social hierarchy within which any person, practice or phenomenon can be situated. This may create the illusion of ‘fact’ where an unobservant person might read a simple definition or descriptive concept, thinking it is ‘the truth’ when in fact the depiction is a highly value-laden and restrictive judgement. When I state that ‘cosmetic’ changes to narrative frameworks are not enough, it is the following kind of critique I envision. In order to exemplify this further within a dance context, I turn once more to the category of folk-dance, brought forth by LeeEllen Friedland. Friedland describes that rendering something a folk-dance is not only a distinction over and against popular dance, but the term folk-dance itself also carries many burdens. One of them is how the term is entangled with the evolutionary account of culture. Friedland writes that folk-dance was created to refer to dances the origins of which were obscured in ancient customs and ceremonies derived from primitive religious ritual. In one sense, folk-dances, directly linked to the accounts of ‘the primitives’, were seen as more valuable than the religious ritual or ‘sacred dances’. For example, in the accounts of Oesterley on ‘sacred dance’, he gives ten different reasons why and how both the ‘the primitives’ and our cultural ancestors practised dancing in religious rituals.227 In eight out of ten cases, dancing was associated with magical 224 Grove (1907), 67. 225 Fraser (1990), 70. For more examples on how, even faced with evidence of the contrary, he was allowed to continue defining the content of the encyclopaedia with his arguments and theories. Fraser (1990), 81–82. 226 LaMothe is aware of this history when it comes to the study of religious sciences, yet leaves it unaddressed in the history of dance itself. LaMothe (2004), xii–xiii, 3–7. 227 Oesterley (2002), 22–30.

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beliefs, superstition or simplistic manipulation of deities, spirits or nature.228 In the evolutionary accounts of both Frazer, Oesterley and their contemporaries, these kinds of primitive dance behaviours are abolished once a culture reaches some degree of civilisation.229 Subsequent to these ritualistic behaviours a culture/race/nation would pass into more mature states of spirituality.230 Oesterley sometimes renders the Jewish dance practices as having this ‘higher’ religious form,231 a particular example I will return to further on. The critical thing to notice here is that ‘primitive’ religion resided at the bottom, along with magic and other irrational forms of belief. Once 228 (a) It was, first and foremost, performed for the purpose of honouring what were regarded as supernatural powers. In the pre-animistic stage these powers were entirely vague and undefined; in the animistic stage they developed into spirits, some benevolent, others maleficent, powerful for good or evil. Later they became gods and goddesses; (b) Psychologically connected with the foregoing we have as another purpose of the sacred dance that of ‘showing-off ’ before a higher power; (c) Next; the honour done to the higher power by means of imitation had, in the eyes of uncivilized man, some important consequences which offer further reasons why the sacred dance was performed. Just as in imitative magic the thing imitated was thereby effected, so by imitating the supernatural power the imitator conceived himself to be making himself one with him who was imitated; (d) Uncultured man believed that by dancing to such an extent that he became unconscious he was not only doing something that was honouring to the deity, not only offering something in the nature of sacrifice, but that he was, above all, making his body a fit temporary abode for his god; (e) Another purpose of the sacred dance was to make the crops grow, or of helping, or inducing the god to do so. From one point of view here the sacred dance was an act of imitative magic; (f) Further, there are instances on record of the sacred dance having the purpose of hallowing or consecrating a victim for sacrifice; (g) As an adjunct to initiation ceremonies the sacred dance was also believed to serve some useful purpose. Presumably it was an act of homage to the god or goddess who was supposed to be present; (h) There are some grounds for the belief that the sacred dance was sometimes performed with the purpose of assisting warriors to gain a victory in battle; here, too, it was an act of imitative magic; (i) As a, marriage rite the sacred dance (was to combat) the vague dangers which were supposed to menace those entering upon the marriage state; (j) There are special purposes for which the sacred dance was performed as a mourning or a burial rite, including the ghosts of the dead. 229 Friedland quotes Spencer when he describes that dancing is central to primitive religious worship and further: ‘Why dancing ceased to be a part of religious worship [in civilized societies], while music did not, we may readily see. In the first place dancing, being inarticulate, is not capable of expressing those various ideas and feelings which music, joining with words, is able to do’. Friedland (2004), 30; D. Williams (2004), 25–26. 230 As already seen in the quotation where Lilly Grove states that: ‘Where we can clearly prove that the dance has a purely secular character, we may conclude that the race possessing such a dance has outgrown its very primitive history’. Grove (1907), 66. 231 Oesterley (2002), 121, 133; ‘…there is no shadow of doubt that Hebrew and Greek practice here, though it is but a small item of religious ritual with which we have been concerned, illustrates their religious superiority over all the other races. But of these two the Hebrews stand on distinctly higher ground; there is not the remotest reason for believing that the ecstatic dance among them was ever contaminated by the licence which often obtained among the Greeks. Among the Hebrews, moreover, the object of it was purely devotional; and when an oracle was put forth it was only to declare the will of their God. So that it is true to say that even in the lower planes of religious thought and practice the Hebrews showed that they were in the vanguard of religious evolution’. Oesterley (2002), 139.

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a culture grew out of that ‘stage’ it then developed more civilised forms of religion.232 If dancing remained in the tradition, it was no longer rendered religious or sacred. Preferably, dancing was instead labelled in one of two ways. The first option was that what was left of dancing was described as simple folk-dance customs that were ‘washed clean’ from primitive ritualism. The narrative framework that Oesterley promotes states that by the time of the second temple, festival dancing had, for the Israelites, become merely the observance of traditional customs.233 The second option was that, for example, dancing during weddings was described as ‘purely secular amusement’.234 The second kind of narrative framework used is one were dancing is removed from being a religious practice into a category of ‘worldly entertainment’. It is out of this tradition that I understand Friedland describing the later development of popular dances.235 In both interpretative patterns, a dance that would be of interest to ‘serious’ scholarly writings on theology – being neither ‘primitive’ magical dancing nor a-religious dance – more or less ‘vanished’. What is revealed through these examples of the narrative framework of a western Christian cultural hegemony is the heightened impossibility of dancing to matter for theological scholarly work. This tendency has also been brought forth by LaMothe concerning the study of dance and religious sciences.236 Even though I agree with her critique, I will argue that the remedy for this is not as easy as reversing into an earlier idea by Grove on the sacred nature of dance. Neither is it as simple as emphasising the embodied, ritualistic, ‘original’ and ‘other’ account of non-western cultures over and above traditional academic work. These kinds of strategies run the risk of only strengthening the markers we are out to critique. Instead, the distorted gaze that I have pointed out to exist in the works of Oesterley, Grove and others, itself was deeply ingrained in the ideas that led to sacred dance turning more and more into a ‘non-category’ for theology. As brought forth in the last chapter, folk-dances have been seen as ‘pure’ expressions of national identity. They were passed on from one generation to the next, and performed as part of traditional folk community festivals.237 Friedland writes further that European folk culture fell somewhere in between primitive ritual and civilised society. This was partly due to the romanticised view of peasants as homogeneous, unchanging agricultural communities. Another reason was that rural peasants were generally illiterate and therefore not privy to the ‘higher’ knowledge and expression found through reading and writing.238 Being illiterate was another Western cultural hegemonic ‘marker’ or type description, for being less than civilised. This is also mirrored in Angela Yarber’s accounts from Israeli folk-dance. Being a leader of a

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D. Williams (2004), 25–26, 31–32. Oesterley (2002), 154–55. Oesterley (2002), 72. Friedland (2004), 29–31. LaMothe (2018), 42–43, 51–52. Friedland (2005), 2145. Friedland (2004), 30.

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folk dance movement was something that empowered women and was definitely in the strand of valued nationalism. Nonetheless, at the same time Yarber points to the fact that these women were relegated to the ‘folk’, the embodied, the ritualistic, the ‘other’, rather than the academic, the authoritative, the rational, and the powerful.239 Thus, any account that elaborates using the category of folk-dance needs to be scrutinised not only for any vestige of nationalism, economic interests in cultural customs but also for gendered and social class biases: biases that have been reflected in bodily traditions being less valuable than oral or written ones, and biases that uphold the view of ‘enlightened spirituality’ being that which deals with books, texts and written accounts, while mainly non-Christian religious forms partake in customs such as dance, rituals or plays of different kinds. In the beginning of chapter three, I will return to particular examples of how the narrative framework of Grove’s and her contemporaries can be seen in the theological and cultural interpretations of dance practices in and around churches. Both the emphasis on textual sources and these conclusions concerning folkloric customs, are inbuilt to the interpretative patterns and scholarly work by writers like Gougaud on liturgical tradition, and E. K. Chambers’s in his portrayal of dance in The Mediaeval Stage. What has been argued for, so far, is that classifications and structuring of dance practices, even specific dances, carry ‘stories’ or narrative frameworks with them that have been left unnoticed. I argue that not only do we need different concepts for how to categorise dance, but first of all, scholarly work today, needs to become aware of even the subtle ways in which these narrative frameworks may continue to be emphasised through the writing of researchers. The reconsideration of dance and re-structuring of dance practices, needed, is only at a beginning. Joann Kealiinohomoku is one of the few scholars who seem to have taken this task seriously enough. Another voice with a similar call to action against biases within research on dance is the aforementioned Drid Williams. Both of these writers are criticised by LaMothe for ignoring dance as a religious practice.240 While I think a critical scrutiny of the idea of a so called ‘original link’ between dance and religion also needs to be made. In Kealiinohomoku’s article, she has pin-pointed many of the core issues at stake within scholarly accounts of dance defining themselves by looking into the past as well as the practices of the ‘exotic others’. Her work seems to have gone unnoticed in the field of dance history or works on dance and theological traditions.241 While in the field of dance and religious studies, when she is mentioned, not much is done with her important critique.242 I have yet to encounter any scholarly work seriously

239 Yarber (2011), 80. 240 LaMothe (2018), 62–63. 241 Similarly, Alessandro Arcangeli writes about how dance has been viewed as something that belongs to ‘the Other’. Arcangeli (2017). Nevertheless, he does not bring those topics into present day critique of practices in dance history or views on dance in religious sciences or theology. 242 LaMothe is one of the few authors dealing with dance and religious studies who names Joann Kealiinohomoku yet leaves her valuable insights to stand in a footnote. LaMothe (2004), 10–11. Even in the newer work she only passes shortly by Kealiinohomoku’s work. LaMothe (2018), 60, 63.

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critiquing classical books such as the aforementioned account by Oesterley on ancient Jewish practices, or Lillian B. Lawler’s account of The Dance in Ancient Greece (1964), both of which are laden with a heavy rhetoric around the dances of the primitives.243 The single exception is Williams as well as LaMothe’s later work on Oesterley.244 Instead of methodically pinpointing problems found in texts that did not pick up the critique by Kealiinohomoku, I will, in this last part of this chapter, work through the examples given by her, exemplifying themes and questions I find essential for any future theological writing on dance in history. Accounts of Origin

Joann Kealiinohomoku argues that any research aiming to find the origins of dance needs to become aware of two major narrative stumbling blocks, neither of which should be allowed to continue anymore. The first remark Kealiinohomoku has to offer, is that there is a distinction to be made between ‘primitive’ and ‘primaeval’ accounts. Kealiinohomoku suggests that we cannot know anything about the primaeval dances, as the only materials there are to be found are the archaeological findings of cave-paintings. From such materials, it is not possible to know what the practices of our ancestors were. Thus, to start a theological account or historic article with the words: ‘Since primaeval times…’ or ‘Humans have always danced…’ is in her – and my – view romanticising fiction.245 This strand of thought, does not just tend to romanticise on the ideas of a joint human past that cannot be accounted for, it also shows signs of an unwarranted form of human exceptionalism.246 How I understand it, this romanticising narrative is a form of cultural appropriation that often go hand in hand with less overt forms of racism.247 Equally, as fascinating as it might be, pinning together archaeological images from statues and vases with accounts of ‘the primitives’ – as Lillian Lawler does – results in conclusions which have very little to offer. In Lawler’s defence, I do want 243 Yet, Friedland suggests Lawler is an important read in Friedland (2005), 2147. 244 D. Williams (2004), 5, 9–10, 37, 48, 56, 69, 82, 86–87, 102–03, 118, 122, 131, 146, 170, 186, 195. 245 A more recent example of an account that insists on this old pattern is: McNeill (1995) see next fn and Barber (2013), albeit in her case this pattern is displayed in a more folkloric trained manner. Needless to say, I find this aspect of the critique of Kealiinohomoku to be specifically missed in Lamothe’s writing. 246 McNeill formulates his theory about the origins of dance in the following manner: ‘Community dancing occurs only among humans, if by that phrase we mean a form of group behaviour whereby an indefinite number of individuals start to move their muscles rhythmically, establish a regular beat, and continue doing so for long enough to arouse euphoric excitement shared by all participants, and (more faintly) by onlookers as well. Moreover, community dancing is very widespread among human societies, and it takes place under a great variety of circumstances, with many different meanings attached to the performances. Indeed, community dancing, together with marching and singing or shouting rhythmically is, like language, a capability that marks humans off from all other forms of life’. McNeill (1995), 13. For examples of animals dancing just google the parrot Snowball on YouTube. Discussed in more detail in Montgomery, Marshall (2017), 50–52. Also the community rhythmic movements are not foreign to the animal kingdom but rather seem to be a pattern of life. 247 For more on this theme see Kendi (2019).

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to emphasise that she also outlines important Greek philosophical tenets that have influenced Western ideas about dance. Nonetheless, even in this, the tendency to ascribe mentalities on bodies, instead of reading a message from the point of view of the dancing bodies or analysing images of dance in tandem with accounts of bodies dancing, is very close at hand in Lawler’s work. Thus, if one wants to recover what is of worth in these kinds of accounts, meticulous work is needed – on several levels. Such work can also be found, in the rare example of Ruth Webb’s account: Demons and Dancers: Performance in Late Antiquity (2008). When it comes to ‘primitive’ dance, on the other hand, Kealiinohomoku says that we do know a great deal. Here she uses a definition of primitive not rendered from dance or evolutionary accounts of religious sciences, but that of ethnographic or contemporary anthropological research.248 Within that framework it becomes clear that there is no such thing as a primitive dance. There are dances performed by primitives, and they are too varied to be grouped together as monolithic wholes.249 The dance of ‘the savage’ described by Grove or Oesterley never existed, neither did the ‘The African dance’, ‘The American Indian’ dance, nor the ‘Indian dance’. These are not merely stereotypes but fiction. Kealiinohomoku instead frames it in the following way: there are Iroquois, Kwakiutl, and Hopi peoples to name a few, and they have dances.250 Such dances can be studied, but no universal or universalising claims can be made out of them. Similarly, if accounts are found for a practice that has been described as being performed in the temple in Jerusalem this should not be taken or rendered as a Jewish worship practice celebrated in all of Israel. Equally, writing on dance practices of the medieval period, a scholar would do wisely not to group together practices from Germany, France, Spain or Italy calling them dance in medieval Europe.251 Medieval Europe did not even consist of nations such as these. Further, the accounts even within what today is considered France, for example, varied from town to town and region to region. Such, almost common-place knowledge in most historic writing today, also need to be considered when it comes to works on dance practices.252 Kealiinohomoku has a further telling insight about the use of the term ‘primitive’, worth mentioning. The Western cultural hegemony has lifted the practise and performance of ballet into a privileged position, from where all other kinds of dances are judged.253 To ‘read’ bodies from a position of privilege – like when one judges



248 249 250 251

Kealiinohomoku (1970), 544. Kealiinohomoku (1970), 534, 536. Kealiinohomoku (1970), 534. As is the standard in encyclopaedic works but also historic overviews such as those found in Davies (1984); Youngerman (2005), 2153; Davies (2004), 162–64; Brooks (2004), 164–66. 252 A good exception to this tendency is found in the depictions of medieval dance in Lee Eden, Winniford (2000), 213–18. 253 ‘In short we treat Western dance, ballet particularly, as if it was the one great divinely ordained apogee of the performing arts. This notion is exemplified, and reinforced, by the way dance photos are published. Unless the non-Western performer has made a “hit” on our stages, we seldom bother to give him a name in the captions, even though he might be considered a fine artist among his

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other dances from the point of view of ballet – also works in consideration with Christianity. The one form, positioned on top of the hegemony, defines all others, directly or indirectly. Kealiinohomoku shows this by presenting descriptions of foreign dances that do not resemble the Westernised ideal, as uncouth, unnatural, ignorant and, in short, less than human. She further gives examples where the Greeks define ‘the others’ as barbarians, while the Romans called ‘them’ pagans.254 Both reading bodies from a position of privilege and defining ‘the other’ as less than human, are tendencies, as we shall encounter again later, practised by representatives of Christianity in the West on the rituals of dance. Kealiinohomoku’s examples raise questions on how many of the descriptions of ‘pagan’ dances in the accounts of Christian traditions have their root in the worship of older religions and other gods. What if many of these statements display only an account of something different from or unknown to the writer’s own customs? The point of ‘othering’ religious practises in Late Antiquity is also brought forth in various articles in Others and the Construction of Early Christian Identities (2013), albeit no analysis is done concerning the role of dance in these debates.255 Kealiinohomoku argues that the distorted vision of the westernised gaze even goes as far as defining which kind of body alignment is preferable. When what is seen as a ‘good’ western-trained body results in physical tension that is a handicap in performing dances from other cultures, the problem is not in ‘us’.256 Instead of recognising that different practices have different ideals, writers – according to Kealiinohomoku – tend to give one of two answers. Either there are ‘innate’ qualities, between people, cultures and races that give barefoot savages an ear for rhythms most Europeans lack257 and, thus, make them able to move like we cannot.258 Alternatively, then the existence of patrons, dancing masters, choreographers, and performers as well as specific techniques which formed the western practice, show the superiority of tradition over and against those that move sporadically and in ‘uncivilised’ ways.259 In such a narrative framework, a lack is identified in the ‘system’ of the ‘other’. Stated in another way, the existence of a structure of training and sharing of a tradition is defined as a sign of western-trained superiority. Kealiinohomoku states that only rarely is a tradition portrayed of patrons, dancing masters and choreographers in the accounts of the ‘primitives’, even though corresponding systems can be found.260 The westernised gaze is unable to spot civilised societies and structured techniques even when they are pointed out to the observer.



254 255 256 257 258 259 260

peers (…). For example, see Claire Holt’s article “Two Dance Worlds” (1969). The captions under the photos of Javanese dancers list no names, but you may be sure that we are always told when Martha Graham appears in a photo’. Kealiinohomoku (1970), 536. Kealiinohomoku (1970), 547. See: Rauhala and Kahlos in Hakola, Nikki, Tervahauta (2013), 289–94, 331–32. Kealiinohomoku (1970), 542. Kealiinohomoku (1970), 543. Kealiinohomoku (1970), 542–43. Kealiinohomoku (1970), 536. Kealiinohomoku (1970), 538.

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Notably, these aspects of distorted joints and ligaments have their parallels in earlier research accounts on dance and theology. Certain kinds of dance which give the impression of being unruly – performed in a frenzy, showing signs of ecstasy or performed under ‘possession’ – have automatically been categorised as non-Christian or have been condemned by the Church. Promoting such a narrative framework started already with Oesterley,261 can be found in Backman and is the topic of critique in more recent scholarly articles including that of Alessandro Arcangeli ‘Dancing Savages: Stereotypes and Cultural Encounters across the Atlantic in the Age of European Expansion’ (2010), and Donatella Tronca ‘Spectacula turpitudinum. Christian Schemata of the Dancing Body’ (2009). However, the question remains, is it a fair reading to say that the Christian traditions have had problems with unordered movements.262 What would happen if we chose to look at those specific situations of dance earlier judged unworthy, without the western Christian cultural hegemonic gaze formed by the ideals of ballet? In our time and age, in particular, it seems once again that stories of origin fascinate both psychology, biology and historic accounts.263 Combined with a scholarly ‘turn to tradition’, a trend both in gender studies and theology264 – something which this study is, in many ways, a part of – it becomes clear that a re-examination of our heritage is needed and it cannot be done in haste. Simplified solutions or universalising tendencies like those portrayed by LaMothe do not provide a robust enough critique of how the history of dance and religious sciences or dance and theology are portrayed. The narrative frameworks Kealiinohomoku’s account brings forth are not only different interpretative frameworks, where one viewpoint can enrich or argue the contrast of another ‘storyline’. Instead, all of the presented narrative frameworks in this chapter, are part and parcel of a social imaginary, and they are strong patterns that ‘glue’ ideas together. Within this social imaginary, the practices of dance and the examples of other cultures and people dancing, are all encompassed by epistemic defaults that hinder researchers from critically engaging with their materials. In wanting to break with distorting gazes of this kind, earlier research needs to be examined at its core. Old paradigms need to be dispelled for what they are – racist, hegemonic and misogynist – in order to see if any parts can or may be used again for better constructions of a Body of Work.

261 Oesterley (2002), 121, 133, 139. 262 Tronca argues that there have been certain ideals for the Christian bodies in earlier periods as well. Tronca (2009). However, the question I am posing here is to question where and how these ideals arise as well as asking whom the portrayal of these ideals benefitted or marginalised. See for example, Gotman’s discussions on the frenzied bodies. Gotman (2018). Further investigations are needed to question the links Justus Friedrich Carl Hecker makes in Die Tanzwuth. Eine Volkskrankheit des Mittelalters (1832), between dance and disease, for their historic accuracy. 263 This can be seen in more popular science of paleo practices as well as interest in genes and epi-genes as well as supposedly more serious accounts such as: Harari (2014); (2016). 264 This is taken from the conference in Lund dec 2016 Tradition is the New Radical – Remapping Masculinities and Femininities in Theology that attracted many scholars in the field.

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This chapter showed how dominant the social imaginary of the nineteenth century was in forming both how we look at dance and how research on dance is framed in the fields of theology and religious sciences. The unaddressed topics of both nationalism and western Christian cultural hegemony demonstrated that narrative frameworks like these, cannot continue to go unquestioned. Ligaments and joints have the power to decide how the bones of our Body of Work ‘should be’ attached. The narrative frameworks of nationalism and the western Christian cultural hegemony not only inhibit healthy movement patterns of this Body but distort it so that it is hard even to find a Body of Works where descriptions of dance, accounts by dancers or practices of dancing are considered as materials that theology can engage with. The works of Friedland, Drid Williams and Kealiinohomoku have questioned the western Christian cultural hegemony, as well as the topic of nationalism, in writings on dance. I have called these ‘unaddressed topics’. This is to say, unaddressed in the writings on dance and theology or dancing in the traditions of Christianity in the West. As the critique of these women show, the themes are not unaddressed by all researchers in the field of dance. However, the example of LaMothe shows that not all dance researchers agree to what extent these topics need to be reexamined in order to create discussions on the practices of dance in religious contexts where dancing has an equal share in raising questions, giving answers and developing methods of inquiry. The so-called ‘unaddressed topics’ that I have identified as crucial for the study of dance and theology could also be described as forces which define how dancing can matter or be excluded from mattering. LaMothe’s accounts show precisely how dancing has been excluded from mattering. However, the choice I have made of describing nationalism, with its links to social and economic class, the western Christian cultural hegemony, and at times racism, as joints and ligaments of the Body of Works of dance and theology, render them stronger than forces. The social imaginary that is found in the writings, but also the theoretical narrative frameworks – construction of categories, positioning of concepts, narratives of origin and structures of the interpretative patterns – of earlier researchers are more deeply hidden in the perceptional capacity of the researchers and research communities. I have argued that we are dealing with a diseased social imaginary which renders certain blindness to those who have not addressed the default modes of thinking, imagining and living created by a modern scientific worldview. Willie James Jennings describes this diseased social imaginary as one where the western culture has been wounded by deep psychic cuts that alienate Christianity in two different ways.265 The tradition is, first of all alienated from its Jewish roots.266 Such alienation of Christianity with Judaism has been shown in this chapter, particularly in the writings of Grove and Oesterley. However, as I have argued, the same narrative frameworks portrayed in their writing has been transferred and transmuted into later works as

265 Jennings (2010), 293. 266 Jennings (2010), 293.

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Illustration 3a

Illustration 3a. Distorting joints joining bones of the hands, the upper arm-bone (deltoid) turned up-side-down is joined to the partial pelvic bone (encountered earlier) and attached to the ‘eye’ of the pelvic is something that looks like a clavicle or the radius of the forearm.

Illustration 3b267

Illustration 3b. Distorting joints joining bones of the ribcage together with the skull and attached to this package is a scapula and what might be a finger bone.

well. It is also shown in a romanticising way when dancers speak about learning ‘authentic’ Jewish dances as some kind of ‘return’ to the roots of Christianity. The second form of alienation within the traditions of Christianity in the West is found in the mutilation of the creatureliness of a Christian vision of creation, when people, animals, lands, places and spaces have been wrapped up in a racial existence and on top of this been commodified in a capitalistic calculation.268 The alienation produced by the imagination of a Christian West being entangled with racism has been shown in this chapter, particularly in the writings of Grove and Mr Frazer’s evolutionary view of the progression of religion but also in the accounts where bodily practises are described as magical or superstitious, by Oesterley and his fellow theologians. Thus, I have been arguing and will continue to argue that the Body of Works we are dealing with in this study, is distorted in more fundamental ways than earlier research 267 Illustrations by Aalto (2020). 268 Jennings (2010), 293.

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Illustration 3c268

Illustration 3c. Distorting joints joining bones of the femur from the leg with the ribcage and on top of it we can find the coccyx.

have been able, or willing to grasp. The distortion created by joints and ligaments that join bones in an unhealthy manner can be illustrated in the following way. Sometimes the distorting joints and ligaments attach bones together as illustration 3a show. In illustration 3a270 we see the ribcage joined together with the skull and attached to this package is a scapula and what might be a finger bone. It seems like these bones are just gathered in a big pile and kept as one entity – almost as for safe-keeping – until the package can be sorted out later. What this study so far has shown, is that gathering together random historical fact, is unfortunately a very common trait in studies on dance and theology. Thus, researchers need to thoroughly go through all the ‘evidence’ that have been gathered before them. Even this study, does not aim at giving a comprehensive sorting out of a particular event or historical record, in that manner. Other times, the bones of the hands, the upper arm-bone (deltoid) turned up-side-down is joined to the partial pelvic bone (encountered earlier) and attached to the ‘eye’ of the pelvic is something that looks like a clavicle or the radius of the forearm. What makes the combination of illustration 3b possible, is not the design of the body, but the red strands of ligaments that tie pieces together, that otherwise would not attach. If a researcher finds bones that look like they make up one entity – albeit a confusing one – this should not be taken as a sign that these parts belong together, before further investigation has been made. As this study has shown, so far, unfortunately many narrative frameworks of interpretation in the theological accounts distort bones in this manner.

269 Illustrations by Aalto (2020). 270 Illustrations by Aalto (2020).

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Illustration 4. Triceps and biceps moving the arm.272

Other times, as in illustration 3c what emerges from the strain put by the ligaments on existing bones, creates something that almost looks like an entity of its own. In illustration 3c, a femur from the leg is attached directly to the ribcage, and on top of it, we can find the coccyx, creating something similar to the medieval, mythical creature of the monopod.272 A less aware reader might think that this Body of Works ‘proves’ the existence of monopods or any other imagined idea they may unconsciously carry. A distorted Body of Work, illustrated by these pieces of art is the reason why I am stating that it is not enough to re-examine or re-interpret the dance practices of the traditions of Christianity in the West. What is needed is a re-imagination of the whole story of both Christianity and dance. The joints and ligaments of the Body of Works of dance and theology are not the only aspects of the Body which need attending to. There is a final area where even the critical hermeneutics of Drid Williams, Friedland and Kealiinohomoku fall short. Bodies have another kind of connective tissue: muscles. Muscles move both bones and the joints and ligaments. So far, I have unearthed bones that have gone missing and identified joints and ligaments that have distorted how the bones are connected. I have now arrived at the point where we also need to investigate the categories that have defined dance. Some categorisation was already discussed in this chapter. Now it is time to examine how categories work in a Body of Works. Categories, just like muscles, have the power to move one concept over and against another. Categories, just like muscles, work in pairs; if one of the categories is overemphasised, the other one withers. In the end, none of them will work correctly unless their use is balanced.

271 Illustrations by Aalto (2020). 272 See the monopod found in the Herreford Mapamundi and also commented in Isidore, Etymologiae 11, 3, 23.

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3.b. Muscles and Faulty Categories

Someone might argue that all of the historical referencing to Lilly Grove and Mr Frazer is unnecessary. It may be argued that there is a good reason for Grove’s account to be forgotten as it deals so unconsciously with term like ‘the primitives’, and displays cultural hegemony and different forms of nationalism. Further, one might continue that argument by stating that scholars today are so aware of the blinders of the past that they do not need to state them explicitly in order to start anew.273 Unfortunately, however, this approach is insufficient. Scholars of Systems Analysis such as Raimo P. Hämäläinen, Esa Saarinen and colleagues, have been able to prove that if a system or operational model has a biased structure built into it, this model or system will continue to lead people into wrongful conclusion as long as the cognitive bias has not been addressed.274 Cognitive biases, furthermore, need enormous amounts of conscious re-modelling in order not to be repeated and transferred into new models that want to modify older systems only slightly.275 This is why I argue that biases of the social imaginary of earlier research have not entirely left us and will continue to submit scholars to distorted accounts until they have been thoroughly revealed and untangled.276 As pointed out already in chapter one, Sarah Coakley even goes as far as claiming a need of ‘purging’ our senses in order to re-imagine the world anew – freed from particularly epistemic racial defaults.277 One way that the western Christian cultural hegemony still lives with us is, for example, in the categories used in descriptions of dance. As already hinted at earlier, there is a variety of concepts and categories that have been used widely within both dance research and theological accounts in order to describe dancing. I have written elsewhere in more detail about how the categories described by Oesterley still dominate the disposition of the Encyclopedia Judaica and exegetical analysis of for example Mayer I. Gruber, in ‘The Nuances of Eleven Dance-derived Expression in the Hebrew Bible’ (1980).278 Both in the article on dance written by Dvora Lapson and Amnon Shiloah and the etymological accounts of the exegetical articles in

273 LaMothe, for example, shows a great awareness of racialised discourses and the Western cultural hegemonic defaults. LaMothe (2018), 2–9, 39, 88–90, 104–05. 274 Hämäläinen, Luoma, Saarinen (2013); Hämäläinen, Lahtinen (2016). 275 A thorough overview of common cognitive biases, their role and function in our lives as well as the way one may alter them, is found in Kahneman (2011). 276 Jennings (2010), 58; Coakley (2015b), 114-20. 277 ‘I shall be urging that their particular understanding of metabolised darkness and ascetic endurance holds enormous promise for a new theological anthropology founded in contemplative practice. It unlocks afresh, an older patristic teaching on spiritual sense, thus opens up a vista of theology in via in which human epistemological and moral responsiveness expands and ascends through this process of the purgation of desires. The implications for modern gender and race, will once more considered in this light of this progressively interruptive grace of the holy spirit’. Coakley (2015a). 278 Hellsten (2017), 120–22, 131–33.

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Theological Dictionary of the Old Testament,279 similar topics are reproduced 70 years after their first appearance.280 It is not merely that these concepts and categories carry with them implicit stories – narrative frameworks – of dominion and supremacy, which the scientific community needs to become aware of. It is further so that in many cases these definitions restrict rather than open our understanding of a specific situation of dance.281 I this sub-chapter, I will highlight and investigate a few of these faulty categories. My aim is further to show how the distorted joints and ligaments of the previous chapter, continue to influence the writers following in the footsteps of Grove and her contemporaries through exercising a constraint on the Body of Works that solidifies into particular muscle pairs. As already mentioned, the categories that have been elaborated with come in pairs. Within the social imaginary of earlier research, one pair has been valued, often quite implicitly, as the ‘preferred’ one, over and against the other.282 I want to make it clear that the aim of my presentation of these categories is not to make a full description of their meaning and use. That would be futile. Instead, I want to highlight some of the ways these categories have informed the praxis of academic writing. I will argue that conceptual categories do not always expand or open a discussion. Instead, they may work as markers declaring the ‘end of the argument’.283 In the previous chapter, I described this phenomenon in terms of how specific narrative frameworks make it impossible to perceive dance as a theologically relevant topic. Now, I develop this idea further. When a category is stabilised into a specific form, it seems to freeze thoughts as well as discussions. I am not arguing that categories as such always are a problem. Instead, I will demonstrate that when the categories become rigid, the researcher

279 The discussion on ‘the limping dance’ of the prophets of Baal is a good example that is found already with Oesterley (2002), 112; continued in TDOT (1998), 6–8; 24–26 and Adams, ApostolosCappadona (2001), 55–56. 280 Oesterley’s Ch. 1 Introductory; Ch. 2 The origin and purpose of Sacred Dance; Ch. 3 The Sacred Dance among the Israelites; Ch. 4 The Old Testament terms for dancing; Ch. 5 The Sacred processional Dance and dances in honour of supernatural powers; Ch. 6 The ritual dance round a sacred object; Ch. 7 The Ecstatic dance; Ch. 8 The Sacred Dance at Vintage, Harvest and other Festivals; Ch. 9 Dances in celebration of victor; Ch. 10 The Sacred Dance as a Marriage rite; Ch. 11 Dancing as a mourning and burial rite; is mirrored by Victory dances, Ecstatic dances, Folk-dances. Later on, also Life cycle dances are mentioned including birth, circumcision and weddings. In EJ (2007), 409–11. 281 This is also why I do not elaborate with a clear definition of dance in this study. Instead, I have shared glimpses of what is awakened when one approaches the phenomenon of dance. 282 If one applies Hanegraaff ’s description of different historical narratives one could also state that within a particular poeticising historical imagination, what is labelled as the ‘preferred’ part in the pair, will in the counter-narrative become the less ‘preferred’ option. 283 See Lindman (2015) for the kind of argumentation I am referring to hear. Lindman 2015, 11–30. See also Marder, were he argues that concepts aim at subsuming and ultimately subordinating ‘complex, plural, complicated, conflictual, and at times mutually contradictory explanations’ by imposing a kind of ‘silent consensus’ upon reality. Marder (2019), 1–2. He sees categories as more helpful for thinking than concepts while I do not distinguish them in a similar way.

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loses his/her ability to experiment with new options – the space of the opening ‘third’ in critical hermeneutics is lost. What I want to do is show what kind of dead ends a specific pair of categories results in, and offer some new questions that could be asked instead. Furthermore, in the last part of this chapter, I will move into portraying some conceptual ideas that might be useful when approaching medieval materials. After first displaying and discussing the problems created by earlier concepts and categories when dealing with bones of dance practices from the medieval period, I will move into a more constructive mode. In that part, I will present a social imaginary anchored in the medieval period, which I think enables a researcher to re-imagine the dances of the churches of medieval Europe from a more fruitful point of view. The first pair that will commence this discussion, is sacred vs secular. 3.b. 1. Sacred vs Secular

The distinction of dance into sacred vs secular can be found already in W. O. E. Oesterley’s writing.284 My argument has been that both Oesterley and Lilly Grove were fascinated by ‘the primitives’. Further, for them to define dancing as secular, seems to have been a conscious or unconscious strategy in order to bring dancing into the spotlight of their time and age, instead of letting dance practices be left behind like a relic of past and dying cultures. Here my reading differs from LaMothe, who claims that Grove aimed at ‘resurrecting’ the idea of dance as sacred. How I understand it, there is a romanticising tendency in the writing of both Grove and Oesterley that solidifies dancing as secular primarily through promoting the history of dance to be sacred. The difference between these two writers is not that one promotes secular dancing and the other one sacred dancing. Instead, both of them harbour a romantic view of sacred dancing while the narrative framework into which such a ‘historical fact’ is placed varies between the two authors. For both of these writers, the dancing they encounter in their own time and age, and cultural sphere, is secular. The difference between them is that for Oesterley this is a sign of evolutionary advancement which is good, while Grove wonders if something has been lost in this inevitable ‘development’ of the West. The naming of something as sacred or secular dance and then promoting that practice is one of many ways in which the pair of sacred vs secular has functioned in relation to dance. Grove and Oesterley are not the only ones who envisioned sacred dancing as part of ‘the ancient times’. This is an idea that can also be found in the theological archives of Gillis P. Wetter,285 Dom Louis Gougaud286 as well as

284 Oesterley more or less takes for granted that such a distinction is a functioning way to talk about dance. It can be found in Oesterley (2002) 35, 63, 72. 285 Wetter (1961), 1–12. 286 Gougaud (1914), 6–7, 15, 19, 21, 234–35.

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the philosophical accounts of Francis Sparshott in Off the ground. First steps to a Philosophical Consideration of dance (1988).287 Sacred dance, as part of the heritage of humankind, may or may not have been linked to ideas about the ‘primitives’, as seen in the previous chapter. Sometimes they also had a purely theological root. This is the case with the narrative framework found, for example, in Hugo Rahner’s writing. For him, it was of utmost importance that the play and dance of man were understood as a response to the play of God.288 In an account such as his, where the central importance of merry-making, laughing and smiling is promoted as Christian virtues,289 there also prevails an echo of ancient sacred dances that were subsequently turned into popular customs.290 In Rahner’s case, the concept of sacred dance may be somewhat romantic. Nonetheless, it is more balanced and nuanced than most, which gives us reason to return to his writing later on. Somewhat removed from Rahner, writers such as Wetter and Grove display a romanticising tendency in their portrayals of dance, in that sacred dance becomes more of a ‘fixed’ idealisation. At this point, the category becomes a static concept towards which longings and desires are projected in such a way that historic facts begin to be distorted.291 I have placed G. R. S Mead’s narrative framework on dance at the end of such a projection between a category that is useful for organising ‘facts’, to it becoming a concept used to promote certain values. Within the school of theosophy and other esoteric traditions, which Mead’s interpretations of dance represent, there is not only a longing for ‘the Sacred Dance tradition’, but the force which propels these accounts is a full retrieval of what is seen as a lost ‘original’ tradition.292 With these examples, my investigation into how earlier scholars have portrayed and perceived the Body of Works of dance history come closest to Wouter J. Hanegraaff ’s analyses. In his portrait of the predominant narrative frameworks that have been used in history writing, particularly two types of poeticising historical imagination can be linked to what I am arguing here. The muscle pair of sacred vs secular dancing is used in the two competing ‘stories’ of the Enlightenment narrative of ‘rational paganism’ against the Romantic counter-narrative of ‘esoteric paganism’.293



287 288 289 290 291

Sparshott (1988), 296. Rahner (1967), 5–9. Rahner (1967), 100. Rahner (1967), 79–81. Wetter starts his account of the Early Church with the ancient mystery cults and repeatedly returns to them, as a Hellenistic ideal that has defined Christianity. Wetter (1961), 1–2, 10–12. 292 This is exceptionally well seen in Mead’s translation of the ‘Dance Hymn’ in the Acts of John. His opinion is that Gnostic texts contain a purer revelation of theosophy (knowledge of God) than the canonised Christian gospels. Mead 1926, 9, 14–15. 293 Hanegraaff (2017), 145–47. ‘Just as in the Ancient Wisdom narrative, the light is born in Antiquity but suffers a serious decline due to the rise of Christianity, only to be rekindled through the revival of secular (pagan) learning in the Renaissance. But of course we are dealing here with the light of reason, not the mystical light of spiritual wisdom. Likewise, the spreading of the light is hindered and opposed not by a force of demonic evil but by human despotism and ignorance, not to mention sheer stupidity’. Hanegraaff (2017), 145.

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For Mead, there is an idea of a ‘mystical light of spiritual wisdom’294 lying hidden in the ‘lost’ dance practices of the Early Church. Contrary to this, Oesterley arranges his bones in a narrative pattern where the Enlightenment story ‘frees’ humanity from pagan superstition and irrational magical thinking.295 Ancient sacred dances, in both of these narratives, are the backdrop against which we may understand the situation we are now living in and dealing with. The action promoted by Mead is to retrieve this tradition, while for Oesterley it is to go beyond it. As Hanegraaff ’s findings show, dichotomising narrative frameworks in historical accounts easily creates poles that divide, in order to conquer, rather than divide in order to share, what Kristensson Uggla promoted as a functioning framework for research.296 In the process of polarisation, scholars consciously or unconsciously tend to take sides, either for or against. Once this has happened, the concept, instead of opening or clarifying a discussion, creates what I – following Mio Lindman – have called an ‘end of the argument’ situation. I will argue, even more clearly further ahead, that categories such as sacred vs secular are common traits of the Secular Age. My overall claim is that dichotomising does not help our understanding. Dichotomising in itself may or may not be a trait of human thinking that we can avoid. What I do think is avoidable is adding the emotional poeticising narrative that creates a constraint between the two concepts and distorts the understanding. Such a constraint will inhibit our use of the muscle as a healthy pair. Constraining the concepts in a polarising way has a tendency to distort things so that we lose sight of what is important. In the following, I offer a brief exposition of how this has come to be so. In accounts of dance and religion, we find a tendency, such as that of Oesterley, where plentiful pieces of evidence of dancing are called ‘purely secular amusement’.297 It is as if the theologian or dance historian is unwilling to see that these dances took place at weddings, circumcisions and at the feasts of Tabernacles, Unleavened Bread, Purim, Simh at Torah and Lag ba-Omer or at ordinary Sabbath celebrations298 – all of which are religious ceremonies. What is lurking behind such an unwarranted definition is the same pattern that Friedland identified when we looked at folk tradition. The category of ‘folk’ was used for lumping together bones of primitive customs or beliefs that appeared irrational to scholars. Behind this kind of grouping was the 294 Hanegraaff (2017), 145. 295 ‘the materials that we now categorize under the rubric of “Western esotericism” can be characterized as the historical casualties of Enlightenment discourse: they represent everything (e.g. “magic”, “occult philosophy”, “superstition”, “the irrational”, or even simply “stupidity”) that the intellectual elites and the emerging academy perceived as incompatible with their own agendas of modern science and rationality and against which they therefore defined their own identity. This means that the field can be defined as the Enlightenment’s polemical Other, because it stands for the sum total of discredited or rejected knowledge that Enlightenment thinkers felt they needed to discard in the interest of modern science, reason, and progress’. Hanegraaff (2017), 139. 296 Kristensson Uggla (2019), 60, 64. 297 Oesterley (2002), 72. 298 Oesterley (2002), 140–41, 154–58; EJ (2007), 409–11.

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assumption that religion was of overarching importance in all ‘primitive’ societies.299 Conversely, in civilised societies, ritualised behaviour such as dance was not part of the advanced forms of spirituality.300 When a need arises in society to differentiate the sacred from secular practices or religious vs profane dancing, the social imaginary has moved into what Charles Taylor calls the Secular Age. Once there, we take for granted that there has always been this secular sphere from which one could make objective remarks about practices, which contrasted to the religious ones and where everything was tainted by belief and irrational action.301 Taylor points out that the process of secularisation does not automatically mean that religion, or God, has lost its importance in people’s lives or society as a whole. Instead, what has happened is a process where the space of religion has become compartmentalised. The theories of modernity and secularisation wanted to separate things from each other and, thus, aimed at marginalising and privatising religious traditions.302 One could, thus, argue that to move dancing into a secular or profane sphere, by naming it ‘folk’, ‘popular’, ‘ethnic’, ‘cultural’, etc., is a way of ‘saving’ dance with its status intact, as something above the practices of ‘the primitive’ or irrationally religious. The contrary is also true: religious practices such as wedding celebrations and ceremonies of the feast of Tabernacles, Unleavened Bread or Purim, could be preserved intact as an advanced form of spirituality, provided ritualised dancing was detached from it.303 LeeEllen Friedland is partially aware of the problematic use of earlier categories. She shows how the concepts of ‘folk’ and ‘popular’ dances have a problematic history, as well as how these effect the current understanding of dance and religion.304 To avoid this, Friedland opts instead for the term vernacular dance. She argues that the term vernacular refers to dancing that is integral to the everyday life and beliefs of a given group of people. Further, it highlights that religion too must come to terms with everyday culture, ranging from the dogma of the official religious establishment to the traditional beliefs and practices that embody spirituality.305 I commend her awareness of the impact of social and economic class on understanding dance. She also attempts at breaking hegemonic structures of perceiving dance. Unfortunately, I still find Friedland’s writing caught within the dichotomy of sacred vs secular. In the following, I will attempt at displaying how. Differentiation

Taylor states that a specific trait of the Secular Age is what is called ‘differentiation’. Differentiation is a process during which functions that were initially carried out

299 300 301 302 303 304 305

Friedland (2004), 30. Friedland (2004), 31. Taylor (2007), 426. Taylor (2007), 2, 426–27. Taylor (2007), 86. Last chapter on nationalism and folk dance; Friedland (2005), 2146. Friedland (2005), 2146.

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together now fall into separate spheres. For example, a household was, according to Taylor, once both a site for living and a site for production. Today, the site of production has ‘moved out’ and functions with its own norms, rules and institutions. The norms and rules that applied to the economy, when it was part of a household where living and production were combined, do not apply anymore. Thus, what we call the sphere of ‘economy’ has now formed its intrinsic rationality which is different from the home.306 Similarly, churches used to provide education and health care, yet today, especially in the Nordic Countries, it would be looked upon with high suspicion that a ‘faith’ based practice defined curriculum content in schools or procedures in hospitals. Instead, the practice is that such activities are taken care of by specialised institutions which are state-financed and run.307 In what Taylor calls subtraction-stories of secularisation, the social sphere of the state is seen as positively neutral. Furthermore, when the public arena is appropriately secularised, it enables ‘objective’ decision-making functions.308 Friedland’s solution for handling dance, spirituality and religion, carries this same need for differentiation. She insists on keeping the categories of religious dance, ceremonial dance and social dance, within the over-arching concept of vernacular dancing. The religious dance is not called sacred, yet it clearly has to do with personal devotion that is linked to the space of a church or sanctuary. Even though worship can be undertaken together with others, the concept of religious is defined by it depending on the belief of the individual dancer. Implicitly, a distinction between religion and belief, is upheld. Furthermore, religion is, in this way of defining things, relegated to the space of a church or sanctuary.309 Religious dance, in this system of categorisation, seems to have no room to be practiced in the ‘public’ and secular space of the streets and fields of a town or country. At the other end of Friedland’s system on vernacular dances, not defined as popular, she places the idea of social dance. The social sphere is seen as recreational and is not related to spirituality or religion in any other way than the immanent spirituality of art as a vehicle of power and meaning.310 Implicit in this definition is the idea that the most social form of dancing does not fall in the sphere of either religion or spirituality. Further, implicit is also the idea that art carries an immanent spirituality, and that the idea of recreation is not particularly relevant for religion. Finally, the ceremonial dance is the most broadly ranging category in Friedland’s system. Standing in the middle of religious and social, it contains traits of both the

306 Taylor gives the examples of ‘maximum gain within the economy, the greatest benefit to the greatest number in the political area, and so on’. Contrasting it with: ‘earlier periods, when Christian faith laid down authoritative prescriptions, often through the mouths of the clergy, which could not be easily ignored in any of these domains, such as the ban on usury, or the obligation to enforce orthodoxy’. Taylor (2007), 2. 307 Taylor (2007), 425, 481. 308 Taylor (2007) 50, 53, 181, 398, 542–43. 309 Friedland (2005), 2146. 310 Friedland (2005), 2146.

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sacred and the secular. It remains unclear to me, what the difference between the celebration of Carnival or a National Day would be, in her system. As I see it, both of these celebrations aim at transcending the realm of everyday life and at reaching toward a higher spiritual power. I find in Friedland’s system of categorisation; there is an implicit indication that if dance is taken from the sphere of the church, into the streets, like a procession at saint’s feasts, then it is an ambiguous spirituality. In Friedland’s system, there is an implicit requirement that ceremonies need to be placed on the continuum between sacred and secular.311 Even though Friedland defines all of her categories as fluid, and argue that a given dance can shift categories if the context or belief changes, I see them as too entangled in a social imaginary of the Secular Age. The categories Friedland promote are problematic for the same reasons that any talk about sacred vs secular dance is problematic. They presume the kind of secularisation stories that predict a decline of religion, promote privatisation of religion and uphold a description of religion where religion is based on personal faith and belief, contrary to science or economy which are based on rationality.312 Taylor and sociologists of religion today,313 show that religion has neither declined nor moved away from the public sphere. Taylor further claims that a strong tendency towards rationality in promoting and perceiving one’s cause is seen just as much in the sphere of religion and spirituality as any other domain of life. Philosophically speaking, I would also argue that religion is not the only meaning-making system were one’s beliefs to some degree are dependent upon faith.314 Instead, the distinctions created by Friedland’s categories of religious, ceremonial and social, where dance is polarised between sacred and secular practices, seem more entangled in the narrative of science promoting itself as rational, which Kristensson Uggla’s discussions of the history of universities brought forth.315 What I see in this kind of polarisation is a lack of understanding of how religion and theological concerns may influence all and any area of life. If the dancing truly has a religious dimension, this cannot be compartmentalised in either the private, personal, interior or irrational sphere of the practitioner. More importantly however, the urge of the social imaginary of the Secular Age to differentiate different phenomena into their own separate spheres with distinct rationalities of their own, blur the entanglements that are there. Theologian William T. Cavanaugh shows in his Migration of the Holy – God, State and the Political meaning of Church (2011), that it is not only within religion that we have rituals and liturgies. Using various examples from both nationalism and consumerist society he claims

311 Friedland (2005), 2146. 312 Taylor (2007), 426–27. Again, in the language of Hanegraaff ’s poeticising historical imagination the ‘narrative of Romantic Enlightenment’, this story actually differs from the other narratives in the fact that it does not play with so strong dualistic concepts, but rather an increasing crescendo of evolutionary development. Hanegraaff (2017), 146. Which nevertheless does not make it less important to notice as a defining narrative. 313 Casanova (1994), 5, 20, 211. 314 Taylor (2007), 426–27. 315 Kristensson Uggla (2019), 37–42, 75–78, 89–96, 100–12, 121–34, 164–70, 179–93, 219–42, 258–71.

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that modern societies are every bit as ‘liturgical’ as traditional ones.316 Cavanaugh writes that: Liturgy enacts and maintains community by the ritual remembering or re-presentation of foundational narratives, thereby helping to construct the perceived reality in which each member of the community lives.317 This means that any activity that involves the symbols of a state, the national anthem, celebrations of poets, artists, important days in the shared history, behaviour towards the flag or images of state rulers, past and present, can be considered as civic liturgies.318 Cavanaugh pushes his point to its limits when claiming that all humans are worshipping beings;319 the question is only what it is that we worship. Is it our social relations that we want to uphold in order to be safe320 or our self-interests321 that might manifest in both escapism, material over-indulgence or the restriction of resources to only a scant few.322 Cavanaugh claims that by upholding the division of secular and sacred space, we enable the behaviour of ‘worshipping idols’ without being aware of it. Once the barrier is removed and the world is only one sphere, we need to choose as to which system we render our support.323 This kind of conclusion is possible because Cavanaugh claims that liturgical gesture is central for what in fact, constitutes religion. The crucial test comes in what people do with their bodies. As he puts it: Few would be willing to kill in the name of the Christian God, whereas the willingness, under certain circumstances, to kill and die for the nation in war is generally taken for granted.324 First of all, what Cavanaugh’s examples highlight is that if religion is defined by faith or only a profession of thoughts and words, most of what actually functions as a religion in human lives is left outside of the sphere of religion. Cavanaugh’s use of liturgy is particularly critical to the kind of use of the term religious that Friedland showed signs of applying in her categorisation. Applying Cavanaugh’s terminology would, for example, bring attention to the fact that even Carnival – in its more entertainment-focused mode of celebrations today – would be a liturgical celebration. This, independently if people who partake in the processions profess themselves as Catholics or not. Secondly, Cavanaugh’s examples make clear that if a researcher elaborates with dichotomies such as sacred vs secular, much of the effects of our bodily practices



316 317 318 319 320 321 322 323 324

Cavanaugh (2011), 116. See also James K. A. Smiths three-part series on Cultural Liturgies. Cavanaugh (2011), 116. Cavanaugh (2011), 116–19. Cavanaugh (2011), 121. An example Cavanaugh takes from Augustine. Cavanaugh (2011), 58. Cavanaugh (2011), 96. Cavanaugh (2011), 75–79. Cavanaugh (2011), 120. Cavanaugh (2011), 119.

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become either invisible or irrational. Just like Lilly Grove already claimed and this study so far has shown, the European cultural heritage has too easily defined dance as mere entertainment or simple recreation, with no particular relevance for society, the arts or religious life. The only place dancing has been given a societal position of impact, was in the examples relating to folkloric traditions promoting a national heritage. But, even there, this agency was quite restricted. What Cavanaugh’s examples bring forth, is that dance – just like any bodily action – might also be considered as political action: What if dance can change society, what if dance impacts communal actions or a sense of belonging? What if not just dancing, but even entertainment and recreation carry important and hidden values for humanity? Values that have been obscured by a single-minded focus on pre-set categories for what dance might be able to contribute to. Thirdly, with the help of the idea that humans are worshipping creatures and that our physical acts can show what it is that we worship, a whole set of other questions arise concerning what role dance plays within theology. Can dance be a kind of prayer? Can it activate a dialogue with the divine? Can dance display aspects of the divine to the worshipping community? Is dance a communion? Can dance be, the service of the people – liturgy? On one level, Cavanaugh’s argument that all physical acts are liturgical indicators of worship, sound akin to Grove’s and LaMothe’s claim that all dancing is sacred dance. My aim is, however, not to change one all-encompassing paradigm for another, but rather to diversify. My stance is that dancing is a more complex physical activity than what can be caught even in the terminology of liturgy or worship, not to mention the more diffuse term sacred. Instead, I am arguing that there might be situations where the use of the terms ceremonial, social or venacular dance is warranted. Nonetheless, in any study that works from applying concepts like these on dance there needs to be awareness, not only of what is included in such a concept but also what is omitted by applying it. If a study wants to explore dancing by using distinctions such as sacred and secular or religious, ceremonial and social, what needs to be considered is how to give room for complexity. As a minimum, concepts should at least be considered to be functions that can be ‘active’ at the same time – spheres that overlap and interact and not seen as either/or systems. More importantly, however, any conceptual analysis of dance with these kinds of categories runs the risk of pushing ideas on dance. The agency of matter itself is made an impossibility. The strength of Cavanaugh’s argument is that it lifts the actions of the bodies into the spotlight. He assists us in asking; how do bodies, as acting and interacting entities matter in how humans tend to materialise their alliances? What can actions tell us that language does not? Most importantly, in the context of this study: If we want to understand dance in a specific historical context, we need to understand, first of all that many of the concepts presented so far are constructions that make sense within a particular social imaginary and may not be applicable to a historical period with its specific worldviews and social imaginary. Secondly, the dichotomies described here of sacred and secular are constructions applicable to and made by a Secular Age. Thirdly, the concepts and categories of earlier research are, as I have stated already, way

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too often tinted by different over-arching narrative frameworks (the poeticising historical imaginations) which make the categories rigid and distorts their capacity to be used as valuable analytical tools. The categories and concepts come loaded with unquestioned value judgements and, thus, are unable to perform their ‘task’ of critical examination. Furthermore, in other ages and periods, an idea, experience, situation or event, which in our current time period may be separated or distinguished into different parts (or aspects), may very well have been impossible to perceive, from such a position of separation. A thing may have been kept together that we now tend to keep apart. What now are seen as opposites might earlier have been perceived as two sides of the same coin. Alternatively, the understanding in the past may have been in terms of more fluid concepts (moving on a scale) or paired in a different way.325 Finally, as Rowan William so ably points out, in his Why Study the Past: The Quest for the Historical Church (2009), even terms or concepts that might reoccur throughout the traditions of a Christian past – such as participation in a liturgy or describing ‘others’ as pagans – should never be presumed to have been discussions about the same phenomena we encounter today. Tellers of the history of Christian traditions need to be able to keep alive the tension between the continuation of themes and topics, at the same time as they simultaneously insist on the strangeness of people, practices and positions of previous historical periods.326 All of this means that a researcher needs to be open to the possibility that in another historical period the categories and dichotomies used may have been entirely different or even non-existent, in comparison to the way we see them today. Any categorisation or definitions that are built on the social imaginary of a Secular Age need to be questioned for their validity. Approaching historical materials with secular concepts will, with a strong likelihood, render it almost impossible to understand another historical period, with its own set of social imaginaries. When choosing analytical concepts that could be helpful in understanding historical materials, the categories and concepts need to stem from an in-depth understanding of the social imaginary within which the studies phenomena existed. And even when, this last point is attempted at, there will always remain a critical distance between ‘them’ and ‘us’, out of which we may learn something new.327 Consequently, the use of the dichotomous categories of profane or secular vs sacred dances or religious dance rituals inhibits healthy movement patterns in the Body of Work that I want to create in this study. I will thus be wary of any descriptions where previous scholars have had this framework as their starting point.

325 Gender, before the modern period is a good example how concepts have been more fluid as well as carried different meanings in different periods and for different groups of people. See: Bynum (1991), 218; Coakley (2013), 282; Laqueur (1990), 1–41. 326 R. Williams (2009), 89, 103. 327 R. Williams (2009), 89–91, 103–04, 111–12.

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The second set of categories I have found faulty when understanding dance in the Christian theological tradition is pagan vs true Christian practices. A description of how this pair has tended to be used now follows. 3.b. 2. Pagan vs Christian Practices

In the previous section I showed not only why dichotomies in general are problematic for understanding dance, but also how specific categories created in the Secular Age are unhelpful for understanding dance in the medieval period. The pairing of pagan vs Christian practices has already been mentioned. Joann Kealiinohomoku stated that defining something as pagan is not a practice which has its beginning with Christianity, but actually carries roots into the Roman Empire. Here, I am not going to make an etymological account of or historic journey with the varied meanings that the concept pagan has carried with it.328 I simply want to acknowledge that it is older than Christianity, and at the same time highlight that it is in its specific constellation as an opposite to Christian practices that pagan becomes relevant for this study. The descriptions on the use of conceptual dichotomies, given earlier, are also relevant for how the concept ‘pagan’ has been used in classifying dance practices. The key critique to remember is that what was defined as pagan contrary to Christian, in one time and age, might not be the same as what is seen as pagan in another. As I will be describing further, these two conceptual pairs need special attention for how the use of them have influenced the Body of Works of dance history. As with the earlier pair, use of pagan vs Christian also can be linked to the narratives brought forth by Hanegraaff. From his writing on the poeticising historical imagination, particularly the narrative frameworks of ‘pagan error’ and its counter-narrative of ‘ancient wisdom’ are the ‘stories’ that become relevant with these two concepts.329 Particularly when earlier research speak about or want to define different practices and customs now unknown or unfamiliar to us, the two narrative frameworks, presented by Hanegraaff, seem to be widely in use as an explanatory framework for how such practices could be understood.330

328 Such can be found in Bailey, where he explores the term superstitio and how it has been used before and after the Christians gained access to the term. Bailey (2013), 18–20, 38–40. 329 Hanegraaff (2017), 139–44. He describes the tension between these two narrative frameworks in the following way: ‘…this Protestant story is a perfect mirror image of the earlier one. The teachers of light have become teachers of darkness; the so-called pagan wisdom is exposed as pagan error; Platonic philosophy is not the cure for Christianity but the cause of its decline; the rediscovery of ancient Oriental and Platonic manuscripts in the Italian Renaissance is not a divine intervention but an ultimate attempt by the devil to pervert the minds of Christians; and the Reformation of the Church does not imply a rediscovery of ancient pagan wisdom but, on the contrary, requires its final destruction’. Hanegraaff (2017), 144. 330 Hanegraaff explains: ‘The difference between the two stories clearly lies in their radically opposed valuations of ancient Hellenistic paganism in general and Platonic Orientalism more in particular, but also in the basic emotions to which they make an appeal (a point to which I will return below). The Ancient Wisdom narrative and the Protestant counter-narrative can be seen as model stories

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To exemplify what I am arguing for in this instance, I will not return to the time and age of Lilly Grove but go further back than that. Charles Taylor states that once we understand what it means to live in an enchanted world, we will not make the erroneous assumption that pagan customs can neatly be separated from Christian practices.331 Instead, I aim to demonstrate that a supposedly clear-cut separation between the two is yet another creation of the social imaginary of the Secular Age. In order to understand this, we need to take a closer look at how Taylor describes the medieval world. Alternative Frameworks

There are three main terms that Charles Taylor uses that I have found helpful in describing a framework for how the medieval world can be better understood. These terms are enchanted world, porous self and High Time and will be described in the following. Enchanted World

Taylor has borrowed the term enchanted from Max Weber’s talk of ‘disenchantment’,332 yet what Charles Taylor creates in order to understand the Western society before 1500 AD, is a structure of his own making.333 Within the enchanted world, there is an enchanted cosmos, a porous self and High Time – all of which I shall shortly describe here. In an enchanted cosmos, there is a whole gamut of forces, ranging from superagents such as Satan himself, forever plotting to cause our damnation, down to minor demons, like spirits of the wood, which are almost indistinguishable from the loci they inhabit and these forces constantly affects both humans and nature.334 There are likewise forces such as significant events in the natural order, storms, droughts, floods, plagues, as well as years of exceptional fertility and flourishing, all of which emanate from God. To live under these forces was not something one could ‘opt for’, by believing in them. Rather, perceiving a society where God was not the founder and sustainer of all social order – be it a polis, kingdom, parish, church or local guild – as well as the rhythms of nature, was inconceivable. Of course, not everybody experienced



331 332 333 334

that allow many variations. In contemporary New Age culture, for instance, it is easy to see how the Renaissance model of Platonic Orientalism has morphed into a wide variety of popular esoteric and New Age narratives about the ancient tradition of spiritual wisdom carried on through the ages by light-bearers or light-workers, ascended masters or mahatmas, who are patiently trying to awaken human beings to their inner divinity. In the world of Evangelicals and Christian fundamentalists, on the other hand, we encounter endless variations on the Protestant counter-narrative about the battle against the very real demonic forces of the occult’. Hanegraaff (2017), 144. Taylor (2007), 440. Taylor (2007), 25, 446. Taylor (2007), 24–30. Taylor (2007), 30.

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that the Christian God was the ultimate divine force to reckon with. Nonetheless, to claim that no forces at all ruled the universe would have been what today we call a delusion. According to Taylor, one could not but encounter God everywhere.335 Porous Self

It was not only that the cosmos was filled with these forces and spirits, both malign and divine. Further, the human self was experienced as porous. A porous self meant that one was always under the influence of the forces just described. Being a porous self does not signify merely that spirits, demons and the power of the divine went through and worked within the self; the self was perceived as not having solid barriers at all.336 A specifically enlightening example that Taylor shares is how people thought about relics: The cures effected by them, or the curse laid on people who stole them or otherwise mishandled them, were seen both as emanating from them (the relics), as loci of power, and also as coming from the good will, or anger, of the saint they belonged to.337 As with the material realm, so also with the human form.338 Not only a piece of wood, but also the self, could have agency that did not belong to the self. Taylor describes that the fear of possession was something that people carried with them throughout the Middle Ages. It is not just that the self could be taken over by a demon, it could be partially possessed or simply living under the influence of a strong force. When speaking about these forces, it was perceived that a person could fall into delirium – what we today might call mental illness – through action by such entities. It can also be perceived so that the Holy Spirit enters us, as well as, us receiving the ‘energy’ of God, as when we move and work under the ‘Grace’ of God.339 Furthermore, what today we might describe as emotional states ‘within’, such as love or melancholy, similarly did not have clear boundaries.340 Another striking example is when Taylor explains that the lack of distinction between internal and external states of mind, or even a concept of a dominating ‘mind’ at all, leads not only to vulnerability but also to the possibility that depression could be cured with the help of music.341 Without making too close of a comparison, I think it is valuable to perceive that the vulnerability and paradoxicality described by José Gil around bodies dancing and the depictions made by Charles Taylor around the medieval understanding of bodies, might bear some similarities. Mainly, I would argue that

335 Taylor (2007), 25–26. 336 Taylor (2007), 38–40; contrasted to the inner/outer distinction of a buffered self in Taylor (2007), 142. 337 Taylor (2007), 32. 338 Taylor (2007), 40. 339 See also: Nancy Mandeville Caciola’s work. Caciola (2000); (2006). 340 Taylor (2007), 36. 341 Taylor (2007), 30, 32–33, 40.

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if one upholds a very rigid view of a buffered self, much of what has been described by dancers about the experiences of dance, make very little sense. Thus, I think it necessary to really acknowledge the limits of the social imaginary of a Secular Age in understanding practices of dance, both present and historical. The idea of a porous self has implications not only for what today we describe as internal aspects of a person. The porous self also had social consequences. Soil could be made fertile, for example, by establishing a convent with praying nuns in its domain, and wars or famine prevented by the king turning to the right religion.342 As there is no ‘autonomous’, independent, buffered self343 that can simply choose to act out some ‘good magic’ in order to manipulate the world into a different state, humans become imbedded into communities.344 This is where so-called pagan practices become relevant. If something happens, such as the failure of a crop but also the act of preventing such a failure, a rite is enacted. Taylor explains that the ritual is collective defence, deploying a power that can only be drawn upon as a community. On one level, the community is that of the parish, but more broadly it is that of the Church in its full extent.345 All of us, independently of whether we are born peasant, merchant, clergy or aristocracy, are in this together.346 On one level, there is a particular ‘vocation’, or task to fulfil, which corresponds to the position one is born into.347 Nonetheless, when it comes to worshipping together, there is a tremendous premium on holding onto the consensus. Taylor pinpoints that turning ‘heretic’ or rejecting the power was never simply a personal matter. To condemn a practice as idolatrous or even denounce the common rites – if such an idea ever arose within a group of villagers – put the efficacy of these rites in danger and hence posed a menace to the whole

342 Taylor (2007), 42. 343 ‘The buffered self is the self of the disenchanted world. An idea of personal agency and stability, which lead both to what might be called a “false” security in the ability to manipulate the world, capacity to be in charge of our lives as well as a lessened need for communities and social networks. A buffered self further thinks that the locus of thoughts, feelings and spiritual elan is what we call minds. The only minds in the cosmos are those of humans and minds are bounded, so that thoughts, feelings, etc., are situated “within” them’. Taylor (2007), 27–30; While the porous self lives in a constant fear of forces that can affect it: ‘The buffered self has been taken out of the world of this kind of fear. (…) the buffered self can form the ambition of disengaging from whatever is beyond the boundary, and of giving its own autonomous order to its life. The absence of fear can be not just enjoyed, but seen as an opportunity for self-control or self-direction’. Taylor (2007), 38–39. 344 There is no option to ignore or opt out of the society or specific space in society that one was born to fulfil. Taylor (2007), 39, 44–46, 446–47. 345 Taylor (2007), 39; 44–46, 446–47. 346 Taylor (2007), 42. 347 ‘The famous formula: the clergy pray for all, the lords defend all, the peasants labour for all, encapsulates the idea that society is organized in complementary functions, which nevertheless are of unequal dignity. Similarly, the celibate vocations can be seen as higher, and undeniably the sacerdotal ones were so seen; but this doesn’t prevent them balancing the other, lower modes of life in a functional whole’. Taylor (2007), 45.

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society.348 The social bond at all levels was intertwined in the sacred; if not rooted in the sacred of God, it would have to be grounded in the counter-sacred of the Evil One. All else was unimaginable.349 In the narrative framework Taylor presents, the enchanted world was such that, on the one hand, not abiding in the given system was almost unthinkable. Sometimes there might have been ‘competition’ between ‘systems’, as when the first missionaries entered a new area in Germany. There and then, there might have been a struggle between the ‘new’ and ‘old’ religion.350 Once the struggle was over, however – when the most powerful deity had displayed its dominance – Taylor claims there was no ‘happy syncretism’.351 In the enchanted world, chaos was always around the corner and needed to be warded off.352 When one lived in an enchanted world and was a porous self, there was no room for ‘trying out options’. Either it worked, and you were saved from evil, or when it did not, and a new rite, one that did work, needed to be found.353 However, if a section of the community did practice a heretic custom that jeopardised the well-being of the whole, such behaviour or lack of consensus was seen as threatening the entire society and needed to be ‘cut away’.354 The need for accord explained, at least in part, the effect of the threat of excommunication or even the perceived ‘right’ to kill heathens. In short, upholding pagan practices was not taken lightly in an enchanted world. Thus, when secondary historic accounts seem to make claims on one or another practice being pagan or Christian, these need to be questioned until more details are unearthed. Is the claim based on historic facts from the medieval period, or is it posed as a later narrative framework to describe practices that are foreign for people living in a social imaginary of a Secular Age? To summarise: When the term pagan practice is encountered, in historic kernels, two things need to be considered. Is it a case of a Roman practice where the term announces something as different from, or foreign to, what is familiar to the author, or is it a case of serious threat to the community that needs to be dealt with? These two ways of referring to something as pagan are more likely to be closer to the truth than somebody actually worshipping a foreign deity.355 Of course, exceptions can be found, yet overall it is quite unlikely that what is at stake is a question of an individual participating in the ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ religion or a group of people allowing themselves to be affected by the forces that a malign system brings with it. Such forces were not permitted to dwell. Either they were turned around by the stronger force and



348 349 350 351 352 353 354 355

Taylor (2007), 42. Taylor (2007), 43. Taylor (2007), 441. Taylor (2007), 438–39. Taylor (2007), 11. Taylor (2007), 441. More on this in Terpstra (2017), 11–20, 94–132. In the logic of what I am explaining, the use of the term heretic, in historic kernels, is a completely different discussion than calling something pagan.

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rendered benign; alternatively, a change of system was at hand. At the same time, I am not claiming that all statements of dancing being linked to paganism need to be rendered unimportant to scrutinise. Instead, I am stating that each claim needs to be examined at its core. This is precisely my approach with the primary sources that will be scrutinised in chapter three. A final element is needed to grasp, even more fully, the relationship between the term pagan and dancing, in the Middle Ages. This is related to what I called High Time. High Time

According to Charles Taylor, the enchanted world not only consist of an enchanted cosmos and porous self. Enchantment also affected time and space. Taylor explains that in the enchanted world, there was a sharp contrast between the sacred and the profane. The contrast meant that there are certain places, such as churches or graveyards but also pilgrimage sites that are ‘holy’ or under God. Equally, there can be agents, such as priests or the relics of a saint that are sacred. Additionally, there are also certain times; Eastertide or other high feasts which are sacred, as well as particular action, for example, saying the Mass, in which the divine is most present.356 Nicoletta Isar, in a book chapter entitled ‘Chorography (Chôra, Chorós) – A Performative Paradigm of Creation of Sacred Space in Byzantium’ (2006), explains the interaction of the two in the following way: there are, what we conventionally call, ‘sacred places’ and ‘sacred spaces’. Sacred places are objective, out there, to be reached and visited; there are therefore already existing, already sanctified. By contrast, sacred space is a space that is liturgically enacted, created at this very moment, and experienced (performed) at its very centre.357 High Time is similarly a period during which particular performances enact a sacred space into the midst of what, during other circumstances would not have been considered to be under the strong influence of the Divine. To understand High Time, one needs to move away from the Secular Age dichotomy of sacred and secular. Profane is not to be confused with the secular, for just as there is sacred space, there are also places, people, times and actions that count as profane. These are not, however, the kind of separate spheres that I spoke about, in relation to the secular. In the enchanted world, a political ruler can both take part in and be part of the sacred. For example, the King himself could be one of the links between the plane of eternal time, where the sacred is near, or there is an active presence of the Holy, and ordinary time where things die, rot and fall into decay. Taylor writes that Ernst Kantorowicz tells us that one of the first uses of the term ‘mystical body’ in European history referred to the French kingdom where the King’s mortal and

356 Taylor (2007), 67, 97, 446. 357 Isar (2006), 65.

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undying body represented eternal time.358 On top of this, though, the celebration of the King – instituting him as a King – would further strengthen the sacred working in, around and through him. In this kind of understanding of the King we can see that the sacred and profane can overlap and intertwine while the dichotomy of strictly classifying practices as Christian or pagan by secondary sources, has had the tendency to separate spaces, places and people. The meaning of sacred and profane in an enchanted world is a complex understanding of space-time. Firstly, there is the ordinary ‘temporal’ existence in which things happen one after another in an even rhythm. Secondly, there are the higher times, which is a mode of eternity, where God’s flow of history unfolds. Finally, there was what Taylor calls high moments or High Time. High Time was initiated during certain original founding events, such as Jesus’s birth or death and resurrection, and which then keeps reoccurring. In the re-recurrence the original event with its sacred time re-approaches our secular time-place. Each Sunday, for example, there is first of all a level of Shabbat rest – from the creation story – present. On top of this, resurrection-day Glory is also ‘infused’ into the same instance. Further, by going into a church – itself a more permanent place of the Holy, and partaking in the celebration of Mass – an action where God was present – as well as receiving the Eucharist, what happens is the following: a person would be filled with the sacred Passover event in Egypt at the same time as the Last Supper is sanctifying him/her in consuming a piece of the broken body of Christ, which again strengthens the Baptismal vows given at birth.359 Compounding these aspects what is sensed is that certain space-time events have thick layers of sacredness intertwined into one another. Such a matrix is what is needed in order to understand what is to follow. As I will show in chapter three of this thesis, understanding how dancing functioned theologically in the medieval society, becomes quite impossible when these layers of meaning and levels of significance have been lost to the reader or interpreter. My main argument is that if one is unaware of the narrative frameworks of a secular social imaginary and caught up in a dichotomised conceptual world, the layered reality described here is lost out of sight. Taylor explains that when a village community decided to venerate a local saint with processional dances around a sacred spring, celebrate the adoration of the Sacrament, dance around the maypole or ask the priest to sanctify the crop on Good Friday,360 these were no vestiges of pagan practices. The standard interpretation has been, both in the sources dealing with folkloric tradition arising from the Frazer’s and their contemporaries as well as in more recent history,361 that what is described



358 359 360 361

Taylor (2007), 96, 446. Taylor (2007), 97. Taylor (2007), 107, 438. Examples given by Taylor are: Obelkevich, Obelkevich, (1976), chapter VI; Cox (1982), 95. Mine would be: Friedland (2005), 2144–5; Youngerman (2005), 2153; Friedland (2004), 30; Davies (2004), 164; Brooks (2004), 165.

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here are traces of paganism.362 If, however, paganism is taken to mean the worship of other gods or the veneration of foreign/alien forces, this is not the case. For a local parish community to choose to plant the crop on Good Friday was related to the power this particular day carried as a High Time in the Christ-centred enchanted world.363 To offer a clarifying example: the feast of All Hallows may partly draw on the Celtic festival of Samhain.364 However, what Taylor suggests is that even when these rituals have had their origin in earlier pagan customs, the reason they prevailed lay in their ability ‘to ward off evil, bring good luck and cement the solidarity of the community’.365 The parishioners felt no opposition between their more orthodox liturgical life and these unofficial beliefs and rituals.366 Furthermore, in many cases, the local clerics participated in and saw the importance of the festive dimension of saints’s days, pilgrimages to shrines and celebrations in which religious ceremonies were combined with banquets, dancing, etc.367 Taylor’s way of describing the different features of the enchanted world may be criticised as both romanticising the Middle Ages and over-emphasising the religious unity of Christianity during this period.368 There is some merit in this. My aim in this study, however, is neither to prove specific aspects of Taylor’s argument nor discuss the details of his concepts of a porous body or High Time. Instead, my claim is that perception of something resembling an enchanted world – with all of its implications – is a game-changer. The way earlier research has defined certain things as pagan in order to portray their case and own time in a particular way, need to be questioned. My claim is that in light of the various problems found in earlier research and described in this chapter, each instance where secondary literature describes a dance practice as pagan, the hermeneutics of suspicion needs to be applied to this judgement. Furthermore, I agree with Saba Mahmood in her reading of Taylor in ‘Can Secularism be Other-wise?’ (2010). She summarises that there are problems in how unified, coherent and ‘untouched’ by its encounters with the ‘others’ Taylor’s descriptions of ‘Christianity’ in the medieval period are.369 It is also highly problematic how Taylor

362 Chambers, as the next chapter will show, is a clear representatives of those who where more inclined to represent what Hanegraaff calls the narrative of ‘Ancient wisdom’ while a particularly polemic writer for the counter-narrative of ‘pagan error’ (albeit not a contemporary to the previous writer) would be the works of Coulton cited in the introduction. Both of these men, albeit in opposing ways are strongly influenced by the interpretation that dancing even in Christian ‘guise’ always is a vestige with pagan roots. 363 Taylor (2007), 437–38. 364 There is a narrow line between how the over-lapping of practices is described. In the article on dance found in Medieval Folklore there is no undertone of condemnation of the pagan roots of several medieval dance practices. However, there is still an unquestioned presence of the idea of happy syncretism displayed in some of the examples. Namely: Lee Eden, Winniford (2000), 214–15. 365 Taylor (2007), 438. 366 Taylor (2007), 438. 367 Taylor (2007), 440. 368 See for example several articles in Warner, Vanantwerpen, Calhoun (2010). 369 Mahmood in Warner, Vanantwerpen, Calhoun (2010), 285–91.

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copies the language of axial age and refers to the religious ideas of earlier time-frames in ideological terms that implicitly portray the Latin West on the pinnacle of progress, without critiquing these concepts.370 Nevertheless, his work also bears merits. Chief among these is his phenomenological approach to questions of faith and his clear break with the earlier dominant view that secularism can and should be separated from religious views on accounts of being more civilised, rational and democratic. I also have chosen Taylor’s concepts and presentation of the medieval period, for this study, because he so clearly highlights what has been lost in transition. As Mahmood points out, much is lost when what is considered religion shifts from ‘a set of practices (rites, rituals, liturgies) to a set of beliefs in a set of propositions (about transcendence, causality, cosmology) to which an individual gives assent’.371 If one opts for the latter view being the only ‘true’ or note-worthy form of Christianity, much of medieval religious experiences become unintelligible. Mahmood explains that the merit of Taylor’s account is that belief is understood less as a cognitivist stance and more as ‘a deep, almost unconscious enmeshment in a thick texture of Christian norms, values, and practices’.372 I agree, and my aim is to use an Enchanted world, Porous Self and High Time, in order to exemplify this enmeshment with the thick texture of norms, values and practices that prevailed in the medieval period. Thus, my application of Taylor’s concepts Enchanted world, Porous Self and High Time, in this study, are mainly as frameworks that lets me imagine the medieval world in a new light. These terms are not to be seen as accurate descriptions of the medieval period. As already stated, there is a variety of different religious, social, gendered, cultural, spacial and time-related practices, norms, values and ideas found during different parts of the medieval period, and each of these will render the experiences of dancing in different lights. What Talyor’s descriptions of the social imaginary of the medieval world has to offer, is a break with the hegemonic pre-conceptions of previous research. Finally, the kind of re-reading of historical accounts of medieval practices that I will aim at doing in chapter three does not theoretically stand or fall with accepting the concepts presented by Charles Taylor, but more with the overall framework. In practice, my understanding of the medieval setting will be built more on the concept of reverentia presented by Peter R. L. Brown’s The Cult of the Saints – Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity (1981) and Nicholas Terpstra’s use of Corpus Christianum, in his Religious Refugees in the Early Modern World: An Alternative History of the Reformation (2017). To descriptions of these I will return in chapter three. I am also helped in my endeavour in chapter three by Max Harris’s work Sacred Folly: A New History of the Feast of Fools (2011). Harris has been able to show that many of the Medieval feasts of High Times are genuinely new kinds of celebrations, even though earlier research have been prone to define them as pagan. In other cases, they have altered so much from the older pagan practices that they should be considered

370 Mahmood in Warner, Vanantwerpen, Calhoun (2010), 291–92. 371 Mahmood in Warner, Vanantwerpen, Calhoun (2010), 283. 372 Mahmood in Warner, Vanantwerpen, Calhoun (2010), 284.

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entirely separate from those rites.373 From these examples of the social imaginary of the Middle Ages, it has now become clear that simply because a practice existed before Christianity was established as the central worldview amongst specific people and places, the continuation of that particular practice does not automatically render it a pagan practice or even a remnant of a pagan practice. On the contrary, if the practice continues to be in use after the community has come under the influence of Christ, the practice is probably no longer pagan. There is one final, additional layer, to the classification of practices into pagan that I want to comment on. This is the development of what was considered pagan in the light of reforms. Christian Practices and Reform

Charles Taylor explains that once the process of reformation commenced, where the Western world turned away from the enchanted worldview, new usage of the term pagan arose. He writes: successive reforming elites, clerical and lay, have tended to dismiss much folk religion as ‘pagan’ and ‘superstitious’; and in this they have been followed by later ‘Enlightenment’ critics of religion (…) There is a temptation in a modern ‘disenchanted’ framework to follow the most severe reforming clerics of earlier times, and consider folk religion as utterly distinct from Christian faith.374 In practice, this meant that in the latter part of the Middle Ages, we find early humanist thinkers, such as Erasmus, who were increasingly uncomfortable with, for example, devotion to relics at shrines. This is translated into an increased difference between the devotion of the majority of the population, compared to that of the elite. However, the fact that humanist thinkers would call the vernacular practices pagan does not signify that there would have been any actual paganism left in the religion of Latin Christendom at this point of time.375 Taylor identifies a pattern, which I argue is useful for re-articulating how dancing found within the churches of the medieval world mattered and how dancing could be understood within the social and theological settings where it was practiced. He stipulates an underlying and sometimes quite explicit rhetoric that states: ‘Christianity is about devotion, the love of God, folk ritual is about control, manipulation’.376 Contrary to such statements, what can be observed is instead that laypeople cultivated an intense and affectionate intimacy and relationship with both the suffering Christ and his Mother, during the late Middle Ages. This devotion that had very little to do



373 374 375 376

Harris (2011), chapter 1, 2, 3. Taylor (2007), 438–39. Taylor (2007), 64. Taylor (2007), 439.

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with control or manipulation; however, it was firmly bound to images and collective rituals that did not please all the reformers.377 Pertaining to dancing, what occurs is the opposite of what we encountered in the previous chapter. Whereas Grove, Mead and Wetter were willing to classify certain forms of dancing as sacred, due to their representing a more ‘original’ form of religion,378 the same reasons made Erasmus and other reformers, 400 years earlier, opt for the labelling of dancing in religious festivities as pagan, due to this practice being associated with something ancient. Serious academic research cannot be built on these kinds of ‘name-calling’ – taking a concept that one has tainted as either positive or negative and then applying it to practices one wants to promote or repress. It is for this reason that I find it important to look with suspicion at sources that claim certain practices as pagan, sacred, secular, Christian, etc. Sometimes these might even be primary sources of the timeframe one is investigating. Embedded in these judgements there can – and often seems to be – power relations, political claims and more subtle agendas which taint the arguments of those who make these statements.379 Much of the work Max Harris has done around the descriptions of the Feast of Fools celebrations is precisely focused on revealing when and how power, politics and other agendas have tainted the judgements of earlier scholarly writing as well as the writings stemming from the historical period under investigation. This is also what I aim at doing in the following chapter when such judgements are concerned with labelling dance practices as pagan or superstitious. To reiterate: at different times of the history of Christianity in the West, lists of practices have existed, such as consulting cunning women that were forbidden and seen as pagan.380 These kinds of rituals were considered to deal with the wrong kind of ‘magic’ or ‘superstition’ and seen as practices that a Christian really should not engage with. I am not saying that these kinds of condemnations of certain practices should not be considered significant for scholarly inquiries. I do believe they can give valuable information about the theological standpoints of different times. Instead, what I am saying is that upon encountering such lists, a few critical questions could be asked. First of all, who was it that authorised these lists? Are we listening to the voice of a ruling elite, with its own agenda or very new worldview? Are we engaging in a scholarly debate, where different theological schools of thought argue with each other, practising name-calling as one of their strategies of persuasion? Caroline Walker Bynum in her Wonderful Blood – Theology and Practice in Late Medieval Germany and Beyond (2007), explains, for example, how in the medieval period the Catholic Church itself could be divided between the Pope, who would take sides with the local community in promoting a specific pilgrimage site, while learned theologians from 377 Taylor (2007), 64. 378 In Wetter’s case he was convinced that the true Christian was a Hellenistic religion, rather than a Jewish practice and, thus, mystery-cults containing dance had a high ‘origins’ value for him. 379 See Taylor’s example of the Lollards, Puritans and other reform practices in England, where the true Christians were redefined over and over again, always with the other side being accused of being pagan. Taylor (2007), 440–41. 380 I will return to such description in the sub-chapter: Feast of Fools.

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a University in a competing city, would rule the miracles the Pope had supported as frauds.381 This means that neither secondary nor primary sources in historical accounts can be taken as ‘facts’ in a particular debate. All accounts need to be met with the hermeneutics of suspicion and charity. Secondly, reformers are not something that arrived into Christianity in the Late Middle Ages.382 Thus, rhetorics around the concept of reform will be found from almost all periods of Christianity. What one needs to look for is thus, are the ideas presented stemming from a broad consensus around a topic, or is the opinion presented that of a smaller elite, wanting to convince anybody of their particular kind of reform? Further questions that arise concerning such lists are: did dancing exist on them? If so, why? When and how did it end up on the list? Under the influence of who or what kind of ideology did this take place? If dancing never frequented such lists, what is it that drives certain theologians at a later age, to label dance as pagan or dance practices as superstitious? As these few examples from different western Christian traditions using the concept of pagan either alone or paired with Christian show, there is no simple solution. Often the word pagan has been a way to condemn something or someone, yet this does not seem to be a good indicator of the ‘deeper’ status of that practice. When something is called pagan, this statement may actually say very little about the practice truly lacking in Christian faith. This is why, in my opinion, theological accounts like that of Johannes Quasten on the practices of the Early Church, even when penned from a highly valued scholar, need thorough re-examination. As this study will not be dealing with the Early Church but with the medieval period, my re-examination will instead follow other paths. As I also have been stating, the need for re-examination of earlier scholarly work on dance and theology does not only lack within the research where dancing has been strongly condemned as pagan. Some authors of secondary literature seemingly are not altogether negative towards dancing, yet, harbour a distorted gaze as they examine dancing from their standpoint of living in the unquestioned social imaginary of a Secular Age. It is to these kinds of accounts – mainly offered by Dom Gougaud and Hugo Rahner – that I will turn my attention in chapter three of this thesis. It is in examining the more nuanced dialogue with earlier scholars where I want to offer my corrective. Before it is time for this, I will conclude this chapter on concepts and dichotomised categories. 3.b. 3. Muscles

In this chapter, on faulty categories, I have demonstrated that in the Western historical traditions, dance and dancing – especially in relation to religion or the Christian Church – have carried many labels. Most often, these concepts or categories for dance have come in pairs.

381 Bynum (2007), 7–8. 382 Part one of Charles Taylor’s A Secular Age deals with this misconception.

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The first pair looked at more closely, defined dance as sacred or secular. In this sub-chapter, I demonstrated that the need for defining something as sacred as opposed to secular, or vice versa, carries with it an urge to differentiate. Differentiation, being a characteristic trait of a Secular Age, more often obscures understanding than helps it. Diffraction works within a thought-pattern where the researcher is looking for one particular muscle to describe the whole movement pattern of a body. Taken into more precise details, it is like thinking that a movement in the body can or should be restricted to only one muscle, whereas muscles work in pairs. When one muscle in a pair is active, the other one relaxes. Muscle pairs cannot both be active in the same way, at the same time, and therefore need each other in order to find balance. The second aspect brought forth in the section on sacred vs secular dance was that once a pair of muscles are located, the movement does not become fluent by only emphasising one of the muscles in the duo. Both need to be moved, and both actually move, simultaneously. One flexes, while the other relaxes. Contrary to the idea of finding the ‘right’ category or ‘correct’ definition of a concept, muscles constantly overlap each other in how they work together. Both of the muscles in a pair are ‘true’, but they move under different circumstances. We might not be able to ‘measure’ activity and passivity at the same time, yet one does not stop existing when the other one is under the scope. A muscle-group is put to best use when it is perceived as one entity and not isolated from other muscle groups. Furthermore, in the examples of the categories of sacred vs secular, I noticed that if a researcher stops focusing at one or the other isolated muscle group as mutually exclusive patterns, and turns to examine the body as a whole entity, something new might appear. In returning to the body, or perceiving the mutual giving and receiving in a muscle pair, the agency of the body itself might come into focus. From this point of view, many different muscle-pairs are in use as a complex system and new questions arise: What can we learn from examining the movements of bodies as agents of liturgy and how are bodies agents in political, social and economic negotiations of human affairs, are a few examples. From these kinds of questions, we will also find new and different answers to what role different historical depictions of dance in and outside churches in the medieval period might have played – independently if they were condemned or not. The second pair of concepts investigated defined dance as pagan or Christian. In the investigation of this muscle pair, I aimed to bring forth three things. First, in the histories of the Christian traditions the concept of pagan has worked both on its own as if it did not have a pair; and in a way that it was assumed that everybody knew what the other side of the pair was. Paganism also worked with its pair being Christian. Secondly, however, pagan, quite often, in the constellation where Christian was its pair, came to be a concept used in order to define indirectly what Christian was and was not. In both options, one side of the muscle pair was left to atrophy instead of working as an active pair. The third mode was where pagan was activated in order to define and/or strengthen what was truly Christian. In this last mode of pagan vs true Christian, both sides in the muscle-pair were actually activated but used in such a way that the muscle-pair became rigid and ‘stuck’. In neither of these can we see a muscle-pair working healthily. Instead, when the muscle is over tensed, it quickly loses its strength and tenacity. In the end, the concept of pagan thus came to carry no power

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Illustration 5.383

Illustration 6.384

Illustration 5. An imbalanced body with bones and unhealthy muscles.

Illustration 6. Whole body in full balance in relation to how healthy muscles work in pairs.

to define at all. Calling something pagan, instead had turned into a muscle hard as stone, hindering any further discussions or investigations of such a practice or phenomena. To illustrate this, Minna Aalto has created two skeletal figures with some muscles attached to the bones, showing how an unbalanced body is standing compared to a healthy body. In illustration 5, we can first see a body where the muscles are tense, rigid and ‘stuck’ or have been completely under-used. In illustration 6, the same body is depicted, again from the back, now in full balance in relation to how healthy muscles work in pairs. What further was discussed throughout the investigation of these concepts and categories, was that once a muscle is rigidly stuck in the patterns described, earlier research has tended not to try to establish life and flow in the movements of the muscle pair. What earlier research has tended to do, is instead to describe why we got ‘stuck’ in this particular way. Depending on the ligaments and joints used in the earlier chapter, different authors have been able to detect different ‘reasons’ for why a muscle is rigid and what this means concerning how bones should be structured and organised.These descriptions are what I have been calling narrative frameworks. 383 Illustrations by Aalto (2020). 384 Illustrations by Aalto (2020).

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Illustration 7: bones, ligaments, muscle and fascia around the knee.385

Often these frameworks where concerned with the ‘origins’ of dance, seeking to understand the ‘evolution’of human culture and religion, as well as establishing a ‘tradition’ for Christianity and dance practices of various kinds.386 386 Fascia

Muscles, ligaments and joints are actually all connected through what is called fascia. Fascia works like a network that keeps muscles together and helps them to move side by side with each other. At the same time, the network that constitutes fascia is also intertwined into the muscles and ligaments themselves. See illustration 8. Illustration 8 together with 7 makes it clear how the bones are covered by layers of texture – fascia – which weaves into both ligaments and muscles. In illustration 7 we can see how the bones, ligaments and muscles weave into the fascia around the knee, creating a completely connected system. I have been describing that the narrative frameworks used by earlier researchers worked as interpretative patterns for how the muscles and body is formed. I also explained that these interpretative patterns grow out of the social imaginary of a Secular

385 Illustrations by Aalto (2020). 386 When it comes to understanding drama and theatre, Lawrence M. Clopper makes this same observation about the tendencies of earlier research, which I will have reason to return to later. Clopper (2001), 28–34.

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Illustration 8. The texture of fascia.387

Illustration 9. The deep tissue massage that is needed.388

Age, rather than from how bodies move best, in ease. A particular fascia can thus both influence the way bones, ligaments, joints and muscles are formed and joined together. The fascia, just like the social imaginary, determines not only how muscles can get rigid and ‘stuck’ but also what kind of muscles or ligaments are formed. The over-arching narrative framework, ‘fixes’ the body into an unhealthy position with rigid contours and poses. When a researcher does not recognise that the poses and positions they see are disjointed representations of bodies, the accumulation effect of research just keeps repeating these unhealthy positions. When the fascia has been formed in this way it creates so-called epistemic defaults. These hinder, not just the muscles, but the whole body from moving in specific ways and patterns. This is how I have been explaining that within the framework of a social imaginary of a Secular Age, bodies and dancing have not been allowed to carry theological significance. However, theology itself has also been understood in a way where it has been given less and less room to move and influence all spheres of life. The latest research on fascia stipulates that the glue-like threads of fascia need a lot of mobility and flexibility in order to stay healthy and pliable. Illustration 8 aims at displaying this texture. Furthermore, if the fascia gets stuck, as when a social imaginary carries specific epistemic defaults that hinders the body from moving, what is needed is a deep tissue massage. This is shown in illustration 9. Stimulating the fascia to become healthy again, 387 Illustrations by Aalto (2020). 388 Illustrations by Aalto (2020).

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is often painful and can even be sensed as a too drastic of measurement. However, it is precisely what I have been arguing that is needed in order for us to get a healthy Body of Works for Theology and Dance.

4. Healthy Body Attempting a deep tissue massage in the fascia is what the rest of this study aims at doing. A deep tissue massage means that I will need to soften the grip of the tight fascia on the muscles, ligaments and joints of the Body of Works on dance and theology produced so far. As the work of Jennings and Coakley have explicated, re-doing a diseased social imaginary cannot be done in a hurry or just by talking things through. We need to start seeing things differently.389 In order to see things differently, in the coming chapter, I will not just start by picking up the bones that were intact and re-creating an entirely new Body of Works on dance. Instead, I will continue with the untangling project commenced in this chapter. Now, moving to the texts written by Gougaud, Rahner, but also Chambers and Mead, on medieval dance practices and historical dancing found in and around churches. I aim to expose those places where the fascia is explicitly ‘stuck’ and distorted in a particular way. Gougaud had identified three examples of dancing that has been conducted in and around churches that still are remembered or even practised in the time and age of when he was conducting his research. Gougaud is not willing to call these dances liturgical, and my examination will start with untangling the reasons for his judgement of dancing not being part of the official practices of the Church. I will be pushing at the soar spots of the fascia until they loosen and new blood – filled with oxygen – can flow into the body. In the following chapter, I will then present a social imaginary were the fascia is pliable and alive. Illustration 10 displays the dancing body as pliable and alive as I imagine it to become once the deeply held tension of stuck fascia is let loose. One could imagine the whole dancing body covered in a fascia like ‘skin’, which is what I see when thinking about the dancing Body of Work that this study aim at facilitating. Due to the performative character of dance, described already in the introduction, where dancing is simultaneously a being and becoming, understanding dance needs to imply methods and concepts that are much more flexible then so-far described. Even historical examples of dance exist within a fluid system, where several different forces push and pull simultaneously on what dancing is and can be. To understand the social imaginary within which dancing is performed is thus a prerequisite for understanding which role the dancing may have played both in the life of those who danced and how it may have been a force within the society where it was expressed. Thus, I will need to bring in symbolic artefacts (art, buildings clothes), descriptions of medieval praxis of the body, space and matter, myths, legends and stories from 389 Coakley (2015b), 111.

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Illustration 10. The texture of fascia in a dancing body.390

the medieval period, envisioning the social imaginary of a medieval world and offer, through these a new narrative framework through which we might understand dance in a new way. Towards a Dancing Body The chapter on Earlier Research and its Shortcomings can thus be concluded by saying that what was found and activated were bones, joints, ligaments and muscles. I was able to retrieve earlier lost sources, such as the missing mother of dance history, Lilly Grove. I also found other bits and pieces of bones, extracts of dance in the archives of western cultural history. Some of these bones turned out to be very different from what they first looked like, as they might have been detached from other bones in ways that hindered their form and function. Some bones turned out to be mere reflections of bones with only a little powder left, making it impossible for me to see the original design of that bone. Other bones were broken and joined together in unhealthy ways but by carefully cutting them apart and tending to their cracks, one might be able to see them together with healthy joints and ligaments in the near future. The next level I attended to was that of joints and ligaments. By examining the way bones were earlier put together or held apart I could observe that the bones were no longer able to move healthily at all. Some joints were stiff because of lack of fluids, while some ligaments were tied knots by lack of movement. Most of the joint and ligaments were torn by straining in uniform ways and by overuse in simplistic manners. For joints and ligaments to be healthy they need movement: movements that create mobility, flexibility

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e ar l i e r r e s e arch and i ts sho rtco mi ngs

and stability. Once the joints and ligaments are healthy the bones too will receive the vital nutrients they need in order to stay strong and alive. The final layer are the muscles. By digging into the muscle tissue I could sense tensions, strains, over-use, one-sided use and ignorance or neglect. To heal muscles one needs both fresh oxygen and good food. Muscles build up and twist and turn, hugging the bones and ligaments. Muscles, like movement, crave touch and want activity. At the same time a muscle also needs to release, let go (and let God). When muscles do not move, they rest. In the resting we return to the stillness, the empty space of the sacred circle, where it all began. SILENCE In the words of Clarissa Pinkola Estés it is now time to sing over the bones and see what might come to life.391 The first song will be a song of life. A song for the life-giving body.

390 Illustrations by Aalto (2020). 391 See Pinkola Estés (1995) Introduction and chapter 1: 33–37.

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Dancing in and around Churches

Dancing with Angels Already the first time we met, I noticed that she spoke about angels. She said that angels were present in the room; that the angels enjoyed our dancing.1 For this woman angels were not just something she spoke of or referred to in a passing; instead, she brought decorative angels to each meeting we had and also shared the messages she perceived the angels wanted us to know.2 At first, I passed her comments off as ‘New Age-jargon’, but then I started noticing that there was more to this lady and her stories than tarot-cards or crystals. After our first one-to-one encounter, I, therefore, asked her if she wanted to tell me more about the angels and her relationship to/with them. I was deeply grateful for being given the confidence and privilege of stepping into another person’s shoes. The Angel Lady told me that she had not always had this special relationship with divine entities. It all started when she and her family were faced with an immense tragedy – such a big sorrow that she thought her heart would break and never be made whole again. She was sure that if she were at all able to survive such painful knowledge, then her self, emotions and soul would be in pieces for the rest of her life. She had experienced a world-shattering and life-changing event – something that shocked her to the core – and after it, nothing had been the same anymore! The changes also had physical dimensions – including problems breathing properly and an inability to sleep, which lasted for months. Instead of sleeping, she started to pray. For 3–6 months she slept for only 2–3 hours per day and the rest of the time she stayed in constant prayer, reaching out. Then one Christmas Eve, it was as if something broke through – a stream of light, a pure presence of God and the Holy ones – after which she started to perceive the angels. They came as comforters, spreading peace and removed all her fear. It is not as if her life nowadays is problem-free or stripped of emotions such as fear: those experiences come and go, but, she explained, they were more like muscle or bodily memories of pain – not real suffering. Instead, what she experiences is to simultaneously be constantly porous and vulnerable, at the same time as she is fully aware – ALWAYS – that the angels are nearby and that both she and her family are provided for.



1 LD 1.1.0. 2 LD 2.2.0.

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During all those months of darkness, she never took any medication nor opted for sick-leave. Instead, she experienced that God met her and her family there and then, and subsequently, the angels have never left her.3 As our time together unfolds, she tells me of how the angels come to visit when we dance. She can experience the angels in the room or space, and sometimes they come with a detailed message. One of the times we met with the group in another space – a different room – into which the angels did not want to enter. What made this situation especially interesting was that another dancer, after we had returned to the room with the view, said: ‘Can you sense it? Now, in this dance, the energies are flowing – there is life-force in our movements again!’ This proclamation came directly after the first dance ended, in our regular room. The fellow dancer asked these questions and expressed an awareness of a change while unknowing of the fact that the Angel Lady had stated something earlier about the temporary space. Both of these women had identified in their particular ways that something was ‘off’ with the room we had been in.4 When asked about it later, the Angel Lady told me she did not know why the angels had shunned the temporary space we had been dancing in. She only could say that the angels did not want to enter and that they were delighted we were back in the space where we usually met. The angels truly enjoyed – especially when we danced and included them in our prayers.5 Later I asked her to specify, in which ways the angels speak to her? How does she see them? Moreover, does it happen often that angels do not want to be in specific spaces? She answered these questions with concrete examples. The angels she communed with seemed to like places with plenty of open space, like the cathedral where we were sitting, her balcony back home and her bedroom at night. She did not see them as angels portrayed to us in art: They were neither sweet cherubim nor clearly winged beings. Instead, they were more like phenomena of light, white, beige, yellow, sometimes huge entities that fill the whole space, other times smaller beings densely occupying the whole area. There were times when she would not sense them as clearly, for example, at work – in hectic situations where many people around her are stressed. She was unsure if that apparent absence was due to the particular place and space, its people, or her inability to be present. Sometimes, however, she said she could sense the angels while at her work too – for example, when caring for an autistic child – she can sense that the child sees the angels as well. It is almost as if language itself is what prevents the communion. Thus, there is not a sense of speaking to the angels or with them. It is more like the wordless communication that she has with her dog, which is the same wave-length she has when expressing things to God.6



3 4 5 6

LD 2.2.3. LD 3.3.0. LD 3.3.3. LD 3.3.3; LD 4.1.1.

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After a few conversations like these, where the Angel Lady also shared images she had made of when the angels filled a space or showed themselves, she approached me. She stated that they had come to visit the previous night. She gave me a piece of paper, with different figures – some looking more like nerve cells or structures of animal or plant-life under a microscope. Others were more like quick drafts of human bodies. She told me that they had been specifically active, creating different movement patterns and that this was the first time she had seen them in the formation of a circle. It was as if they had been taking part in a circle-dance of sorts. However, this was not the message – as if it was too evident and a-thing-taken-for-granted that angels also move in dance-like ways. No, the real issue of importance was that the angels had come to ask a question. They wanted to know why I did not perceive them? Why was I unable to see them with my eyes or be aware of their presence? The question that occupied the thoughts of both the Angel Lady and the angels was my inability to perceive angels. It was a question that started to bother me as well.7 The women I encountered in the dance schoolings not only encouraged me to ask questions about the historical claims of dancing in churches. They also challenged my views on academic research and on what or how studies dealing with the intangible can be conducted. It is one thing to deal with the challenge of researching dance which might seem fleeting and immaterial. However, as a dancer, I can share in the physical, sensational and communal aspects of dancing. As a person trained in dancing, my capacity to experience the tacit dimensions of knowing, as well as the atmosphere of the space and place, were aspects of being I felt equipped to encounter. What I was not prepared for, was to describe and interact with experiences that I was not able to share and sense, even on a tacit level. The encounters with the Angel Lady and similar stories people shared with me forced me to step into the wholly unknown. This was a situation that put me on the edge, not only in terms of questioning how these kinds of ‘findings’ can be part of my scientific writing, without me or my co-dancers being defined as pseudo-scientific or even somewhat mentally imbalanced. However, there are many phenomena and flora of experiences people have, all over our planet, that simply do not fit into the narrowly defined scientific criteria of the Western world.8 The encounters with what was on the borders of the knowable,9 somewhat strangely, humbled my critique of earlier research in the field of dance and theology. Now, I realised it was not just they, who had pre-set definitions for what dance is or is not and may not be, based on their social imaginary. I, also, was blinded by my social imaginary in front of these experiences of my fellow dancers. However, the significant difference was that I did not want to ignore, stay silent about or re-formulate the genuine encounter of these experiences, just because I do not know how to validate them, from a Western cultural, scientific point of view. What has been described to me are no hallucinations and also not easily explained away as make-believe psychosomatic



7 LD 4.2.0. 8 See for example Mittermaier (2012), 84–93. Also: Utriainen (2015); (2016a); (2017). 9 This term is found in Bornemark (2009).

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stories.10 Rather, especially after getting to know the medieval worldview as well as encountering people from other parts of the world, brought up in different descriptions about the boundaries of matter, spirit and emotions/thoughts, it occurred to me that perhaps it is my kind of perception which is limited? I have no idea how these phenomena can be properly understood and I will not claim to know them as my own. Nonetheless, especially after a flat-mate, a young girl brought up outside the western-world system, shared her own stories and experiences with me about encounters with non-physical beings, I also cannot block out these phenomena labelling them ‘superstition’. I know her and I know when she is speaking her truth. Instead of taking a paternalistic attitude where I would adopt a hegemonic standpoint of having the right to define what is ‘proper’ knowledge and what lies outside of it, I want to opt for a third way. For this, I found Elochukwe Eugene Uzukwu’s God, Spirit and Human Wholeness (2012), increasingly helpful. He calls for the action of researchers to be an attitude of ‘looking at everything twice’.11 It is precisely this ability to look twice that I have and will continue to, criticise earlier research on dance and theology for not applying into their encounters with dance in historical descriptions. When turning towards historical records of dancing in and around churches in the medieval period, one will encounter ‘strange’ phenomena that might be difficult to understand or perceive. It is in these encounters that I have been arguing for the need of a hermeneutics of charity. In parallel with my research with the dancing women, this means that one option would have been to ignore the stories of the Angel Lady, or view them with high suspicion. Another option, however, is to see that there is a possibility that this lady has an ‘openness’ to things I may not be able to perceive or at the moment am hindered from, experiencing. This was the answer I gave her and the angels. I told the Angel Lady that there truly was no lack in my willingness to accept that angels exist, and that I understood that what she sees is plausible, nevertheless, I was not able to experience the world in the way she does. This might be due to my senses being highly schooled in the Western scientific worldview and living in a Secular Age – where I have become buffered and screened off from certain stimuli – or there might perhaps be some other reasons? I have my own ways of sensing and perceiving the presence of God, but they do not include angels. Even though the Angel Lady and the angels seemed to be more than pleased with this, my answer, the question continued to reverberate in me. What was it that she was perceiving? How could I give it justice if I did not perceive the world similarly? Was this ‘openness’ similar or dissimilar to what Amira Mittermaier describes in her Dreams that Matter: Egyptian Landscapes of the Imagination (2012). There, her interlocutors described seeing angels, demons and

10 See also Terhi Utriainen’s critique of how religious encounters of women with angels have been made a laughing-stock by both secular worldviews and dominant religious male authorities. Utriainen (2015); (2016 b). 11 Uzukwu (2012), 13.

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other spiritual entities, stemming from a different form of perception.12 How much of human perception is bound to our social imaginary? Could my senses be altered, so that at some point I too might receive this ‘openness’? I will not aim to answer these questions, and some I think, might be unanswerable, at this present moment in time. Nonetheless, these questions lead me to reflect more deeply on what I encountered in the historical depictions of dancing and particularly dance in the medieval period. Questions, such as whether there is a similarity between the vulnerability and ‘openness’ described by the Angel Lady and the concept of a porous body presented by Charles Taylor, arose. Are the experiences and descriptions of the presence of a godly and/or demonic agency – as found in the medieval accounts – somehow linked to different modes of perception? If I want to ‘look twice’ at my medieval sources – in the same way as I am willing to consider the stories of my co-dancers – what would it mean to refrain from immediately presuming certain things to be ‘superstition’ or non-scientific? At the same time, how do I describe the medieval encounters people had in and through dancing as relevant and scientifically significant without falling into the trap Bengt Kristensson Uggla portrayed of phenomenology that is only interested in describing personal experiences? How can historical accounts be treated with care, without turning into a fetishising description of ‘the other’? Rowan Williams speaks about the need of theological descriptions and accounts of the history of the Church, to always remember that we can learn something about what it means to be a Christian, by studying the past. He further states that many historical claims need to be reconsidered as they have been written to promote one particular doctrinal viewpoint over and against another. However, Williams also states that particularly the stories that have been left untold, are the ones that we now need to turn to, in order to broaden our scope of what it means to be, not only Christians but humans. He even goes as far as stating that if we learn to grapple with the diversity of the past, we will become more able to celebrate the world we live in today.13 This is why I think that the Angel Lady, her vulnerable way of sharing with me experiences that are normally not given space or validity in scientific inquiries and my willingness to not dismiss her as sick or mentally imbalanced, is an encounter which enables me also to approach historical materials in a new way. Furthermore, celebrating in dance and song, with the community of dancers I spent time with, were practices that developed my sense of perceiving the past in a new light. Just like actively using my imagination when delving into the artworks, stories and accounts of dancing found in medieval materials, have equipped me to move more fluently between the known and unknown, than the theologians writing before me have. Maybe not only curiosity but empathy – closeness and distancing – is what is needed in order to encompass the gulf that exists between our time and the social imaginary of a medieval world. It is thus with the tools of a hermeneutics of suspicion and hermeneutics of charity that I will delve into the historical materials of stories, accounts, descriptions, artwork and architectural spaces of this chapter. To commence,

12 Mittermaier (2012), 86–88. 13 R. Williams (2009), 104–14.

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I will still linger a bit more in a hermeneutics of suspicion, which was so prevailing in the last chapter. Before I want to look at the medieval sources there is a need to give a detailed analysis of how the main writings of earlier theological discussions on dance and their social imaginary portrayed dancing in historical sources. From the contrast found between scholarly judgements by earlier research and the medieval depictions, valuable information needs to be gathered so that similar judgements do not continue to cloud our understanding as well.

1. Christian Dance Practices? Hugo Rahner, in Man at Play, although somewhat in favour of the idea of play and dance as an act of worship and a path for man to commune with God, wrote that it is sure, beyond doubt that dancing was never part of the church practices. He quotes Quasten in saying that: It has undoubtedly been proven that, by and large, music and the dance played no liturgical role in the ancient Church; the Christian of the time was bound to look at such things as manifestations of the detested pagan forms of religion and as expressions of the pagan religious spirit.14 This statement is directed primarily towards practices that can be encountered in depictions from the Early Church, a time-frame I will only touch upon as a back-drop to the stories to come. Nonetheless, this statement does indicate what kind of ideas about dance – pagan and Christian – were presumed as ‘facts’ by earlier scholars of theology. Furthermore, this statement also shows that where later research concerning musical practices in the Early Church, have changed their mind about how to interpret comments from Quasten and his contemporaries, writings about dance seem to think still these views are relevant.15 What needs to be noted, apart from Quasten’s firm opinion that dancing must have been considered a ‘detested pagan form of religion’, is his specifying term ‘liturgical role’. It seems quite clear that Quasten has a value-laden relation to pagan religion and pagan religious spirits, if not towards dance altogether. At the same time, he does pinpoint a categorisation of liturgical, concerning music and dance, which

14 Rahner (1967), 75–76. 15 In a very similar way as this work, David John Shirt has, in his doctoral dissertation, refuted the idea that scholars should continue to uphold the consensus created by earlier scholars around the practice of using musical instruments in the worship practices of the Early Church. Even though such an idea has been almost unquestionably held true, due to the strong arguments played out against instruments by ascetically minded leaders of the Early Church, further investigation shows that this view needs to be re-evaluated. I am grateful to Carol Harrison for pointing out this work to me, even though what Shirt has to offer on the interpretations of dance may, for several reasons not be congruent with what I will have to say in this study. See especially his reliance on Backman, Oesterley and Sachs. Shirt (2015), 170–73, 215–25. For another opinion on the status of instrumental music in the Early Church, see Ferguson (2017), 165–72.

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merits closer scrutiny. Before examining that, however, I will return to Rahner and his statements on dance. The afore quoted reference to Quasten is followed by Rahner more firmly alluding to the period of the Middle Ages, quoting another authority on the subject, Dom Gougaud: There is nothing to prove or even to render it probable that any kind of sacred dance was ever admitted into the liturgy of the Church either in antiquity or in the centuries that followed. In every age the dance was something that lay outside actual official worship.16 Rahner again quotes an author who rejects the idea that dancing was a part of the liturgy of the church. Furthermore, Gougaud also states that dance must have been outside official worship. These kinds of blunt rejections of dance are, as was noted in the introduction, probably the reasons why, until quite recently, dancing as a practice in the Christian traditions of the West has received little scholarly attention. Simultaneously, there is a tension in these statements that demands a more thorough examination. Even Gougaud is ready to admit that: ‘in every century and in countless churches, a sacral dance carried out both by clergy and laity, has been woven around the austere core of the liturgy’.17 So, in the same instance, as dance is denied a place within the church practices, it is also brought out as a persistent element of worship, with liturgy-like features. Something in the core of the question as to whether we have danced in the church or not raises a strong ‘no’ and a reluctant ‘yes’. Highlighting the issue, what is it in the social imaginary of the timeframe of Gougaud’s and Rahner’s research which has them speaking about sacral dance yet inhibits them from imagining dancing as a liturgical practice? 1.a. Dance and Liturgy?

One could read the statements made by Quasten, Gougaud and Rahner as indications that dancing was never accepted as an official part of the liturgy. In a more charitable reading of these men, one could interpret them as stating that dancing may have been part of the so-called para-liturgical practices in the churches of the West. The idea of para-liturgical practices is in itself a contested term.18 In the Catholic tradition, it might indicate everything from celebrations and prayers – including sharing of consecrated hosts without an ordained priest being present – to liturgical acts of various kinds which have not been recorded in official church documents.19

16 Rahner (1967), 79–80. ‘Rien qui prouve, ni meme qui rende vraisemblable. l’admission de danses sacrees dans la liturgie de l’Eglise, pas plus pour les temps primitifs que pour les siecles ecoules depuis. De tout temps la danse est restee en dehors du culte officiel’. Gougaud (1914), 7. 17 Rahner (1967), 80. 18 One can easily see that a term such as para-liturgical could be used not only in an effort to clarify church practices but also as a means to uphold power relations where examination of unwanted elements can be ignored or put down, as non-liturgical. 19 Source T; Source C.

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At other times para-liturgical refers to private devotion, while liturgical refer to the communal services of the church.20 What is meant by para-liturgical practices in medieval times or in the Early Church – where worship services and festal celebrations varied from parish to parish and were seldom seen as private acts – is even more complicated to define. In Jeffrey F. Hamburger’s Nuns as Artists – The Visual Culture of a Medieval Convent, he writes that para-liturgical piety is a term used for activities that were enacted alongside the liturgy proper. This included practices that happened in tandem with the Mass or the Divine Office.21 He further concludes: The piety of nuns was intrinsically para-liturgical in that enclosure often denied them direct access to the high altar. At St Walburg, as elsewhere, the nuns would have been separated by barriers not only from the laity but from the clergy as well. The nuns would have participated in the sacraments of Communion and confession through windows or grilles provided especially for those purposes. Only on rare occasions, for example, when novices took their final vows, would a priest or a bishop actually join the nuns in celebration.22 If we apply such a narrow definition of what constitutes liturgical practices and liturgical piety as being only those acts that are done in front of the high altar (without a metal grid or other kind of architectural component dividing parts of the congregation into sections of laity and those whom have taken vows), where clergymen and/or bishops are present and where there is a Eucharistic celebration, obviously the plausibility of dance taking place in this setting is drastically minimised. Such limited use of the word ‘liturgical’ might be what Quasten, Gougaud and Rahner have had in mind. To find out if this is the case, concerning the thinking of Gougaud and Rahner, I will examine their arguments in more detail. In the original article, ‘La Danse dans les eglisés’ that Rahner was quoting for references to dance, Gougaud devotes the most substantial part of his articles to examining several occasions of dancing in and around churches.23 His attention seems to be on both depicting occasions of dancing and to pass judgement on their place within the practices of the church. The depictions range from the Vigils of the Saints on Days of the Martyrs,24 which Quasten devoted his work to condemning, to festival seasons of dance25 and occasions of clergy dancing during pilgrimages, Easter celebrations and feasts of the Nativity or St Innocent.26 The circumstances and examples of dancing in Western Europe during the Middle Ages are plentiful, yet none of them qualifies as liturgical dances for Gougaud. This raises the question:



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Flanigan, Ashley and Sheingorn in Heffernan, Matter (2001), 698. Hamburger (1997), 51–52. Hamburger (1997), 52. For help in understanding the French I am deeply grateful to Stephanie Arseneau Bussieres. Gougaud (1914), 10–11, 18. Gougaud (1914), 13–22. Gougaud (1914), 232–37, 240.

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What are the criteria that Gougaud would have accepted for all of these examples of dancing to have been understood as liturgical practices? Reading Dom Gougaud carefully, one exception to the rule is found. Interestingly enough, this happens in the Eastern Orthodox Church. Nonetheless, it reveals what the unspoken defining criteria of liturgical dancing for Gougaud are. In the described situation, a Greek wedding ceremony sets the stage. After the couple has dipped their lips in the same glass of wine, the priest takes the hand of the Godfather, and then others join in. All together, holding hands, they slowly turn three times around the table, sometimes even round the doors of the saints, singing three strophes. Gougaud explains that there are no official headings for this ceremony in the l’Euchologe. What is important, for him, however, is that Simeon de Thessalonique (d. 1429), in his text of the sacraments, has given this act the symbolic description of being a journey of the couple together in and through life.27 As I understand Gougaud, based on this example, liturgical dancing is not constituted solemnly around a celebration of the Eucharist. Even though such a celebration most probably was part of the Greek Orthodox wedding ceremony just described. Instead, the critical criteria are: dancing happens at the high altar, a priest is part of the celebration, and most importantly, there is a textual reference to give the explication of the symbolic meaning of this liturgical act. One could perhaps also add that the author of such a text, most probably, needed to be a church authority of some kind. This implicit definition of what qualifies as a liturgical dance for Gougaud renders even the Christian dance practices that were actively in use at the time of his writing non-liturgical dancing. This is not because they have not been documented or described, or that they are lacking from liturgical handbooks. Instead, we have no authorised text with theologically solid symbolic interpretations of the meaning of the dance that could be understood by Gougaud. Here Gougaud displays exactly the kind of epistemological and methodological bias towards logo-centric descriptions that I portrayed in the opening chapter as having hindered dancing to matter in theological and philosophical inquiries. To exemplify and further grasp the logic of Gougaud’s analysis, I will examine the two accounts he shares in his writing in more detail. Most probably the most famous of these, the dance of Los Seis in the cathedral of Seville, features young children who sing and dance.28 Gougaud borrows the text of the song from Lilly Grove who received it, together with notations, from nuns in Seville.29 The lyrics are in celebration of the Virgin Mary. However, these dances were

27 Gougaud (1914), 240. 28 Gougaud (1914), 243–45. 29 Gougaud (1914), 244 quotes the first song only in part. While Grove has three songs: ‘Salve, O Virgen mas pura y mas bella, que la Aurora y que elas tro del dia! Hija y Madre y esposa Maria, y la puerta de Dios Oriental! Salve, O Virgen! Salve, O Virgen! Hija y Madre y esposa tu Maria, y las puertas de Dios Oriental! Salve, O Virgen! Salve, O Virgen!’ Grove (2013), 16–18; ‘A la madre de Dios, a la madre de Dios escongida, Companeros, cantad, y de Espana patrona regal. Companeros, cantad, conrebida sin pecado original. Sin pecado original cantad cantad cantad’. Grove (2013), 19–22; and ‘Norte hjo en el mar procelo so, nos liberta del duro maufragio. Arca santa que fuiste

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performed not only on the day of the Immaculate Conception and its octave but also during the octave of Corpus Christi and during the three days of the Carnaval. Both priests and bishops were present at the high altar when the children performed the dances. On occasions, even the archbishop was present – a custom known to date back to at least a papal bull from 1439 and possibly even to the Visigoth period. In Gougaud’s account, the dances are described as slow, idyllic, solemn acts of grace and pure joy at the altar of the Father. An eye-witness account compares them to the dances of the angel cherubim in Murillo.30 Why then is this not a form of liturgical dancing? In the case of Los Seis, we know that the feast of Corpus Christi is assigned to the celebration of the Eucharist. Songs and liturgical passages have been recorded from these celebrations. The dancing depicted had even been approved by a pope, yet for Gougaud Los Seis is considered a real act of religion, not acts of liturgy.31 Following my earlier noted patterns of Gougaud’s reasoning, what is lacking is that the priests do not dance and there is no symbology written down in a handbook which would explain the meaning of this tradition. For Gougaud, dancing of this kind, therefore, might be pious but it is not liturgical. Turning to the Pilgrimage of Echternach, which is the second account of an on-going tradition of dancing in Gougaud, the pattern becomes even more evident. From the Pilgrimage of Echternach, the most vivid depictions of the dancing are found in the report by John Morris (also known as Father Morris) entitled ‘Dancing in Churches’ from 1892. Dancing was part of the yearly pilgrimage to the celebration of Saint Willibrord, which gathered people from the villages surrounding Echternach, but also from Luxembourg and places even further away.32 Gougaud describes a procession with flutes, violins, jumping and movements together that may have taken several hours. The route went uphill towards the church where Mass was celebrated. The account indicates that priests and parishioners alike participated in both the dance-like movements around the statue of Willibrord within the church interior as well as partook in the bread and wine of the Eucharistic celebration.33 In this description too, even though in comparison to Los Seis, these movements are more spontaneous and, thus, less clearly contained, Gougaud is willing to ascribe the dancing as having a religious fervour of piety. Further, he states that people have tried to give the dance a theological explanation by drawing parallels to medieval Flagellants. Gougaud does not agree on this point, and his final conclusion is that the dances of Echternach were a profane popular custom transformed into



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presagio de sarud y de vida al mortal. Porque a ti ni el silbido espantoro del soberbio aquilon se resiste, ni del Cocito impuro acreciste ni un momento en su immundo raudal. Rallentando’. Grove (2013), 22–24. Gougaud (1914), 243–44. Gougaud (1914), 245. Morris (1892), xx; Gougaud (1914), 240–42. Gougaud (1914), 241.

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an institutionalised church practice.34 It is here that Gougaud reveals the core assumptions driving his case. He does not say so openly, but in comparison with the Greek wedding tradition, it implicitly becomes clear that first and foremost, for him, is not even the question of needing a symbolical explanation to the movements. Instead, the question that preoccupies Gougaud is the root from which a dance practice stems. There are two main obstacles for Gougaud to consider a dance practice as a liturgical act. The first is that the symbology of the movements needs to be defined in some authoritarian textual references. As Echternach and Los Seis do not have symbolic explanations given in a theological treatise, they do not meet Gougaud’s criteria for what is liturgical. This is an example of the epistemological defaults described by LaMothe, were writing and textual language overrides the descriptions of practice and experience. Indirectly the consequence of this kind of theological attitude is that Christ is incarnate, not in the body or in the communal practices of the Church but solely in the written Words of a book. Secondly, my reading of Gougaud shows that even if the dancing was performed by clergy during a celebration of Mass with a profound meaning of reverence, or even if there was a written document describing the symbolical meaning of the dances and, thus, creating the pre-defined standard for official worship, for him, there would also need to be no traces of supposedly popular folk or pagan roots to the practices described. Gougaud’s reasoning here exemplifies both what I described in chapter two with the term distorting joints and ligaments as well as the use of muscles so that faulty categories are created. Gougaud’s understanding of dance is hindered by a narrative pattern of conceptual reasoning which is linked to a hegemonic cultural structure that distorts Gougaud’s examination of the bones presented in front of him. His pre-set pattern of thought – that most dancing has pagan roots – not an analysis of the practices in themselves is what hinders Gougaud from considering the dancing described as Christian practises. Gougaud’s reasoning around the tradition of dancing found by Los Seis and the Pilgrimage feast of Echternach, show how and why, both Gougaud’s and Rahner’s texts can be full of historical examples of dancing in and around churches, at the same time as these men keep up the stance that there has never been any liturgical dancing. Even though it is entirely possible, to make the kind of judgements about the historical materials one is presented with, as Gougaud seems to be making here, my question is, is this a correct understanding for those who danced? Moreover, is it historically feasible to argue, as Gougaud and Rahner do that their understanding of these practices is the same stance that the Church has had, throughout history? Describing only dancing which is conducted by clergymen at the high altar in a celebration where the eucharist is offered, where the movements of the dance have been given symbolic meaning in textual references and where there is no voice found labelling these practices as older pagan rites that were subsequently incorporated 34 Gougaud (1914), 242.

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into the Christian repertoire through folk or other practices – the criteria are pre-set for an extremely narrow framework for what could be considered liturgical dancing. A frame so narrow, in fact that it is possible that such examples cannot be found. However, using these defining criteria and presentational form, of the historical examples of dancing that can be found, sounds more like a way to shut down a discussion than to understand phenomena. The defining criteria presented in Gougaud’s text, around what can be considered a liturgical practice – consciously or unconsciously – renders dancing as irrelevant for the Christian tradition. Doing this, one loses sight of what role the practices actually played. Why did people consider having young boys dance and sing in the celebrations of Corpus Christi feasts? What was it that people experienced when participating in the jumping and moving together around Saint Willibrord that brought them back year after year to the village of Echternach? As I see it, Gougaud’s reading is problematic in several ways, and furthermore, it obscures our understanding of these events. The bones he applies all seem to be intact, but it is the connective tissue of joints, ligaments and muscles, which creates a distorted conclusion. In the following, I will scrutinise the distortions further to argue why this kind of pre-set criteria needs to be abandoned. In this scrutiny, I will pay particular attention to the question if there are any claims to be made for the pagan roots of dancing and how such claims could be understood.

2. What Deep Tissue Massage Reveals Even though the bones of research such as Gougaud’s and Chambers’s, are intact, unbroken bones are not the same thing as bones aligned in a healthy way. For bones to acquire the minerals they need to regenerate and stay strong, they just like the fascia, need movement. In the accounts depicted by Gougaud and his contemporaries – as shown in the chapter on earlier research – their social imaginary has stiffened the muscles and even distorted some joints completely. This is why I find Gougaud’s reading of the dance tradition in churches of the West problematic. In the coming chapters, I aim to examine and continue to display in more detail the traits of the social imaginary, which drives Gougaud and his contemporaries in their judgements. To further highlight the narrative frameworks driving Gougaud’s judgements and viewpoints, I will compare his writings with that of researchers working with these same historical records and bones, but arriving at entirely different conclusions. In comparing accounts created on the same bones my aim is to stimulate the deep tissue massage needed. I hope that the bones will come alive: Matter (bones), once relieved from distorting joints and ligaments will be better equipped to show how dancing might have mattered to the people living and dancing in the Middle Ages. By the end of this chapter, I will also have demonstrated how – in further detail – the diseased social imaginary distorts these particular bones and creates epistemic blindspots that future research needs to take account of.

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My secondary aim is to elucidate on three specific communal celebrations where the bones tell us, dancing was enacted during the Middle Ages: the Ceremonial Game Plays, Corpus Christi and the Feast of Fools. These are all practices that are mentioned in the writing of Gougaud and Rahner but also Chambers. Nevertheless, the dancing in these communal celebrations – just like in Gougaud’s depiction of dancing as not liturgical – is not acknowledged to bear theological and societal significance when they are portrayed in the narrative frameworks upheld by these men. With the help of work done by other researchers and the artwork I have gathered, my aim is instead to create an alternative narrative framework within which these practices of dance make sense theologically and societally. In assisting this corrective re-imagination of the role of dancing in the medieval period, I will commence by refer to the social imaginary suggested by Taylor and its use of terms like an enchanted world, porous self and High Time. Furthermore, I will bring forth the following conceptual ideas: use of sacred space, reverentia, Corpus Christianum and the agency of matter, as methodological tools to re-imagine the role dance played in the medieval social imaginary. Furthermore, how I operate with the idea of a social imaginary, is not just to presume Taylor’s description of the medieval worldview. Instead, I offer legends, myths, stories and narrative examples from the medieval period, together with the artworks, as my main tools for displaying the thick texture of Christian norms and values that would have constituted the enmeshment within which dancing might make sense. To commence, I will linger a little longer at three particular examples of how we may notice the distorting effect of the joints and ligaments as well as the muscular structure offered by the social imaginary of Gougaud and his contemporaries. This is offered as an added layer of tension – which is often needed in order for deep tissue massage to activate the increased blood flow to and through the fascia. There is a clear pattern to how Gougaud interprets the practices he comes across. As I brought forth earlier, there is not only a logocentric epistemological default in his way of understanding the theological field, Gougaud also carries an underlying narrative framework where dancing in Christian churches derives from pagan influences. For Gougaud it is a reoccurring element to state that a dancing practice was a remnant of a pagan custom or had clear symbology found only in pagan worship. In the first part of his article, he lays out the interpretative framework for where pagan roots are located in the practices. Notably, in the dancing seasons of spring and Christmastide, but also at the feasts on Holy days, he finds traces of paganism.35 In the second part of the article, the constant references to pagan practices are less frequent, yet in his conclusions, the pattern remains obvious.36 Gregor Rohmann writes in ‘The Invention of Dancing Mania: Frankish Christianity, Platonic Cosmology and Bodily Expressions in Sacred Space’ (2009), that while scholarly work from the first half of the twentieth century saw almost every aspect

35 Gougaud (1914), 16–21. 36 Gougaud (1914), 232, 245.

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of Christianity as the mere borrowing of pagan mythology, today academic research tends to be more critical towards an easy syncretism characterising early medieval practices.37 Nevertheless, there are still writers today who continue to do so; writers such as Craig Wright, who in his The Maze and the Warriors Symbols in Architecture, Theology, and Music (2001), builds his thesis mostly on the resemblance of the Christian practices of the maze with the Greek Hellenic labyrinths. I will return to Craig Wright’s work further ahead. Still, for now, it suffices to say that the idea of effortless syncretism is particularly common when it comes to folkloric accounts or interpretations of artwork and customary practices.38 Rohmann, going against the grain of syncretic arguments, bases his interpretations mostly on the work of Peter Brown’s The Cult of the Saints (1981). In this pattern of thinking, the Merovingian saints were not merely the godly successors of the Frankish people. Rather they dispossessed the earlier deities of their authority by means which included adopting, inverting, and modifying motifs of common mythological imagery. Most importantly, however, Rohmann argues, as do I further ahead that the integration of a mythological theme to Christian thinking happened only after the spiritual superiority of Christianity had been established and the earlier practices had been changed.39 The central idea here is not to refute pagan influences on Christian practices but rather to consider the position of religion in an enchanted world. In the social imaginary of the Middle Ages deities could not merely be interchanged mentally. The practices of worship were not looked upon lightly as the contemporary smörgårdsbord-shopping of spiritualities that is sometimes portrayed today. In Gougaud’s interpretative patterns there is no room for stark changes in religious affiliation to happen, nor any openness to detect differences between earlier and newer practices. Instead, both in the social imaginary of Gougaud’s time and the actual textual references he is using, Gougaud tightly follows an interpretative pattern of religious evolution which is found to be emanating from E. K. Chambers and his The Medieval Stage.40 Chambers’s work functions here as a key representative of the social Darwinism depicted in chapter 2.3.1.2 on western Christian cultural hegemony, as a dysfunctional joint and ligament of scientific thinking. It is not only in the case of dance and Gougaud that Chambers’s standardised ground-work has affected how the practices of the medieval period have been perceived. In the study by Max Harris Sacred Folly: A New History of the Feast of Fools (2011), the influence of Chambers’s work on research dealing with medieval celebrations of various kinds is pinpointed. Harris writes: For more than a century, those who have written about the Feast of Fools have been both indebted to and led astray by Chambers’s collection of materials on the subject in the first volume of his Mediaeval Stage. We remain indebted because

37 38 39 40

Rohmann (2009), 21–22. Examples of this can also be found in: Barber (2013); Ehrenreich (2007), chapter 3. Rohmann (2009), 21–22. Gougaud (1914), 18–19, 21–22, 234.

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his is still the most complete collection available of translated, paraphrased, or summarized data culled from the archives. We have been led astray for at least three reasons.41 Chambers writing is described as an archive of materials on the Feast of Fools. However, it might just as well be described as an archive of materials on folkloric dances, dramatical plays and cultural practices. What Chambers portrays in The Medieval Stage affects views on dance and drama in theological accounts as well. Particularly, the way Chambers and Gougaud play together, Harris’s concerns of blindly following Chambers research findings also become applicable to Gougaud statements on dance practices of the medieval period. It is a good archive of source materials, yet its interpretative pattern is misleading. The three charges Max Harris brings against Chambers’s interpretation of the Feast of Fools can also be brought against earlier dance research: namely, separating data from their liturgical context, packing materials in a manner where constructed categories are applied instead of letting the examples reveal themselves from their context and sorting the chronology of the materials through a focus on prohibition.42 Each of these three distorting patterns will be given a short over-view before it is time to have a more detailed scrutiny of how they work in the historical materials and interpretative frameworks presented throughout this chapter. First, I deal with Chambers’s tendency to categorise his materials from a pre-set idea rather than the contextual setting. This tendency is seen both in how he is influenced by the narrative patters of nationalism and a western Christian cultural hegemony, as well as how differentiation, described in sub-chapter; Sacred vs Secular, plays in to how he organises his findings. In Chambers’s writing, historical accounts are classified as either folk drama or religious drama instead of describing them in their liturgical context. Different types of dances are also separated under these main headings in Chambers’s writing.43 One clear example of how he is enmeshed in the western Christian cultural hegemony is when Chambers describes the dancing depicted by Gerald of Wales in Itinerarium Cambriae at a Saint’s day festival, as the ‘origins’ of drama in England.44 Chambers interpretation of the gestures found in this historical account alter between being, a simple play of children, to seeing their predecessor in the ancient drama of Greek high culture.45 Not only are the



41 42 43 44 45

Harris (2011), 3. Harris (2011), 3–4. See Index of Chambers (1923). Chambers (1923), 76–79, 188–90. ‘The symbolical dramas of the seasons stand alone and independent, but it may safely be asserted that drama first arose at the village feasts in close relation to the dance. That dancing, like all the arts, tends to be mimetic is a fact which did not escape the attention of Aristotle. The pantomimes of the decadent Roman stage are a case in point. Greek tragedy itself had grown out of the Dionysiac dithyramb, and travellers describe how readily the dances of the modern savage take shape as primitive dramas of war, hunting, love, religion, labour, or domestic life. Doubtless this was the case also with the caroles of the European festivals. The types of chanson most immediately derived from these are full of dialogue, and already on the point of bursting into drama. That they did do this,

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pre-set narrative frameworks clearly defining how he looks at the historical records, these frames also give him a blindspot for the religious dimension of the Saints day celebration right in front of him. None of the interpretations that come to his mind, leave room for dancing to have a theological meaning or play a liturgical role in those celebrations. Here we see how healthy bones are distorted by joints and ligaments of pre-set narrative frameworks so that they fit Chambers’s ‘stuck’ muscle-pairs. Another way in which both Chambers and Gougaud distort their accounts of dance is when they examine dances conducted in the spring or winter.46 These are directly described as popular folk customs (and sometimes as pagan remnants). Thus, their primary ‘value’ is found in representing merriment and/ or entertainment.47 What is ignored is that these periods fell under the liturgical calendar of Easter and Christmas which might open up for interpretations with other layers of meaning.48 In these examples, we see that the use of a muscular pair, like Secular vs Sacred, over extending the use of the ‘Secular’ dimensions over-ride other possible interpretative frameworks. Occasionally, these seasonally located celebrations have in later research, as in Jeannie Horowitz’s ‘Les danses cléricales dans les églises au Moyen Age’ (1989), been interpreted within a broader context. Nevertheless, the function of so-called folkloric customs is primarily seen in the light of psychological functions and emotional relief.49 Liturgically seasonal dancing is again neither imagined nor described as having more profound theological relevance. Finally, Gougaud also follows Chambers in his way of sorting his materials with primarily starting with a depiction of prohibitions.50 Both in the beginning of Gougaud’s article, the starting point is a long list of prohibitions against dance and when he makes references to Chambers, he starts with Chambers list of prohibitions.51

46 47 48 49 50 51

with the aid of the minstrels, in the Jeu de Robin et de Marion we have seen. A curious passage in the Itinarium Cambriae of Giraldus Cambrensis (f. 1188) describes a dance of peasants in and about the church of St Elined, near Brecknock on the Gwyl Awst, in which the ordinary operations of the village life, such as ploughing, sewing, spinning were mimetically represented. Such dances seem to survive in some of the rondesor “singing-games”, so frequently dramatic, of children’. Chambers (1923), 188–89. For a more contemporary academic work on the tradition of carols in the medieval period see Mullally (2011). From page 18 Gougaud’s reasoning builds almost entirely on Chambers’s work. Gougaud (1914), 18–22. Gougaud (1914), 15–16, 18–22, 235, 241. Gougaud and Chambers do speak about the spring celebrations being linked to Easter. However, as these dances are understood as having their roots in folkloric traditions they get their religious meaning as a glued on, secondary layer. Horowitz (1989), 280, 286. Harris describes this in the following way: ‘by privileging ecclesiastical opposition, Chambers exaggerated the disruptive character of the Feast of Fools and minimized its positive contribution to the seasonal liturgy’. Harris (2011), 4. See Gougaud (1914), 18. for the latter. It includes the Council of Toledo, Council of Chalon SurSaone, Council de Rome, Council de D’Avignon, Council de Cognac and an unknown Codex eccl. Africanae.

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Gougaud’s list of prohibitions of dance in Western Europe is as follows:52 the Council of Toledo (589),53 Council of Auxerre (573–603),54 Council of Chalon Sur-Saone (639/54),55 Dicta Priminii,56 Statuta Bonifach Council d’Estinnes (743),57 Indiculus supertitionum et Paganarium,58 Council de Rome (826),59 Capitulaire apogryphe de Benoit Lévite60, Leon IV (874–55),61 Eudes de Sully – Eveque de Paris (1208),62

52 For the help of understanding the Latin I am deeply grateful to Joonas Vanhala. 53 ‘Canon 23: Exterminanda omnino est irreligiosa consuetudo quam vulgus per sanctorum solemnitates agere consuevit, ut populi qui debent officia divina attendere saltationibus et turpibus invigilent canticis, non solum sibi nocentes, sed religiosorum officiis perstrepentes. Hoc enim ut ab omni Hispania depellatur sacerdotum et judicum a concilio sancto curae committatus. (Mansi, Sacrorum conciliorum nova et amplissima collectio, t. IX, col. 999)’. Gougaud (1914), 10–11. The parentheses indicates where Gougaud has found these statements. 54 ‘Canon 9: Non licet in ecclesia choros secularium vel puellarum cantica exercere nec convivivia in ecclesia praeparare. (MGH, Concilia merovingici aevi, l, ed. Maassen, p. 180)’. Gougaud (1914), 11. 55 ‘Canon 19: Valde omnibus noscetur esse decretum ne per dedicationes basilicarum aut festivitates martyrum ad ipsa solemnia confluentes obscoena et turpia cantica, dum orare debent aut clericos psallentes audire, cum choris foemineis turpia quidem decantare videantur. Unde convenit ut sacerdotes loci illos a septa basilicarum vel porticus ipsarum basilicarum etiam et ab ipsis atriis vetare debeant et arcere. (Maassen, p. 212)’. Gougaud (1914), 11. 56 ‘Dicta 22: Nullus christianus neque ad ecclesiam, neque in domibus, neque in triviis nec in nullo loco ballationes, cantationis, saltationis, jocus et lusa diabolica facire non presumat’. (Caspari, 1883, Kirchenhistorische anecdota, p. 176. Christiania)’; ‘Dicta 28: Ad ecclesiam cum devoto animo… sepious convenite… Et ibi nullas causas ad jucidandum audeat proferre et negutia non faciat et fabolas ociosas ex ore suo non proferat. Bellationis et saltationis vel cantica turpia et luxuriosa velut sagitta diabolica fugite, ned ad ipsas ecclesias, nec in domibus vestris, nec in ullo alio loco facire non presumatis, quia hoc de paganorum consuetudine remansit. (Caspari, 1883, Kirchenhistorische anecdota, p. 188. Christiania)’. Gougaud (1914), 11. 57 ‘Canon 21: Non licet in ecclesia choros saccularium vel puellarum cantica exercere nec convivia in ecclesia praeparare, quia scriptum est: Domus mea domus orationis vocabitur. (Mansi, XII, 385)’ Gougaud (1914), 11. 58 ‘10: De sacrilegiis per ecclesias (Pertz, Leges, I, p. 19. Cf. A. Saupe, Der Indiculus superstitionum et paganiarum, p. 10. Leipzig, 1891)’. Gougaud (1914), 11. 59 ‘Canon 35: Sunt quidam, et maxime mulieres, qui festis ac sacris diebus atque sanctorum nataliciis non pro corum, quibus debent, delectantur(?) desideriis advenire, sed ballando, verba turpia decantando, choros tenendo ac ducendo, similitudinem paganorum peragendo advenire procurant; tales enim, si cum minoribus veniunt ad ecclesiam, cum peccatis majoribus revertuntur. In tali enim facto debet unusquisque sacerdos diligentissime populum admonere, ut pro sola oratione his diebus ad ecclesiam recurrant, qui ipsi qui talia agunt, non solum se perdunt, sed etiam alios deperire adtendunt. (MGH, Concilia aeri karolini, I, ed. A. Werminghoff, pp. 581–82)’ Gougaud (1914), 12. 60 ‘Ut presbutero sollicite curent ne inhonesta et turpia quaelibet fiant in ecclesiis. – Illas vero balationes et saltationes, cantica turpia et luxuriosa et illa lusa diabolica non faciat nec in plateis nec in domibus neque in ullo loco, quia haec de paganorum consuetudine remanserunt. (MGH, Leges, II, 2, p. 83)’ Gougaud (1914), 12. 61 ‘Homilia: Cantus et choros mulierum in ecclesia vel in atrio ecclesiae prohibete. Carmina diabolica quae nocturnis horis super mortuos vulgus facere solet et cachinnos quos exercet, sub contestatione Dei omnipotentis vitate. (Mansi, XIV. 895)’. Gougaud (1914), 12. 62 ‘Communia Synodalia 36: Prohibeant sacerdotes ne fiant choreae maxime in tribus locis: in ecclesiis, in coemeteriis et processionibus. (Mansi, XXII 683)’. Gougaud (1914), 12.

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Council de D’Avignon (1209),63 Council de Paris (1212/1238),64 Council de Rouen (1231),65 Council de Cognac (1260),66 Council de Wurzburg (1298),67 Statuta Synodalia de Treguier (1302),68 Council de Bale (1435),69 Council de Soissons (1435),70 Council de Narbonne (1551),71 Statut Synodaux de Lyon (1566 and 1577),72 Statut de L’Archeveque de Cologne (1617).73 At a first glance it may look as a succession of prohibitions that would lead a reader to state, just like Rahner does that there is

63 ‘Canon 17: Statuimus ut in sanctorum vigiliis in ecclesiis historicae [histrionae] saltationes, obscoeni motus, seu choreae non fiant, nec dicantur amatoria carmina, vel cantilenae ibidem… (Mansi, XXII, 791–92)’. Gougaud (1914), 12. 64 ‘IV 18: Prohibemus etiam ne choreas mulierum in coemeteriis vel in locis sacris, obtentu alicujus consuetudinis deduci permittant… (Mansi, XXII, 843)’. Gougaud (1914), 12. 65 ‘Canon 14: Prohibeant sacerdotes sub poena excommunicationis choreas duci in coemeterio vel in ecclesiis: moneant etiam ne alibi fiant. (Mansi, XXIII, 216)’ Gougaud (1914), 12. 66 ‘Canon 2: Rursus cum in balleatione quae in festo sanctorum Innocentium in quibusdam ecclesiis fieri inolevit multae rixae, contentiones et turbationes, tam in divinis offiis quam aliis consueverint provenire, praedictas balleationes ulterius sub intimatione anathematis fieri prohibemus, necnon et episcopos in praedicto festo creari, cum hoc in ecclesia Dei ridiculum existat, et hoc dignitatis episcopalis ludibrio fiat. (Mansi, XXIII, 1033)’. Gougaud (1914), 13. 67 ‘Canon 4: Prohibeant sacerdotes sub poena excommunicationis choreas maxime in coemeterio vel in ecclesiis duci; moneant etiam ne alibi fiant, quia, ut dicit Augustinus: Melius est etiam in festis diebus fodere vel arare quam choreas ducere; et quia grave peccatum sit in loco sacro choreas ducere perpendi potest ex poena secundum rigorem canonum talibus injungenda: si quis enim choreas vel balatos in ecclesiis sanctorum fecerit, emendationem pollicitus, tribus annis poeniteat. (Mansi, XXIV, 1190). (Le canon 31 du concile de Bayeux de 1300 répète presque textuellement le canon 4 du concile de Wurzbourg que nous venons de citer) (Mansi, XXV, 66)’. Gougaud (1914), 13. 68 ‘Canon 35: Item statuimus ne chorea fiant in ecclesiis aut in cimeteriis. (Dom Morice, Mèmoires pour servir de preives á l’histoire eccléstiastique et civile de Bretagne, t. l.col. 1302, Paris, 1742)’ Gougaud (1914), 13. 69 ‘Canon 11: Alii choreas et tripudia marium ac mulierum facientes homines ad spectacula et cachinnationes movent. Alii comessationes et convivia ibidem praeparent… Haec sancta synodus statuit et jubet… ne haec aut similia ludibria, neque etiam mercantias sen(?) negotiationes nundinarum in ecclesia, quae domus orationis esse debet, ac etiam coemeterio exerceri amplius permittant. (Mansi, XXXIX, 108)’. Gougaud (1914), 13. 70 ‘Praecipit hoc sacrum concilium… ut… larvales et theatrales joci, choreae, mercimonia, negociationes et alia ecclesiam, divinum officium vel ejus honestatem perturbantia, fieri prohibentur. (Mansi, XXXII, 176)’. Gougaud (1914), 13. 71 ‘Canon 47: Quia ipsis in templis, in maximum Christiani nominis dedecus et rei sacrae contemptum, ducuntur choreae, fiunt saltationes aliaque tripudiorum et ludibriorum genera; voluit concilium haec radicitus extirpari ut postea nemo audeat in aede sacra vel coemeterio saltare, seu choream ducere, nec extra quo tempore divina officia celebrantur. (Mansi, XXXIII, 1270)’. Gougaud (1914), 13–14. 72 ‘Défendent les curés sous peine d’excommunication de mener danses, faire baccanales et autres insolences ès églises ou ès cimetières. (Cités par J.-B. Thiers, Traité des jeux et des divertissements qui peuvent être permis ou qui doivent être défendus aux chrétiens, p. 439. Paris. 1686)’ Gougaud (1914), 14. 73 ‘Ludicra quae plerisque in locis post conjunctionem matrimonialem in ecclesia in pulsandis sponsis adhiberi solent, peritus tollentur… Est enim talis consuetudo contra reverentiam et honorem ecclesiae, Dei et sacramenti. Monebunt populum fidelem sibi creditum, ut sub poena unius floreni aurei singulis vicibus incurrenda, vitent choreas et ludos vetitos, inhonestos et suspectos, et inter alios

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nothing to be found that would render it probable that dancing ever was part of the liturgies of the churches. On a closer examination of the lists of condemnations, two things emerge. The first is a question of what precisely is condemned. As was stated in the introduction, sometimes depictions are saying that particular forms of dancing are prohibited.74 Other times, the words used is not dance and neither play, game (ludi) or feast, but only a reference to defilement of space.75 Furthermore, the situations described could very well be understood in terms of prohibitions against indecent games, plays, drunken singing and acting, but also directed particularly at women gathering at cemeteries or in churches as well as displays of vulgar or worldly behaviour in sacred spaces.76 More detailed scrutiny of these examples can be found in Donatella Tronca’s article ‘Restricted movement: dancing from late antiquity through the early Middle Ages’ (2016). There she asserts that once one looks into specific prohibitions, what is found is that these restrictions are less against dancing; instead, they are statues concerning general order. The conciliar meetings, in particular, are brought forth by Tronca as dealing more with a social disorder such as drunkenness and violent outbursts than explicitly condemning dancing.77 Examples given by Tronca of restricting social disorder are the two canons from the Council of Laodicea (4th cent.)78 which deal with behaviour at weddings but are not mentioned on Gougaud’s list, and additionally the rude songs and improper dancing found in the Gallic Councils of Vannes (461–91)79 and ratified in Agde (10 September 506).80-81 Adding to her research studies like that of Ruth Webb in Demons and Dancers: Performance in Late Antiquity (2008), what is further shown is that this kind of association of dancing with social upheaval is not restricted to Christian rhetoric. Dancing had the ability to move people in unwanted ways already in the Greek and Roman Empire.82 Thus, one should also be sensitive to the fact that sometimes statements uttered by so-called Christian sources have roots that are much older than these. I will not dig deeper into such examples here. Instead, it is good to bear in mind that prohibition lists are not as self-evident as they may seem. Instead, it is

quos vocantur Kronendanz, item Lehenschwinken, quos omnes hoc decreto prohibemus. (Binterim, Die vorzüglichten Denkwürdigkeiten der christkatholischen Kirche, t. II, 2, pp. 81–82. Mayence, 1–26)’. Gougaud (1914), 14. 74 In the Council of Auxerre and d’Estinnes it is choros secularium which is the precise term. 75 Indiculus superstitionum et Paganarium states only De sacrilegiis per ecclesias. 76 See for example the Council of Elvira, ad 300–03, Canon 35: Women are forbidden to spend the night in a cemetery since often under the pretext of prayer they secretly commit evil deeds. Which is an example used in Quasten (1930), 246–47. 77 Tronca (2016), 57–61. 78 ‘Council of Laodicea, Canon 39 states that Christians should not feast together with Jews or heathens: De Christianis celebrantibus festa gentilium, and canon 53, Ut in Christianorum non saltetur nuptiis (571-574)’. Tronca (2016), fn 34. 79 ‘Concilium Venecum, in Concilia Galliae, a. 314-a. 506’ Tronca (2016), fn 35. 80 ‘Concilium Agathense, in Munier, Concilia Galliae, 209–10’. Tronca (2016), fn 36. 81 Tronca (2016), 58. 82 Webb (2008), 37–39, 42–43.

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Gougaud’s and Chambers’s way of portraying their examples that makes one think that what is displayed is a continuation and general pattern.83 The second thing that comes into view, upon more detailed observation, is that there are gaps, in the chronological time-display. What has been described as continuous condemnation, needs to be looked upon with more suspicion. The first gap is about 300 years between Leon IVth Homily (874–55), and the Statues from Paris starting around the year 1200. Even though Gougaud’s list might not be a complete one, it still raises the question that can one even speak of these condemnations being aimed at the same thing? What if the practices from the first 900 years are something completely different from what will be discussed in the medieval materials? The second gap that can be found in the chronological time-display Gougaud has suggested is located between the Council in Wurzburg in 1298 and the Council of Basel in 1435. For this time-frame, one needs to take into consideration the Western Schism (1378–1417), which divided the papal legislate between Avignon and Rome.84 Such political situations may have had their effects on these kinds of canonical decrees – something I have found no dance-history scholar to be aware of. Finally, Max Harris writes that at the Council of Basel in 1435, legislations concerning feasts and liturgies were undertaken to regulate church order. Still, very few of the practices involved seem to have come under actual condemnation or been abolished until much later.85 These details widen the gap for medieval accounts during which dancing in and around churches in the Latin West, may not even have been considered problematic. I am not willing to make any conclusions about the dance practices based on these – probably incomplete – lists. Instead, my main concern is only, like Harris, to question how much of authority researchers give writer like Chamber and Gougaud for stating the ‘plain historical facts’, when it is more and more evident that they have structured their works on presumptions that cannot be verified. The examples displayed here of how the social imaginary of the time of Chambers and Gougaud has affected their way of portraying and understanding dance are in the background when I now go into analysing in further detail how Gougaud and Rahner have been portraying three particular situations where dancing has been practised. My choice of discussing and further examining, the Ceremonial Game Plays, the celebration of Corpus Christi and the Feast of Fools, is due not to the fact that these would be the only examples of dancing found from the medieval period. Rather, these examples are taken as they have been discussed in earlier research and reinterpreting them can thus function as a correction for how dancing has been categorised so that it is not rendered theological or social significance, how dance practices have been separated from their liturgical context, and how the chronology of prohibitions against dance have been constructed so that important forms of

83 See also these examples in relation to the Feast of Fools. Harris (2011), 3–4. 84 Harris (2011), 132. 85 Harris (2011), 218–22.

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liturgical celebration and festal periods of the year are misconstrued into either non-existence or interpreted as banal entertainment. In the remaining part of this chapter, I will give three different examples of practices in which I claim Gougaud was unable to imagine dance having a liturgical function. These are the Ceremonial Game Plays, the celebration of Corpus Christi and the Feast of Fools. In relating to these practices, I aim to demonstrate how other researchers, even though sometimes building extensively on Gougaud’s ground-work, are beginning to re-imagine the bones of these practices in new constellations. Instead of Gougaud’s indirect requirement of needing textual theological interpretation of the symbology of each dance to render it liturgical, I approach the dances from another perspective. What I will do, is instead to describe the social imaginary were these practices were conducted, with the help of myths, legends, stories, handbooks with descriptions of ritual practices and artwork. Once the historical context of the praxis and the worldview are described, we have a possible liturgical and social framework within which we can ask how a particular form of dancing could be made understandable. This is to re-imagine both the dance and the thick texture of Christian norms, values, and practices which created its context. The first example of a dance practice which was not understood by Gougaud’s to have any liturgical significance, even though it is found in his text as a historical event, is the game of pila, pelota or pilota. 2.a. Ceremonial Game Plays

Both Rahner and Gougaud are aware of the accounts of playing pilota in the churches during Easter time.86 Pilota was known to Lilly Grove87 and is given the most extensive symbolical explanation by George Robert Stowe Mead in his articles ‘Ceremonial Game-Playing and Dancing in Medieval Churches’ from 1912 and ‘Ceremonial Dances and Symbolic Banquets in Medieval Churches’ from 1913. The descriptions of the Pilota come to us from various sources. Sometimes these sources pertain to chapter records from different cathedrals and multiple cities, mostly within France.88 Yet, accounts also come from liturgical sources, such as William Durand (1230–1296), canon of Narbonne and bishop of Mende’s: ‘Rationale Divinorum Officiorum’ or John Beleth.89 In Gougaud, Mead and Rahner references are made to ceremonial ball games where the clergy led the congregation in dances accompanied by songs. This happened either in the courtyard of the bishop’s palace, 86 Gougaud (1914), 235–36; Rahner (1967), 83–86. 87 Grove (2013), 9–10. 88 Unfortunately, I have not had direct access to these primary sources, so they are referred to only through secondary sources. 89 Beleth’s contribution is referred to by Gougaud as Rationale, cap 120: PL, t. CCII, col. 123 in Gougaud (1914), 325; by Rahner as Rationale Divinorum Officiorum, 120 (PL 202, 123C) in Rahner (1967), 84; Mead speaks about: Divinorum Officiorum ac eorundem Rationum Explicatio. c. 120:

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in the cloisters or inside the church; such as the cathedral choir or the nave of the church. What made it a game is the fact that the dancing and singing was combined with the tossing to and fro of a home-made ball. Where there was a labyrinth pattern on the church floor, the game was played above it.90 The difference between the accounts by Gougaud, Mead and Rahner are quite striking. As already stated, for Gougaud, dancing and games were not liturgical acts but instead are described by him as the entertainment of the clergy and traditional customs.91 Gougaud gives details about the different accounts, yet as his narrative framework is one of the evolutionary thinking of social Darwinism and strict categorisation between pagan and true Christian, there is scant capacity to see theological symbols in these acts.92 Rahner, on the other hand, sees deeply symbolic acts and interprets the situation through a theological description: Moving in solemn dance step along the convulsions of such a labyrinth, the bishop and the clerks of Auxerre would throw the Easter ball to one another, rejoicing like children in their redemption, for this was the evening of the day that had celebrated the victorious sun of the Easter. We shall surely not be in error in supposing that all this was a cultic development that had now taken on Christian colours.93 In Rahner’s world, the cultic aspect of the game of pilota is not just a Germanic remnant, but could be described through the lens of platonic and Neoplatonic traits within Christianity.94 Thus, he links these games to the Pascal hymn written by Hippolytus (200–50): O thou leader of the mystic round-dance! O divine Pasch and new feast of all things! O cosmic festal gathering!

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Migne, P. L., torn. 202 (Paris, 1855) in Mead (1926), 104; while Mews has in mind Summa de ecclesiasticis officiis, (H. Douteil, CCCM 41–41A, 1976, Turnhout) which I will use, in Mews (2009), 512, 515–22. Gougaud (1914), 20, 232–36; Rahner (1967), 83–86; Mead (1926), 91–123. Gougaud (1914), 235. A similar approach is also found in newer studies, such as: Hayes (2003), 64–65. About dances in the spring Gougaud speaks in general thus: ‘L’apparition du printemps, de “la saison jolye”, était le signal d’une nouvelle période de fêtes. Au moyen âge, dans toutes les campagnes de l’Europe occidentale, on a célebré avec allégresse les calendes de mai, appelées maieroles en France, kalenda maya en Provence, calendimaggio en Italie (3). Gaston Paris a tracé un frais tableau des parades rustiques auxquelles on se livrait à ce moment de l’année. “Aux jours du renouveau et particulièrement le premier mai, on allait aux bois chercher le mai, on s’habillait de feuillages, on rapportait des fleurs à brassées, on ornait de violettes les portes des maisons;… C’était le moment où sur la prairie verdoyante les jeunes filles et les jeunes femmes menaient des rondes pour ainsi dire rituelles” (4). Après l’engourdissement de l’hiver, la danse reprenait, en effet, de blus belle’. Gougaud (1914), 20. For Pilota in particular see: Gougaud (1914), 234–36. Rahner (1967), 85–86. Rahner (1967), 84–90.

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O joy of the universe, honour, ecstasy, exquisite delight by which dark death is destroyed… and the people that were in the depths arise from the dead to announce to all the host of heaven: The thronging choir from earth is coming home.95 Rahner forges together the liturgically approved songs of Easter joy and the dancing game of Pilota. As I understand Rahner, his interpretation of the symbology of dance and the place of playing games within the church, are not merely an external or foreign pattern laid upon dance. Instead, Rahner seems to be in search of deep theological meaning in the act of rejoicing, which is in line with the experiences of dancing itself. Furthermore, describing this kind of joyous movements as an appropriate response to resurrection is not just found in the songs of the Early Church or the Neoplatonic views about the cosmic dance Rahner is referring to. Also, in Christian artwork can such attitudes to life in Christ be found. In one of the earliest medieval Latin images of the Lord himself that I found during my visits to museums across Europe, Jesus leaps with joy and the angels all around him gesture in dance-like moves of worship. Plate 1 shows such an image on a frankish casket from the eleventh century. Underneath Christ and the angels – people gaze with raised hands at the centre of new life. We do not know if this is a scene associated with Pascal Joy, yet it is clear that rejoicing could and was portrayed in dance-like movements for the Christians of the Early Church.96 This Frankish Casket with scenes from the life of Christ even comes from the same region where the joyful Easter dances and games are played. Furthermore, the smaller images on each side of the leaping Jesus, resemble Gospel stories portraying his death and resurrection. Some interpretations state that the scenes here depict Christ’s life from annunciation to the Ascension, in which case this image might portray his Ascension. However, I am uncertain on which grounds such an interpretation is made and it further does not devaluate the joy depicted.97 Consequently, though, we cannot draw direct connections between this particular image of Jesus and the angels rejoicing in dance-like movements and the practices of Easter games in the cathedrals of France a hundred years later. Still, this piece of artwork does depict the fact that the idea of dancing at Easter, would not have been a foreign point of reference when portraying joy, to the Christians of the time. In another early altarpiece from Constantinople, depicting scenes from the life of Christ, a similar pattern is replicated. Plate 2a and the detail on 2b, show the altarpiece in question. In this triptych on the right side wing, Christ is seated in a 95 Hippolytus, Homiliae in Pascha, 6 (PG 59, 744D). 96 For more current work on this theme see particularly: Dilley (2013), 244–46. 97 Source W. I thank Stephan Borgehammar for pointing this out to me.

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Plate 1. Frankish Casket with scenes from the life of Christ (1100), Unknown artist.98

throne carried by angels. Here also, the last scene in the right upper corner, may be an Ascension scene. Jesus is seated on a throne, below him are two angels that are found holding hands with a non-angelic being. My understanding of this image is that when Christ is elected and celebrated the humans and angels join in praise that include dance-like movements.98 In both of these images, the artwork depicts ideas of what was plausible. In my theoretical framework, I have called this artefact as an image. From images such as these, it is not possible to claim certainty of actual practice with full clarity. Yet, if we do recognise these portrayals as similar to dancing, we may conclude that rejoicing in dance-like moves seems to have been understood as an honorary act, worthy of being portrayed on sacred objects and a gesture associated with God himself as well as with angels. In line with this art, for Rahner, merry-making does not need to be a superficial act of entertainment (as in the interpretative framework of Gougaud). Rejoicing in dance and play carries theological meaning. Rahner goes as far as claiming eutrapelia a forgotten virtue of Christian theology. In his reading of Aristotle’s Nicomachean

98 Bode-museum, Berlin visited 15.09.2016. Image from the library collection: Item inv. no. 616, Szenen aus dem Leben Christi, Buchkasten (?) um 1100, Entstehungsort stilistisch: Franken, Bamberg (?), Unknown artist.

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Plate 2a&b. Triptych from the second half or the end of the 10th century and detail from the same.99

Ethics, he challenges the interpretations made by Thomas of Aquinas and the scholastic tradition, where almost any kind of jollification is looked upon with suspicion. 100 Rahner is clear to state that eutrapelia shifted meaning over time. Even though it originally was a state in between the vulgar buffoon – ready to sell his soul for jokes and cries of laughter – and the stiff boor, who took everything so severely that he was offended even for the sake of others, this was not the case anymore. By the time of St Paul, the original Greek middle-ground of a truly well-cultured person – where the body and soul were so finely tuned and balanced that he could be seen as relaxed and well-turning in every situation – had already left the expression of eutrapelia.101 This means that with the Fathers of the Church and Vulgate translation of the Bible, eutrapelia became associated with the witty person who wanted to impress or the foolish chatter of the whims of the world, often associated with the devil’s way of distractions.102 This does not hinder Rahner from stating that his view is that a more refined theological reading of eutrapelia, is one where it lies in the nature of humankind to strive, toil and exhaust himself in body, mind and soul. Thus, learning to relax and revitalise the person is a core feature of a well-turning human.103 There is more to play than play being a form of re-creation.104 Rahner only hints at these theological themes at the end of his last chapter of Man at Play. Even though 99

99 Le Louvre Museum, Paris visited 02.09.2016. Wikimedia Commons: Scenes from the life of Jesus Christ, triptych. Constantinople, late tenth c., crimson ivory, Unknown artist. 100 Rahner (1967), 91. 101 Rahner (1967), 94–96. Example is given from Eph 5:4 and comments in Ep. ad Ephesios III, 5 (PL 26, 520) Exegesis on the Pauline eutrapelia. 102 Rahner (1967), 96–98. 103 Rahner (1967), 101–04. 104 For a more in-depth study see: Ohaneson (2013).

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Rahner takes more out of Cicero than I deem necessary for a Christian account,105 ending his work by stating that Aquinas let in even the actors of theatre into Heaven, is surprising.106 I take this as meaning that enjoyment and merry-making are not just pastime pleasures for the remedy of a tired soul on earth, but can also display the coming bliss of Heaven and give a foretaste of the life expected in the New Creation.107 Rahner’s interpretations show that for him, the Game of Pilota does not need to be detached from a theological framework within which it becomes meaningful. Play and dance may be a communal utterance of joy, show reverent worship, express the balanced new life in Christ and be a sign of the New Creation. I suspect that much of Rahner’s conclusions build not only on the fact that he is well versed in Greek thinking, but that he used G. R. S. Mead’s accounts and interpretations of the Game of Pilota as his main resource in understanding the practice. When turning to Mead’s accounts, the idea of enjoyment and play as parts of the New Creation are strong narratives that define his framework. Mead, Gougaud and Rahner use the same bones, but apply different narratives to their interpretation. Neither Mead nor Craig Wright in his The Maze and the Warriors has the pre-set framework that dancing must be a detested pagan practice. If anything, their pre-set mental frame seems to be disposed towards pagan remnants somehow being more genuine religious expressions. This attitude seems to push both these men to dig deeper into the archives and find more – bones – historical materials to take into account, thus broadening the perspective given by Gougaud. As stated already in the chapter on earlier research, I am not ready to embrace Mead’s historical imagination whole-heartedly and have some remarks on Wright’s account too, but I do think that Rahner’s interpretations have gained something from reading Mead. I will aim at displaying this in the following. First of all, when Mead writes his article concerning ceremonial game-playing and dancing, he joins all of the accounts – gathered from different parts of France – into one storyline. This is contrary to Gougaud and Rahner, who keeps each example of Ceremonial Game Plays as separate descriptions. Even when the name of the practice would vary between pilota, pila, grolia or la grolée and even an Easter Bergeretta, Mead joins these together as variants of the same feast.108 There is also a limit to doing this kind of joining of dispatched bones to each other. What is swept over, quite lightly in Mead, is the fact that some of these accounts speak about a Ceremonial Game Play or similar kind of dancing, during Christmas, not Easter. To conclude Mead’s points, what he describes is the following: The Pilota is a ball game which functioned as a liturgical enactment of jubilation after the Easter passion. 105 Rahner (1967), 102–04. 106 Rahner (1967), 104. We will return to the theatre and those kinds of plays further ahead. My surprise was due to the rather well-known fact that theological authors have been highly negative and condemning towards both actors and theatrical plays. More on this see: Webb (2008). 107 This kind of reading is not foreign to the Christian traditions. See, for example, the visions of the Martyrs Felicitatis et Perpetuae which are beyond the scope of this study. Rahner (1967), 61. 108 See Mews comments on this. Mews (2009), 520, fn 21.

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This was followed by a love feast where both clergy and laity shared food and wine.109 Mead shows the capacity of understanding that the Easter period liturgically carried the potential of being a part of the year when practices that might not have fitted into every Sunday service were not only acceptable but even fitting for seasons of what Taylor has described as High Time. However, Mead’s narrative framework did not arise from a medieval social imaginary, but that of romanticising a sacred dance tradition of esoteric wisdom. Meads narrative framework is laden with symbology, often freely combining both Hellenistic accounts with what Mead sees as ritual folkloric traditions into what he perceives as Christian frames.110 As stated earlier, many of his conclusions – in my opinion – best read as esoteric fantasies. Nonetheless, there is richness in the kind of narrative framework that is created by the imaginary Mead provides. When the depictions of dance are read not as separated entities but rather as a cluster of similar activities, a much broader image appears. I think it is due to reading such a ‘thick’ description where imagination has been given more free play that also Rahner is able to make associations to Nicomachean Ethics and Neoplatonic thought when he wants to interpret these same historical accounts. However, the difference between these two men is that Rahner is more prone to consider many different viewpoints before he presents his conclusions, while Mead clearly has a narrative framework he wants to promote; that of there being ancient pagan wisdom that has been distorted by mainstream Christianity. Mead propagates restoration of what has been lost, while Rahner balances between a hermeneutics of suspicion and charity. Another way in which Mead’s account is more vivid than those given by Gougaud and Rahner is that he integrates a close reading of the letters by historian Jean Lebeuf (1687–1760), written around 1726, into his study.111 The letters have been published in the archives of Auxerre under the title ‘Remarques sur les anciennes Rejouissances Ecclesiastiques’, in Mercure de France.112 According to Mead, Lebeuf gathers information on the ball-game pilota and the dancing that accompanied this Easter celebration, in these letters. Starting from the first remarks on creation and the costs of the ball, in an ordinance of the chapter, dated April 18, 1398,113 and moving to

109 Mead (1926), 249–51. 110 Mead (1926), 97, fn 2; 99, fn 2; 105–09. 111 Lebeuf is know also to Gougaud, Wright and Constant Mews, but their emphasis on the details is not as thorough as Meads reading. 112 This information comes from Mead (1926), 91–92, and C. Wright (2001), 139–40. I have been unable to read the originals of these remarks. Only references to the Christmas celebrations can be found under a similar title in Genet (1768). 113 This translation is that of C. Wright (2001), 139–40; from Lebeuf ‘Remarques sur les anciennes Rejouissances Ecclesiastiques’ Mercure de France, May 1726, 911–25, esp. 921–22: ‘Accepta pilota a proselyto seu tirone Canonico, Decanus, aut alter pro eo olim gestans in capite almutiam ceterique pariter, aptam diei Festo Paschae Prosam antiphonabat quae incipit Victimae Paschali laudes: tum laeva pilotam apprehendens, ad Prosae decantatae numerosos sonos tripudium agebat, ceteris manu prehensis choream circa daedalum ducentibus, dum interim per alternas vices pilota singulis aut pluribus ex choribaudis a Decano serti in speciam tradebatur aut jaciebatur. Lusus erat et organi ad choreae numeros. Prosa ac saltatione finitis chorus post choream ad merendam properabat.

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the shifts in attitude around why and for whom this game was done, on Easter day, April 14, 1471, to the first charges against the practice on April 22, 1521, the letters end with the full abolition of such a practice sometime before the end of 1600.114 Reading these descriptions enrich the accounts with valuable details. Constant J. Mews in ‘Liturgists and dance in the twelfth century: the witness of John Beleth and Sicard of Cremona’. (2009), structures his understanding of the pila similarly as Mead. He also reads the historical depictions from the twelfth and thirteenth century in combination with the letters found from Jean Lebeuf. He is calling parts of the latter an eye-witness account of the dancing that took place at the maze of the Cathedral in Reims.115 Where Mews’s account differs from all of the above is in the fact that he turns his attention to the shifts between how different people portray the dancing in different periods. Both Mews and Mead argue that building a thesis on accounts that have their focus on the decline of a practice can be problematic.116 Mead states that even though Lebeuf does provide the reader with descriptions of how the dancing happened, he and his contemporaries made it clear that this kind of behaviour was considered foolish.117 The apparent contempt found in the tone of the writing leaves readers today in an uncertain situation concerning the accuracy of these descriptions and the intent of the writer. Contrary to Gougaud, however, Mead does not find condemning or rebuking accounts to be a sign that a particular practice has always been under critique. Instead, he contextualises and reads each statement as part of the specific time in which it was written. Rahner seems to have been persuaded to do the same, by Mead’s arguments. Mews takes this kind of contextualisation even further.

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Ibi omnes de Capitulo, sed et capellani atque Officiarii, cure quibusque nobilioribus oppidanis in corona sedebant in subselliis seu orchestra; quibus singulis nebulae oblatae, bellariola, fructeta, et cetera hujusmodi cum apri, cervi aut leporis conditorum frustulo offerebantur, vinumque candidum ac rubrum modeste ac moderate una scilicet aut altera vice propinabatur, lectore interim e cathedra aut pulpito Homiliam festivam concinente. Mox signis majoribus ex turri ad Vesperas, etc.’ Mews further writes that Lebeuf ’s article was reproduced anonymously in Leber (1826). Mews (2009), 518, fn 18. I have not been able to determine exactly when the practice of pilota ended as Mead writes both that: ‘The repast was commuted into a sum of money which all the newly received canons had to pay, and which was called pilota up to 1789’. Mead (1926), 96. While Lebeuf clearly seems to be describing something that had not been experienced during his life-time. Thus, my conclusion is that the name stayed long after the practice had been abolished. Further, the records in Mead state that changes occurred in the architectural settings already earlier: ‘Then the sequence “Praises to the Paschal Victim” was chanted, accompanied by the organ, in order to make the singing more regular and more in time with the dance-movement. The organ was within hearing of the actors or executants, as they played their parts almost underneath the organ-loft (or organ-case, buffet), at a place in the nave where, prior to 1690, was to be seen a kind of labyrinth, in the form of several interlaced circles, as is still the case in the cathedral of Sens’. Mead (1926), 98. This again, giving the impression that the dancing may have continued longer than year 1600. Mews (2009), 518–19. Mews (2009), 519, fn 19. Mead (1926), 91–92, 100.

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When Mews approaches the historical records on pilota or pila, he separates the remarks made by Sicard of Cremona (1185–1215) in his Mitralis de Officio from around the year 1200,118 from the earlier writings of other church authorities. According to Mews already in Gemma animae composed in the early twelfth century, Honorius Augustodunensis (1080–1140) wrote about games and dancing for his more monastic audience.119 Furthermore, John Beleth (1135–1182) wrote his De ecclesiasticis officiis as a secular cleric in Paris, probably around the years 1150–1160, were also the ball game and dancing is mentioned.120 At a first glance, joining these accounts with the later descriptions of Lebeuf, seem to indicate that the tradition of pilota may have existed for over 600 years, in the French territories. However, the differences between these accounts and the ones to come are according to Constant Mews, striking.121 Concerning the descriptions of the pilota, he states that in the earlier records of Honorius Augustodunensis and John Beleth, there is somewhat of an ambivalent relationship to be found concerning the practice of games that might have had a pagan root to them. None of these authors seems to have issues with dancing being a form of praise, but what raises suspicion is the ball-game.122 Contrary to these men, when Sicard of Cremona relates to the games and dances and their historical backgrounds, he describes them in the following way: And note that the gentiles established circular dances to honor idols, so that they might praise their gods by voice and serve them with their whole body, wanting to foreshadow in them in their own way something of the mystery. For through the circling, they understood the revolution of the firmament; through the joining of hands, the interconnection of the elements, through the gestures of bodies, the motions of the signs or planets; through the melodies of singers, the harmonies of the planets; through the clapping of hands and the stamping of

118 Mews (2009), 512–13. Mews writes: ‘Sicard of Cremona, Mitralis de Officiis 6.15, ed. Gabor Sarbak and Lorenz Weinrich, Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Mediaeualis (CCCM) 228 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2008), 545–46; PL 213: 351D–352B. Augustine Thompson draws extensively on the testimony of Sicard, including his comments about Easter, in Cities of God: The Religion of the Italian Communes, 1125–1325 (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2005), 335. Lorenz Weinrich suggests that the Mitralis, not widely circulated outside northern Italy, was written over several years, between 1191 and 1205: ‘Die Handschriften des “Mitralis de officiis” des Sicard von Cremona’, in Franz J. Felten and Nikolas Jaspert, eds, Vita Religiosa im Mittelalter: Festschrift für Kaspar Elm zum 70. Geburtstag (Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 1999), 865–876’. Mews (2009), 512, fn 2. 119 Mews (2009), 512. Mews writes: ‘Honorius Augustodunensis, Gemma animae, PL 172: 541D–738B; Valerie I. J. Flint lists more than fifty surviving manuscripts in Honorius Augustodunensis, Authors of the Middle Ages (Aldershot, U.K.: Ashgate, 1995), 164’. Mews (2009), 512, fn 3. 120 Mews (2009), 512. Mews writes: ‘John Beleth, Summa de ecclesiasticis officiis, ed. Heribert Douteil, CCCM 41–41A (Turnhout: Brepols, 1976); Douteil describes over one hundred and eighty surviving manuscripts, CCCM 41: 75*–271*, assigning most of the ones he uses to the thirteenth century (CCCM 41: 13*)’. Mews (2009), 512, fn 3. 121 Mews (2009), 515. 122 Mews (2009), 512–16.

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feet, the sounding of thunder; but what those people showed to their idols, the worshipers of the one God converted to his praise. For the people who crossed from the Red Sea are said to have led a circular dance, Mary is reported to have sung with the tambourine; and David danced before the ark with all his strength and composed psalms with his harp, and Solomon placed singers around the altar, who are said to have created sound with voice, trumpet, cymbals, organs, and other musical instruments.123 Sicard of Cremona’s attitude is to reframe some of the harsher statements of the earlier liturgical manuscripts so that the ‘problem’ of a practice having pagan roots is diminished.124 Cremosa is also critical to games that might turn violent.125 However, what this text states is that whatever the practices of gentiles may have been, the followers of one true God, could convert these practices into worship.126 Looking thus, at the statements from the medieval records, rather than the interpretations of these, made by Gougaud, Rahner or Mead, seem to indicate that for the people of the enchanted world, dancing and singing following the Biblical examples of Mirjam, David and Jewish Temple worship, were not problematic even when they might have simulated the known movements of Greek and Roman customs. What is striking to note is that there is no apparent problem for these writers to turn the earlier Greek writing on cosmic dance of the elements and stars into a praise of the triune God.127 We will have reason to return to both of these discussions further ahead. For now, it is time to turn to the architectural features of the game. Architectural bones Neither Gougaud or Rahner pay very much attention to the space where the dancing was performed. In order to get an understanding of this, we need to turn

123 Mews (2009), 513. Mews writes: ‘Sicard of Cremona, Mitralis 6.15, CCCM 228: 545–46. The editors note that lines (…) 486–99 are copied from Honorius, Gemma animae 139, PL 172: 587CD; (…) copied phrases are cited in italics (…): “Et attende, quod gentilitas ad plausum idolorum choreas instituit, ut deos suos, et uoce laudarent, et eis toto corpore seruirent, uolentes etiam in eis aliquid more suo figurare misterii; nam per circuitionem [Honorius: per choreas autem] intelligebant firmamenti reuolutionem, per manuum complexionem elementorum connexionem, per melodias cantantium harmonias planetarum; per corporum gesticulationes [Honorius: per corporis gesticulationem], signorum uel planetarum motiones [Honorius: motionem]; per plausum manuum et strepitum pedum crepitationes tonitruorum. Sed quod illi suis idolis exhibuerunt, cultores unius Dei ad ipsius praeconia conuerterunt [Honorius: Quod fideles imitati sunt, et in servitium veri Dei converterunt]. Nam populus de mari Rubro egressus, choream duxisse, et Maria cum timpano legitur praecinuisse, et David ante arcam totis uiribus saltauit et cum cithara psalmos cecinit, et Salomon circa altare cantores instituit, qui uoce, tuba, cimbalis, organis et aliis musicis instrumentis cantica personuisse leguntur”’. Mews (2009), 513, fn 4. 124 See the details of these in Mews (2009), 513–22. 125 Mews (2009), 515. 126 In some ways this is similar to the interpretations given by monastic writers in Egypt on how to deal with remnants of earlier traditions. See particularly, The Life of Shenoute in Yingling (2013), 270–71. 127 More on this see: Miller (1986).

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to Craig Wright’s The Maze and the Warriors or Penelope Reed Doob’s The Idea of the Labyrinth from Classical Antiquity through the Middle Ages (1990). Wright, just like Mead, is unbothered by the fact that later accounts came to condemn the pila and the architectural features of labyrinths and mazes in the churches of medieval Europe.128 Much of Wright’s sources are actually taken, as in the case of Mead, from accounts written in the mid-1700s when a ‘cleaning away’ of medieval materials from various church buildings was initiated.129 According to Wright, liturgical practices in association with the maze – including dance or games in combination with celebrations centring around the Easter feasts – can be found in the chapter records of the following places; in the archdiocese of Sens,130 the Notre-Dame of Chartres in Paris131 as well as the cathedrals of Sens132 and Auxerre.133 In Lebeuf ’s records, according to Mead and Mews, the game of pelota was also played in Narbonne, accompanied by a feast similar to that in Auxerre, even though there was no maze or labyrinth to be found in that cathedral.134 Finally, Max Harris argues that Jean Lebeuf also speaks about a five hundred years old manuscript from Vienne, which describes an Easter ball game.135

128 Wright writes: ‘Archaeological data suggest, moreover that church mazes created during the Middle Ages were constructed in only two countries: the lands of modern-day Italy and France. Of course there were once church mazes in other countries, but these have disappeared in the course of time. In Germany, for example, a late-thirteenth-century maze once rested on the floor of St Severin’s in Cologne, but only the center stone of this maze survives today. In England labyrinths were added to churches at Alkborough, Bourn, and Ely in the nineteenth century, late monuments attesting to a Romantic nostalgia for the Middle Ages and the attending “Gothic Revival”. There are, however, no authentic medieval church floor mazes in England such as the ones that survive in Italy and France. For whatever reason, the English chose to create outdoor mazes in fields and meadows but not indoor mazes within churches’. C. Wright (2001), 29. 129 C. Wright (2001), 41, 47. In neither Auxerre, Sens nor Notre-Dame of Chartres was I able to see traces of these labyrinths or mazes. Not even in the museums were there at display information about them. Visits made: Notre-Dame de Paris (2016) Paris; Cathédrale Saint-Étienne (2019) Auxerre; Saint-Germain (2019) Auxerre; Musée de Sense (2019); Cathédrale Saint-étienne de Sens (2019) Sense. 130 ‘In Gallo-Roman times Sens was a more important commercial center than Paris, and the archbishop of Sens was of greater ecclesiastical authority than the bishop of Paris’. C. Wright (2001), 45. 131 C. Wright (2001), 38–39, 41, 43–44; on the possible practice of dances see C. Wright (2001), 147–50. 132 C. Wright (2001), 145–47. 133 C. Wright (2001), 45, 139–45. 134 Mead (1926), 101; Mews (2009), 519–20. 135 ‘A more positive early reference to the ball game is found in a document, described by a correspondent of Jean Lebeuf in 1727 as a “five-hundred year-old manuscript”, from Vienne cathedral. The manuscript’s Easter Monday rubrics stipulate: “Before vespers, while the bells are being rung, the whole chapter should gather in the house of the archbishop; there meats are to be brought for them, and the archbishop’s servants are to put hippocras [pigmentum] on the table with the other things, and afterward wine. Afterward the archbishop should throw the ball”. A later hand, estimated by Lebeuf ’s correspondent to be only “two hundred years old”, has added in the margin, “If the archbishop is absent, his deputy must provide the ball and throw it”. Accepting these dates, Lebeuf observes that the ball game “survived in Vienne for at least three centuries”. From Leber, 20:319–20,

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Illustration 11. Map with the sites of labyrinths and manuscripts describing a Celebratory Ball Game136

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Besides, mazes or labyrinths could be found in the archdiocese of Reims; 137 in the cathedrals at Amiens and Arras as well as Reims itself; as well as the gigantic collegiate church of St Quentin,138 which sat within the diocese of Noyon; the monastery of St Bertin and in St Omer in the diocese of Therouanne.139 In the latter cases, Wright argues that the constructions bore similar liturgical and theological purposes even though no textual traces of dance have been found.140 As already stated in the case of Mead, putting together various sources in this manner creates a rich canvas. Even though one needs to move lightly in associating one situation and city with another, the small, otherwise easily dispatched details come alive in these accounts in a different way than with Rahner and Gougaud. My artist collaborator, Minna Aalto has created a map to display the places where dancing with a ball and labyrinths can be found. Illustration 11, depicts the sites of labyrinths and manuscripts where the descriptions of the Celebratory Ball Game includes mentions of dance. The blue markings show all the places where labyrinths are said to be found within church buildings. The purple markings show the cities and spaces from where manuscripts have been found describing a Celebratory Ball Game. Wright’s accounts give the reader a rich pattern of places and spaces combined with the liturgical descriptions of chapter records. However, his statements, also promoted by Mews that we should imagine mazes and dances to have survived in various places across Europe is to my mind an unverified addition to this account.141 Wright further ventures into giving a description of the meaning of the artwork in the maze and interpreting the movements by clergy and laity in the dances and games from a symbolic theological viewpoint.142 However, his is a story of Hellenistic mythology changed into Christian practice rather than an in-depth theological understanding based on biblical stories or other documents describing a medieval Christian worldview. Contrary to Wright, Penelope Reed Doob in The Idea of the Labyrinth describes that the typical medieval mazes consisted of a clearly Christian symbology where 136

136 137 138 139 140 141 142

reprinting an article by Jean Lebeuf originally published in Mercure de France (March 1727); Du Cange, s.v. pelota (6:253). For the use of pigmentum to designate hippocras, a cordial made of wine, sugar, and various spices, see Leber, 9:426’. Harris (2011), 55, fn 5. Illustrations based on a historic map of Europe from 1453, by Aalto (2020). ‘To the kings of France the city of Reims (160 kilometres east of Paris) was arguably the most important in their realm, for it was in the cathedral of Reims that the French monarchy formally began’. C. Wright (2001), 49. Only one of them, the maze at St Quentin, survives today in its original state. C. Wright (2001), 50. I have been unable to visit any of these sites, so I have no personal insight to the state or display of these mazes or their history, in these spaces. Wright further adds: The rumours that claim that mazes were once found at the cathedrals of Noyon and Laon are still bruited about, but no evidence survives to support this claim. C. Wright (2001), 50. Particularly the accounts speaking of Mazes in nature and Maze-like rituals in various forms. I doubt that all and any reference to a Maze, can accurately be interpreted as Easter rituals of the church and its clergy. Mews (2009), 522. C. Wright (2001), 41, 43–44, 56–57, 73–74, 80, 84–86, 123–24, 132–50.

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perfect circle shaped forms, representing creation, cosmos and eternity, were stamped with the cross of Christ breaking into human life and Christian history.143 Her reading of the archaeological and manuscript materials on labyrinths has much more of a storyline depicting continuation and discontinuation. More importantly, though, Doob is critical to modern understandings of labyrinths projected unto earlier practices. She centres her interpretation of the practices of medieval use of labyrinths into clearly Christian social imaginaries. Integrating not only visual and architectural materials with early Christian textual sources on labyrinths but also following the development of how the use of symbols and metaphors may have changed from one period to another.144 Doob particularly pinpoints the differences found between multicursal and unicursal models of labyrinth’s. She also depicts their use in Christian narratives as well as how the placing of a labyrinth on a baptismal font compared to church floor or book manuscript, might change its interpretational use.145 As an example, she states that Gregory of Nyssa did see the multicursal maze in relation to baptism, as an adept metaphor, as Christ is the one that both saves and leads humans out of the death and chaos of life without God.146 However, this similarity between Christ and the Greek mythology of Thereus meeting the Minotaur, should not be projected on all uses of labyrinths in a Christian context. Hers, is a reading where the arguments made by Gregory of Nyssa, may have been known by medieval writers, however, what is more likely, is the fact that once the labyrinth form changed – to more harmonious patterns, where there were no dead-ends – also the understanding and use of these, carried new meanings.147 Furthermore, Wright does not aim at understanding the dances intrinsically or imagine the experiences from the viewpoint of the dancers as followers of Christ, as often is the case in Mead’s accounts (even when Meads accounts might be a Christianity foreign to the medieval world).148 Contrary to these men, Penelope Reed Doob’s understanding is that in the medieval period, labyrinth’s and dance together, constituted a celebratory performance that imitated and invoked the cosmic order of the Christ-Theseus, moving from hell through the mysteries of Easter into eternal bliss. As a teacher of dance herself, Doob imagines how and in which choreographic patterns, the architectural clues, narrative frameworks and liturgical details known to us from the medieval period, could make sense.149 This means that for her, neither Chamber’s interpretation of the ball in the game of pilota as a symbol of the sun and Christ, nor the depictions of the mazes as patterns leading people to condemnation can be directly applied to the medieval practices. Instead, the garland-like joining of hands and tripudium steps over the circular



143 144 145 146 147 148 149

Doob (1990), 103. Doob (1990), 2–5, 117–44. Doob (1990), 46–51, 117–45. Doob (1990), 72–74. Doob (1990), 125–33. Mead (1926), 101–03. Doob (1990), 124–28.

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patterns of the labyrinth in Auxerre, need to be understood as a praise of Christ.150 Penelope Reed Doob presents two alternative understandings of the dances, that she finds the most likely interpretations for what is practiced. Either, the dances are to be read as signifying a cosmology of perfect creation – where the clergy moving as Christ – is showing the magnificence of God’s creation. For this, she pinpoints not only the resurrection character of Christ, but the circular format of most church mazes (including Auxerre) and the exact number and form of the circles coinciding with archeological and cosmic details.151 In my point of view, this interpretation further works well with the aforementioned text by Sicard of Cremosa, where he too draws his understanding of dance on cosmic symbology. The second option is more in line with the octagonal shape of the mazes found in St Quentin, Arras, Reims and Amiens. The form of these mazes coincide with labyrinths found in San Michele in Pavia, Lucca Cathedral and San Vitale in Ravenna, all showing signs that the centre of the maze had an image or description indicating either; the Minotaur, a dragon or David slaying Goliath.152 Combining the form of the maze with the imagery and texts, a patterns open up for a slightly more performative character of the play. In these kinds of examples, Doob suggests that the dancing could instead be understood as an enactment of the clergy tossing the ball at the person in the centre of the labyrinth as both a tool of the destruction of evil and an instrument of salvation bringing the community from death into light.153 What is significant in Doob’s readings, is not to find what really happened – as we cannot know with certainty – neither the meaning or the exact form of these rituals. Instead, what she has to offer, is a pattern that incorporated the view-point of dance and a social imaginary that is in line with the medieval stories, hymns and practices we know existed. Furthermore, her interpretation is one that gives room for regional, spacial and customary variety between the practices across Europe. By contrast, my concern with the interpretations given by Wright on dance is that he leans heavily on Backman’s writing on the Early Church.154 Doob also is aware of Backman’s work. However she is abstaining from referencing him in more detail and uses him never without further studies applying similar bones.155 More disturbingly, in many ways, Wright sounds very similar to Mead in his use of sources and descriptions without ever quoting or referencing any of Mead’s writings.156 Such a situation could, of course, be do to his and Mead’s mutual fascination with ancient mystery cults, which Wright and Mead also share with Chambers, Backman and many

150 Doob (1990), 124–27. 151 Doob (1990), 129–33. 152 I have not added these Italian places to the map, as there is no evidence to there being any dance practice attached to those settings. 153 Doob (1990), 126–28. 154 C. Wright (2001), 133–35, 137, 142. 155 Doob (1990), 123, fn 41; 125, fn 47. 156 C. Wright (2001), 14.

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others.157 Mainly Chambers is a strong source of reference for Wright.158 Nonetheless, the similarities between Mead’s symbolical interpretations and Wright’s account of how the practices around the mazes have evolved are also noted by Mews.159 Finally, what Wright’s statements – not refuted by Mews – want to promote is an interpretation that argues that the true roots of the labyrinth, the ball and the games all come directly from Greek mythology where what used to be the centre of the labyrinth, where Thereus met the Minotaur, now represents a confrontation with satan.160 Their interpretative patterns lack, all the sophisticated attention to detail offered by Doob. Their kind of interpretation I cannot promote, and it shows how an understanding of the medieval social imaginary lacks within the writing of these male authors. To further describe what I mean, the first additional conceptual tool of this chapter needs to be presented that of sacred space. 2.a.1. Sacred Space

In her study Body and Sacred Place in Medieval Europe 1100–1389 (2003), Dawn Marie Hayes writes about the importance of the church as a sacred space. As already highlighted in the last chapter when presenting the idea of an enchanted world, for the medieval person, there was a constant struggle between good and evil present in the world. For the porous self continually experiencing the forces of malign powers finding a safe haven in a church was of the utmost importance. We cannot know or understand exactly how a porous self, experienced the space of a church or the lack of protection outside such sacred zones, but what we do have, are the descriptions of the accounts of practices that were performed in consecrating churches and the space around them. Investigating such descriptions may open up our understanding of the social imaginary of the medieval person taking part in these practices.161 I partly turn to these depictions in order to deepen the understanding of an enchanted world. Instead of just taking Taylor’s descriptions of the social imaginary of the medieval 157 One of the instances where Wright’s text resembles Mead’s conclusions about the ball-game pelota is found in the following: ‘A more folkloric explanation sees in the spherical ball the orb of the rising sun, which was thought to dance on the horizon early on Easter morning. Since the dawn of Christianity, Christ has been termed the Sun of Justice (Sol justitiae) and the Sun of the Resurrection (Sol resurrectionis). Most likely, however, the pilota was a symbol of the cosmic harmony attendant upon a hero’s return to his rightful place in heaven. Since at least the twelfth century the clasping of hands and the rotation of the ringdance were taken to be signs of cyclical and eternal perfection, celestial elements brought to earth’. C. Wright (2001), 142. Where he references Chambers (1923), 128–29 and n. 4. See also: Backman, Dances, 71–72; Schnapper, ‘Dances’, 358; Kern, Labyrinthe, 191– 92; Hutton, Sun,  204; and Blackburn and Holford-Strevens, Year, 624. but leaves Mead unattended. For similar viewpoints see Mead (1926), 97–98, 105, 109–10. Another one is Mead’s attention to detail about the Lebeuf letter being reprinted in Leber’s Collection des meilleures Dissertations, Notices et Traites particuliers, relatifs a l’Histoire de France (Paris, 1826), torn. 9, under the title: ‘Curious Letter on the Game of Pelote and the Dance of the Canons of the Chapter of Auxerre’ in Mead (1926), 92. 158 C. Wright (2001), 84–85, 142. 159 Mews (2009), 519, fn 18, fn 19. 160 C. Wright (2001), 80–86, 142; Mews (2009), 520–21. 161 See the link described by N. T. Wright between praxis, worldview and stories in chapter 1.

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world for granted, I want to show how people in that period reasoned and described their actions. Dawn Hayes tells us that the rites of consecrating churches had three main phases. The first of these was the separation of the building from its physical surrounding. This was done by the bishop, clergy and the people circumambulating the edifice.162 In Mystical Mirror of the Church Hugh of St Victor (1096–1141) explains the event in even more detail. The circling was done three times whilst the bishop sprinkled holy water on the ground and surroundings. The movements of the people were also accompanied by burning candles and set phrases of blessing pronounced by the bishop and deacon.163 Hayes explains that the purpose of this part of the ceremony was to divide and conquer space.164 In the second phase, the conquering process continued but was extended through the gates and purifying the inside of the building took place. Both the building and the altar were sprinkled.165 Hugh of St Victor explains that a mixture of different herbs, ash and salt were used – each element having its own sacred and mystical meaning. Furthermore, writing was used on the floor and ceilings, as well as movements across space, all of which carried symbolic significance.166 Hayes further states that this was how impurities could be cleansed and the malefactors, driven away.167 In Hugh of St Victor’s account there is the additional element of singing, prayer and anointing of the walls and the altar with Holy Oil. Finally, the table of the high altar could then be covered with the purity of the white cloth.168 The third and final phase, according to Hayes, was the protection and fortification of this newly sanctified space. This was when the relics were brought to the main altar. During the vigil of the night before the relics had already been carried to a nearby place, but were subsequently consecrated in their designated place.169 The seal of this whole ritual was the celebration of the Mass culminating with the consumption of the body of Christ.170 The church building itself was described as a body, where certain parts were more sacred than others. These were, of course, the spaces where the wine and bread continuously became the body and blood of Christ, as well as the choir where the clergy performed and witnessed the miracle of transubstantiation.171 To suggest, like Wright and Mews does that there would be parts within the church building that signify the presence of the evil one, through the symbology

162 Hayes (2003), 11. 163 Hugh of St Victor, Mystical Mirror of the Church, chapter 2, 239A. See also the chapter 6 in Durand, Rationale Divinorum Officiorum I. 164 Hayes (2003), 11. 165 Hayes (2003), 11. 166 Hugh of St Victor, Mystical Mirror of the Church, chapter 2, 239A, 34–37. 167 Hayes (2003), 11–12. 168 Hugh of St Victor, Mystical Mirror of the Church, chapter 2, 239A, 36–38. 169 Hayes (2003), 12. 170 Hayes (2003), 12. 171 Hayes (2003), 53.

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Illustration 12a. Symbols to differentiate the spaces within a church complex.172

Illustration 12b. Map out the space of the church where dancing is described to have occurred.173

borrowed by pagan artists representing the Minotaur in his labyrinth, makes no sense whatsoever, within the social imaginary portrayed through the subsequent rituals. Furthermore, the division of space described in these rituals may signify that certain acts – performed close to the high altar – need to follow a specific ritual pattern, while a more liberating form of movement, might be fitting to for example the nave of the church. However, if dancing would have been seen as an altogether pagan act, it would not have fitted anywhere in this sacred space. To exemplify this point further, the the illustrations and 12b, of church interior shows how closely related the different parts of the church are. In illustration 12a I index the different kinds of spaces within a church complex that will be found in the bigger map of a church interior illustrated in 12b. The Nave is where the community gathered, the Choir where ordained clergy gathered, the Sanctuary where the Eucharist was kept. However, none of these are far apart from each other. Similarly, it is one thing to argue that older imagery would have been sanctified and transformed into new use, but a completely different idea to portray the kind of happy syncretism in artwork and architecture that Wrights account suggests. Particularly, when Mews has been able to verify that at least some of the mazes built 172 Illustrations based on historical manuscripts from a Cathedral in Nîmes, by Aalto (2020). 173 Illustrations based on historical manuscripts from a Cathedral in Nîmes, by Aalto (2020).

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within the Gothic cathedrals of Europe were constructed only in the thirteenth century.174 It is not likely that any new construction – be it cathedral or monastery – would commission highly skilled artists to create decorations and architectural details into the central parts of the sacred space of Christian worship, if they considered these constructions pagan.175 Of course one does find odd images of devils, grotesque animals or half-human forms both within and outside medieval church architecture which complicates my argument. Nevertheless, these symbols, artworks and architectural features are not found to be part of discussions on medieval liturgical praxis and described in manuals relating to worship as I show, is the case with dancing. Furthermore, Mews also shows that by the late thirteenth century, when William Durand (1237–1296), who was canon of Narbonne and bishop of Mende, in his Rationale divinorum officiorum writes about the pila, his language has changed. Mews argues that Durand comments should be read as turning more critical towards dancing and the game of pila, yet as the coming chapter on the Feast of Fools will show, this can also be read in another way. William Durand notes on the pila do not need to be understood as erasing the roots of dancing in churches, but actually describing a completely new kind of celebration. These are exactly the kinds of details that are obscured if one tries to piece together all the descriptions of dance as being one and the same thing. Let us now move into seeing what has been said about praise and how worship is depicted within the different parts of sacred space. Praise in Sacred Space

What my discussion so far, on architectural details, liturgical praxis and particularly the understanding of the importance of sacred space in the medieval social imaginary has brought with them, is a widened sense of imagining what role dancing may have played in the rituals of the church. To imagine an individual in the state of a porous self taking part in the kind of elaborated practice of ritual cleansing and consecration must have had profound consequences on one’s sense of security within such an edifice. Equally, in the state of a porous self the sense of agency goes both ways. It is not just that security is gained by the passive participation in ritual acts performed by others, but a lack of peacefulness can also be remedied by creating rituals and participating in their fulfilment.176 Raising the question, what role could dancing have played in these rituals? How did dancing matter? And what difference did it make, if any that dance was conducted outside or inside a church?

174 Mews (2009), 517; building on C. Wright (2001), 50–59. 175 This point was well made earlier by Doob pointing out the change of the form from multicursal to unicursal models as well as the typical circular harmonious patterns of medieval labyrinths, stamped with the cross of Christ. Doob (1990), 103. 176 See the distinction made earlier between interpreting ritual acts in the light of devotion or manipulation discussed in Christian Practices and Reform.

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In William Durand’s Rationale divinorum officiorum, one can further read that each part of the church building had its own sacred meaning and divine symbology. These were brought to the social imaginary of space, from Old Testament stories of the Temple as well as their practical uses.177 For example, there is a much-disputed part of the church called the choir, derived from the Greek word chorea.178 Many authors of dance have tried to make this Greek word meaning both dance and circle, into a claim that the priests and participants of the divine offices not only sang but also danced in a circle, in the interior of the church.179 Together with the term tripudia or tripudium, chorea is the word that has caused scholars to debate the possibility of dances or dancing being part of the celebrations of the church, most fervently.180 In the pre-Christian period of Rome, there seems to have been a clear connotation between ritual dancing and tripudium, even indicating a three-step choreographed pattern.181 However, this association may have completely disappeared by the medieval period. Constant J. Mews explains that tripudia was the term Jerome chose for dancing in his translation of the Vulgate and, thus, it was often used for relating to dances or dancing in the Middle Ages. At the same time, tripudia can also be translated to mean ‘with joy’,182 which means that even in this case, no certainty of action can be derived merely with the use of the specific word and tracing its etymology. Mews shows that ambivalence with the use of these words was present already in the medieval period. In the case of chorea, Sicard of Cremosa and Honorius Augustodunensis where the two medieval writers of liturgical texts who Mews identified as being more positive to the idea of dancing in the choir, while others are against it.183 William Durand, on the other hand, give us this rich symbology about liturgy and worship in the chora of the sacred space: The two choirs then typify the angels, and the spirits of just men, while they cheerfully and mutually excite each other in this holy exercise.184 Durand sees the place of the altar as space where heaven and earth intermingle. He combines this with the idea that once harmony is created in worship, angels cohabitate the space of humankind in their unified song.185 As the images portraying Jesus and

177 Durand, Rationale Divinorum Officiorum I, chapter 1. 178 Durand, Rationale Divinorum Officiorum I, chapter 1, 18. Disputed by Gougaud (1914), 6. See further discussions in Miller (1986); Isar (2006); (2011). 179 Grove (2013), 4; Mead (1926), 98. 180 See particularly the critical overview in: La Rue (1998), 193–95. 181 Fless, Moede in Rüpke (2007), 252–53. However, also from the Roman period the term is found to be used in the depiction of various different forms of dancing. Thus there is still an ambiguity found in trying to pin-point what exactly is discussed. Fless, Moede in Rüpke (2007), 255. 182 Harris seems to indicate the same in Harris (2011), 66, fn 3. 183 Isidore of Seville and Augustine were less disposed towards such an idea according to Mews in Mews (2009), 522–24. 184 Durand, Rationale Divinorum Officiorum I, chapter 1, 18. 185 He also refers to the root of choir coming not only from corona but from concord, as the harmony of many voices joined into one. Durand, Rationale Divinorum Officiorum I, chapter 1, 18.

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Plate 3. Five Dancing Angels (1436) Giovanni di Paolo.186

the angels already showed, this kind of celebratory feasting created by the angels could also include dancing. Several later medieval images are showing that within the social imaginary of the medieval period, circling around the Divine was part of a pattern of worship associated with angels. The clearest depiction of this in art is Giovanni di Paolo’s famous Five dancing angels (Plate 3). The angels are holding hands, joined in a circle of praise, and they blow triumphantly the trumpet of resurrection, all of which could fit the themes of Easter and the Ceremonial Game Plays. One cannot see Christ or God the Father in this image, only the morning star, which the angels encircle.187 Interestingly, dancing angels are not just a late medieval construction, even though I have found few such images from as early as the liturgical manuscripts depicted here. Similar depictions of angels dancing as a pattern for worship can also be found in the following images. In depiction (Plate 4) of the Assumption of the Virgin in the top-most part, Mary is crowned or blessed by Jesus. Under that, we see God in heaven together 186 Musee Conde, Chantilly visited 01.09.2016. Wikimedia Commons: Giovanni di Paolo, Five dancing angels (1436). 187 The morning star is terminology used for the Messiah in biblical writing. See: Is 14:12; 2 Pet 1:19; Apoc 2:28; 22:16.

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Plate 4. The Assumption of the Virgin (1330/35) Lippo Memmi.188

Plate 5. The Coronation of Virgin with Angels and Saint (1340/45) Puccio di Simone.189

with some of the just men or saints that have moved into that sphere of existence. These people play instruments and sing songs (this is the common understanding of what the piece of paper the men hold in their hands signify). In the middle of the image, we then see the Virgin enthroned and surrounded by a circle of worshipping angels that play instruments and create a circle of worship. As always, from a flat image, it isn’t straightforward to detect movement, yet I would argue that this circle of worship can be stated to resemble the kind of circular dance that the textual references also speak about. The angels are depicted with a 188 The Alte Pinakothek, München visited 18.11.2015. Creative Commons: Lippo Memmi, Die Himmelfahrt Mariae (1340). 189 The Alte Pinakothek, München visited 18.11.2015. Creative Commons: Krönung Mariens mit Engeln und Heiligen, Puccio di Simone, Lindenau-Museum Altenburg.

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variety of instruments, including tambourines and drums.190 These are characteristic of the story of Miriam dancing when she had crossed with the people of Israel over the Red Sea, further strengthening the association to worshipful dance. From the same period and the region of Italy, one can also find a more clear example of the combination of the adoration of the Saints with the dance of the angels around divine figures. In Plate 5 there is a throne formation where Christ bestows Mary with a crown, while the assembly of saints stands around them. Underneath them, the angels join together hand in hand with moving feet in a circle of praiseful movements. Also here, the musical instrument – this time a bagpipe – played by one of the angels close to the dancing, strengthens the association with dancing.191 Sometimes the dance of the angels, particularly in paintings from the later medieval period is only depicted to have been happening within the community of angels – then often displayed as baby cherubim. As in the example of Plate 6, where the angels are moving in a circular motion above the sacred figures underneath them. This is a painting depicting Mary with both St John and Jesus playing with each other in her lap. They also are accompanied by St Francis kneeling on their right side of Mary with children. In this image, the baby cherubim are holding hands as they circle the Holy ones. As I perceive this circular formation, it indicates a circular motion of praise, which can be understood as dance. Other times, the encircling angels are portrayed in movement, also including the playing of musical instruments, as in the image (Plate 7) of the Glorification of the Virgin. In this case, the worshipful movements in a circle are not as clearly defined as dancing. The angels do not hold hands, they do not move their feet in steps or stances, and they are not accompanied by the use of particular instruments associated with dancing. In Geertgen tot Sint Jans’s painting, the image is more of an ambiguous element of the choir of the angels cheerfully and mutually participating in a holy exercise, hinted at by William Durand, in his interpretation of what kind of worship was at hand during the celebration of Mass. My final example of art portraying the worship and praise of angels is that of the birth of Mary (Plate 8). In this altarpiece, the dancing itself takes place within the architectural setting of the church building. Here we see a Gothic cathedral into which has been depicted Anna and Joachim together with the newborn mother-of-Christ-to-be. What is particularly interesting with this image is the fact

190 In TDOT (2006), one of my colleagues (Thank you to Sven-Olav Back) helped me to find ‫ףַפָּת‬ (tpp) to beat or drum, derived from ‫( ףֹּת‬top) timbrel or tambourine. Ottosson explains that the noun itself comes from the hebrew hand drum, timbrel or tambourine while the verb is to strike or drumming. The instrument is not described in the old testament more then as a small percussion instrument. Archeological pictures however, show that it was a round hand drum, consisting of a leather membrane stretched over a cylindrical frame which was used in worship. Ottosson (2006), 738–39. 191 The bagpipe will reappear later. For comments about the use of this imagery see: Holsinger (2001), 20.

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Plate 6. Mary and the Christ child together with St John and St Francis, Alessandro Turchi (1578–1649).193

Plate 7. Glorification of the Virgin (1490–1495) Geertgen tot Sint Jans.194

that these angels are not depicted with musical instruments or words of a song in their hands. In this setting, within the sacred space of the church, the worship and praise conducted are portrayed in dancing and ritual incense sprinkling alone. In these two examples of action, the blessings and prayers over Mary come to their full expression. As these images have shown, imagining angelic dance as worship and portraying praise in the imagery of not only music but also dance, seems to have been a widely used representation in the medieval period. These images range from Florence, Sienna, Verona, Regensburg Bavaria and the Netherlands. In Kathi Meyer-Baer’s Music of the Spheres and the Dance of Death – Studies in Musical Iconology (1970), one can read more about the use of dancing angels in art. Hers is not a full collection, but she observes as I have, and these examples also show that there is a clear heightened frequency of 192 Castelvecchio, Verona visited 05.09.2016. Wikimedia Commons: Madonna col bambino e i ss. Giovannino e Francesco, Alessandro Turchi (1600–1640). 193 Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen, Rotterdam visited 23.08.2018. Wikimedia Commons: The Glorification of the Virgin, Geertgen tot Sint Jans (c. 1490).

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Plate 8. Albrecht Altdorfer depicting Anna and Joachim in: The birth of the Virgin Mary (1520).194

depictions of dancing and music-making angels with Mary.195 Meyer-Baer also explains that from the year 1300, a common feature of medieval art featuring angels was that the depicted angels were placed in different groups closer to, or further removed from, the throne, or Godhead.196 This hierarchical feature of angelic worship actually has

194 The Alte Pinakothek, München visited 18.11.2015. Wikimedia Commons: Geburt Mariä, Albrecht Altdorfer (c. 1520). 195 Meyer-Baer (1970), 129, 141–43, 147, 149–73. 196 Meyer-Baer (1970), 142–73.

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its roots in texts from the Church Fathers.197 The angelic groups moved in different modes or speeds and were colour-coded so that one could differentiate the types of angels from each other.198 Such remarks raise the questions that within the social imaginary of the medieval period, did all angels dance or only specific types of angels? What seems clear, at least is that contrary to the arguments presented by Grove, Chambers and Gougaud, where dancing was associated with the unlearned and popular customs, here dance is associated with the angelic and heavenly. Dancing is portrayed as a practice done within the sacred space of churches and close to holiness. Dance is further characterised as a practice that not only adores what is worshipped but also functions as a blessing over people and places. Even more indications of what can be understood as a dance of angels within sacred space can be found in the liturgical writings of Hugh of St Victor. He describes the space of the church and the Mass celebrated there in the following way: How great is the admiration of all in beholding the King Himself, and how harmonious be the songs in praise of Him; this is known to those alone, who have deserved to stand amongst the happy throng, and to behold the mystery of the Trinity and the glory of Christ: Who is encircled by the angelic choirs; upon Whom the angels desire continually to gaze. To behold this the Immortal King face to face, the Church below is preparing herself: and while she keepeth here her feasts of time, she is remembering the festivals of her home and of eternity; in which the bridegroom is hymned by angelical instruments.199 To celebrate on earth as in heaven, and remembering to do so continuously, is one of the key features of worship in the Mystical Mirror of the Church. What learned men, as Hugh of St Victor, understand the worship to be is a preparation for the time to come as much as it is a joining into what is done in the here and now. One thing is quite evident, and that is that in the afterlife, humans will join the angelic choir in dancing and play. This kind of idea was already portrayed in the Early Church, through for example, the writings of the martyrdom of Perpetuae and Felicitatis.200 The dance of the afterlife and dance where humans participate in the dance of angels and saints, in their worship and praise, is also found in art. One artist, Fra Angelico, has portrayed this in two different altarpieces depicting the scenes of the Last Judgement. One of them I will return to later (Plate 11) and the other one I will address now (Plate 9). Here, I will focus on the altarpiece commissioned for the Camaldolese Order, in a centre of learning in Florence. In the middle we find Christ adored by angelic beings of various kinds encircling his throne. After the oval of angels, a large group of 197 See particularly the descriptions of the development of the dance of the angels into Christian imagination in the following articles: Carter (1987); Morrison (2004). 198 This differentiation is not only by the colour of their wings, but can also be indicated by the colour of their robes, the spears that they carry or the shields that they stand on. Meyer-Baer (1970), 38–40, 57–62, 122. 199 Hugh of St Victor, Mystical Mirror of the Church, chapter 1, 32. 200 Rahner (1967), 61.

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Plate 9: Fra Angelico, Last Judgement commissioned by the Camaldolese Order (1425–1430) sited in the church of Santa Maria degli Angeli, Florence, Italy.201

Saints are seated in the heavenly sphere part-taking in the worship. We see that this is an image representing the Last Judgement as the worldly sphere of the painting has a paved middle ground with graves that have been opened. To the right of these tombs, people are fleeing in fright towards a cave that leads to the underworld. These people are led by beasts of various kinds and when they arrive into the mountain they are met by the devil himself. The underworld is further constructed by different compartments where people are tortured and painfully treated in a variety of ways. On the left hand side of the grave different saints and holy people – equipped with halo’s are reacting to Christ’s coming, with adoration and praise. Some of these kneel, others stand with arms raised in various kinds of prayer positions. The further to the left we move, the more we see angels with humanly bodies coming to greet and lead the saints into a communal dance. In a long procession-like dance in a garden setting the dancing moves towards new heaven. In the far distance we can see the light shining through form the Gate of New Jerusalem. This artefact not only signals that in the New Creation humans will worship, like angels, in dance and music. This image can also be understood so that it indicates that the worldly and heavenly spheres can interact and when they do so, the dancing is conducted in the worldly sphere. This, is due to the empty tomb in the center of the altarpiece, creating a focus not only on judgement but also resurrection. I argue that for the worshipping community the scenery, indicates that this is not an image concerned merely with the Apocalypse, but also the hope and promise present in every Easter celebration. From these images, it is plausible to imagine that within the social imaginary of the medieval world, both the human and angelic worship could be expressed in the form of dance. It is also possible to imagine that not only the interaction of humans and angels but saints and the ‘ordinary’ living, had as its goal, to become

201 Wikimedia Commons: The Last Judgement, Fra Angelico (c. 1431).

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like one big communal dance.202 In a sermon by Basil of Caesarea from 373, entitled Homily on the Forty Martyrs this was the exact image used, to portray the idea of the Heavenly Kingdom. Basil describes the unity of the martyrs and united worship of the heavenly and earthly assembly as a dance.203 In his sermon, the dancing spoken of is a symbol and metaphor of the life to come. In these images and stories, we have one more sign of how ideas of dance and dancing have formed the social imaginary of both the Early Church and the medieval period. Dancing was presumed to be a Heavenly practice, a practice that resembled what life would be when we lived and worshipped in harmony. The interesting question awoken by these images and texts is then, was dancing something that could only be practised by angels, saints and, at times, like the sacred Game Play of pilota suggested, by clergy? Was there a hierarchy of actions among the angels, were some danced which then also displayed itself in the liturgy of humans, where only some, were allowed to join the dance? Some artwork from the medieval period does seem to indicate clear differences between the living and the dead and between the angelic spheres of praise in relation to the human realms. An illuminated manuscript created some time after 1452 by Jean Fouquet for the Etienne Chevalier’s Book of Hours, exemplifies this idea. In this image of the enthronement of the Virgin, the angelic worship, even though happening simultaneously with the human service, is portrayed separately. In the image of Plate 10, the Trinity is fully present as a humanoid depiction and the different ranks of angels are represented in different colours encircling the throne. Angelic beings encircle the heavenly space. Saints and clergy create two corridors that draw the onlooker into the picture, while the people stand in the middle and on the bottom of the picture. This creates the image of the totality of the ecclesia worshipping together as a whole, yet with very different functions.

202 Such practices have been envisioned within the writings of the Early Church, well documented in: Baumann in Schwaderer, Waldner (2020), 61–75. 203 ‘The city of the martyrs is namely the city of God (Heb. 12:22); its craftsman and workman is God (Heb. 11:10); the upper Jerusalem, the free one, the mother of Paul and of those like him. In their humanity, they were of different origins, but, in the spirit, their belonged to one and the same race: for God was their common father, and all of them were brothers, not because they were born by the same father and mother, but because they were joined to one another by the adoption of the Spirit into the harmony of love. They were a proper chorus, a great addition to those who praise the Lord since all eternity, not gathered together one by one, but taken up as a group.(…) “And the amazing thing is that they visit those who receive them not separated one by one, but joined to each other they dance together. What a miracle! They neither come short in number, nor do they admit of excess. If you divide them into a hundred, they do not exceed their own number; if you subsume them into one, they still remain forty like that, according to the nature of the fire. Indeed fire passes over to him that comes to kindle something from it, but, at the same time, it remains intact with the one who has it in the first place. Similarly, the forty are both all together and, at the same time, in the company of each one individually. They are the bounteous benevolence, the unsquandered grace, the ready help for Christians, an assembly of martyrs, an army of victors, a chorus of those giving praise”’. Rizos, Cult of Saints, in CSLA: E00718 – Basil of Caesarea, Homily 19, On the Forty Martyrs (CPG 2863, BHG 1205).

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The contrast between these two groups of worshippers in the image is interesting as liturgical notes found from the Middle Ages further describe that Father Flavianus and Diodorus were responsible for changing the choir from a circle chorea to two straight lines.204 The reason for this change is said to have been that the original pattern was too confusing.205 Was the confusion due to the challenge of organising dance or do to humans acting like angels in the space of worship and praise? In the image from the Book of Hours, the angels keep the circle, while the earthly crowd stands in lines. Their practices are different, and even though the angels might be present in the liturgy, they do not mix with humans. In the chapter on Corpus Christianum I will return to the idea of a hierarchy of activities for different parts of a worshipping community, which might be a reason for why dancing may be acceptable for some, but not for other parts of the community. However, it is also possible to portray these differences in another way. Another

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Plate 10. Jean Fouquet for the Etienne Chevalier’s Book of Hours (after 1452).206

204 ‘CAP.CXL. – De concordia chori. Chorus dicitur a concordia canentium, sive a corona circumstantium. Olim namque in modum coronae circa aras cantantes stabant; sed Flavianus et Diodorus episcopi choros alternatim psallere instituebant. Duo chori psallentium designant angelos, et spiritus justorum, quasi reciproca voce Dominum laudantium. Cancelli in quibus stant, multas mansiones in domo Patris ( Joan. xiv) designant. Quod aliquando de choro cum processione ad aliquod altare vadunt, et ibi in statione canunt, significat quod animae; de hac vita euntes, ad Christum perveniunt, et in consortio angelorum Deo concinunt’. Honorius, Gemma animae. 205 ‘Honorius, Gemma animae expanding on Cassiodorus, Historia ecclesiastica 8.5, CSEL 71: 473–76. Sicard, Mitralis 5 Prol. CCCM 228: 292, repeating Beleth, De eccl. off. 58d, CCCM 41A: 106, but adding that antiphons were like a dance: “Legitur enim in Tripertita historia, quod beatus Ignatius patriarcha Antiochenus audiuit angelos cantantes antiphonatim super montem quendam et exinde instituit antiphonas in ecclesia cantari et psalmos secundum antiphonas centonizari [Sicard: cum psalmis in choro, quasi chorea cantari]. Vnde dicuntur antiphone in respectu ad psalmodiam, sicut responsoria ad hystoriam. Et cum prius confuse et quasi in chorea cantarentur psalmi et antiphone, statutum est a patribus, ut seorsum chorus sederet et alternatim psalleret, id est una pars chori cantaret unum uersum psalmi et reliqua alium”. This goes back to Cassiodorus (in fact a translation of Greek church historians, commissioned by Cassiodorus), Historia ecclesiastica 10.9.1’. Mews (2009), 523. 206 Musee Conde, Chantilly visited 01.09.2016. WikiArt: Enthronement of the Virgin or, The Trinity in its Glory, Jean Fouquet (c. 1445).

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way to see the liturgy, and ritual acts, is to speak about the heavenly and earthly spheres over-lapping and interchangeably interacting with each other. In Peter Brown’s The Cult of the Saints, he explains that before the introduction of Christianity – its worldviews, praxis and teachings – to people in Europe, the spheres of the living and the dead were strictly separated. In antiquity and the Roman Empire, before the arrival of Christianity, dead bodies did not matter. Even for Jews, the place of the dead – the cemeteries – or the realm of the heavens/underworld, was not a place for the living. Another example is the Roman family feasts of ancient heroes, where a clear separation between the sphere of the living and the realm of the dead was kept firmly in place. With the emergence of faith in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, this separation was challenged.207 Brown explains that the first sign of something new in the praxis and understanding of Christianised people is the fact that they situated themselves, outside of the cities, in the graveyards for feasting. The graveyard had transformed into a sacred space because now, people believed and experienced that the Saint in Heaven was present at their tomb. The cemetery was now a place where one could interact with the divine. Furthermore, the new relationships that Christians came to have with their patron saints, built on a new kind of intimacy. Earlier belief had taught that after death, the soul continued into heaven, while the body was left to rot on earth. Now, the materiality of the human life and especially the flesh and bones of saints became a place where one could come close to God instead.208 Experiences of the closeness of the divine in these extra-ordinary bodily parts would constitute the establishment of relics and all of the praxis developed around these. Brown concludes the long line of shifts in praxis with stating that while some theologians – including Augustine – looked with suspicion at the ideas of extra-ordinary bodies acting through the relics, the cult had come to stay. The camp of theologians thinking in line with Augustine – first wanting to abolish the praxis that sprung up around the graves of the martyrs – were mainly preoccupied with the idea that the new practices accompanying the cult distorted people’s views on what the resurrection meant. Yet, interestingly enough, even Augustine – faced with the pouring volume of evidence of miracles, healings and God’s mighty works, at the sites of relics – came to change his mind.209 In his later life, Augustine preached favourably towards the intimacy with the life and body of martyrs, rather than intermediary relations with angels. He also wrote about the way the bodies of the saints brought the bodies of the Church together as one community.210 Why I am referring here to development around the understanding and use of relics, is because it highlights three important features that continue within the social imaginary of the medieval world. First of all, the fact that the idea of a sacred space where liturgies and worship could be practised is not confound, to the church alone.



207 208 209 210

P. Brown (1981), 1–4. P. Brown (1981), 1–4. Bynum (1995), 104–05. See also Caciola (2016), 32–37. P. Brown (1981), 26–29, 38, 60–61, 77–78.

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Secondly, these descriptions show that the presence of the divine, is what constitutes the sacredness of the space and that this presence could be mediated by matter (the relic). Furthermore, this praesentia – the real presence of the saint – could fluctuate or become manifest, in many different ways.211 All of which, leads to the idea that relationship between the heavenly and earthly, afterlife and space of the living, is much more fused into each other and also, to some extent dependent on the interaction of each part with the other. This further brings us to one more concept that will help us understand liturgies, rituals and dance in the medieval period, the idea of reverentia. Originally, the term is described to understand the therapeutic system developed around the shrines of the saints. However, I find it is fitting for a broader view of seeing the difference between older pagan practices and the new Christian understanding of worship and life. 2.a.2. Reverentia

Brown explains that the therapeutic system of the Christian shrines was much more ‘socially chartered’ than the pagan system, where the wisdom of the gods was there for everyone to be used. In contrast to this, the process of cure in the new Christian way is better understood as an idiom of relationships of dependence.212 To be cured in the new order that was established through the introduction of the cult of the saints, everything centred around reverentia. Brown explains: Reverentia implied a willingness to focus belief on precise invisible persons, on Christ and his friends the saints – the amici dominici – in such a way as to commit the believer to definite rhythms in his life (such as the observation of the Holy days of the saints), to direct his attention to specific sites and objects (the shrines and relics of the saints), to react to illness and to danger by dependence on these invisible persons, and to remain constantly aware, in the play of human action around him that good and bad fortune was directly related to good or bad relations with these invisible persons.213 Reverentia in relationship with Christ and the Saints meant that the order in which healing flowed was not one of universal access or instant tapping into by visiting a temple, holy grove or sacred tree. The pattern of special friends was a much more complex set of force relations. Thinking of and perceiving worship and communal action in terms of reverentia has consequences on several levels. First of all, was the relationship between space and matter. Churches, shrines and cemeteries became important places where one could encounter God. However, as the divine praesentia and potentia – healing power – of the saint could reveal itself

211 ‘… the saint in Heaven was believed to be “present” at his tomb on earth. The soul of Saint Martin, for instance, might go “marching on”; but his body, at Tours, was very definitely not expected to “lie a-mouldering in the grave”’. P. Brown (1981), 3–4. 212 P. Brown (1981), 114–18. 213 P. Brown (1981), 119.

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also through the relics, the place of encounter could move. Furthermore, by time, not only bones but pieces of cross, clothing and hair became just as valuable places of encounter as, in the beginning, only a fixed tomb had been.214 Secondly, Brown speaks here about there being rhythms in life and specific times when the praesentia and potentia of the amici dominici was more active. Tying this back to Charles Taylor’s descriptions of the idea of High Time, it raises the question: Might it be so that at times the spheres of the angels and the space of human interaction were closer to each other and, thus, enabled a particular kind of participation in worship, from humans? Could the medieval community imagine that the dance of the heavens opened up for or even invited into a dance on earth during these periods, while in ‘ordinary’ worship services such practices would not have been encouraged? Was the period of Easter, the reason why the practice of the game of pila was accepted, while games inside of churches in other periods of the year would have been problematic? Thirdly, even though Christianity was focused on one person – Jesus – and the relics came from individual saints, the cult itself was not bound to a specific social class or person. What Brown is indicating is that the new structure of the Christian world did not focus on the solemn cult of the emperor or on impersonal deities that could be accessed whenever and wherever one was situated. On the one hand, Jesus had said to the Samaritan women at the well, ‘…the hour is coming, and is now here, when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth, for the Father seeks such as these to worship him’,215 indicating that no one particular place, such as the Temple in Jerusalem, would be the space where God could be encountered and found active. On the other hand, Jesus had also said: ‘The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit’.216 This opened the way for God’s favour to fall upon anyone – even the lowly and outcasts of society – if this was the wish of the Spirit. Jaques Le Goff writes about the medieval period, in various books. In his Medieval Civilization 400–1500 (1988), he describes that even less learned men imagined themselves never to be alone or left to their capacities. Instead, they were constantly caught up in a network of earthly and heavenly dependencies where the heavenly society of angels always mirrored the preferred paths and showed the way for how to act and be.217 From such a perspective, the actions and patterns of devotion, by angels and saints, would have been fully accessible to the ‘ordinary’ men and women of the community. Rather than shunning dance, it would have been commended as a heavenly form of worship. Brown continues to explain that to be a citizen of the Christian community and new order required vigilance, but at the same time, it offered genuine and palpable support for those who were willing to offer their lives. Nevertheless, the communal



214 215 216 217

P. Brown (1981), 37–38, 88–91, 94–95, 107. Jn 4:23. Jn 3:8. Le Goff (1991), 163–65.

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reverentia, although not centring around a single authoritarian figure, required a high degree of social and cultural grooming. This included the learning of etiquette toward the supernatural.218 The Spirit was no haphazard form of Godly presence. Brown thus concludes that even though the ‘freedom’ gained by joining this new order is far from the kind of ‘individualism of free choice’ we might refer to today, the change – especially for peasants, slaves and women in the Roman Empire – was drastic. Opting for the social cohesion of participation in feasts and pilgrimages together with acts of piety, or the more ascetic patterns of monks and nuns, was a choice easily preferred to the patronage system of local landlords.219 Silvia Federici in her Caliban and the Witch: Women, the Body and Primitive Accumulation (2014), supports the idea that a true shift in society happened, stating that the slave system on which the economy of imperial Rome had been built, broke down between the fifth and seventh centuries ad220 Of course, the reasons for such changes are manifold and cannot be claimed to be due only to the rise of Christendom. At the same time, however, Brown demonstrates that the arrival of this new form of reverentia was met with enthusiasm, gathering crowds of new Christians. In light of Brown’s discussion on reverentia, worship and interaction with the divine, dancing could have been something that everybody took part in. Even though earlier scholars often have focused on only the practices of the elite and learned people, the discussion on reverentia opens up an understanding where also the less studied aspects of popular practices, carry theological meaning. This standpoint leads to, most importantly for this study that the crowds, not because of their lack of reverentia but because of a different interpretation of the rhythms, social patterns, interactions with sites and objects, did not always coincide in their behaviour with what a bishop, wishing to gain and retain tight control, might have wished for.221 This, I will suggest, is one of the most common reasons for conflicts between different groups of people, also in relation to dancing. There is an inbuilt tension between the fact that the medieval understanding of reverentia does not give privilege to certain groups of people or particular places when it comes to encounters with Christ and his friends the saints. Instead of only referring to Taylor’s more generalising descriptions of High Time, porous self and an enchanted world, Brown’s use of reverentia complexifies matters. I am suggesting that there is a complex mechanism of time, space, matter, people and practices that constitute the network within which the dances and liturgical acts of play and worship are best understood. This leads us back a final time, to the practices of games and plays portrayed in this sub-chapter. I hope that this inquiry into liturgical manuscripts, art and architectural settings from the Middle Ages has shown that talk about an easy continuity between ancient mystery cults and the practices of the congregations in France during the eleventh and twelfth century is neither needed as an explanation nor very plausible.



218 219 220 221

P. Brown (1981), 119. P. Brown (1981), 121–23. Federici (2014), 63. P. Brown (1981), 122–24.

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After putting such effort and systematic elaboration into the cleaning and purifying of sacred space from the Devil and all his demons, it would be unreasonable to think that pagan customs were retaken on board lightly. To argue that church authorities would start constructing new labyrinths in honour of old Greek gods, in the heart of their main cathedrals in the middle of the social imaginary of an enchanted world, is not feasible. A much more plausible explanation is that of Rohmann, who posited that old customs had been transformed, altered and changed into something new. What we see in the mazes and labyrinth’s is now Christian mythology with theological implications. Furthermore, as my short examples here showed, there is no need to go and search for congruent stories to explain these dance practices outside of the medieval Christian worldview. We have biblical examples of dancing and a social imaginary that understood the worship of angels in term of dance. These are enough, as references to why people would have been able to imagine dance as a Christian practice. It is with the more nuanced and enriched understanding of reverentia and sacred space in an enchanted world, together with the primary historical materials we have, where the practices of dance in the medieval world start to make sense and become intelligible. The point here has not been to bring one interpretative narrative – such as that of preferring Greek philosophers or mystery cults – over or against another. Instead, I have demonstrated that by going against the grain of Chambers and Gougaud, where the tendency was to compartmentalise dances, a richer image is revealed. Instead of placing dance in clearly defined boxes of liturgical dance, separated from folkloric and traditional customs as well as from religious celebrations, my aim is to show how different symbolic meanings are woven into each other. In reading dances as dances, without preset criteria of what dancing needs to live up to in order to be seen as a liturgical dance, a much more interesting image is revealed: one where dance carries theological significance. Furthermore, cutting across Rahner, Mead, Wright and Doob into architectural and art elements, read in the light of the liturgical and theological manuscripts of the period, a new image is revealed: one where the richer descriptions of Mead and Wright make sense, without adding their interpretative pattern of mystery cults and remnants of pagan practices. Leaving out the interpretative pattern of mystery cults is not merely a scholarly claim, but also stands in line with how dancers themselves might have imagined their own action as followers of Christ in the Medieval period. Listening further to scholars like Penelope Reed Doob, we find that interpretations can be complex and diversifying, even in light of what at a first glance may have seemed as scant evidence. I will further elaborate on these claim in the examples of Corpus Christi and Feast of Fools. Finally, I have also started to show how the social imaginary of the medieval period – with its ideas of sacred space, the importance of rituals and understanding of how the heavenly and earthly spheres were intertwined – is central for interpreting how dance may have mattered in this period. It is in continuation with this pattern of interpretation that I want to continue with also examining Corpus Christi and the Feast of Fools. However, this chapter also left us with some open questions. Dancing

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seems to have been a practice imagined to have been part of the angelic and heavenly worship. We also found evidence that dancing was a practice that the clergy took part in and maybe even other parts of the community joined in? Thus, instead of asking, if only clergy or humans, in general, can participate in the heavenly liturgy constituting dance, here on earth, one could instead turn the question another way. Based on these rich images, texts describing dance, worship and liturgy as well as the ideas of sacred space and reverentia, in the coming sections, I will now ask; When? Where? And under which kinds of circumstances did humans in the earthly realm interact with and partake in the heavenly worship? Furthermore, there might still be actual differences between the way worship and reverentia was perceived to effect different parts of society. There might also be different ways to perceive dance, then the liturgical participation in a heavenly feast and resurrection Joy that has been described in this chapter. What more is there that we can learn about how dance had a theological relevance? To these questions, we will turn next. 2.b. Healthy Muscles

Before I can turn to examine the historical records we have about the Corpus Christi feast, there is one more conceptual idea that I need to bring to the discussions. So far, both reverentia and ideas about the formation and use of sacred space have shown how more complex sets of muscles can work together in revealing ways. In the last section, it was brought up that there might, in the medieval period, have been an idea that mixing the dance of the angels with the worship of the humans, would have brought with it confusion and disorder. Donatella Tronca, in her article ‘Spectacula turpitudinum. Christian Schemata of the Dancing Body’ (2019), makes a strong case for the aim within Christian circles to seek harmony, order and balance, both in the individual bodies of the worshippers, but more importantly in the community of the Church as one Body. She further claims that some of the restricting edicts on dancing, were not signs of dance being related to deviousness or seen as a remnant of pre-Christian traditions. On the contrary, what was feared was chaos and loss of control, which potentially could lead to disorder. Here she draws from the harmonic spheres of Platonic order that have their equivalent structures within Augustine’s City of God. Tronca’s article focuses on the Early Church, however, Augustines writings continued to influence thinkers of the medieval world as well. According to Tronca, the ideal City, as well as the hierarchy of the Church, aspired for equilibrium. The presence and behaviour of disharmonious dancers was a threat to the serenity of social cohesion which was sought.222 Such an emphasis on harmony within the church is best understood as yet another trait of the social imaginary of an enchanted world. At the same time, however, the link between the practical and theoretical level of this idea is not always fully understood, even in remarks like those

222 Tronca (2016), 61; (2019).

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of Tronca. A theological articulation of the Corpus Christianum will clarify the picture and help us grasp more fully the deeper levels of what is at stake here. 2.b. 1 Corpus Christianum

Tronca’s descriptions make even more sense if what Nicholas Terpstra writes in his Religious Refugees in the Early Modern World (2017), on the Corpus Christianum is taken into account. Terpstra explains that in the social imaginary of the medieval period, one of the most compelling metaphors was that of the body.223 This was already referred to in the earlier descriptions of the church building in the section on Sacred Space. Terpstra identifies three dimensions of the Corpus Christi, which together constitute the Corpus Christianum. First, the physical building of the church was a kind of Corpus Christianum as it was there that the Body of Christ Corpus Christi, could be received in the communion.224 Second, the church building was also where, what Terpstra calls the physical part of the Corpus Christi, could be received. Here he refers to the statues and devotional images where the humanity of Christ met people in their everyday lives.225 Wealthier people may also have had devotional images created for their ‘private’ use as well. Still, upon entering a church the altarpieces, statues, decorated bibles, tapestries hanging from the ceilings, crosses, candles and paintings directly on the walls were matter, which communicated the presence of God in the space.226 For the medieval person, such matter was not just ‘artistic’ or ‘aesthetic decor’; it was a physical part of the Body of Christ, which I will also return to further ahead.227 The way artefacts were perceived by medieval people is particularly important to remember when it comes to all of the depictions of dance that this thesis show was part of the artwork both of so-called private devotion and churches. The Corpus Christi, as this study is aiming at showing, dance throughout the medieval period on everything from altarpieces and statues to books and print-work. Furthermore, the Corpus Christi is communicated to the space outside the church building through the performative character of these artefacts. Thirdly, Corpus Christi also had, what Terpstra calls, a symbolic meaning. When neighbours, friends, families and the totality of a local community of believers gathered, the body which St Paul had written about228 was created. This community; hands, feet, eyes and ears – the clergy and laity – collaborating, realised the Body of Christ. The lived Corpus Christianum was where the offering and receiving of the sacraments happened, were holy days were observed, and holy spaces were upheld, and also where the feeding and clothing of the poor were taken care of.229 What constituted

223 224 225 226 227 228 229

Terpstra (2017), 21. Terpstra (2017), 29. Terpstra (2017), 26–29. C. Wright (1989), 13–17. Duby (1981), 9. 1 Cor 12:12–13. Terpstra (2017), 29–30.

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a healthy and harmonious body was a social setting where each part took care of its specific kind of offering. Thus, the whole community of the church could thrive.230 The examples of disturbances given by Donatella Tronca – the distorted bodies, bodies indulging in excess food, drink or other forms of vices – were a real threat to the well-being of the Corpus Christianum. The strength of her argument is that she understands and makes explicit the connection between the symbolic and practical level of attaining a healthy and harmonious Corpus Christianum, in relation to practices of dancing.231 Furthermore, any attempt to regulate social behaviour in the social imaginary of this period was not merely a question of hierarchical structures for their own sake. To uphold harmony in the social body was a question of survival. This too shows another potential way in which dancing mattered, not because of some inherent evil within dancing. Rather different kinds of movements bore different types of meaning. Some movements reflected the harmony and well-being of the Corpus Christianum; others could be perceived as either a symptom or a cause of sickness and death. Movements that matter, and the signs of a healthy or sick Corpus Christianum, are themes that were of importance throughout this historical period. So far, these findings correlate with the interpretations given by Tronca. The need to seek theological congruence through harmony in bodily, spiritual, social and political dimensions described by Tronca can also be found in the medieval social imaginary. However, there is more diversity and tension found in the Middle Ages concerning these ideals, as the following discussions will show. The idea of regulating the health of the Corpus Christianum is seen particularly well in relation to dancing when reading the work of Jeannie Horowitz, even though she does not express it in these words in ‘Les danses cléricales dans les églises au Moyen Age’.232 Even as she promotes an understanding where dancing was an important tradition in the medieval period, she is also caught up by the prohibitions depicted by Gougaud. Her aim is to differentiate the accounts.233 What Horowitz finds is that the church as an institution, and even the church authorities, cannot be seen as a unanimous entity which has always condemned dancing.234 Instead, she argues for another view; namely that what can be found are conflicting voices, hesitant descriptions, perplexity and most of all, toleration in the light of the inability to abolish dancing.235 Even though I would not agree that the main strategy found in the historical records is that of toleration what cannot be abolished, I agree that there are conflicting voices, hesitant descriptions and perplexity to be found and it is to displaying these details that the chapters on Corpus Christi and the Feast of Fools will turn its focus. Key features in Horowitz’s account on the different voices found in church authorities condemning dancing, pertain to how folk customs are approached by

230 231 232 233 234 235

Terpstra (2017), 28–29. See particularly the conclusions in Tronca (2019). For help in understanding the French I am deeply grateful to Stephanie Arseneau Bussieres. Horowitz (1989), 279–80. Horowitz (1989), 280. Horowitz (1989), 285–86.

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different strata of society as well as the spheres of the sacred and profane.236 As we saw in the accounts from Brown, the religiosity of the populous and strict stratification of certain groups of society into sacred and profane division of space, are oft-neglected research topics, and they cannot be left outside studies of dance. Le Goff explains, in Medieval Civilization that since the year 1000, the society of Western Europe was increasingly described to have a three-fold division: priests, warriors and peasants. Each group not only had their own specific tasks to take care of for a healthy society to flourish. Each group or mission was also accompanied by specific moral codes and visions of ethical conduct. In time, this system came to change, yet the idea that one’s social function in the Corpus Christianum, played into a view of different kinds of morals for different people, did not disappear.237 Thus, depending on who it was – who was condemning dance – be it a bishop, the pope, the local clergy or a reforming preacher-man – it would both look and sound very different.238 Caroline Walker Bynum adds to these arguments, in her Wonderful Blood that what makes the arguments of condemnation sometimes hard to follow, is that theological debates at universities may have focused on one thing; taking their stance for example on how or why relics function. Simultaneous, to these discussions and sometimes also as a conscious aim to under-mind the power of the emerging universities, the pope and his officials would instead opt for supporting the local village people in their need to promote a specific pilgrimages site and miracle showing the activation of relics.239 On top of these kinds of nuances to keep track of, there is a difference in who’s dancing is scrutinised. In Constant Mews’s work, this strand of Horowitz’s arguments is confirmed. Mews writes that starting with the series of statutes that Eudes de Sully brings forth in Paris (1208), two things had changed since the earlier prohibitions. First of all, the statutes issued by provincial synods came from the bishop himself rather than from a collective assembly.240 This might indicate that these regulations had more to do with local political struggles or even personal assertions of power rather than profound theological questions. Such a pattern will be seen more clearly in the Feast of Fools discussions to come. Secondly, Mews notes that some of the regulations against dancing in France, actually come from the statues of the faculty of arts in 1252 (repeated in 1280). When these are examined more closely, it turns out that what was being regulated was the student behaviour at funerals.241 Even a papal legate (1276) used as

236 Horowitz (1989), 286. 237 Le Goff (1991), 261–64. Berthold of Regensburg distinguishes ten social classes, a number corresponding harmoniously with the ten angelic choirs. Le Goff (1991), 262. 238 Horowitz (1989), 285–87. 239 Bynum (2007), 7–8. 240 Mews (2009), 537–38. 241 ‘Chartularium, ed. Denifle, no. 230, 1:230: “Ibit ad sepulturam scolarium diebus festivis, quando sciat, et feriatis diebus, quando fuerit citatus. Intererit omnibus congregationibus sue nascionis. Non sustinebit choreas duci in principio suo extra domum. Leget vel legi faciet psalterium magistro actu regente mortuo”. The phrase Non sustinebit choreas … domum is slightly misplaced from its original

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evidence to condemn dancing, turns out to be another charge against student behaviour. The order wanted to change the fact that on particular feast days celebrated by a student nation, students were engaged in feasting, drinking and other loose behaviours, which included dances, taking up arms and disturbing the community at large. What was required by the students instead were solemnity, prayer, works of mercy and the ex-communication of those who were responsible for the unsuitable behaviour.242 Showing that this is not a prohibition of dancing in general, but aiming as a particular group of people and their behaviour during a specific period in life. Furthermore, both Horowitz and Mews note that most of the statues from later periods actually aimed at implementing reforms on the clergy.243 This includes strengthening of celibacy and regulating both the financial and social situations of priests by demanding that they did not take part in the commercial interests of festivals, marketplaces and gambling.244 This means that even though authorities probably also wanted the laity not to misbehave, there was a stricter sense of obligations put on ordained people of the community.245 Thus, again, the prohibition might be less concerned with dancing per se, but more about the social setting and its association with morally laden acts. Another example relating to morals can be found in Le Goff ’s Time, Work and Culture in the Middle Ages (1980), where he emphasises that the medieval culture was so materially focused when it came to matters of sin that the biblical statement: ‘we are the temple of the living God’.246 was taken quite literally. Bynum explains that this meant that whatever was done in and with one’s body was seen as harm done to the soul.247 Le Goff adds that this was particularly true when it came to making judgements about the kinds of trades and professions which were seen as legitimate or sinful.248 In the aftermath of such ideas, Le Goff states that for a peasant to work on Sunday – when for example the threat of rain could ruin their crop – was a much lesser offence than if somebody paid to stay at an inn on a Holy day or had a meeting



242 243 244 245 246 247 248

context when these statutes were repeated in 1280, no. 501, 1:586; ibid., ed. Denifle, no. 470, 1:540: “choreasque et alia nephanda exercere ludibria nichilominus presumentes”’. Mews (2009), 543, fn 100, fn 101. Mews (2009), 543. Horowitz (1989), 287–88; Mews (2009), 541. Mews (2009), 541–42. See also Duby (1981), chapter 3 The Monk. 2 Cor 6:16. Bynum (1991), 228–29. The list of sinful professions fluctuated from region to regions and, thus, is rather impossible to create a full list, particularly as it also depends on which period of the medieval time is in focus and additionally what documents are looked at. To give some examples: ‘It will suffice to cite those which occur most frequently: innkeepers, butchers, jongleurs, mountebanks, magicians, alchemists, doctors, surgeons, soldiers, pimps, prostitutes, notaries, merchants, among the first ranks. But also fullers, weavers, saddlers, dyers, pastry makers, cobblers, gardeners, painters, fishermen, barbers, bailiffs, game wardens, customs officers, exchange brokers, tailors, perfumers, tripe sellers, millers, etc.’ Le Goff (1980), 59.

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with a butcher.249 It is in light of such understanding that one needs to interpret the statements of clergy part-taking in practices that concerned money or commerce. Taking this to the realm of clergy visiting Taverns or participating in dancing at the marketplace could thus have more to do with attending to commercial issues than a question of shunning all forms of vernacular songs and dancing. Terpstra explains that there were some key strategies for dealing with impurities within the Corpus Christianum. If the body had been defiled, for example by a priest who was supposed to be celibate but who had had a family and who began to raise crops on the lands of the church in order to feed himself and his children instead of tending to the cause of the poor and needy, a huge offence was made against the Corpus Christianum. Sexual intercourse and the begetting of offspring was by no means a personal or private affair of the individual. Chastity, in a situation like this, was a question of the distribution of the material goods of the Corpus Christianum. Ideally, the lands and wealth of the church were to be used for the poor and the community as a whole – not to separate or promote one’s own biological lineage.250 Secondly, the task of the celibate was to uphold prayer and serve the Corpus Christianum. Cutting ties to biological family was seen as a prerequisite for being able to live a life of dedication to worship and service.251 This was not understood only from the viewpoint of the use of time and the cost of emotional ties, but also in how tightly knit together sexuality and prayer were seen to be.252 Thus, having members of the Corpus Christianum, who had given their lives and bodies to the community in this way, break the vows of chastity, jeopardised the whole structure. If prayer ceased or was misdirected, the crops would not grow, wars would be lost and sudden disease – like plagues – could come over the lands and the people.253 Consequently, behaviour like this needed to be punished but also prevented. According to Terpstra, the Corpus Christianum dealt with these and similar threats to the community in one of two ways: separation and/or containment.254 In the worst-case scenarios, separation led to ex-communication. Prior to ex-communication, however, there were other strategies. One way of implementing the separation was to heighten the awareness of not mixing the sacred and profane spheres: nuns were to be kept more tightly in enclosures, and the clergy were prohibited from mixing with the laity in tavernas or other spaces of ‘pollution’. I argue that it is in this context that one should read the examples on regulations on clergy not dancing given by

249 Le Goff (1980), 58–65. 250 Taylor (2007), 439–40. 251 Understanding and emphasising the importance of leading people in society cutting ties to blood-band is a feature found already in Platonic texts. The consequences of such re-structuring of kinship ties for the political structure of a land, region or state has also been noted in Fukuyama (2011), 199. 252 Coakley (2013), 102–03, 127–32. See also how sodomy was seen as an act that defiled the earth and land where it was practiced. Heng (2003), 92, 96–98. 253 See also Taylor (2007), 71, 86, 107–08, 440. 254 Terpstra (2017), 76–89.

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Horowitz and Mews.255 Lawrence M. Clopper echo’s this, and states in his Drama, Play, and Game: English Festive Culture in the Medieval and Early Modern Period (2001), that most of the prohibitions surrounding games, play and dancing in the English context had to do with either association to commerce, indecent clothing, hunting or drunkenness.256 However, I also find it problematic, when researchers on dance regard the whole period of the Middle Ages as a congruent whole regarding both views on morality and particularly the relationship between sacred and profane spheres, as a constant. Terpstra’s account makes it explicitly clear that certain kinds of preoccupation with the impurity of people and places, was particularly increased following the epidemics of plague and, thus, regulations during one period might not be accurate during an earlier or later period.257 Nevertheless, the imaginary purity of Corpus Christianum also deepens the understanding of not only practices and rituals, but also values such as for example, Craig Wright’s accounts of the harsh reprimands choirboys were given when found singing profane songs of love.258 Simultaneously, as the accounts of Dawn Marie Hayes on the church as a sacred place show, such negotiation of space and place was not always easily done. The church building was not only used as a place of sacred rituals, a space of healing and miracles, education and welcoming of the poor or homeless. It also functioned as a place where pilgrims were received and feasts celebrated. Sometimes this also included the church functioning as a place of lodging and storage,259 vending260 and a room of legal proceedings.261 According to Hayes, this confused the spheres of the sacred and mundane. The difference between the idealised social imaginary of the church as a pure and harmonious space, upheld by the learned elite, created a tension with the factual activities of the congregation. This tension sometimes led to bitter arguments as to what kind of activities were allowed, for whom and when.262 What I see authors such as Tronca and Horowitz trying to do, in discussions like these is to divert attention away from dance, stating that the real question at hand is that of order or social cohesion. I agree that scholars like Gougaud, Chambers and Rahner tend to regard the prohibitions as solid and set arguments that need not to be questioned. However, I do not think the judgements against dancing can be brushed away. Although I agree that dancing in the lists of condemnation has been seen as the root of the problem, when perhaps a discussion on disorder would have

255 See also the example of nuns being allowed to dance within the closure of a monastic community, but not outside of it. Yardley (2006), 93, fn 67. 256 Clopper (2001), 63–66. 257 Terpstra (2017), 24, 60, 71, 105, 165, 223. 258 C. Wright (1989), 192–95; Horowitz (1989), 285–86; Mews (2009). 259 Hayes (2003), 54–58. 260 Hayes (2003), 59–61. 261 Hayes (2003), 61–62. 262 Hayes (2003), 67–69.

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been more relevant, what I suggest here is that dancing actually mattered more than we understand.263 I have argued that there was, in the social imaginary of the medieval period, a very clear idea of sacred space as well as the Corpus Christianum. On the one hand, the church building and its objects as a body were sacred. Alongside this, the individual vessels of ordained bodies carried with them a sacredness, which together with the community participated in celebrations where even the angels were present – upholding and re-creating the sacred. Further, the theological importance of harmony as a divine aspect of a socially well-functioning community has been stressed. On the other hand, we are starting to see traces of what some researchers have called profane activities, such as creating vendors’s booths, drunken parties, lethal sporting activities and promiscuous feasts including dancing, in and around the sacred spaces of church and cemeteries.264 The consecrated matter – bodies, buildings, space itself – show signs of not conforming to the earlier described theological ideals. There are more and more traces of disruptive behaviour and disharmony within the Corpus Christianum. Disruptive behaviour can take the form of power struggles and economic negotiations but mostly centre around the over-all relationship between the sacred and profane. The way the discussion in earlier research has been conducted around the sacred and profane is somewhat worrisome to me. On the one hand, bringing up the concept of sacred space helps in understanding why and how churches and ordained clergy were such crucial elements in the medieval period. On the other hand, within a division between the sacred and profane, lies the risk of pushing dancing over to the profane side of activities. In that particular sphere, dancing may seem ‘safer’ from accusations. Profane dancing may not be understood to be as big of a threat as when it is seen as a pagan ritual and, thus, imposing a different kind of sacredness on the church activities. Nevertheless, as a profane practice, dancing still keeps the status within the Corpus Christianum as something that needs to be purged, so that the whole community can be and can remain holy. This, however, is not my sole concern with these kinds of interpretations and formulations of the status of dance. In an enchanted world, dancing would be rendered ‘powerless’ if it was merely a profane interference. It is only within the sacred sphere that dancing matters. It is important to recognise here that I am not arguing for a sacred dance in any romanticised form, but instead making a case for those statements we do have about dancing in the Middle Ages, and which show that it mattered in a theological context. Thus, the question that arises is: when we do find these traces of dancing taking place within the sacred space of churches, what is the theological meaning it might bear? Could it be so that dancing mattered theologically and had the capacity to upset the balance between the sacred and the profane envisioned so far?

263 To deepen the understanding of this mattering, I will shortly give an example where this is displayed through the example of two pieces of art. 264 Hayes (2003), 62–67.

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If the historical materials are examined from the earlier narrative frameworks, where dancing bore no theological meaning, the pattern we have seen so far – of the problem of clergy intermixing with the laity in dances or dancing occurring in the churchyard, etc. – becomes a struggle between the sacred and profane. One way to approach the situations where ‘trespasses’ are made is to ask whether one description is more accurate than the other. Another way is to overstate one part of this image over and against the other. Such strategies have led some scholars to argue that the medieval society was not as religious as might be assumed when stressing the sacredness of time and space,265 further arguing that questions of seclusion of for example nuns, was an economic and political decision made by men in search of power.266 Or that the Middle Ages was a dark period of ‘magic’ and ‘superstition’ that only waited for the true light of the Reformation to put Christianity back on track. Thus, I am not much in favour of pushing the discussion on sacred and profane activities as far as Hayes and Horowitz seem to want to do. An alternative way of looking at the image revealed is to avoid the dichotomy of either/or – one aspect of an enchanted world is that things were interconnected. In line with the methodology of this study, it seems to me that we have found here a muscle-pair. Most probably, several of the presented viewpoints – that dancing was condemned due to a pursuit of order, moral purity, economic gain, political struggles, etc. – can be close to the factual situation. However, when they are portrayed in the setting of dual pairs, something is lost out of sight. In a pair of different aspects, if one stares only at one side of the image, most probably the other will be lost to sight. Both can be true, but not be revealed at the same time. Thus, my aim is not to take a stance in favour of one interpretative pattern against another at the outset, but instead, continue to follow the historical depictions of dance and see where they lead me. Maybe, there is even a ‘third’ interpretation to be found (for each of the pairs) that dissolves or at least deepens the tension between describing dance as sacred or profane, sinful practice or innocent, popular entertainment or folkloric customs but also involved in monetary or religious practices. What, these my examples have revealed so far is that even researchers who are not caught up directly in the narrative frameworks of a Christian Cultural Hegemony or Nationalism – consciously promoting a superior Western pattern of interpretation known from earlier periods of history – may still build their investigations on concepts that distort their conclusions. These narrative frameworks tend to have built-in ideas that dancing can not bear theological significance leading to the historic materials being handled in a way where they continue to be somewhat distorted. With this, I mean that the patterns of moral, social and economic arguments against dancing on their own, might be mostly projections of our own social imaginary if these thoughts cannot also be found to be important in the social imaginary of a medieval worldview. I also allude to the fact that studies – my own included – focus so much time to first freeing dance from these earlier preset judgements that not much is left for

265 Similar critique is brought forth against other practices from the Middle Ages in Bynum (2007), 9–14. 266 One prime example of this is found in Shahar (1990).

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Plate 11: Fra Angelico and his famous image of how the Saints were led in dance into the eternal life at the Resurrection. The altarpiece consists of four panels where the dancing is depicted in the upper panel to the left.267

understanding dance in the medieval context. To combat this, I will in the following chapters turn more and more attention towards re-imagining the practices of dance in a new light. However, before it is time for that, I want to exemplify with one last set of artefacts, how a deepened understanding of dance and theology might work together to display the complexities of how dance functioned in a social imaginary of a medieval worldview portrayed so far in this thesis. We already saw one of the altarpieces created by Fra Angelico, to portray the Last Judgement and hope in resurrection, where dancing was part of the vision. What is particularly interesting with that altarpiece is that it is not the only one of its kind. The first image, that we saw already, (Plate 9) was commissioned for the Camaldolese Order. The second one with a similar theme, (Plate 11) was dedicated to St Dominicus and St Francis and located in the church of a monastic order. Both of them are entitled the Last Judgement. There are slight, but significant differences between these two images. In both of them, Christ is seated in an oval or scar-shaped throne on the heavenly spheres. He

267 Gemäldegalerie, SMPK, Berlin visited 15.09.2016. Wikimedia Commons: The Last Judgement (Winged Altar) Fra Angelico (c. 1435–1450).

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is surrounded by angels circling him. In the innermost circle, these angels are winged creatures with heads but no bodies (probably seraphs due to their red head268). Around this, we find saints seated in adoration. However, in this second altarpiece, the saints are seated closer to Christ and only later followed by other saints and angelic beings in bodily shapes participating in worship by holding musical instruments. Thus, the earlier image more fundamentally followed the writing of Huge of St Vincent, in describing that angels encircle the throne of Jesus and are turned towards Christ as the centre of the scenery and worship. Also, in the worldly sphere, the similarities and differences prevail. In both paintings, the worldly sphere similarly portrays a division of humankind into those that are heading towards the underworld and those that are heavenly bound. However, in Plate 11, there is no clear and open empty tomb in the middle of the picture. The middle panel is much more tumultuous. Devils are pushing people who hold their ears and cover their eye’s towards the underworld where satan is waiting to devour them. On the left-hand side, contrarily, people are met and greeted in warm embraces and kind welcomes, by the angels. Moving further to the left, the angelic bodily beings lead the saints in and through dance into the paradisical garden of new Eden and through it into the heavenly sphere. In contrast to the first panel (Plate 9), Plate 11 does not depict a clear gate or new Jerusalem. People and angels are instead, adjoined in dance as a path towards the other-worldly existence in the upper part of the panel. What is further noteworthy is that it is not just monks that join the angels in the dance, but people from all walks of life seem to be taken into this procession of dancing worship. What is portrayed in both of these artefacts is the image of not just angels worshipping in dance, but humans and angels joining in one community of a worshipping Corpus Christianum. Most importantly though, through the commissioning of these two altarpieces we have further seen, that this social imaginary befitted both a community of more eremitically oriented monks like the Camaldolese Order and the forefathers of mendicant orders such as Saint Francis and Saint Dominicus. Thus raising the question, what did dancing mean, for the members of these communities? We do not have any direct evidence that a Franciscan community would have had a similar altarpiece in their possession. However, Fra Angelico himself was a Dominican friar, so the second altarpiece was most probably part of the worship life of a Dominican community. Taking this imaginary further, one could ask, did these monastic orders envision dancing to be part, only of the joyful worship of the paradisical state, or was dance also part of the celebrations of here and now, on earth? So far, I have attended the idea that dancing mainly had a theological significance as a symbol of the heavenly or resurrection state of humanity. Now it is time to complexify this idea. One way to approach these questions is to look at other pieces of art created for the particular order in question. Images of people worshipping in dance, were not only part of the Last Judgement scene in the church of Santa Maria degli Angeli, in Florence. Dancing is also depicted in the vast fresco called The Church Militant 268 Van Dijk (2014), 39.

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Plate 12a. Whole fresco of The Church Militant and the Church Triumphant, (1365– 1368) by Andrea da Firenze in Santa Maria Novella, Italy.269

and the Church Triumphant (or Via Veritatus), produced a hundred years earlier, by Andrea da Firenze for the chapter house of the Dominican community in Santa Maria Novella, only 1.3 km from the church of the Camaldolese Order. I will be analysing this imagery and breaking the details down in relationship to what is seen in Plate 12a, 12b and 12c. This is also an image portraying Christ on his throne, with saints and angels worshipping around him. In Plate 12b, the worship is represented, not directly as encircling Jesus, but instead in two groups on each side of the throne. Due to the standing position of the angels and saints, it might not at first glance be evident if this worship contains any dancing. However, looking with more attention to detail, we can see that two of the angels to the right, hold hands as we have witnessed circle-dancing to be depicted. Further, two angels to the left, have their pinky-fingers hooked into each other, in a manner that is known to be part of a gesture of dance in particular courtly dances.270 In both of these cases, the presumed dancing angels 269 Wikimedia Commons: The Church Militant and the Church Triumphant, (c. 1365), Andrea da Firenze in Santa Maria Novella, Italy. 270 This is portrayed in the most clear way in the following treaties on dance: De pratica seu arte tripudii by Guglielmo Ebreo da Pesaro (c. 1420–c. 1484), image on page 21v. I am grateful to Gerrit Berenike Heiter for pointing this out to me.

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Plate 12b. Detail on the worshipping saints and dancing angels to the right and left of Christ seated on the throne.271

are further lifting their feet somewhat and place their (opposite) hand on the hip, both of which are other possible signs of dance gesture. (Compare with Plate 3). When we move further down in the fresco (Plate 12a), Joseph Polzer tells us, in his article ‘Andrea di Bonaiuto’s Via Veritatus and Dominican Thought in Late Medieval Italy’ (1995), that the image should be read by dividing the part beneath the heavenly worship into four squares. The right side of the picture depicts the Universal Church, reaching from the mortal realm to Paradise. In the upper square to the right, Paradise is illustrated as the Heavenly Jerusalem. In the lower side to the right, is depicted the Church on earth, by the Cathedral of Florence, filled with principal Dominican saints and also a favoured pope. Interestingly, this lower right side of the ‘worldly’ church also includes the emperor, king and vassals as well as pilgrims and people in various age-groups.272 This is our first sign that in the Corpus Christianum imagined here, not only priests and monks are defined a place within the Corpus Christi. In the earthly sphere, there is a clear mixing of so called sacred and profane elements. A question for future research might be to ask if such a division is relevant at all, in this setting? Symbolically, we can also see sheep under the feet of the pope signifying the herd of Peter and the black-and-white dogs of Dominican order watching the lambs of Christ as well as protecting the lambs from wolves.273 Turning to the imagined two squares on the left side of the fresco we find a similar division between the bottom part portraying the worldly domain and the upper part, a more paradisical dimension with its setting in a garden. All of this left side depicts 271 Wikimedia Commons: The Church Militant and the Church Triumphant, (c. 1365), Andrea da Firenze in Santa Maria Novella, Italy. 272 Polzer (1995), 268. 273 Jesus asking Peter to herd his sheep in Jn 21:15–17. For the meaning of dogs see: Polzer (1995), 268.

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the over-arching theme of the whole mural, which is the work and presence of the Dominican order of preachers in the world. Both the dogs and the black-cloaked men in white habits are signs of the Dominican monks.274 I will be arguing, that a more revealing way to read this image, is to see that everything underneath Christ seated on the throne, is part and parcel of the Corpus Christianum. On the left-hand side we see the Church dimension of the Corpus Christianum, while on the right side we see the Corpus Christianum in its more profane activities. The over-arching theme is how the Dominican order served in both of these dimensions of the Corpus Christianum. Particularly the three men in the bottom of the picture stand out as preaching, teaching and persuading. Polzer identifies the men as St Dominic himself, St Thomas of Aquinas and St Peter Martyr. Again, it is the gesture of the hands that give us clues about how they approach the various groups of people close to them.275 Polzer describes them to be preaching to Jews and other non-Christian groups of people and portraying various levels of success in conversion of these.276 Nirit Ben-Aryeh Debby explains in his ‘Art and Sermons: Mendicants and Muslims in Florence’ (2012), that Florence at the time, was richly influenced by both Franciscan and Dominican encounters with particularly Muslims but also the Mongol Khan Ali.277 Thus, portraying the conversion of heretics was a common theme in the art of the time and constituted an important ‘story’ to convey when depicting the missions of the orders.278 However, for this study, the most crucial passage is not the people in this lower frame, but those in the middle right side of the image (Plate 12c). There we find, what another author has called an image showing how the Dominicans succeeded ‘in calling men and women from the secular life’.279 Polzer names this part of the mural as depicting the order’s contemporary role as pastors.280 The scenery is that of a garden with a small wooden throne turned towards a larger male in his white habit and black cloak. Polzer describes this to be St Dominic appearing for a second time. Here, his gestures and the tasks of the order, are to guide people, as another author describes it from this ‘worldly’ state of being, through the teaching and sacramental anointment of the Dominican preachers, into a baptismal garment and finally arriving at the gates of heavenly Jerusalem.281 As Polzer describes it, particularly earlier research has presumed that what is depicted as young people playing music, dancing and moving in the garden, is an image of the

274 Polzer (1995), 268. 275 Polzer (1995), 268–69. 276 The groups are called heretics and later Polzer refers this to the fact that Dominicans in Florence after the plague, went as far as condemning and expelling Jews from the city. They were not only seen as heretics, but unfortunately accused of causing the death in the community. More on approaches to heretics in art from Dominican and Franciscan orders in Ben-Aryeh Debby (2012). 277 Ben-Aryeh Debby (2012), 341. 278 Ben-Aryeh Debby (2012), 347–51. 279 Source V. 280 Polzer (1995), 269. 281 Source V.

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Plate 12c Detail of the top part of the profane side of the Corpus Christianum where we can see the depiction of dancing maidens in the bottom right corner.282

worldly and sinful delights, that are to be left behind when one moves into a more religious state of being. 283 In the bottom middle part of Plate 12c, we can see a woman dragging a younger person away from the action, which is understood to be part of this illustration of a struggle between the secular and sacred. In the scenery that the boy is presumably longing for, what we see is the following. First, two people half embracing each other stand and watch what is happening. Based on the length of the garments and hairstyle, these are male figures.284 Then, a much taller male figure stands playing the bagpipe. Underneath the player, we see a circle of four young female characters engaged in a circular dance. There is apparent movement in the hems of their skirts and pattern of the feet. Next to them, three female figures hold the same dance-pose of interlocking pinky-fingers and hand on their hip, as we already saw with the angels above. Last, but not least is a female playing a hand-drum. In line with what has been said so far in this thesis, the dance described here, is placed in the profane sphere of the Corpus Christianum. However, dancing is also found in the heavenly host, which creates exactly the kind of tension in defining the dance that I have been aiming to pinpoint. Dance is not only an angelic affair and the clear-cut dichotomies between 282

282 Wikimedia Commons: The Church Militant and the Church Triumphant, (c. 1365), Andrea da Firenze in Santa Maria Novella, Italy. 283 Polzer (1995), 269. Particularly; Meiss (1951), 98. 284 More on clothes and identification of gender in dancers, see: Bridgeman (1991), 245–46. I am grateful to Lindsey Drury for pointing this out to me.

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profane and sacred, heavenly and earthly, have already been muddled beyond Polzer’s more immediate presumptions. The dancers and the various figures climbing trees in the garden are called children, by Joseph Polzer and his interlocutors.285 I am not entirely convinced by the description of these people as children, as the size of the figures in medieval painting is not always equitable with age.286 Size may just as well be a sign of importance or holiness. Sometimes size is used for depicting importance – as in the case of St Dominic – in this section, he is the tallest and most prominent figure. However, other times a Saint can be found in a small size, as this may also convey the person’s humble constitution, mainly, in front of more ‘holy’ people like Mary and Jesus. The boys climbing the trees, in the background of the people gathered close to St Dominic, may very well be children engaging in play. However, to my sight, the musicians and dancers are separate from the children and look more like young maidens. Mainly their braided and loose long hair indicates that they are more than children of the female gender.287 Polzer does state that there is a long-standing debate about the meaning of the play, dance and actions in the garden-like settings. He opts for stating that the children may reflect, both the soul-state of the followers of Christ and that the garden should be understood as an equivalent to the biblical tales of King Solomon delights. He sets this scenery, both through studying the meaning and symbolism of the fruits depicted, but also through comparing this image to other artistic scenes of the Last Judgment.288 Plozer’s main argument, is particularly compelling in relation to Fra Angelico’s altarpieces, even though he does not make references to his artwork. Shortly stated, Plozer wants to show that the Dominican tradition of theological reasoning at the time, did not yet depict or preach very consistently about purgatory. Instead of having a place ‘in-between’ the heavenly gates of Jerusalem and the ‘fallen’ state of carnal pleasures (which is portrayed in Plozer’s view by the dancing), which would be purgatory, here, an older theological framework is in action. He suggests that the transition of the human souls (children) does not go from the worldly sphere to the torments and purgation of what Fra Angelico shows. Instead, the garden itself is understood to be a place of cleansing. From Plozer’s point of view, transition in this painting, is in line with other Dominican sources of the time, where movement is displayed through repentance on earth, directly into heaven.289 Reflecting more on this shift in viewpoints, brings forth the added insight that neither purgatory nor the garden scenes of dancing, depicted in the two wings of the Fra Angelico painting, are final destinations of the human path.290 There is a transition period, and it is there that the community of saints and angels are brought



285 286 287 288 289 290

Polzer (1995), 269–72; Meiss (1951), 98. For Polzer’s argument see Polzer (1995), 272, fn 30. Bridgeman (1991), 245–46. Polzer (1995), 269–72. Polzer (1995), 272–79, 283. It should be remembered that what looks like two wings on a triptych now, was all part of the same image, in its creation. However, this does not negate the fact that the garden is positioned at the same hight as the under-world in both of Fra Angelico’s altarpieces.

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together in dance. Similarly, in Andrea di Bonaiuto’s work, the dancing is depicted within the garden scenery, not inside the heavenly Jerusalem. Could the dancing, thus be understood as a practice for the life in New Creation, to come? To strengthen his claim on a period of cleansing, Plozer turns, not only to the activities of the garden, its fruits and the sanctifying actions of St Dominic’s work, he also references the four seated individuals in the garden. To them, I will turn now. To the right of St Dominic speaking to a crowd of men, we actually find five figures. The first one is an elderly man, kneeling in front of his confessor. After this, a female figure is seated and playing a stringed instrument. Again, Polzer identifies her music as more ‘elevated’ and contrasts it to the ‘popular’ music by the bagpipe-player underneath her.291 On her right, sits a man clad in white, with a pointy hat and a falcon in his lap. Next to the right, is another woman, now with a lap-dog in her knee. Finally, we see another older man, who Polzer, at an early point, identifies as a judge or notary.292 For Polzer, these five figures represent the ages of a man and are part of the development of humanity in their life on earth. What is seen in this scenery are all the passages, from childhood through carnal pleasures of the youth to courtship and growing old, until the passing of time makes man repent and cleanse oneself so that he is ready for the after-life.293 However, as I see it, such an interpretation hinges on the pre-set condition that dancing must have been a carnal and discouraged practice. Instead, I would suggest, to turn back to the idea of the composition of the whole piece. The garden is positioned in the profane side of the fresco, but not in the worldly sphere of the painting. Rather, the garden is parallel with the heavenly aspect of the Church. I do agree that there may be layers in the image. However, even the dancing young maidens are within the zone of the garden. Just like Polzer points out, if this section would have been a path of salvation through penance and purgation, some element of pain, fear or negativity, should be present.294 If, like some interpretations of the title seem to suggest, when stating that what the image preaches is that people needed to be ‘militant’ to work against the snares of satan, is the core message, this is ‘lost’ in the actual iconography of the garden scenes.295 What instead, is seen, are the kind of delights of the bible – that a life lived well may contain. Not only are the fruits symbols of immortality, heavenly bliss and spiritual cleansing. In other medieval visions, the garden in itself is a topos of Paradise.296 From this point of view, the placement of the dancing scenes in the garden, might, just like Fra Angelico’s two altarpieces do, describe a heavenly state on earth or a needed transition/preparation for the life-to-come. However, a more complex understanding also arrises if we add the idea of layers in the image. There is a clear progression in the painting. Starting with the young maidens dancing in the bottom right of the garden, we may observe that moving up,

291 292 293 294 295 296

Polzer (1995), 282. Polzer (1995), 269. Polzer (1995), 281–83. Polzer (1995), 272, 274. Source V. Polzer (1995), 270–71.

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to the left, through the activities of St Dominic, we once more, encounter similar young maidens.297 What is noteworthy is that now these maidens have been dressed in white-washed clothing. This dress, has been suggested to be a symbol of baptism.298 This speaks in favour of reading the image as a transition description. Furthermore, the maidens are making themselves ready to enter in a procession-like manner, holding hands, into the heavenly gates of Jerusalem. The young maidens are met at the gate, by not only St Peter holding his key. They are also greeted by two female figures, that are described by Polzer as angels, however, lacking visible wings. These angels or saints are adorning each of the maidens with the heavenly crowns of salvation.299 Such special permission, not only by people from the profane realm to enter the final destination of saints, but to be clad with these garlands, is often in medieval literature associated with virginity. When further adding, that the dance we saw these maidens conduct in the garden, is very closely resembled, in the dance of the angelic beings surrounding Christ (see Plate 12b), a new vista, for this dance appears. What if this dance, all along, has been the worship of virgins, first covered in earthly gowns and then travelling through the gardens of the convent in preparation for their final destination? My suggestions here may be taken in two different ways. Either the maidens are young women from the ‘secular’ families, that take up a profession as nuns and thus find a path to virginity and saintly existence. However, I find it more likely, that all of the depictions in this garden portray how the actions of the laity – never taking up vows of chastity and poverty – may participate in a life that is pleasing to God. I build this, my suggestion on several details. First of all, is the consideration already attended to, of the overall composition of the image. The dancing is part of the paradisical garden scenery. What is portrayed here should be the profane equivalent of the heavenly aspect of Church. Secondly, there is nothing ‘impure’ or upsetting with the dance of the maidens. In contrast to the men engaged in debate, ripping out pages from the books in frustration and pointing in argument, in the worldly sphere underneath, the dance is a calm ordeal. The movements are harmonious and resemble those of courtly dancing. There is no mixing of genders, nor signs of lust of or real disturbance. The dance is instead signalling, relaxed enjoyment and goodness – the eutrapelia suggested by Rahner as a Christian virtue and preached by St Thomas.300 Thirdly, adding to this, the seated figures above the dancers also carry symbolic meaning combined with a good life. Thus, there is no reason to single out the dancing here as improper, when it could instead echo that of the people depicted above it. The woman playing music and the man with the falcon may resemble an act of courting, as suggested by Polzer.301 Drawing on Dante, he argues that the people 297 The youngsters gathering to the right of St Dominic are males, identifiable by their short hair. They actually receive branches and fruits from the younger children up in the trees. 298 Source V. 299 Polzer (1995), 275. 300 See MacIntyre (2006), 55–57. 301 Polzer (1995), 281–83.

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found in this section display the principal virtues of humanity in different age-groups. The falconer and female musician would be the representatives of gioventute, which carries temperance, strength, love, courtliness, and loyalty. However, I find it crucial to point out, that playing music and creating harmonious movements was in itself an essential aspect of a well-governed and well-functioning society.302 The woman with the lap-dog, itself a symbol of fidelity, is clearly veiled and may be married to the suggested judge on her side. Polzer describes them as representatives of senectute, which is a period devoted to prudence, justice, largesse, praise, and affability. Finally, the old man that is getting anointed is a senio, who is spiritually fully mature and ready to pass to the other side.303 My suggestion is thus that the dancing celebrates all these virtues and maybe even part-takes in maturing them. The display of different ages and virtues further gives room for the idea of transition that happens when humans grow closer to God. Could, part-taking in dancing be a way in which the profane sphere of Corpus Christianum, not only is cleansed, but performs God’s justice, love, loyalty, temperance and praise on earth? Fourthly, what strengthens the above idea of the dancing being a reassurance and amplification of a just, harmonious and well functioning profane sphere of society, is the fact that dancing is found in the portrayal of similar statements in other parts of Italy at the time. I will not go into detail, on the use of dance in these kinds of societal contexts here, but direct the reader to examine on their own, the series of three frescos painted by Ambrogio Lorenzetti between February 1338 and May 1339, in Palazzo Pubblico, in Siena. In that Allegory of Good and Bad Government and The Effects of Bad and Good Government in the City and Country, we can see that the effects of good government are portrayed with young males dancing in the streets. This example, from the same time and region, shows that in the social imaginary of this period, dancing was associated not only with life in the heavenly state, but also with life on earth with a heavenly presence. What we have seen, in the fresco of The Church Militant and the Church Triumphant, is that dancing is not only an angelic practice, it is found also within the practices of the laity. Furthermore, my analysis has aimed at showing that defining this profane dance as morally defiled has very little room within the symbology of this fresco. Rather, it seems like we here can find an image of how dancing may have been portrayed as carrying much theological meaning. Finally, as was suggested earlier, the only people that pass directly, from the paradisical ante-chamber of this garden, into the high-court of the heavenly Jerusalem and into the full glory of praising Christ eternally, are the maidens engaged in dancing. This might be a depiction emphasising that those that can keep their souls in a child-like spiritual state are the ones who will see their saviour face-to-face.304 It might also, be a sign that certain kinds of dancing should be understood as a state of worship that

302 Polzer (1995), 282. Polzer references Dante on the aspect of music in Paradise, but leaves away the fact that Dante tells about dancing. More on this see: Dickason (2018). 303 Polzer (1995), 281. 304 There are many biblical references that bring up the importance of being and staying like a child. Mt 11:25–30; Mt 18: 2–4; Mk 10:13–16; Lk 9:46–48; Jn 1:9–13.

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purifies the soul into extra-ordinary movements. As the second suggestion of a name for this painting is Via Veritatus – the path of truth – it is not an impossible suggestion that the Dominicans of this time, saw there to be a path into living in harmony with God, that also accepted dancing as part of such a journey here on earth. Notably, we see that the dancing here was depicted as being part of the life of ordinary people living and acting in a God-fearing society. Furthermore, this analysis of the dancing portrayed in this image also suggests that once we step away from pre-set categories and open up to the participation of all aspects of society in expressing reverentia in a variety of different ways in the Corpus Christianum, dancing may be part of a repertoire of movements that is suiting, not only to angels and priests but people from all walks of life. Analysing artefact and short historic recordings in light of concepts such as sacred space, reverentia and Corpus Christianum create a ‘thickness’ of description that enables us to grasp important patterns for how values and beliefs may have functioned in the medieval society. Whilst, what still is missing, are the stories and narrative frameworks within which the social imaginary of the medieval society functioned. Thus, my approach is, to now turn towards examples from the actual feast of Corpus Christi, where also these larger narrative frameworks of a theological understanding of the period might assist us in revealing how dancing mattered. 2.c. Corpus Christi

Caroline Walker Bynum, in both her book Holy Feast and Holy Fast: The Religious Significance of Food to Medieval Women (1987), and Wonderful Blood, has written extensively on the manifold and shifting views and uses of the consecrated host for and in medieval practices, one of which was the creation of the feast of Corpus Christi. Charles Zika writes in his article ‘Hosts, Processions and Pilgrimages: Controlling the Sacred in Fifteenth-Century Germany’ (1988), that the feast of Corpus Christi was first celebrated in the city of Liège in 1246. It had emerged from a vision by the beguine Juliana and commenced through the practice of Juliana’s confessor and fellow beguines. Later the feast spread across the German territories and Low Countries, was promulgated as a feast of the universal church in 1264 and was established throughout most of Western Christendom by 1317.305 By 1389 Urban VI had raised the feast to equal status with the four major feasts of Christmas, Easter, Pentecost and the Assumption.306

305 In Liège the museum Le Grand Curtis offers different dates for these event. They state that already in 1252 the papal legate Hugues de Saint-Cher spread the feast all over his legation (indicating the whole of Germany). Further, they state that this was extended to the universal church already in 1264 by Pope Urban IV. Visit at Museum Le Grand Curtis (2018) Liège. 306 Zika (1988), 37; Bynum (1987), 55.

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From such a point of view, it is highly problematic that Chambers insists on the following pattern of understanding when it comes to the dances in Seville and other places, conducted during Corpus Christi:307 The dance had been from the beginning a subject of contention between Christianity and the Roman world; but where-as the dances of the East and South, so obnoxious to the early Fathers, were mainly those of professional entertainers, upon the stage or at banquets, the missionaries of the West had to face the even more difficult problem of a folk-dance and folk-song which were amongst the most inveterate habits of the freshly converted peoples. As the old worship vanished, these tended to attach themselves to the new. Upon great feasts and wake-days, choruses of women invaded with wanton cantica and ballationes the precincts of the churches and even the sacred buildings themselves, a desecration against which generation after generation of ecclesiastical authorities was fain to protest.308 In this example, Chambers does differentiate between the dances condemned as problematic by the Early Church as pertaining mainly to drama and professional acting, from the dance of the people. However, what he completely fails to note is that folk-dance and folk-songs were not simply attached upon new rituals in the West. What Corpus Christi is, is a completely new liturgical enactment. The invasion of women, Chambers refers to is found 600 years before the Corpus Christi even emerged!309 Instead, it seems, like Chambers way of relating to dance is coloured, not only by his narrative of pagan folkloric customs being at the root of all Christian practices but also by a gender-biased view of the role of women in rituals of the church. From the accounts of Bynum, we learn that at the roots of the feasts and fasting of especially women in the Middle Ages a deep veneration can be found – deemed by some as an excessive obsession with the eucharist.310 However, the vision of Juliana is best understood in the context of both the theological development of this period311 and the changes in the practice of the celebration of the Mass. What the women who created the Corpus Christi feast did, was to actively take part in a theological discussion of utmost importance, in the way that they could. Following the clarification of the dogma of transubstantiation at the fourth Lateran Council in 1215 an intensification of the importance of the eucharist can be noted. At the same Council, it was declared that confession followed by communion was a yearly obligation, often taking place around the season of Easter. Following this decree, the number of eucharistic miracles reported increased, together with a shifting notion that the mere seeing of the Host made an impact on the believer.312



307 308 309 310 311 312

Chambers (1923), 161–63. Chambers (1923), 162. Chambers (1923), 162 fn 3. Starting with the ruling from the Council of Auxerre (573–603). Bynum (1987), 77, 93, 115. Bynum (1987), 51–54. Parker in Heffernan, Matter (2001), 309–10; Parker McLachlan in Heffernan, Matter (2001), 401–02; Bynum (1991), 126–29.

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Furthermore, in earlier times, all communicants had been allowed to receive both the blood and the body of Christ. In shifting attitudes and fear of sacrilege, the custom changed so that the laity was allowed only the bread, with the argument being that it contained both kinds.313 Such changes were also accompanied by a stronger sense of division between the clergy and laity within the church setting. Craig Wright in Music and ceremony at Notre Dame of Paris, 500–1550 (1989), explains that the changes in architecture, which by the fourteenth century brought with them a separation of the heart of the sanctuary – the choir – from the Nave, where the people could move freely, through a wooden screen, might itself have been a form of veneration of the Host. Nevertheless, for example, in Notre Dame de Paris this new architectural arrangement brought with it not only a screen but also the building of a miniature sanctuary within the church.314 In practice, this meant that the Host was entirely blocked from view from the laity.315 Wright continues: Except when the clergy ventured forth in procession or gathered in a chantry chapel to sing a votive Mass or obit, almost all of the divine rites involving music were conducted within the enclosure. This is not to say that there were few services outside the choir; in fact, there were nearly a hundred Masses celebrated daily at the various chantry chapels and side altars in the church, but the bulk of these were low Masses said by a single chaplain priest. The singing of the canonical hours as well as the magna missa took place in the chancel in proximity to the high altar of the church.316 Wright explains that such changes in architecture not only kept the Host out of the laity’s sight but also meant that non-clergy needed to visit a smaller parish church in order to receive the sacrament.317 For pious women of this period, to neither see nor taste the body of Christ, led to demands of a new way of participation in/with the sacrament. It is in light of these facts that we are to approach both the elaborated processions and the decorative artwork designed for the carrying of the Host, which became central to the feast of Corpus Christi. Some researchers even go as far as speaking about an elevated theology of the body.318 In this, I argue, the core question was how matter mattered. I am indicating both the matter of bodies involved in processions and actions, as well as the matter of artworks, bells and the eucharist itself. Some of the features of the feast are still seen today. When I visited the collegiate church of Saint Martin in Liège where the feast originated, there were images on the walls, where the processions and their artwork is shown. Plate 13 is a photo-copy of a



313 314 315 316 317 318

Bynum (1987), 65. C. Wright (1989), 11–12. For regional differences see Parker in Heffernan, Matter (2001), 301. C. Wright (1989), 12. C. Wright (1989), 12. Smith in Rubin, Simons (2009), 81.

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Plate 13. This black and white picture is a copy of the artwork found painted on the walls in the choir of the church. The paintings are made by Tassin (1905–1907).319

painting which supposedly represents Juliana and the co-founder, sister Eve, adoring the Eucharistic procession.320 319320 The gestures shown in the image, are those of the two women kneeling, while the procession where the decorated and elevated Host is carried in a procession around the country-side and into the city. Even though the depictions in the ceiling of the current church are from modern times, the historical records show they do not show a completely different setting. There is a tension in this picture of portraying the women as passively kneeling at the side, while a long row of men walk in the procession. Charles Zika goes as far as arguing that the feast of Corpus Christi was a way for the religious authorities – especially the local priests – to control the people. His main point is that starting to condemn pilgrimages and commemorations of relics and leading the laity to venerate the Host by merely seeing it instead, was a way to have easier ‘access’ to their religious lives and practices.321 This may very well be a later development of the feast, but it leaves unattended, both the active participation of the women and the community.

319 Collegiate church of Saint Martin, Liège visited 26.08.2018. Photo by author. See also: Source Q. 320 See more on Eve. Source R. 321 Zika (1988), 25–64.

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Zika further tells us that at the centre of the Corpus Christi celebration was not only the liturgy of the Mass. The procession was significant. In it, the priest carried the Host, accompanied by choristers and people singing.322 In the Mystical Mirror of the Church, St Huge of Victor speaks about how the church is militant on earth. Part of her is on a constant pilgrimage, while part, is already in glory.323 St Huge of Victor’s medieval writing on the church militant, is much closer to what I described earlier as a double tension, than it is a description of ongoing warfare. As I understand him and the more compelling analysis of Plate 12, is that the Corpus Christianum can be both in transition and connected to the glories of the heavenly sphere, at the same time. Liturgical texts also allude to the Church as the walking tabernacle, where the interior part is that of the sanctuary, where the clergy pray, preach and offer praises, following the contemplative life. The outside part is that which contains the tabernacle, where the ‘sacrifice’ of the active life of service to neighbour, is done. Here the laity participates through offering their prayers and hearing the Word. God stayed with his people in the tabernacle, if, when and through them being faithful to him.324 So, being the living stones325 of the active church on earth meant moving together in reverentia. This imagery, given by St Huge of Victor, is not merely an ideal but more recent scholarly work has demonstrated that also in practice the participation of everyone and everything in the processions resembling the pilgrimage of life on earth, was equally important.326 One medieval source that can help us in understanding this, is The Golden Legend by Jacobus de Voragine. He explains both the form and meaning of these processions more deeply. The Golden Legend was a popular book gathering stories of the saints and martyr, to be read during feast days. The Golden Legend also tells about yearly liturgical Rogations.327 Jacobus de Voragine writes that the practice of the Letania Major and Letania Minor328 was started by Gregory the Great (540–604). These liturgical acts were initiated after a penitence procession he had led – including votive



322 Zika (1988), 38; Bynum (1987), 55. 323 Hugh of St Victor, Mystical Mirror of the Church, chapter 1, 30–33. 324 Durand, Rationale Divinorum Officiorum I. Chapter 1, 4–9. 325 ‘Come to him, the living stone, though rejected by mortals but chosen and precious in God’s sight, and like living stones, let yourselves be built into a spiritual house, to be a holy priesthood, to offer spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ. For it stands in scripture: ‘See, I am laying in Zion a stone, a cornerstone chosen and precious; and whoever believes in him will not be put to shame’. To you then who believe, he is precious; but for those who do not believe, ‘The stone that the builders rejected has become the very head of the corner’, and ‘A stone that makes them stumble, and a rock that makes them fall’ They stumble because they disobey the word, as they were destined to do. But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s own people, in order that you may proclaim the mighty acts of him who called you out of darkness into his marvellous light’. 1 Pet 2: 4–9. 326 Terpstra (2017), 30; Bynum (2007), 7–8, 135–36; Devaney (2015), 150–59. 327 Voragine (1941), 278–80. 328 Celebrated three days before Ascension and is said to have been instituted already in 458. Voragine (1941), 278–79.

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images of the Virgin Mary carried around cleansing the air – had freed the city of Rome from a disastrous plague.329 In The Golden Legend, we can read that in such processions the cross was carried, bells were rung, a banner was raised, and the patronage of all the saints was invoked. The cross and the bells were used to hold off the demons while the banner was the sign of the victory of the resurrection. The procession not only scared away the devil or healed the people from earthquakes and other calamities, but it could also put an end to wars and make the earth bear fruit. Combined with prayers and fasting these actions prepared a body for receiving the Holy Ghost, or to merit its coming. When the Church did these things together, she might be elevated to the Heavens and joined to Christ.330 This is a practical example of how the concept of reverentia functioned in the medieval period.331 Jacques Le Goff in his In search of sacred time: Jacobus de Voragine and the Golden legend (2014), explains that even though Jacobus de Voragine often is understood as one of the Dominican preachers who wanted to sacralise the world and sanctify time and space through joyful liturgical practices, the celebrations of Letania Major and Letania Minor, were not occasions of glory.332 Contrary to pagan practices of spring-time celebrations, like those described by Chambers to be at the root of fertility rites, in the new Christ-centred marking of time, spring was a period of petitions.333 The yearly liturgical Rogations, centred on combatting a time of famine and wars. This was done bearing sackcloths and ringing in the bells of mourning in order to petition God to bring back fertility to the earth and through the passion of Christ, restore justice to the world. Sharply marking an abruption to what had been a pagan practice and introducing a new time and order through the sanctified liturgical acts of the people of God.334 In these feasts, it would be hard to imagine people expressing joyful dance and circling in harmony. Processions of this kind where clearly created as a ritual of mourning and the gestures expressed, should be in line with that sentiment. Jacobus de Voragine further gives us an image of how these processions were to be conducted. Contrary to the image painted in the twentieth century, he says that Saint Gregory arranged them in seven ranks. The clergy came first, then the monks and religious, then the nuns. After this came the children, the laymen, then the widows and virgins and last of all were the married women. He also adds that as all processions could not gather in these specific groups, the structure could be upheld by citing the litany seven times.335 The whole Corpus Christianum is gathered and the participation of all, symbolically, as in reading the litany, or in person, when the community was complete, was important. Similarly to the fresco in Plate 12, we

329 330 331 332 333 334 335

Voragine (1941), 180–81. Voragine (1941), 279–80. Voragine (1941), 279–80. Le Goff (2014), 112–13. Chambers (1923), 218–19, 250–51, 377–78. Le Goff (2014), 111–13. Voragine (1941), 278.

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see here that different tasks and positions of the laity carried specific meaning and significance. The Golden Legend can scarcely be seen as an accurate source of factual happenings, in all its details, yet it does provide us with an idea about ideals. Le Goff explains that de Voragine aimed at giving a complete theological summa on time and how the world was enchanted with God’s presence.336 When we read those ideals side by side with the depictions found in historical records, a deepened understanding emerges. One such example can be taken from the account Mews presents around dancing during Rogation days. He references the situation, from the point of view of condemnations, which complicates the picture. What Mews presents, is a description of the dance of nuns of the Paraclete of Heloise outside of Paris. During Rogation and at Ascension, the nuns used to go in procession some distance from the abbey to a particular cross, called Croix du Maître. The whole village would follow them there, and Latin responses were sung together. Mews writes that the songs were: believed to have been established by Abelard himself, the nuns began to dance and sing vernacular songs, according to an edict of bishop Jacques Raguier issued August 4, 1499. The nuns had apparently resisted ecclesiastical complaints, claiming ancient authority for the practice.337 Both Mews and his sources, seem to be taking it for granted that the singing and dancing of these nuns was somehow problematic, as it had been condemned for three centuries.338 Furthermore, they reference the involvement of an authoritative figure as Abelard as a ‘claim’ by the nuns, for their continuous practice. To me, this indicates the belittling of the action of these women. Contrary to this, if one ventures into reading the correspondence between Peter Abelard (1079–1142) and Heloise (1011–1062) from the twelfth century, one will find that Abelard339 indeed encouraged the nuns to conduct their contemplative worship in song and dance.340 Such reading shows that Abelard may very well have written songs for these nuns that they considered being made for dancing as well as singing. Abelard established in his letters to Heloise that the nuns were given a prophetic gift in their task of prayer and worship, which included dancing, singing and writing of music and songs.341 Thus, I would argue that the conflict between the practice of the nuns and the condemnation of the bishops, in this particular example would need further investigation. It may very well turn out that there is a local power struggle or some other incidence, which instead of dancing and singing in the fields, lies behind these

336 337 338 339

Le Goff (2014), 10, 67, 89. Mews (2009), 544. I have been unable to obtain the original account of this occasion. Mews (2009), 544. Particularly, Letter 7: Abelard to Heloise: The Origins of Religious Life of Nuns (Concerning the Authority and Dignity of the Order of Nuns), referenced to as Abelard (2009). 340 Abelard, Letter 7, (2009), 108. 341 Abelard, Letter 7, (2009), 120.

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judgements.342 Alternatively, it could also be so that it is only due to the rendition of later research that the behaviour of the nuns is portrayed as problematic. This is for another study to determine. Unfortunately, we do not know what kind of dances the nuns were conducting. One possible understanding is that the procession itself was considered an appropriate form of lament, while dancing was not. However, there are also biblical prerequisites found for more mournful movements like those found in the dance of Rachel, which might have inspired the nuns to adjust their dancing to an appropriate form for the occasion.343 To discern which kind of movements would have been appropriate and what kind of liturgical gestures were in use, one needs to understand the time and place of each festivity within the liturgical year.344 What Jacobus de Voragine’s writing helps to high-light is the fact that even though a tradition of processing around the fields and dancing outside under a cross, might sound like a ‘superstitious’ practice to us, we have no substantial claims for it being so for the medieval practitioner. Why his writing becomes so crucial for understanding the medieval period, is the way he combines the theological visions of a learned elite, with the more folktale-like stories and explications of customs. All the time, aiming at inspiring and guiding ordinary people into more holy lives.345 Jacobus de Voragine explained when a particular custom was introduced to counter its pagan predecessor or to convert non-believers through its examples as he is convinced that the new, sacralised time and space, has the power to cast out the devil and his demons.346 What comes into focus is thus, for example the quality or atmospheric effect sought for with each and every ritual, instead of bluntly discarding some practices and keeping others due to their placement in space. It is noteworthy that in the use of the Rogations and depictions of the effects of processions, the language used is only positively descriptive. Jacobus de Voragine is not preaching condemnation or seemingly scaring people into submission with tales of demons and the devil. Instead, his task is clearly to demonstrate that the actions of the Corpus Christianum, thus, are to be executed, and that they mattered. Negotiating demons, the growing of crops and relationships to events in nature or society were all part of what is ‘natural’ for humans living under God. They take a pragmatic approach rather then a ‘non-scientific’ one.347 To describe these actions as ‘superstition’ or as deriving from old mystery cults, would, in my opinion, be to impose one’s own ideas upon the experienced reality of the people of this age. Instead,

342 See for example the discussions on reform found in Lewis (1996). 343 Samantha Harper Collins in her Master’s thesis at Trinity Laban Conservatoire of Music and Dance, argues for the passages in Jeremiah 31:15–22, being used as a dance ritual of mourning. Harper Collins (2019). Also forthcoming as an article ‘‫ סבב‬Circle dance in the Hebrew Bible; Intersubjectivity, Empathy and Intersession’. See also Kozlova (2017), 164–67, 174–83. 344 For another kind of imaginary presented, see Durand’s detailed explications of the procession in another liturgical setting. Durand, Rationale Divinorum Officiorum VI, Chapter 6, 13–17. 345 Le Goff (2014), 5–6, 16–17, 30–31, 54. 346 Le Goff (2014), 66–67, 95, 112–13. 347 Bartlett (2011), 6–9, 33, 36–37, 141.

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what Jacobus de Voragine has to offer, is a handbook of reverentia. His descriptions also give more ‘thickness’ to what I mean when I use the term an enchanted universe, by Taylor. Living under these forces, is not only an image of being constantly under ‘attack’ by malign forces, living in reverentia can also create a sense of being carried and lead into a sustainable rhythm of life. From these stories and narrative depictions, we can come to understand how the medieval people reasoned and experienced the complexities of the enchanted world. 2.c. 1. The Liturgies of the People

Let us now turn to more detailed historical descriptions of a feast of Corpus Christi. Zika explains what happened at this feast, through an account from 1381 in Würzburg. After the Mass, groups of clergy, the guild-masters with their apprentices, representatives of the four quarters and other groups of people gathered in the cathedral. From the cathedral, they would make a long procession through the market-place to one of the chapels of the city, over the bridge and around parts of the city walls, linking different parts of the city with each other and binding disparate parts to one unity.348 He continues: Through the re-enactment of the city’s organic unity and recognition of both its human and natural space and landmarks, the bonds of authority and dependence within and between the ecclesiastical and civic structures were restated and reproduced. In encircling the town (in whole or in part) the procession re-enacted the Rogatory Day349 or St Mark’s Day (25 April) procession – when it was customary to process around the perimeters of towns and villages in order to protect them from outside enemies and call down God’s blessing on crops and fruits by exorcising the airs.350 These processions not only established the web of inter-relationships which bound the body of Christ together but also shows how Holy time-space weaved a pattern where commercial, civic and church space could not be separated.351 This further emphasises the liturgical character of these processions; the route would have had specific stations with erected altars where antiphons were sung, opening words from the four gospels were read and the Host was lifted towards the four quarters of the earth in order to bless space, the people and the society in which

348 Zika (1988), 40. 349 Rogation Days were the Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday before the Ascension, part of the so-called Kreuzwoche. For the Corpus Christi procession as a weather procession, see Browe (1933), 105–12, 126–32; Haimerl (1937), 8–15, 34–35, 54. 350 Zika (1988), 39-40. 351 For the symbolic nature of processions in late medieval and early modem Europe: Trexler (1991); (2002); James (1983), 3–29; Davis (1983), 56–59; Muir (1981), 185–211, 223–30.

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they played a role.352 Zika also emphasises the fact that people from all walks of life participated, each group having their own shore to take care of and student clergy together with children even dressed up as angels. From there, the step is not long to imagine them dancing, even in other places then Seville. However, Zika’s view is that a distinction was made between the practices of the populous and the procession proper.353 As will be shown further ahead, Nicholas Terpstra would not agree with this interpretation. Godefridus J. C. Snoek in his Medieval Piety from Relics to the Eucharist: A Process of Mutual Interaction (1995), further explains that the variation within Europe was great in how these processions were conducted. In some parts, there were actually two processions, one on the actual feast day of Corpus Christi, where the Eucharist was demonstrated around the city with joy and triumph.354 Thomas Devaney in Enemies in the Plaza Urban Spectacle and the End of Spanish Frontier Culture, 1460–1492 (2015), even portrays such joyful events in Spain, as occasions where both the Muslim and Jewish minorities were included in the celebrations. Not only where Jews and Muslims of the city of Murcia allowed, during Corpus Christi, to dress in whatever way they wanted, they were also employed – with well payed salaries – to function as musicians and participants in the celebratory dances. These payed tasks included, furthermore, both male and female minstrels.355 Thus, we can say that dancing seems to have been part of the practice of creating unity and blessing people and space. The second kind of procession, described by Snoek, made its rout through the fields and took on the character of rogation. The latter was, as already stated, a day of lament or penance, where the Host functioned more like a relic, bringing protection and blessings over the people, its lands and cattle. Sometimes, however, only one of these processions was to be enacted and then we can find recommendation about that procession needing to be carried out as rogation days.356 It is from in-depth, detailed readings of statements and breviarium like those done by Snoek that we may find answers to why certain enactments of Corpus Christi, allowed for more joyful dancing and others may have taken issue with combining dance to these processions. However, this does not exclude the fact that the nuns dancing around the cross in the fields outside the Paraclete, may have found their dance to be part of calling down God’s blessing, lamenting or even exorcism. Whichever the tradition, reading about these liturgical acts it becomes clear that no simple separation of sacred and profane space can be adjusted to. Even the distinction between heavenly and earthly dimensions seem to become blurred when people dress up as angels and the dance-like movements earlier associated with angelic worship is now manifest on earth by people of the book. Furthermore, movement with sacred matter, through and in different spaces, was not in itself a



352 353 354 355 356

Zika (1988), 40. Zika (1988), 42–43. Snoek (1995), 271. Devaney (2015), 154–59. Snoek (1995), 271.

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problem. When the movement was acted out ritually, it confirmed and re-activated the sacredness of space. Agriculture, civic society and even commercial interests were all given to God’s protection, just as creatures and the created were knit together in divine power, through movement. Even though we already saw that these kinds of processions can turn into particular enactments of dance, the choreography of movement in space described also raises the question as to whether there was any fundamental difference between processions and dancing. Is procession in itself a dance-like movement and when and why does a procession turn into a dance? Is the actual question at hand even one concerned with a difference between dance and procession, or maybe it has more to do with what kind of spirit, ‘energy’ or passion the movements were ‘loaded’ with.357 In the celebration at Echternach the procession jumped and hopped in dance-like moves, while with the nuns of the Paraclete, they first had a procession and then went into dancing. Did these movements restate and reproduce the bonds of authority and dependence, function as a blessing and exorcising force or did they mainly express joy and celebration? The connections between processions and dancing can also be found elsewhere. In Elizabeth Wayland Barber’s The Dancing Goddesses – Folklore, Archeology and the Origins of European Dance (2013), she presents ethnographic work from Bulgaria and Romania where dancing processions are portrayed as part of a ritualised practice by men. This is described to occur during the week named Rusalia,358 when bands of men went from village to village, dancing protection over the crops and healing people with different maladies. These men consisted of a selected few, scrutinised for high moral standards as well as physical abilities. They were equipped, not only with herbs and bells but also a special staff.359 I will return to a very similar kind of practice placed under the name of laudes Cornomanni[a]e in sub-chapter: Papal Celebrations. What is of importance here is mainly that processional dances or processions that contained elements of dancing, seems to have been a practice found from various different parts of Europe and in these examples it was an honorary task, not simple entertainment. Again, Bulgaria and Romania with their Orthodox traditions of Christianity should not easily be tied together with the descriptions of Corpus Christi feasts in western Europe, yet the combination of dance and procession

357 I want to emphasis that emotions, as we understand them now, was not part of the experiential vocabulary of the medieval worldview. This is why I have opted for the word passion, even though the connotation might not be the most clear for a modern reader. For more on this see: Van Dijk (2014), 24–25. 358 Wayland Barber explains: ‘Rusalia Week, also known as Rusalnaya Week or Green Holy-Days (Zelyonie Svyatki), occurred around Pentecost, fifty days after Easter (…) Because of the shifting of Easter, it could fall anywhere from May to mid-June. That Sunday, Pentecost, is called Trinity Sunday (Troitsen) by the Eastern Orthodox (Whitsunday in English). Monday is Dukhov Day, Day of Souls, a major occasion for honoring one’s dead kin who, the belief goes, get let out of the Other World briefly at that time’. Barber (2013), 69. 359 Barber (2013), 71–75.

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Plate 14. Messerschmied-fechten is described as a dance of swords performed during the feast of the cutlers.360

can also be found from sources closer to the examples we have followed on Corpus Christi feasts. Returning to the artwork as a source for what kind of practices seem to have been historically in use, there are more examples to be found on the intersection of dance and processions. I was genuinely surprised when in Nürnberg one of these dancing processions caught my eye. Actually, when I saw the following two sketches (Plate 14 and 15), I did not even think of them as dancing, but rather walking processions. However, then I looked at the titles. The movements depicted are called dancing – not a procession. Furthermore, both images are described to be part of a festival.360 What can be seen in this processional dance is a long line of men bound to each other by their staff or sword (Plate 14). The latter option becomes clear from the text accompanying the image. The processional dance is described as that of a feast of a specific guild – the cutlers. Seeing this with a modern view, one might presume that such processional dancing had nothing to do with religious activities and the image itself also does not reveal any religious symbology. Furthermore, holding fast to Chambers’s way of classifying dancing and medieval phenomena, would render

360 Etching by Johann Alexander Boener end of 1600, Fembohaus Municipal Museum in Nürnberg, visited 10.09.2016. Wikimedia Commons: Stich aus ‘Des Heil. Röm. Reichs Stadt Nürnberg Zierdte’ von Johann Alexander Böner. Exemplar mit der Signatur: Eichstätt-Ingolstadt, Universitätsbibliothek – 04/1 WG 300 (1709).

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Plate 15. Umzug der Zirkelschmiede is described as a Festival of dance and processions during Carnival.361

the sword dances folkloric traditions and related merely to the passing of spring to summer, losing sight of both the civic and religious aspect they might carry. 362 However, as the account from the feast of Corpus Christi celebration in Würzburg showed, the activities of the guilds of the medieval period were part of the religious life of the community just as the religious processions were a way of blessing the city and its surrounding lands. The etching is from the end of the year 1600 or early 1700, which takes us outside of what would be considered a medieval setting, so I will not push these connections further in this particular case.363 They merely serve as a reminder that using muscle 361 Copper engraving by Johann Alexander Boener 1681, Fembohaus Municipal Museum in Nürnberg, visited 10.09.2016. Wikimedia Commons: Stich aus ‘Des Heil. Röm. Reichs Stadt Nürnberg Zierdte’ von Johann Alexander Böner. Exemplar mit der Signatur: Eichstätt-Ingolstadt, Universitätsbibliothek – 04/1 WG 300 (1709). 362 Sword-dances are also commented by Chambers. He devotes a whole chapter IX. The Sword-Dance to it. He places the dances under the heading of folk customs and festival drama. Chambers (1923), 182–205; as well as shattered remarks in Chambers (1923), 208–10, 214, 217–22, 227–28, 272, 274, 383. Chambers writes: ‘The festival customs include a number of dramatic rites which appear to have been originally symbolical expressions of the facts of seasonal recurrence lying at the root of the festivals themselves. The antithesis of winter and summer, the renouveau of spring, are mimed in three or four distinct fashions. The first and the most important, as well as the most widespread of these, is the mock representation of a death or burial’. Chambers (1923), 183. 363 For more on the connection of brass- and coppersmiths in Nürnberg and their participation in both music-making and dancing for civic festivals see Green (2011), 24–25, 27. Also more on the dancing of people from different guilds during religious festivities in Ogilvie (2018), 304–05.

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pairs in the way that earlier research has tended to do, and which is often applied still today, tends to obscure and distort the understanding of the practices at hand. What Plate 15 reveals is that, in fact, the guild of Compass-makers, did participate in the religious processions of Carnival. Furthermore, their participation was also related to as a combination of procession and dance. What we have seen so far is that in Spain, professional musicians and dancers were brought into the Corpus Christi celebrations (also outside of the initial examples of the choir boys in Seville) and in the German territories, it seems to have been a regular practice of other festal processions to have enactments of dance as part of the processions. In his Drama, Play and Games, Lawrence M. Clopper also brings up the fact that in many towns in England, Corpus Christi feasts were accompanied, in the later parts of the medieval period, of not only processions, but also different forms of games and plays. Some of these, that also seem to be carrying traces of dancing, were hosted by the guilds.364 A detailed study of these, falls outside the scope of this study. However, these examples show that communal religious activity of lay people could take many different forms. Furthermore, the guilds played an important role in creating the feast and upholding the traditions. I will return to this shortly. Before that, I have one final remark to make about the folkloric depiction by Barber and what is portrayed in the etchings just seen. What is interesting is that in these images, just like the practices from Romania and Bulgaria, men are leading the dances. Men, not only lead the dance procession, they also carry sticks or staffs in their hands while dancing; something the image describes as a sword dance. From this, we see that not only clergy took part in the dancing and neither was dancing confined to the realm of a female practice only. At different occasions and probably with different intents, different parts of the Corpus Christianum took part in enacting rituals of dance. What would further be an important study to make, is to see how questions of gender played out in the dramatical enactments and practices of dances that appeared when laity and clergy worked together to create rituals of communal worship. Raising questions about the gendered role of ritual enactments like exorcism, protection, blessings, clebration and praise. What I will return to, in the chapter on the Feast of Fools is to various examples of how dancing was used in and acted together with, liturgical dramas of the medieval period. There we will see some traces of what role gender played in these practices. Much more still needs to be done in this regard. As the various examples above have shown, there is no easy way to make a distinction between dancing in line and festal processions. At the same time, my aim is not here to inflate the idea of dancing so that all kinds of processions could be considered dance. Instead, I want to show, in practice that one easily moves into the other. Further, as will become even clearer later in this chapter, the occasions on which these kinds of dances or communal movement patterns were conducted, are also not easily compartmentalised into religiously liturgical or civic choreographies. Neither 364 Clopper (2001), 12, 18, 93–96, 105, 119–20, 147–56, 179–81, 184, 270–71.

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can they be classified merely as folkloric customs or dramatised enactments of the seasonal changes of nature. In line with these findings, I have thus resisted using any simple definitions on either dance nor processions. However, contrary to much recent scholarly work around the spectacles, plays and communal processions of the medieval period, I also resist the tendency to make all of the practices into civic liturgies with merely political, commercial and social meaning.365 In this study the important aim is to continue to look for the liturgical and religious meaning of rituals and actions that earlier research has considered carrying no theological significance. Dancing in Religious and Political Landscapes

Returning now to a deeper analysis of the movements and patterns of the Corpus Christi processions, I will explore the tension between religion, social, political and commercial interests a bit further. It has become clear that ordained clergy or those who had taken vows of chastity were not the only ones able to initiate, activate and negotiate the sacredness of space. Thus, returning to the image of Via Veritatus (Plate 12), the domain of the Church was not the only place where religious rituals were enacted. Terpstra states that there were certain key rituals, such as hearing confessions, consecrating hosts, casting out demons and conducting funeral rites that only ordained priest and friars could perform. Secular clergy and nuns further brought their status as ‘religious’ together with their political ties to the local elite with them into the activities. But it was most often the active male and female laity – of all ages and social classes – that articulated the ritual life, charitable outreach, artistic creativity and even physical structure of Corpus Christianum. They built local shrines, cared for the activities around a patron saint and participated in hosting pilgrims and caring for the sick in hospitals. These were the people who danced in the streets and churchyards – however, not out of lack of reverentia. The wealthier and more influential the civic society grew during the latter parts of the Middle Ages, the more these councils, trade guilds and confraternities had a say in such communal rituals.366 This is why I find the two earlier dancing processions depicted in the sketches so interesting, as there is a clear mixture exactly of this over-lapping of ritual ceremony and communal participation in a guild context. Being part of a guild, furthermore, was not only a question of economic interest, but created social and political bonds. In those images, it is the compass-makers and cutlers who are portrayed in the festal procession. This would probably be reason enough for most observers to presume the procession was a civic or profane ceremony. What I wish to emphasis is that seeing these images from the point of view of dancing in an enchanted world opens up the possibility to interpret the feast simultaneously in a religious light.

365 I am particularly thinking of the work referenced here by Green (2011); Devaney (2015); Ogilvie (2018). 366 Terpstra (2017), 30. See also the role of a local ruler in creating spectacles, celebrations including dance and dramas for the community as well as the rituals of city life. Devaney (2015), 52–55.

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How this is shown through examples such as these is, i.e., a sense of agency on the part of the laity in the negotiation of sacred space and part-taking in reverentia. Terpstra argues the agency of the laity has been overlooked and sometimes ignored when research has focused merely on analysing theological concepts and treatises taught at the universities. Work by Caroline Walker Bynum and Nicholas Terpstra are starting to show how the movements and actions of ‘common folks’ mattered.367 Even studies, such as those of Hayes on sacred and profane space and Zika on the processions and pilgrimages bear marks of not fully recognising the influence and importance of the practices of the laity. Terpstra writes: We should not understand the civic religion of the Corpus Christianum as something that separated lay people from clergy. They did not divide their sacred from their secular lives, but saw these as being woven together just as tightly as the fabric in the robes they pulled on when entering their confraternal oratories, or in the banners that bobbed above their heads in frequent processions around the shrines, churches, hospitals, and squares of the city. Their faith brought heavenly power down to the level of the street and into the rhythms of clock and calendar. Civic religion was above all deeply local religion, tied to the times and spaces of the town itself.368 Building on Terpstra, I argue that when we find that there has been sale of saintly statues in churches, games played in the cemetery, dancing within or outside of shrines and during processions it would be to diminish the importance of both the agency and the faith of common people, to bluntly declare these things as opposed to sacredness or stemming from a lack of reverentia. Thus, I do not agree with Dawn Marie Hayes in interpreting that the above-mentioned activities show that the sacredness of churches were ‘under threat’ when ‘profane’ activities ‘invaded’ the space of the church, churchyard or sanctuaries. Instead of seeing dancing as an intrusion on sacred space, studies need to start asking; In which way does dancing bring heavenly power into the streets and marketplaces? Continuing on the same thread, dancing as part of the civic religion of the medieval period may have had several meanings and functions. During particular periods and in particular communities, maybe some aspects were more significant than others. Similarly, what made dancing important for the nuns of the Paraclete and citizens of Murcia may have been completely different things just like different kinds of dancing may have carried different religious significance. Even Zika’s analysis of what was seen as an integral part of the procession proper and who was, in fact, creating what kinds of new rituals and for what purposes, can be turned on its edge. Arguing like Silvia Federici, in Caliban and the Witch: Women, the Body and Primitive Accumulation (2014), that condemnation of practices of the laity when it comes to pilgrimages and marketplaces can often be linked more to the

367 Terpstra (2017), 30; Bynum (2007), 7–8, 135–36. 368 Emphasis is mine. Terpstra (2017), 31.

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ruling class wanting to direct commercial interest into their own pockets than moral concerns of a religious character, I find quite plausible.369 In that light, one needs to ask if dancing – even in a religious ceremony – is in fact a signal of devotional acts – or if it plays into the greedy interests of a local ruler, who wishes to gain social and political power from promoting festivities of different kinds. Thomas Devaney’s work around the Corpus Christi celebrations on the Iberian peninsula show that particularly in the later medieval period, political agendas and aristocratic or royal leadership was both in-forced and celebrated through popular spectacles and public processions containing dance.370 In that light, repeating statements on spectacle and theatre being part of ‘the devil, his pomp and his works’. like Augustine or Isidore of Seville would have it, also make sense.371 (I will return to these in the chapter 3.1.2. Feast of Fools) Very often, the line between what is political and religious agendas is not clear cut. In line with that research, Terpstra states that the relations between the different quarters and social groups in the medieval cities were far from peaceful or harmonious. Particularly in the latter parts of the medieval period, there were quarrels and arguments over the rights of shrines and access to marketplaces during feast days. Sometimes the disputes even escalated to outbursts of violence in many parts of Europe and would most certainly lead authorities to want further to sanction and gain power over these actions.372 However, I would still argue like Terpstra does that these regulations are not signs of the practices of the populous being profane, unwanted or unimportant for the reverentia of the Corpus Christianum. Instead, the contrary is true – the collective action created a sense of loyalty, communion, and could also be used for creating healing rites of coexistence.373 What brought the communities apart was not the fact that people lacked in religious fervour. Furthermore, stating that these practices are – and were – not liturgical is to rob the laity, and especially the women, of their active participation in negotiating theological ideas, concepts and practices in their relationship with God.374 When future research wants to deepen the understanding of medieval dance practices, what is needed is an increased awareness of the various ways that dancing may build communities by creating a sense of belonging. Dancing has been shown, so far, to not only be a practice of praise and jubilation. It is also a practice that unites and

369 Federici (2014), 99–100. 370 In chapter 1 and 2 he speaks of the importance of public spectacles and the emerging city life in more general. Concerning the forced ordering of Muslims and Jews to dance as an oppressive measure see: Devaney (2015), 165–66. 371 Clopper (2001), 34–43. 372 Terpstra (2017), 36–37. 373 Terpstra (2017), 36–37; Devaney (2015), 155–59. Zika does not object to the community creating part of the festivals, pilgrimages and particularly the Corpus Christi feast. He only prefers to emphasis the more problematic aspects. Zika (1988), 41–43. 374 Bynum (2007), 7–8.

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glues communities together in the civic religion of the Corpus Christianum. At the same time one cannot ignore, that once dancing has, not only a role of being morally good or bad, but a ritual enactment that carries meaning, it may also play a part in eroding social structures and creating disorder. Particularly when religious activities come under commercial interests and gain significance in a political structure, it may become hard to distinguish when dancing is an act of reverentia and when it is an activity of social cohesion. However the case, theologically I will continue to argue, that there is even more to dancing, than this. 2.c. 2. Agency and Matter

To fully comprehend how the described communal rituals and festive occasions bound people and places together and reinforced the Corpus Christianum, we also need to look at how people dealt with matter, in the medieval period. Terpstra spoke about the physical part of the Corpus Christi also including the artwork where the humanity of Christ met people in their everyday lives.375 This is another aspect of neglected research (in earlier studies), and it displays a particular kind of reverentia which, I will show, is tightly knit together with dance. In Charles Zika’s descriptions of the feast of Corpus Christi he particularly emphasises those objects commonly used in liturgical ceremonies – tapers, candles, torches, lanterns, processional candlesticks, bells, processional banners and standards and various forms of greenery – all of which constituted important elements of the procession.376 These material attributes were not simply accessories, but together with the relics, they were what ‘activated’ the sacredness of the performance. Each town and social group would have their specific way of honouring the Host and participating in the processions, which was part and parcel of creating a regional identity and a specific sense of community.377 Furthermore, it was the laity together with nuns and monks in the monasteries who made these material objects. George Duby in his The Age of the Cathedrals: Art and Society 980–1420 (1981), in particular, has written extensively on the importance of sacred matter, and the religious significance of artwork for the Middle Ages. He explains that artisans and practitioners in the monastic workshops were the artists of Godly creations.378 This is one of the reasons why art is so central to this study. The artefacts are not simply decorative ‘extras’, they are matter infused with meaning, symbolism and as I will shortly show, agency. Artefacts were perceived as infused with meaning and symbolism that brought the heavenly powers down to the matter of everyday life. This is one of the reasons I want to highlight an observation I made in the museum collections. Every now and



375 376 377 378

Terpstra (2017), 26–29. Zika (1988), 41. Zika (1988), 41–42; Beckwith in Kay&Rubin (1994), 254–55. Duby (1981), 9. See also Drury (2019) for evidence that particularly women part-took in printing, creating and circulating Books of Hours, through their workshops.

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Plate 16: Ivory back of mirror from Paris in the early 14th century.379

Plate 17. Gedicht von Christus und der minnenden Seele, Codex 710(322), fol. 6r–20r (1490) Stiftsbibliothek, Einsiedeln.380

then, I have found images of dance that are not considered to be religious objects but portrayed as secular artefacts. Most often, they portray what has been called courtly love-scenes. Nevertheless, I would want to reconsider this claim with the help of the two following pieces of art. (Plate 16 & 17) In my first example, we see the back of a mirror depicting young maidens dancing and a male and female character in scenes of courtship (Plate 16). These mirrors are sometimes described as betrothment gifts or then only accessories for women from higher social strata. Seldom is it revealed where or for whom that artefact was created. However, in the sister-books gathered by Gertrud Jaron Lewis in By Women, for Women, about Women – The Sister-Books of Fourteenth-Century Germany (1996), and Caroline Walker Bynum’s article ‘“Crowned with Many Crowns” Nuns and Their Statues in Late-Medieval Wienhausen’ (2015), it becomes clear that also nuns were given or had with them, upon entering the community, valuable books, combs and mirrors.381 Typically, more expensive jewellery and personal maids were to be given away upon entering the monastic life. Sometimes though, these rules were not followed as strictly as preferred.382 Thus, I could imagine that mirrors like the

379 Le Louvre Museum, Paris visited 02.09.2016. Wikimedia Commons: Mirror case: Court of the God of Love. Ivory with traces of polychromy. MRR 195. Department of Decorative Arts, Richelieu, first floor, room 3, case 18. 380 Einsiedeln, Stiftsbibliothek, Codex 710(322), f. 18r – Henry Suso, Writings. (Image reproduced under Creative Commons rights for academic purposes). 381 Lewis (1996), 205. 382 ‘Women, of course, sought to leave the world, as did men; and they marked themselves off from their worldly sisters by renouncing such things as jewels, cosmetics, soft beds, gaiety, food, husbands, lovers, children and parents. But they spoke of their union with Christ in images that continued ordinary female roles (bride, child, mother) and stereotypical female behavior (vulnerability, illness,

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ivory work above, might also have been in possession of women living in chastity and marriage to Christ. Bynum shows that what is usually known from the literature describing the writings of Hildegard of Bingen (1098–1179), was a practice that can be found across northern Germany.383 This practice is – that there were specific rituals created around women taking wows and dressing up in full bridal array.384 Furthermore, these ceremonial occasions were created to resemble a wedding ceremony in every way. The postulants were dressed in veils and crowns, and the ceremony inside the church was followed by a feast where the nuns received gifts, good food and participated in songs and dance. Bynum explains that the ceremony, where women stepped into their vocation and life of celibacy, was sealed through the use of the veil and crown.385 In the images on the mirror, of so-called courtly love, there are rings or crowns that are given and received, as can be seen in the middle and right picture of the first row of the ivory. Many of the mirrors I encountered had the symbol of a crown or circle on them. Some portrayed dancing as clearly as the one presented here, other times it is harder to say if the image resembles an embrace, dance or just two people standing side by side. Still, any of these images and symbols, are from the depictions given by Bynum, by no mean restricted to the love of so-called secular weddings. A mirror with this imagery might just as well have been a gift for nunsto-be, where their love and devotion to Christ – and not an earthly male – is what is actually portrayed. I build these my claims, not only on the important work brought forth by Caroline Walker Bynum in Fragmentation and Redemption – Essays on Gender and the Human Body in Medieval Religion (1991), on how medieval women chose to speak of themselves as brides, mothers and sisters of Christ, expressing a continuity with the life before and after ‘becoming religious’.386 I am also arguing that the fact that we can find images where Christ is portrayed as playing music to and dancing with, nuns, strengthens these connections (Plate 17). In the series Christus und Die Minnende Seele (1490) found from Einsiedeln, Stiftsbibliothek, there is very little that differentiates the pictures of Jesus and his bride from those of the scenes of courtship depicted on the mirror viewed earlier. As Plate 17 illustrates, to the right, Jesus is playing on a drum, and to the left, a veiled nun follows him in gestures and movements. The work by Jeffrey F. Hamburger in Nuns as Artists shows that images like these, where nuns are portrayed in intimate encounters with Christ as their groom, were used as devotional materials in the communities were they have been found.387 Raising, thus, the suspicion that artefacts earlier assumed to be used only for secular



383 384 385 386 387

bleeding)’. Bynum (1991), 172. See also: Bynum (1987). Abbess T[engswich] of Andernach to Hildegard, Letter 116, PL 197. Bynum (2015), 28–33; (1991), 134, 155, 169. Bynum (2015), 30–32. Bynum (1991), 48. Hamburger (1997), 156–58.

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purposes, might also have played other roles than so far imagined. Subsequently, once images and artefacts such as these, depicting dancing, are found within monastic or beguine communities, they should not be automatically assumed to be artefacts of courtly and ‘profane’ love.388 Rather, as Christ dancing with a nun as his bride, is a theme of bridal mysticism that also has textual references, these images should alert the reader to investigate the matter further.389 Most importantly, for this study, what I am suggesting is that when earlier research has tended to read images of Christ dancing with or embracing a nun as his bride, as symbolic depictions of bridal mysticism, I would suggest that such a reading is not the only option available. Bynum explains that the image of bride or lover of Christ was not one of passivity but rather an idea of active involvement and very sensual engagement with God, found with both males and females of the medieval period.390 This confirms my narrative framework where these artefacts were used not only as matter infused with meaning and symbolism – images as symbols. These images may also have carried a semiotic significance. They may have been artefacts that in their devotional function required and/or activated an involvement and engagement with God. In their semiotic ability, the image of a bride dancing with Christ might have functioned as a depiction that told something more about God and his love and care for humankind then any doctrinal formulation is capable of expressing. Furthermore, interacting with this semiotic artefact may have also lead to concrete actions that confirmed and strengthened the intimacy between the nun and her Beloved. Such examples can be seen in the way Bynum’s nuns engaged with everything from the images of the Madonna and Christ child to how they approached their handicrafts and work.391 This raises the question, not only of how images depicting dance were used in devotional situations but also if dance itself could have been a devotional practice that activated involvement and sensual engagement with God? Could it have been so that dancing was not only used as an image of, a symbol for, or expression of, the Joy of the afterlife or resurrection glory. What if the dancing was an enactment, a petition, a semiotic invitation with the help of which people communicated and communed with God? In a fifteenth century comment on the Ten Commandments: Dives and Pauper, a Franciscan friar, expresses a similar attitude when giving advice of what is permitted on Sundays and feast days: steracils, plays and dances that are done primarily for devotion and honest mirth and to teach men to love God, are acceptable.392

388 Keller (2000) makes a compelling case for how these manuscript and others with similar contents where created primarily with a beguine and nun audience in mind. However, they where most probably later used also by secular women. 389 See for examples Mechthild of Magdeburg’s Das fließende Licht der Gottheit (The Flowing Light of Divinity), which I will not have room to discuss further in this thesis. 390 Bynum (1991), 48, 149–50, 172–73, 198. 391 Bynum (2015), 22–40. 392 Clopper (2001), 82.

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Lawrence M. Clopper has a lot to say about this and similar texts from the same period, that I will not be able to go into here.393 However, the statement does reveal something about the attitude of how dancing may have been perceived in the medieval period. Dancing was a tool – just like the devotional images presented by Hamburger – that deepened the practitioners sense of love and communion with God. When Clopper references these statements I believe the writing is mainly aimed at communal worship practices and how playful dance and feasting can be part of the experience that God is good and the Corpus Christianum can be grateful for the world they live in. However, in the piety of the beguine and cloistered nuns, the question that arises is, did they make use of dancing also on a more intimate and transformative level where the semiotic character of dance brought them into a closer relationship to the indwelling of the Holy Spirit? Dance as a communally known and cherished devotional and communicative practice has at least been reported in the case of Elisabeth of Spalbeek (1248–1316). She was a devote woman living in a small village near Liège, who attracted visitors from across Europe, to see her dance with God.394 Unfortunately, I will not have room to engage further with her Vitae here, but it has been well discussed in a chapter by Walter P. Simons and Joanna E. Ziegler, in Women in the Church (1990) as well as in Walter P. Simons’s Cities of Ladies (2010). Elisabeth of Spalbeek’s example together with my reading of the above images as carrying a semiotic as well as the symbolic capacity show that other occasions of dancing might also plausibly be understood as rituals, prayer and communion. Dancing may have functioned as a semiotic practice that activated and reinforced the intimate relationship with God. However, all of this hinges on the idea that dancing carried deep theological significance and on the fact that researchers open their eye’s to accepting the ritual and liturgical significance of practices that do not centre around priests and Eucharistic offerings. Finally, my aim is now to draw together this tension between dance being used as a communal practice by the laity, it carrying symbolic meaning in art and artefact as well as the potential semiotic capacity of dance, not only in relation to artefacts, but also as an intimate and communal practice. I want to do this, by working with the idea of how dancing may have carried theological meaning in the Corpus Christi feast, without limiting my suggestion only to that particular celebration. In Wonderful Blood, Caroline Walker Bynum speaks about the devotion to Corpus Christi as the miracles of bleeding Hosts. The ‘activation’ of matter that occurred in the relics she has been studying, were not always connected to the feast of Corpus Christi. Often the ‘activation’ of matter was related to a pilgrimage celebration.395 By studying the correspondence about and records relating to, these miracles she has found that various forces were at work in the events.

393 Clopper (2001), 78–91. 394 Simons&Ziegler in Sheils&Wood (1990), 117–25. 395 In some cities there seems to have been a connection between the pilgrimage feasts and the Corpus Christi – tide. Bynum (2007), 52–55.

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There were not merely economic interest at work, where centres of pilgrimage became commercial hubs. It is true that the handling of relics and sacred objects from bishops, lords and kings, in a gift-centred economy, was a way to extend blessings and create a sense of abundance around a church, city or region. As much as the flow of these objects could signal the active favour of God over his people and lands, it also created human networks of interests.396 What started out as a system of displaying God’s active presence in a community of people by the sharing of lavish gifts and organising feasts and festivals in the early period of the Middle Ages,397 subsequently developed into strong commercial spectacles where markets and the selling of relics, indulgences and religious ‘souvenirs’ of different kinds strongly influenced the religious fever. Cities and monasteries could prosper from gaining access to streams of people, thus creating strong competition.398 In light of such events and situations it is easy to imagine that dance as entertainment, together with other kinds of play and light-hearted amusement, may have been part of the scenery and also condemned for its involvement in creating a spectacle.399 In this perspective, also creation of devotional images, reliquaries and monstrances were part and parcel of displaying dominion, connection and communicated access and/ or closeness to the divine. However, pilgrimages were also active forms of worship for people of the courts of a King or a Lord and his knights, or indeed for the growing population of city dwellers. George Duby explains that a pilgrimage had three different kinds of meaning. It could be an act of penance given to an individual or for the sake of a community, as an act of purification, by the local bishop.400 It was also a symbolic move for the sake of the Corpus Christianum towards the promised land of the Kingdom of Heaven. Through the journey to the house of a local saint, the seat of the pope in Rome or Christ’s tomb in Jerusalem, God came closer to his people and this world. This could be experienced in the influx of healing relics as well as the increased number of stories telling of miracles.401 In this context, dancing may also have been part of the worshipful thanksgiving of arriving at the destination or just a symbolic way of showing the journey.402 Dancing may also have been part of the practice of communicating the penance and purification, once approaching the relic or sacred space of healing. Further, pilgrimages could also be seen, according to Duby, as pleasure. Travelling during these periods was seldom an altogether easy task. Nonetheless, accounts describing young people going out on the adventure-seeking path of a pilgrimage journey for the experiences it gave them can be found. Pilgrimage celebrations were occasion where the laity was allowed and joined in feasts and celebrations of more

396 397 398 399 400 401 402

Duby (1981), 12–13, 39–41. P. Brown (1981), 38–42; Duby (1981), 12–13. Duby (1981), 50–53. See for example the famous descriptions of John of Salisbury. Clopper (2001), 25–32. Duby (1981), 50. Duby (1981), 50–51. More on this in the following chapter.

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excessive forms. Even though the stops on the road coincided with market places full of goods as well as churches filled with offerings, this kind of mixture of commerce, amusement and adventure did not lessen its spiritual dimension. Particularly the statement of dance being able to teach love of God to people, opens up a social imaginary where enjoyment and leisure carry theological significance. Pilgrimages were bodily enactments – taken by the few – that furthered the whole community’s well being. The ritual acts of touching the cask of a saint, kneeling in the soil of a sacred spot, as well as bringing the blessings of these materialisations of God back to the villages and communities of home, were a pattern of participation where the agency of laity mattered. Most importantly though, Bynum shows, that in all the miracles of bleeding hosts that turned out to not be scams, a ‘third’ force was at work. She writes that it was not merely that God created miracles of bleeding hosts, relics that healed or crying statues that would become the central pull of a passage of pilgrims or the destination of a larger cult. Matter itself was understood as active. Sometimes a eucharistic host that had lain hidden or forgotten for centuries was ‘activated’ by the intrusion of foreign elements to the Corpus Christianum. This could be the defilement of the sacred space or matter, by Jews, heretics or something else that ‘upset’ and, thus, activated matter in ‘protest’ against what had been done.403 Bynum has been able to detect that in the earliest accounts of these bleeding host miracles, the agent of activation was often a simple townsperson or poor women who had acted foolishly without malign intentions.404 Later on, however, the stories were told as anti-Jewish propaganda, to the point of becoming an excuse for lynching and the destruction of the ‘foreign’ intruder to the Corpus Christianum.405 As I see it, this ‘activation’ might also work the other way around. Maybe, the fact that people joined in dancing and celebrating at the feasts and pilgrimage periods instead aligned the heavenly with the earthly realm and, thus, infused or activated the divine presence in the community. I want to exemplify this idea by turning to artwork found in the Collegiate church of Saint Martin, where the Corpus Christi celebrations were started and through analysing a common artefact used in the feasts. In the monstrances used for the Corpus Christi feast in Liège, I found that the image of angels encircling the Host is one of the most common symbols used for adoring the Eucharist.406 In this particular painting, found in the church were Juliana and her sister companions commenced the Corpus Christi celebration, not only the monstrances shows the circular symbol around the Host, but the whole vision of Corpus Christi is portrayed with angels worshipping in a circle of praise. Plate 18 shows what

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Bynum (2007), 78–80. Bynum (2007), 64. Bynum (2007), 71–75. At the Museum Le Grand Curtis, Liège, the was an exhibition of Corpus Christi artefacts. Unfortunately the majority of these came from the seventeenth and eighteenth century. Visited 26.08.2018.

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is described as the ecstasy of the three founders of the feast. Underneath that scene, we can see three women kneeling. It depicts not only the beguine Julienne de Cornillon, as Juliana was named in French, but also the cloistered sister Eve and the third founding figure of the feast, said to be Isabelle de Huy.407 As with (Plate 13) the processions of men, this painting is not from the medieval period. It was made in 1690 by Englebert Fisen (1655–1733), and the angels portrayed inhabit more of a Barock style to them. However, the encircling of angels depicted in this image, is already know to us from the medieval period, as a sign of a devotional practice that also carried the connotation of angels dancing in their worship. What I now want to draw our attention Plate 18. The ecstasy of the three to, is the silver monstrance where the founders of the Corpus Christi feast in Corpus Christi is displayed. The monstrance the Collegiate church of Saint Martin also carries the form and pattern of angels (1690) Englebert Fisen (1655–1733).408 encircling the Host. This pattern, is also found in monstrances from earlier periods. Seeta Chaganti in her The medieval poetics of the reliquary: enshrinement, inscription, performance (2008), further writes that the reliquary monstrances used during the fourteenth and fifteenth century were often formed so that there was incorporated a crystal component or ‘window’ that would not only make the Host or relic visible but also magnify it to those gathered around to see.409 Furthermore, and more importantly, the structure of the reliquary monstrances for Eucharistic offerings was often formed with architectural and symbolic details that would allude to the idealized heavenly Jerusalem and a resurrection body. She explains that independently of how the reliquary monstrance was formed, it embodied the idea that death would be subject to a transformative process. The light and transparency reflected in the materials used translated that process to the people 407 Eve was a cloistered sister in the community of Saint Martin, while the third founding figure is said to be Isabelle de Huy whom, with the help of two other beguine sisters took part in establishing the feast, in the second generation. 408 Collegiate church of Saint Martin, Liège visited 26.08.2018. Wikimedia Commons: Sainte Julienne du Mont-Cornillon (Juliana of Liège) and the institution of the feast of the Holy Sacrament, Englebert Fisen, 1690 (Church of St-Martin, Liège). 409 Chaganti (2008), 135.

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who gazed upon the Corpus Christi.410 In this artwork we see how the craftsmanship carried theological significance in every detail and the artefact was developed to carry not only symbolic, but semiotic abilities of interactive engagement. Imagining the ritual enactment of carrying or accompanying such an artefact of symbolic and semiotic significance in the space of the city and the lands to bring down God’s power, protection and blessing on the crops and fruits, dancing in joy and celebration becomes a meaningful way to express this fusion of heavenly and earthly interaction. Moving in rhythm with and around the Host – may very well have created a heightened sense of interaction with the matter. If, furthermore, matter responded to these performative rituals with ‘activation’ and people experienced or saw signs of Gods presence, this surely became a devotional act. However, what I find even more intriguing with the suggestions given by Caroline Walker Bynum is the fact that intrusion prompted ‘activation’ in dormant hosts. This may thus suggest, that not only harmonious, celebratory and ‘heavenly’ forms of dancing played a role in feasts and celebrations. Maybe also rowdy, tumultuous and improper movements have played more significant roles than what is hereto acknowledged? These ideas raise the question that could different types of dancing have been used or perceived as able to ‘activate’ matter. If the dancing was disorderly or if the dancing was infused with the wrong kind of ‘energy’ or spiritus for that occasion, this might not only have upset people but turned into an act of reverentia that negotiated with the divine in problematic manners.411 In his article ‘Dancing on the Threshold – A Cultural Concept for Conditions of Being far from Salvation’ (2015), Gregor Rohmann gives indications of an understanding of the dances surrounding the pilgrimages and feasts of St Vitus and St John, which could refer to dancing having this liminal capacity.412 The feast of St Vitus and St John is not the focus of investigation of this study. However, Rohmann offers here an explanation that might describe why the upsetting and destructive kind of dancing, associated with what is called by some, the dance mania of the Middle Ages, could have been such a hot topic of discussion. Maybe dancing was not perceived as a secular tool of entertainment but a powerful way to bring heavenly power into space or place – something that needed to be restricted and guarded in particular ways and confined to specific places and times? This understanding of dance could also account for those prohibitions where dancing is stated to have been a defilement of space, which I will return to further ahead. What this chapter on Corpus Christi has shown is that simple dichotomies of sacred and profane or civic and religious structures plotted against each other hinder our 410 Chaganti (2008), 108, 135. 411 Unfortunately the topic of how inter-action with the Holy Spirit in dance and/or relating to other forms of spiritus through dancing, goes beyond the scope of this research. These are themes that need further exploration and may prove to be essential for understanding dance in a Christian context. See Tronca on the relationship of joy and out-pouring of spirit in dance. Tronca (2016), 60; (2017), 442–44; Caciola (2000); (2006) for other kinds of spirit interaction. 412 Rohmann (2015), 53–54; 58–61, 63.

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understanding. Just like the framework of dance being rooted in pagan practices, so also other narrative patterns have hindered researchers from investigating dance as a theological practice, tool and source of devotion. Dance touches upon the practices of the laity, the clergy, feasts both inside and outside churches and sanctuaries. These kinds of patterns require what Caroline Walker Bynum promotes: to see theology as the totality of praxis, piety and theological discussions.413 Or like I have stated, to envision medieval dancing in the enchanted world, understood only by its myths, stories, legends, artwork and ritual practices. Furthermore, this chapter has also revealed the importance of understanding the medical society as Corpus Christianum. Noticing how, the movements of the clergy and laity together – in processions, games and dance-like forms – also mattered outside church. The space of the medieval community contained not only specifically holy places like churches and sanctuaries, but the whole Corpus Christianum negotiated sacredness and expressed reverentia wherever it moved together. Moving away from the idea that dance would always be an intrusion, or merely an accepted yet unwelcomed guest of the medieval religious practices, we also begin to identify what specific boundaries were stabilised and de-stabilised through dance; as examples of the latter, there may be a relationship between the activation of matter and the negotiation of sacredness through the rituals where dance was practised. There might also be a relevant discussion to be held about what intension the dancing is done in – does it express lament, joy, prayer, intersession or relaxation. Finally, this chapter also brought forth the interactive relationship between artefact and praxis. Asking and suggesting, how images of dance, artwork depicting dance and dance practice, may work together and explicate each other. It is particularly in the movements with and of matter, that I tentatively suggest transformation of people, space and communities may be negotiated with and through dancing. And with these questions it is time to turn to the third and last example of where dancing was practised during the medieval period; the Feast of Fools. 2.d. Feast of Fools

As already alluded to the Feast of Fools is one of the medieval celebrations that has been most criticised by Chambers and his contemporaries as a mere remnant of pagan practices. The so called pagan, and other-wised criticised features of this feast are further stated to be the plays, games, dances and other activities thought to cause upheaval.414 Max Harris’s critique of how the Feast of Fools has been discussed in earlier research partly builds on Lawrence M. Clopper’s study on Drama, Play and Game. There, Clopper gives a detailed description of how Chambers and many other researchers 413 Bynum (2007), 135. 414 ‘Chambers created the impression that the Feast of Fools was no more than a cluster of folk (and, thus, in his view, pagan) customs having little or no connection with the Christian liturgy other than to disrupt it that it met with almost constant disapproval from church authorities, and that it was always and everywhere rowdy, raucous, and intrusive, “an ebullition”, as he put it, “of the natural lout beneath the cassock”’. Harris (2011), 4.

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with him, have failed to realise how the shifts of meaning from Early Church records to medieval texts and further into the reformation period change the meaning, and understanding of critique, when using terms like ludus, theatrum, spectacula, mimus and even histrio.415 I will not go into the details of all of these terms and their use here, it suffices to say that many of the statements in earlier research on play, games and dancing build on misconceptions where shifts in historical contextualisation have been missed.416 Clopper would thus, not characterise the details of the Feast of Fools as an example of pagan practices, even when he does refers to it in examples of mis-use in relation to games and play.417 Max Harris in his Sacred Folly, nevertheless, makes a strong case for the Feast of Fools being a legitimate new creation with deep liturgical significance. With the help of fragmented chapter records where payments, preparation requirements, names of appointed participants and descriptions of vestments or attire are given, together with liturgical handbooks where music, lyrics, hymns, processions, lighting of candles, use of censes and even dancing are described, a solid image of the celebrations emerges. When these bones are joined to an occasional letter, a papal or bishop’s visitation, poems418 or popular collections of songs or tales a rich tapestry becomes visible.419 According to Harris, the Feast of Fools was celebrated with certainty in at least 31 cities. These cities were situated within the region we today know as France and spreading to some places in England.420 From these records, dancing is found to be part either of the official liturgies of the feast or the celebrations surrounding the feast.421 The map (Illustration 13) on the next page shows, in orange the liturgically sanctioned feasts where dancing occurred that existed before the official establishment of the Feast of Fools. The yellow places show where dancing was part of the liturgical dramas presented earlier in this chapter as being part of the Feast of Fools repertoire in some regions. In green, I have marked all the places where dancing is recorded to have been part of the Feast of Fools celebrations as a liturgical element. In light green, are further found, those places where dancing was part of a liturgical celebration; however, this feast never

415 Clopper (2001), 3–43, 50–58. 416 As usual, when a definition of therms does become relevant for the context I will return to some of Clopper’s arguments. 417 Clopper (2001), 47–49, 72, 101–02 fn 99. 418 Harris (2011), 70–73. 419 Harris (2011), 131–43. 420 See map on Harris (2011), xi; accounts on England and similar feasts in the German territories see chapter 15, Harris (2011), 172–82. 421 I have sorted them according to the places that are mentioned in Harris (2011). Amiens; Harris (2011), 250–52; Auxerre, Harris (2011), 56, 58–59, 195; Châlons-en-Champagne, Harris (2011), 69–71; Laon, Harris (2011), 110–12; Paris, Harris (2011), 66; Reims, Harris (2011), 54–56; Senlis, Harris (2011), 200–01; Tours, Harris (2011), 138–39; Vienne, Harris (2011), 55–56 as well as London, Harris (2011), 174. These are cities where dancing and the Feast of Fools coincide. Further, the following places are also recorded to have dancing as part of the liturgical feasts accounted for in Harris, without these being clearly marked as Feast of Fools celebrations: Arles, Harris (2011), 159–60; Le Puy-En-Velay, Harris (2011), 109–10, 137; Nîmes, Harris (2011), 160–66.

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Illustration 13. The map of places in Europe where dancing has been encountered during the season of Feast of Fools.422

officially went under the name Feast of Fools. Instead, these feasts occurred during the same period of the liturgical celebrations of the Christmas cycle. The majority of the examples in light and dark green will be further exhibited in this chapter.422 422 Illustrations based on a historic map of Europe from 1453, by Aalto (2020).

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What can be further noted, is that the approved dancing that is recorded in Auxerre, Reims and Vienne are primarily records that describe the Game Play with dancing that was depicted earlier as an Easter celebration. However, there seems to have been dancing in these places described outside of the church settings, also during the Feast of Fools celebrations. Thus, the over-lapping of places and manuscripts does not show a misunderstanding or wrongful depiction. It rather illustrates the fact that liturgical feasts may have borrowed elements from each other, particularly if these aspects where appreciated and cherished. In this chapter I will be examining the depictions described by Harris, focusing on those elements of the Feast of Fools where dancing can be found and where dance is featured in the subsequent discussions of the feast. However, my contribution is not only a general display of Harris’s account. I will also deepen the understanding of both the feast and the dancing that accompanied it by bringing in elements of the social imaginary of the Middle Ages. Such an approach will display not only dancing but the games and dramas of this – often misunderstood – celebration, in a new light. Already around the year 1150, the terms festum baculi or magister baculi are mentioned in Châlons.423 This is in combination with a poem that begins in the following way. The day we long for, friends, is here. Whatever others do or want, we dance the choral dance with joy. Before the staff the clergy and the people leap for joy today.424 The last stanza of ‘before the staff ’ is repeated in each of the six sections as a refrain. As we see from the text, to leap with joy, dance and sing are given parts of the celebration even though there might be people who do not want to join such a feast. Further, two key elements of the feast we will soon come to know are displayed; the staff and the participation of the clergy. Later on in the more hostile descriptions, there will also be mentioning of an ass that was paraded around the city,425 the wearing of animal masks,426 cross-dressing of males and females427 as well as violence of different kinds.428 Harris is clear to state that some of the practices we find in the cathedrals of France may have carried a meaning that is hard for us to understand today. That, however, does not give us the right to make judgements and presume links between older and newer practices, 423 Harris (2011), 71. 424 ‘Adest dies optata, socii, Quidquid agant et velint alii, nos choream ducamus gaudii. (Refrain) Pro baculo exsultet hodie clerus cum populo’. Harris (2011), 70. 425 Harris (2011), 76–79, 83–85, 101, 107, 124–25, 147–48, 217, 226, 232–33. 426 Harris (2011), 17–24, 219–22, 224–25, 229, 233, 254–55, 277. 427 Harris (2011), 2–4, 17–22, 24, 29–30, 120–22, 124, 126, 142, 149, 180, 212, 221, 223–24, 235, 255. 428 Harris (2011), 43–44, 87, 183–84, 233.

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ignoring those records that show how the celebrations were done, in the forms that they were accepted.429 Harris argues that a specific liturgical Feast of Fools, practised within the churches as well as in the streets of the cities, existed at least from 1234 to 1400, without significant condemnation.430 When complaints were made, they often referred to the pagan practice of December freedom or a pre-historic Kalendae Januariae, during which games were held in the Roman Empire.431 Interestingly, however, Harris’s understanding of primary sources fall in line with Rohmann’s reading of Brown and the use of mythology in earlier research. Harris can show a similar discontinuity and fundamental changes to practices as presented concerning other aforementioned liturgical celebrations. Such a discovery opens the way for re-evaluating the claims made on paganism being the driving force in the Feast of Fools practices as well. As Peter Brown, in The Cult of the Saints, Rohmann insists that both popular practices and liturgical ceremonies are not fixed in time or space but that they evolve and are subject to change. Furthermore, Brown dispels two commonly held misconceptions. Firstly that popular practices can be understood only from the viewpoint of the elite; and secondly that these practices exhibit modes of thinking and worshipping that show the ignorance of the unlearned and a lower form of belief.432 Bearing these crucial remarks in mind, let us now approach what Harris calls the roots of the Feast of Fools. 2.d. 1. Pre-festal Considerations

Instead of clear-cut links between old and new, Harris shows a three-stage development. He states that all the traits of behaving like stereotypical medieval clerical fools – the wearing of masks, cross-dressing, disguising themselves as animals, mocking the powerful, making house-to-house visits – have been found wanting in the pagan Roman Empire. What Harris describes instead, are the historical reports of festival activity during the New Year in the Roman Empire from Libanius (314–93). These involved the giving of gifts, decorating doors, lavish banquets with songs, dancing, laughter and much food as well as drink. There are also descriptions of chariot races, playing of dice and an overall relaxed atmosphere amongst people.433 At the same time, already during the period when Libanius was writing, paganism in the form of temple sacrifices and civic rituals – in the city of Rome – was on the decline.434 This is why, Peter Brown in his The Rise of Western Christendom – Triumph and Diversity, a.d. 200–1000, write that the Kalendae Januariae was a feast of the religiously neutral public culture in the later Roman empire.435 The non-religious character of

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Harris (2011), 55–62. Harris (2011), 131–32. Harris (2011), 11–12, 54–55. P. Brown (1981), 19–20. Harris (2011), 12. Harris (2011), 13. P. Brown (2013), 85–86.

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the event did not keep preachers such as Augustine of Hippo (354–430) – some 50 years later – from railing against ‘the din of silly and disgraceful songs’ and the ‘disgraceful junketing and dances’ that characterised ‘this false feast day’.436 Augustine here was not giving a general claim but actually preaching against the feast of the season of January. Preachers like him not only challenged his congregation not to take part but also warned them of the severe consequences of attending such feasts. Kalendae Januariae were seen by Augustine and often recalled by later like-minded preachers, as an occasion where people behaved like pagans.437 To take part in the games, Augustine told his audience, would be to associate with demons, for: Those demons take pleasure, don’t they, in idle songs, they take pleasure in the trifling spectacle, in the manifold indecencies of the theaters, in the mad frenzy of the chariot races.438 What is important to note, however, are the subtle differences in his writing. Augustine did not call these January games pagan. Instead he taught that to participate in them is to act like a pagan. He was definitely against feasting and revelling.439 Ruth Webb further writes, in Demons and Dancers, that the feast of Kalends with it’s theatrical and other performances was more often depicted as an imperial and state ceremonial cult, than that of the Roman gods.440 The main point of the second part of this, sermon by Augustine is that there should be a balance between what the soul loves, believes in and hopes for. One should see in the actions of a person that they put their trust in God, and their habits of conduct should change once a new life in Christ has begun.441 At the same time, when it comes to the ceremonies of this particular day, the question remains, what was it that even when calling this a feast of Circumcision, made it so abhorrent to Augustine?442 Was there some pagan traces left in these celebrations, after all?

436 ‘Et modo si solemnitas Gentium, quae fit hodierno die in laetitia saeculi atque carnali, in strepitu vanissimarum et turpissimarum cantionum, in conviviis et saltationibus turpibus, in celebratione ipsius falsae festivitatis’ Augustine, De calendis Januaris II, (Sermon 198), in PL 38. In the commentary it is stated that this sermon was preached some time between 420–25. Rotelle (1993), 68, fn 1. 437 Harris (2011), 97, 213, 218–19. 438 Augustine, De calendis Januaris II, (Sermon 198), in PL 38. The whole passage in latin: Nolo vos fieri socios daemoniorum, voluit ut ab illis qui daemonibus servirent, vita et moribus separarentur. Etenim illa daemonia delectantur canticis vanitatis, delectantur nugatorio spectaculo, et turpitudinibus variis theatrorum, insania circi, crudelitate amphitheatri, certaminibus animosis eorum qui pro pestilentibus hominibus lites et contentiones usque ad inimicitias suscipiunt, pro mimo, pro histrione pro pantomimo, pro auriga, pro venatore. Ista facientes, quasi thura ponunt daemoniis de cordibus suis. Spiritus enim seductores gaudent seductis; et eorum quos seduxerint atque deceperint, malis moribus et vita turpi infamique pascuntur. 439 He writes: ‘Are you going to join in the celebration of good luck presents like a pagan, going to play the dice – and get yourself drunk?’ Augustine, De calendis Januaris II, (Sermon 198), in PL 38. 440 Webb (2008), 25. Of course Christian writers saw the cult of Emperor or state rulers as highly problematic as well and in that sense no less ‘pagan’ than the worship of Roman gods. 441 Augustine, De calendis Januaris II, (Sermon 198), in PL 38. 442 Rotelle (1993), 68–71, fn 1.

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Max Harris argues that for example, the trait of masquerading – both the wearing of masks and cross-dressing – were entirely new elements of a transformed feast. Studies show that the first evidence of seasonal folk plays involving masks anywhere in Europe was at the New Kalends celebrations.443 The Germanic tribes of northern Europe have left us with no written proof of masking activities that could be traced as genuinely pagan.444 Furthermore, the element of mockery and parody of those with power-positions within society, seem to be in sharp contrast to the freedom and relaxation of earlier Roman feasts.445 Thus, Harris claims that something extraordinary had happened; a shift in the form of the celebrations. The change coincided with both Christianity first gaining a privileged status (under Constantine I) and secondly, Christianity becoming the official state religion under Theodosius I.446 Harris concludes that key traits of behaviour in the New Kalends masquerades date to an early Christian empire. Assuming, like Harris that the feast which attracted complaints was Christian, does not free it from receiving condemning remarks. In the following, I will scrutinise three such claims from three different periods (Peter Chrysologus, Caesarius of Arles and Isidore of Seville). These examples will show both how complaints against Kalendae Januariae were constructed and help to discuss the accusations of paganism. It is important to note that Harris does not totally disclaim that the description in the period of 380 to 1000 referring to the dressing in animal skins or wearing of specific masks may have been confused with pagan practices. The Bishop of Ravenna, Peter Chrysologus (380–450), for example, complained of seasonal impersonations of pagan gods. He writes in a sermon on Kalendae Januariae about the celebrations: He (the Devil) wanted to fabricate something ridiculous out of religious observance, to turn holiness into sacrilege, to prepare an injury to God from the very attempt to honor Him. This, brethren, this is why the pagans today! bring out their gods. With planned defilements and premeditated disgrace they pull them hither and thither as beings appearing baser then baseness itself, and drag them about. They make them unworthy to look upon. What vanity! What silliness! What blindness! To recognize them as gods, and dishonor them with all this derision! Those who mock the gods they venerate are scoffers, not adorers. Those who thus deform the gods by whom they think that they themselves were made do not honor them, but load them with insults. Those who fashion their gods after their own disorder do not glorify them, but shame them.447 Chrysologus brings forth the problematic aspect of people carrying idols into the streets and then claiming to either mock or worship these man-made ideas. In contrast to the earlier quote from Augustine, Peter Chrysologus not only saw the

443 444 445 446 447

Twycross&Carpenter (2002), 14. Harris (2011), 13. Harris (2011), 16–18. Harris (2011), 13. Peter Chrysologus, De kalendis Ianuariis is found in two versions Sermon 155a and 155. This is the latter, from: Ganss (1953), 261–62.

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action related to Kalendae Januariae as pagan worship. He called the people acting in the streets of Ravenna pagan. Max Harris dismisses this situation with a short commentary suggesting that the parade may have been a parody of the Roman deities.448 However, to brush off these comments with such a brief remark is to misjudge the deeper layers of what is at display here. Mainly as Harris’s claim is to recognise the different shifts and changes that occur from one historic period to another, I think one needs to examine these statements more carefully. One option is to take Peter Chrysologus statements at face value. I find no reason to doubt what Harris has identified as new practices, however, the interpretation of Harris above may be questioned. Maybe Peter Chrysologus is calling what he sees pagan, as there indeed is displayed in these practices some kind of syncretic version of old religion infused with new practices. Or maybe he takes the words by Augustine of Hippo on crafting idols as a sign of superstitio literally.449 Thus, before simply dismissing Peter Chrysologus statements they need to be investigated further. Another option, however, is to read the text along the lines of what Peter Brown described in The Cult of the Saints, about the development of new cultic practices. From that narrative framework, what is described is instead that the new cult is a religious practice of the populous. What Peter Chrysologus saw as a silly veneration of old Roman gods, was instead simply a less ‘elitist’ practice that came up against his ‘ideal’ of what the congregation ‘should’ be doing.450 Peter Brown does not deal directly with the Kalendae Januariae, in his work on the cult of the Saints and sees the later celebrations of a New Kalends as a religiously neutral ordeal.451 However, the methodological principles Brown applies to the feasts of the martyrs, I argue, can be used to gain an in-depth understanding of this feast as well. I find the narrative framework and concepts provided by Brown suitable for analysing Peter Chrysologus’s writing and particularly for understanding the context he was writing in. Brown explains that what has been a hindering idea for earlier research to understand the practices of this period is that ‘true belief ’ can be expressed in diverse forms.452 There is no one way to be a good and proper Christian. Furthermore, references and parallels to seemingly pagan practices need to be examined in the context of broader relations between God, people and society.453 To compare the societal and cosmological changes of the cult of the Saints and what we see in the New Kalends, is where I will turn next. As explained earlier, the Greek or Hellenistic cosmos had been one where there was a gulf between heaven and earth, as well as sharp contrasts made between the spirit and body after the state of death. This meant that nothing of pagan worship can

448 Harris (2011), 14–15. 449 ‘Superstitiosum est, quicquid institutum est ab hominibus ad facienda et colenda idola pertinens uel ad colendam sicut deum creaturam partemue ullam creaturae uel ad consultationes et pacta quaedam significationum cum daemonibus placita atque foederata’. Augustine, De doctrina Christiana 2.20. 450 P. Brown (1981), 19–20. 451 P. Brown (2013), 85–86. 452 P. Brown (1981), 18. 453 P. Brown (1981), 4–7.

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explain all the new rituals for commemorating the dead which emerged within the Christianised part of the world.454 The shifts in worldview can be seen, particularly in two ways. First, there were expressions of anger and upset writing from pagan thinkers when the Christians came to ‘ruin’ the world, as they knew it. Secondly, new patterns of interaction and constructions in the environment emerged. For the latter, Brown brings up examples ranging from the location of worship sites and the incorporation of ‘the zone of the dead’ into inhabited space, to the newly founded cults as well as the patterns of interaction between men and women and people from different strata of society.455 The body of the Saint and the new feasts and activities on the graves of the martyrs not only became places where men and women were allowed to mix more freely, as well as a place where poor people were taken care of, they also became sites of healing and miracles.456 Brown explains that through the friendship and protection of the Saints, the hierarchical structure of society could also be inverted. He writes: Frequently in the work of Gregory of Tours, we find that those who had been healed at the shrine gain from this healing a change of social status. Serfs are emancipated from their former owners, and become part of the familia of the saint, either at the shrine itself, or on the estates of Saint Martin.457 To go through an act of healing – to be touched by the power of God mediated by the praesentia and potentia of the saintly body – not only cured the person but also brought the body into a new community of social relations. The healings that happened at pagan sites were rather calm ordeals, where the water or plain sleep would affect the person so that he or she was cured of a sickness.458 In the Christian sites, on the other hand, we find what is described by Brown as noisy, frightening, loud experiences of possession and exorcism.459 Brown explains that the prominence and frequency of possession and exorcism in the early and medieval church have often been neglected or misunderstood by historians of religion.460 Nevertheless, what first started as action at the graves of the martyrs and in cemeteries in the Early Church, soon moved into even the cathedrals of Gaul and the basilicas in the Holy Land.461 The possessed person might howl like an animal462 or flail in mid-air in the region of the demonic,463 always showing some signs of non-human activity. After this, a rather dissect procedure of interrogation and the



454 455 456 457 458 459 460 461 462 463

P. Brown (1981), 1–6. P. Brown (1981), 7–11, 43–46. P. Brown (1981), 38, 82–83, 106–07. P. Brown (1981), 113. P. Brown (1981), 117–18. P. Brown (1981), 106–07. P. Brown (1981), 108. P. Brown (1981), 106. Brown refers here to a statements in Jerome, Epistolae 108 to Eustochium, verse 13. Brown refers here to poems 23 and 26 in Paulinus of Nola, Carmina.

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confessing of sins, between the judge represented by the middle hand of the exorcist and the demon, who had taken over the person, was conducted. In the end, the recuperation of the full human personality could be seen.464 Thus, I am arguing that neither the fact of a reversal of social roles, nor disorder, within the parameters of an organised churchly practice, would have been a foreign element within a Christian cosmology. However, as was shown already earlier, disorder within a Greek or Roman community would have been shunned. In the Roman civic society, December freedom was a joyous feast. Still, it did not involve freedom to roam about, over the strict structures of social strata as animal or female.465 Such acts would easily have been interpreted as a sign of the collapse of the ruler/ state and/or divine absence in one’s activities. Some Christian thinkers would mimic this pattern in their thinking.466 However, Brown’s point is that not all of them did, and particularly the practices of exorcism and rowdy forms of reverentia seem to have been taken as more evident signs of the praesentia and potentia of the divine, within the people from lower social strata of society. Consequently, having feasts that sustain ordered disorder, animalistic elements and reversal of social hierarchies might position the New Kalends within the new patterns of interacting with the divine. These are the kinds of similarities and dissimilarities in practices already argued for. Were the Kalendae Januariae practices described by Peter Chrysologus a mimicking of possession and exorcism? This is one interpretation of the elements of parading masks in the streets. However, I do not find it very likely that in a society where the real threat of possession was ever lurking around the corner, anybody would find it interesting to ‘play’ with these kinds of elements.467 There is some other way that this tension between order and disorder, dressing in animal clothes and a new type of seasonal revelry needs to be understood. In another sermon on Kalendae Januariae Peter Chrysologus actually warned his listeners against putting on the vestments and masks of Roman gods. In doing so, they would turn into their likeness.468 The social imaginary of the people adopting

464 P. Brown (1981), 112. 465 In Conklin Akbari and Ross, Ross explains that Cicero and other Roman writers were quite preoccupied with any kind of effeminate traits found in either rhetorics or acting of the period. Ross shows that it was not merely the putting on of a female skin – in clothing – but actually any kind of action and use of voice making a man resemble a woman which needed to be eschewed. Ross in Conklin Akbari&Ross (2013), 154–55. 466 More on this, see Platonic understanding of dance in Tronca (2019); Webb (2008), 81–82, 85–89, 163–66, 189–90; Pont in Nevile (2008), 269–71; Hellsten (2021b). 467 Charles Taylor has a similar remark when reflecting the fact that a genre like horror movies or making descriptions of demon possession in nature as artistic entertainment, is only possible once the buffered person has become the taken for granted self-image of individuals. Taylor (2007), 337–38. Caroline Walker Bynum in her Metamorphosis and Identity (2001) also explains the real ambiguities and true discomfort people had in the medieval period concerning the possibility of men turning into wolves or people shifting into animal shape. Bynum 2001, 94–97. 468 ‘These are no amusements, no, they are not; they are sins. A human being is changed into an idol; and if it is a sin to go to idols, what do you think it is to be an idol? O man, you have been made in the image of God’. Peter Chrysologus, De kalendis Ianuariis, (Sermon 155A).

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practices of a New Kalends was one where negotiations with demonic agencies were not done light-heartedly. Furthermore, Brown emphasises that even within the pattern of the disorderly actions of exorcism, there was always a strict sense of order present. The community followed liturgical prayers that brought forth the solemn ordering of the universe at the Creation; the suffering person was brought into the temple of God and the awesome reentry of God into his temple. Not only would the boundaries between chaos and order be re-stipulated by God, but also the hard boundary of the social order had to be broken up so that the group could accept this new person into their midst.469 However, what made this new system of interaction challenging for church authorities was that the spiritual authority in the situations of exorcism and healing was given to those who have been chosen, not only those who claimed it through their family ties or position as a head of a congregation. In the case of New Kalends there seems to be no ‘spiritual leadership’ or relics that ‘activate’ the space for reversal. I would instead suggest that what makes these practices possible, is the change in social imaginary concerning time-space, conceptualised by Taylor as High Time. Thus, what we find in the descriptions of Peter Chrysologus, Augustine and others is a tension between how people in the cities have interpreted the period of the New Kalends, with how more austere preachers portray social and spiritual order, within Corpus Christianum. Just as Brown gave examples of a constant tension between the practices in the countryside and at pilgrimage sites – concerning the graves of the martyrs – with the preaching of clergies in cities, here the city-dwellers are the ones who have re-interpreted earlier feasts into new forms. This is, in my opinion, a more plausible explanation to the remarks against the wearing of masks and animal behaviour in the sermons of Peter Chrysologus. Instead of reading his sermons as indications of preaching against actual pagan worship practices, it can be understood as a caution concerning the various ritual celebrations that could be found around experiencing the praesentia and potentia of God in the New Kalends. As I read his remarks, I envision there being a real mocking initiated. It is due to the particular season of the New Year as part of the cycle of Christmas that this practice of being able to dis-honour, insult and misbehave is ‘open’ to the populous. The season of the New Year was no longer a period of the Roman Saturnalia470 but had been transformed to a season of celebrating several Saints in the Christian calendar.471 Peter Chrysologus clearly did not approve of such embodied mockery, yet his critique was against an alternative form of reverentia and the lure of social boundaries, not a worship practice believed to be demonic. Such an interpretative pattern becomes more apparent further into Chrysologus’s sermon, where he deepens his arguments. Along the lines of the existence of different

469 P. Brown (1981), 112. 470 Harris (2011), 11. 471 More on this in the sub-chapter The Forms of the New Feast.

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ways of negotiating reverentia the bishop discusses the acts performed by the people in the streets from another angle. He states: But, someone will object: ‘All this is not practice of the sacrilegious rites, but only a desire to take part in the sport. It is joy over the new era, not the folly of the old. It is the beginning of the year, not the insult of paganism’. o man, you are in error. These actions are not sport, they are sins.472 Peter Chrysologus thus clearly indicates that he already knew how some of the members of his congregation would object to his accusations of paganism. He still insisted, nevertheless that one should not take part in such mockery. The right kind of worship, from his point of view, was to refrain from bringing out old imagery and statues to the streets, even under the notion of new beginnings. Furthermore, Peter Chrysologus found it sinful to change or distort the appearance that God had given one, in the body and flesh of how your were created.473 Not all members of the Corpus Christianum seem to be in harmony here. However, a lack of homogenous harmony does not have to mean that there could not have been a genuine reverentia present in the alternative practices that some condemned as pagan. As we saw in the previous chapter on the feast of Corpus Christi, the celebrations of Rogation days – to name just one example – displayed elements of exorcism and other less calm features. Thus, more rowdy forms of worship did continued far into the medieval period, without being seen as pagan by the contemporaries. Comparing these statements to Isidore of Seville (560–636) some hundred years after Peter Chrysologus’s sermons makes the development of the feast in stages, suggested by Max Harris, even more evident. Isidore of Seville another, oft-quoted source of reference in medieval sources, continues to complain about Kalendae Januariae. He writes: Even the faithful assume monstrous appearances and are changed into the character of wild animals; others make feminine gestures and feminize their male faces. . . . They all make a great noise, with leaping and clapping dances [saltantium pedibus, tripudantium plausibus]; and, what is still more shameful, both sexes dance together in sung dances [chori], with dulled senses, intoxicated with wine.474

472 Peter Chrysologus, De kalendis Ianuariis (Sermon 155). 473 Webb echoes the distress certain writers had about using masks and costumes, when she explains why both Christian, and earlier writers found the art of pantomime problematic. Webb explains that the actors of pantomime did not have much time to change costumes and clothes, so the shift of character occurred more by means of help from masks and bodily gestures. The pantomime actor was thus also known as the many-faced individual. The use of masks themselves was one of the reasons that language of the demons emerged. Shifting personalities and putting on a mask seems to have suggested both an instability which was associated with chaos and death in the Greek and Roman worldview, as well as an emptiness inside the dancing body. Webb (2008), 64–65, 163–67. 474 Isidore, De ecclesiasticis officiis 1.41.

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Here we see – even more clearly than earlier – that what is monstrous in the eyes of Isidore of Seville is the dressing up as either females or animals.475 He also looks harshly at a practice of mixed-gender dancing when intoxicated. Harris states that the opening statement of Isidore’s complaint is borrowed from a sermon by Caesarius of Arles (470–542), who was another leader of the church that is often stated to have been against dancing.476 Unfortunately, I will not have space here for going into the details of Caesarius of Arles preaching, it will be dealt with elsewhere. What is important for the argument I am making here are two themes. Yitzhak Hen in his article ‘Martin of Braga’s De correctione rusticorum and its Uses in Frankish Gaul’ explains that Caesarius of Arles’s writings have often travelled across time and been re-used to state that some particular practice is pagan.477 However, research now shows that the audience Caesarius of Arles addressed were already practising Christian, and his concern was more related to competing forms of celebration than actually plotting Christian and non-Christian ways of worship against each other.478 Thus, the remarks of Isidore of Seville, should even less so be considered to be classifications of all and any leaping or clapping dances as pagan. Similar remarks are further made by Clopper, also when it comes to use of Isidore of Seville’s comments on a variety of practices. The majority of these show, that he did not speak about or relate to anything he saw and was accustomed to in his own time-period, even when later researchers have chosen to portray his arguments in that light.479 Furthermore, when it comes to the particular practice of dance and New Kalends, what seems to have been the concern of Caesarius of Arles is two-fold. Firstly, what one confesses in movements and pronounces in words is considered true worship, so Caesarius of Arles, just like Peter Chrysologus, does not approve of ‘playing’ with

475 More on the problem of males stepping down from their position of authority when dressing as women in Bynum (1991), 170–71. 476 Isidore, De ecclesiasticis officiis 1.41. Harris writes: ‘Arbesmann, “Cervuli”, 105 n. 69, points out that the opening phrase of Isidore’s complaint is borrowed from a sermon by Caesarius of Arles (CAO, 780). Klingshirn, Caesarius: Making, 281–85, documents the widespread influence of Caesarius’s sermons, adding (283) that later preachers “would not have quoted from Caesarius’ anti-pagan sermons unless they believed that their congregations were engaged in similar practices”. Caesarius’s first biographers (Vita 1.55, in Klingshirn, Caesarius: Life, 37) report that the bishop sent copies of his sermons “to clerics located far away in Frankish lands, Gaul, Italy, Spain, and other provinces”’. Harris (2011), 22, fn 58. For Caesarius of Arles anti-dance statements see Tronca (2016), 58–59; Caciola (2016), 33. 477 We see it here and also in Eligius of Noyon’s Vitae, one can find paraphrases of both of the sermons of Martin of Braga (520–80) and Caesarius of Arles in later writing. Hen in Cohen&De Jong (2001), 38–43. 478 Hen in Cohen&De Jong (2001), 38–40. Hen has further several arguments supporting such claims, starting from how people are addressed, what kind of teaching is given and Caesarius of Arles approaches to preaching for different parts of the congregation. Hen (1995), 86–88. See also: McGinn, Ledercq&Meyendorf (1985), 481–82. 479 Clopper (2001), 33, 39–43.

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mocking behaviour.480 Neither are any practices concerned with social disorder or drunkenness, accepted as worshipful.481 Secondly, once we examine the sermons around the New Kalends feast in more detail, Caesarius of Arles’s concern seems to be not only about breaking social norms and bounds but that of time and space. In sermon 13, after Caesarius of Arles has addressed the fact that some people dress up as old hags and stags, he goes on to speak about what it means to take part in acts of superstitio.482 The term superstitio has a long and varied tradition – impossible to give an account of here.483 In Fearful Spirits, Reasoned Follies: The Boundaries of Superstition in Late Medieval Europe (2013), Michael D. Bailey names both the Roman and Greek roots of the word. He further explains that once Christianity became the most dominant religion, the same concept was adapted to their own usage. The notion of superstitio became a term designed to define the proper Christian cult, as religio, against all pagan rites labelled as superstitio romana or superstitio gentilium.484 If we choose Brown’s reading that Kalendae Januariae was a roman secular celebration, it is possible to state that the feast had roots in superstitio romana. Interpreting the feast from such a narrative framework, one can understand that the feast competed with the Church community by offering a communal act that bound people together through non-Christian ties. This seems to me to be the reason why Harris dismisses

480 ‘Otherwise, perhaps, by calumny, evil speech, leading the chorus on the Holy festivals, or singing dissolute, disgraceful songs, they may be seen to inflict wounds upon themselves with their own tongue which should be praising God. The unfortunate, miserable people who neither fear nor blush to execute dances and pantomimes before the very churches of the saints, even if they come to church as Christians, return from it as pagans, because that kind of dancing has carried over from pagan practice. See what kind of a Christian a man is if he has come to church to pray, but neglects prayers and does not blush to utter impious words of the pagans. Consider, moreover, whether it is right for dissolute songs, like poison of the Devil, to proceed from a Christian’s mouth into which Christ’s Body enters’. Caesarius of Arles, Homilia 13, (4). 481 Caesarius of Arles, Homilia 13, (4); Caesarius of Arles, Homilia 16, (3); Caesarius of Arles, Homilia 19, (3); Caesarius of Arles, Homilia 46, (5); Caesarius of Arles, Homilia 55, (2); Caesarius of Arles, Homilia 218, (3); Caesarius of Arles, Homilia 225, (5). 482 ‘Now, I believe that the unfortunate practices which have remained from the profane customs of the pagans have under God’s inspiration been removed from these places because of your reproaches. However, if you still know some people who practice that most sordid and disgraceful act of masquerading as old hags and stags, rebuke them so harshly that they will repent of having committed the wicked deed. If, when the moon is darkened, you know that some people still shout, admonish them, telling them what a grave sin they are committing, for in wicked boldness they are confident that by their shouts and sorcery they can protect the moon which is darkened at certain times by the Lord’s bidding’. Caesarius of Arles, Homilia 13, (4). 483 Roman authors coined the Latin term superstitio and in the beginning it was often turned towards Christians. Bailey (2013), 19, 38. ‘In Latin, the great orator and moralist Cicero may have originated the noun “superstition” in the first century bce, but the Romans already had an adjective for “superstitious” (superstitiosus) at least two centuries before that. Its earliest meaning seems to have been associated with divination, particularly private and therefore potentially threatening divination, as opposed to public divinatory rites performed as part of the Roman state religion’. Bailey (2013), 19. See also Rauhala in Hakola, Nikki&Tervahauta (2013), 289–94. 484 Bailey (2013), 19, 38–40.

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the sermon by Peter Chrysologus. However, as I have shown, I think more is at stake here then merely that. The second way in which a public spectacle could be seen as worshiping a foreign god had its roots in Greek ideas around deisidaimonia, a similar concept to the Roman superstitio. This was explained to be an incorrect understanding or excessive fear of daimones, powerful spiritual entities.485 Bailey describes that once this idea was planted in the Christian community, there was a growing concern that foreign rites were not simply empty or meaningless, but rather the pagan deities, daimones, were real, evil spirits, cast out from heaven by the Christian God and now worshipped in false guise.486 Worship of daimones could take the form of, e.g. going to a sacred tree, bathing in a healing pool, starting one’s year in the rhythm of some aspect of creation, rather than following the God-given order. In these cases sometimes the foreign god was explicitly mentioned in name, while at other times the daimones seem just to have been lingering in connection to a particular space and place.487 Putting oneself under the structure and influence of this entity was what made association with it dangerous. Bailey explains: Since these entities were entirely malevolent and bent on harming humankind, any sort of worship or veneration shown to them automatically became excessive, unreasonable, and superstitious.488 From within this narrative framework, taking part in practices of superstitio was more than turning towards the wrong god. It was actually a harmful way of letting evil affect the community. My understanding is that Peter Chrysologus’s emphasis on how harming the actions of the New Kalends feast where to those who took part in them, is only understandable in light of a reading that is more in line with the possibilities arising from harmful veneration. Even though I see no traces of him arguing that dancing in and of itself is problematic, he is deeply distressed by the changes that may happen if people use idols and bodily gestures to ‘play’ with the ‘foreign element’. In the case of Caesarius of Arles, I would argue that the connection

485 Bailey (2013), 19–20. 486 Bailey (2013), 19–20, 38–39. 487 When Martin of Braga addresses the practices of New Kalends, the question he raises is that of use of space and time: ‘10. Similiter et ille error ignorantibus et rusticis subrepit, ut Kalendas Ianuarias putent anni esse initium, quod omnino falsissimum est. Nam, sicut scriptura sancta dicit, VIII Kal. Aprilis in ipso aequinoctio initium primi anni est factum. Nam sic legitur: et divisit deus inter lucem et tenebras. Omnis autem recta divisio aequalitatem habet, sicut et in VIII Kal. Aprilis tantum spatium horarum dies habet quantum et nox. Et ideo falsum est ut Ianuariae Kalendae initium anni sint’. and later connecting it to daimones ‘Praeter haec autem multi daemones ex illis qui de caelo expulsi sunt aut in mare aut in fluminibus aut in fontibus aut in silvis praesident, quos similiter homines ignorantes deum quasi deos colunt et sacrificant illis. Et in mare quidem Neptunum appellant, in fluminibus Lamias, in fontibus Nymphas, in silvis Dianas, quae omnia maligni daemones et spiritus nequam sunt, qui homines infideles, qui signaculo crucis nesciunt se munire, nocent et vexant’. Martin of Braga, De Correctione Rusticorum, stanza 8. 488 Bailey (2013), 39.

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is even stronger. He is deeply disturbed by the transformation that might happen if a person utters bad words or enacts in their body, anything that might be connected to daimones. Furthermore, he is also concerned with the fact that if people do acts that might not in themselves be connected with veneration, but happen during a specific period – when the moon is darkened – this might ‘activate’ a relationship with the daimones in disguise. Through speaking about these varied examples on the social imaginary of the period, my aim has once again been to deepen and complexify the descriptions given by Taylor on an enchanted world. What we are starting to see is that not only relationship to malign forces and God, plays a difference in peoples lives, but also bodily performance within space and time. Furthermore, the understanding of reverentia is not a static and homogeneous view of how things are. Instead, interpretation of reverentia does not only vary, but the form itself may change over time and show signs of shifting between different social strata of society. Before we move forward, I have one last remark to say about superstitio and its relation to dance. Dance and Superstitio

Notably, Augustine489 but also Isidore of Seville’s etymologies came to define most medieval views on what was – and what was not – acceptable practice.490 It is in light of these writing on what is seen as superstitio that it becomes essential to note that dancing cannot be found on the lists of practices of superstitio, compiled neither by Augustine nor commented upon by Caesarius of Arles, in his address of the Kalendae Januariae.491 Furthermore, as I have been arguing, none of these authors seems to have been speaking about the New Kalends feast as a truly pagan practice. Instead, they are concerned, in various ways, about the consequences of forms of reverentia that are unacceptable to them. Their concerns with different forms of reverentia do not only seem to lay in questions of ascetical preferences or a difference found between elite and more popular practices. Instead, these examples have also shown that different Christian thinkers are more or less concerned with the influence malevolent entities may or may not have on a baptised community. What was further demonstrated,

489 Augustine first addressed magical and superstitious rites almost immediately after his conversion experience in 386, in Confessionum libri XIII 4.2 (3), in an early treatise: Contra academicos 1.6 (17). He would then continue to do so in a series of fundamental works until his death in 430, including: De vera religione 55 (111); De doctrina Christiana 2.6 (7); De divinatione daemonum 3 (7), 5 (9), 6 (10) and De civitate dei 5.2–9. Bailey (2013), 20–22, 40–45. 490 Isidore, Etymologiae, 18, 50. On the importance of the Etymologiae see Bailey (2013), 49–51. 491 ‘Moreover, if you still see men fulfilling vows to fountains or trees, and, as was already said, consulting sorcerers, seers, or charmers, hanging devilish phylacteries, magic signs, herbs, or charms on themselves or their family, rebuke them harshly, telling them that one who does this evil loses the sacrament of baptism’. Caesarius of Arles, Homilia 13, (4). Dickason argues that combining the idea of dance and superstition is a Late Medieval construction. Dickason (2020), 26.

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was that also signs of disorder and disturbance of social structures may be read as either a sign of the praesentia and potentia of the divine or suspiciously looked upon as something opposed to God. These my remarks further strengthen the idea presented by Harris that one can trace the spread of the New Kalends feast from Rome into the Kingdom of the Franks and the Iberian peninsula through the complaints and local prohibitions, which followed its growth in popularity.492 I further claim that the structure that Harris presented of a three-stage-development of the Feast of Fools can be seen through tracking the condemnations of practices of the Kalendae Januariae as an indication of how the celebrations spread across Europe. However, I would say that the development is seen more clearly when applying Peter Browns remarks around reverentia, praesentia and potentia to the readings presented by Harris. What is moving, is a popular form of celebration, a form which might not have been approved by people in power-positions in the church at that time. It may also not fall in the liking of all preachers of the faith. Simultaneously, this does not mark the movements as a less pious practice nor one, which is easily contained within the harmonic structures of the church. Kalendae Januariae was not a healing practice, like those found during Saints day celebrations, neither is it easily contained and appropriated. It carries similarities to the feasts of Saints, and some Saints celebrations will be attached to the Feast of Fools. However, I have found no signs of exorcism or healings, so, some other understanding of the rowdiness needs to be sought for. Furthermore, what makes the development of the Kalendae Januariae similar to the depiction of Brown of the martyrs’ celebrations is that many aspects constituting a different form of reverentia did not disappear, but later became integrated into the church-authorised liturgical forms of the Feast of Fools. Without seeing these micro shifts in the development of the feast, it is easily miss-understood as mere entertainment, which I argue would be a misjudgement. Where my account differs from that of Harris, is that I think it essential also to examine the deeper structures of what might have caused the distrust of theological authorities towards the practices found in the New Kalends feast. In doing so, what was revealed, is a diversified account of how different people and communities of Christians my have experienced and interpreted the more rowdy forms of reverentia. Furthermore, I also found that even though Harris has made many important discoveries surrounding the roots of the Feast of Fools celebrations, he has tended to not take note of the importance of the social imaginary of the period, to understand the meaning and theological significance of ritualised practices. In the following, I will thus be providing more elements of the symbolical, material and narrative aspects of the feast. Having come so far, we are now ready to follow Harris’s move to the second shift in the celebrations of Kalendae Januariae. While the activities of the Kalendae Januariae were met by claims of being pagan, we find church records describing quite different practices that were approved by church authorities. Harris claims that these 492 Harris (2011), 21–22.

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merged with the more questioned forms of celebration. Harris wants to bring forth three different descriptions of the period surrounding the New Year that did not meet much resistance. These are Papal celebrations in Rome, the dramatisation of biblical plays in Germany and the Game of Pilota already referred to in the previous chapter. Let us first turn to the celebrations in Rome. Papal Celebrations

Gregor Rohmann, tells us of a famous epistle of the bishop Boniface (c. 642–754) who in the year 742 wrote to Pope Zachary (741–54). In this letter, he complained that some of his Saxon neophytes who visited Rome came back questioning why they should abolish their customary dances.493 They had seen the inhabitants of the centre of the Christian world, near to the Basilica of Saint Peter, executing choral dances and making loud exclamations.494 They, therefore, asked why they could not continue traditionally celebrating the Kalendae Januariae? Rohmann writes that this could be read as a statement by Boniface in his missionary efforts, managing to implement a dogmatically more rigorous Christianity in Saxony than the Pope allowed in Rome.495 This reading, would, once more, show how un-uniform the church during this period was concerning its celebrations, without falling into non-godly behaviour. Max Harris’s interpretation somewhat differs from the above. He states that the correspondence between Boniface and Pope Zachary shows that a second shift in the celebrations of New Kalends feast had occurred. Pope Zachary’s response does not show signs of wanting to abolish the new feast. Instead, he only emphasises which aspects that need to be repealed. Pope Zachary states: As regards the New Year celebrations, auguries, amulets, incantations and other practices, which you say are observed in pagan fashion at the church of St Peter, the Apostle, or in the city of Rome, we consider them to be sinful and pernicious not only for us but for all Christians, according to God’s word in the Scriptures.496

493 Rohmann (2009), 20. 494 Harris (2011), 36. Harris relies here on a text from Backman that I find quite problematic, stating the letter to be numbered 50–51. Harris (2011), 36, fn 15. 495 Rohmann (2009), 20. ‘They say that in Rome, near the church of St Peter, they have seen throngs of people parading the streets at the beginning of January of each year, shouting and singing songs in pagan fashion, loading tables with food and drink from morning into night, and that during that time no man is willing to lend his neighbour fire or tools or anything useful from his own house. They recount also that they have seen women wearing pagan amulets and bracelets on their arms and legs and offering them for sale. All such abuses witnessed by sensual and ignorant people bring reproach upon us here and frustrate our work of preaching and teaching. (…) If Your Holiness would put an end to these heathen customs in Rome it would redound to your credit besides promoting the success of our teaching of the faith’. Zacharias, Epistolae et decreta 2, Zachariae papae ad Bonifacium archiepiscopum, PL 89:917–22 (col. 921). 496 Zacharias, Epistolae et decreta 2, Zachariae papae ad Bonifacium archiepiscopum, in PL 89:917–22 (col. 921).

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Prohibiting these aspects of the old Roman feast of Saturnalia lay in line with precisely what was discussed in the earlier section of this chapter that what was seen as superstitio needed to be taken away when a renewal of a feast occurred. However, establishing a New Kalends celebration was not problematic, and both dancing and enjoying good food as well as drinks were not something the Pope wanted to restrict. What had been a problem and he wanted Boniface also to be assured of, needed to be removed, where specific practices of superstitio related to fortune-telling. Moreover, what is seen in these statements is that choral dancing and outdoor ceremonies of other kinds did not carry the same connotation to practices of superstitio. Dancing, even though it had also been part of the expression of the joy of the Roman New Year, could continue as an official practice of the new celebrations. All of this leads Harris to speculate that what the neophytes of Boniface might have witnessed were the first signs of organised activities that had been given the full approval of church authorities.497 What I want to pin-point, is that in all of these official ceremonies, dancing seems to have been an unquestioned element of the liturgical enactments. To concrete examples of this, I will now turn my attention. The first record mentioning these kinds of activities is Liber politicus, written between 1140 and 1143 by Benedict, a canon of Saint Peter’s Basilica in Rome.498 He listed five different outdoor ceremonies where either the Pope or members of the papal Schola Cantorum took part: laudes Cornomanni[a]e, singing for the Pope on Easter Sunday, ludi, ludus carnelevarii and laudes puerorum.499 Two of them contained the earlier condemned elements of mockery or games of some sort, where animals were present, specific costumes worn and songs performed.500 In the following, I will examine those instances in more detail where dancing is described. I commence with a short examination of the laudes Cornomanni[a]e. It is translated by Harris as the Feast of the Horns and has been interpreted in a variety of ways. I follow the depictions by Benedict that Harris presents.501 The term laudes here does not refer to the morning prayers but signifies public acclamations. These were sung or shouted in honour of dignitaries, either royal or ecclesiastical. In Benedictine’s account, this feast was celebrated on the Saturday of Albs, which is the first Saturday after Easter.502 It started off with the archpriests of the eighteen diaconal parishes of Rome ordering the church bells to be rung. People hurried to the local parish church, where a sacristan dressed in a white alb and ‘crowned with a horned garland 497 Harris (2011), 40. 498 Harris (2011), 32. Benedict, Liber politicus, in Fabre and Duchesne, Liber, 2:139–77. The original document can be found at the Vatican. Benedictus, Liber politicus ad Guidonem de Castello tunc Cardinalem S. Marci, qui postmodum factus est Caelestinus II. Yet I have been unable to check the original. 499 Harris (2011), 32–33. He explains that: ‘The papal Schola Cantorum was a body of singers charged with providing music for papal ceremonies, with training singers and with preparing young clerics to serve the Church of Rome in subordinate functions’. Harris (2011), 32, fn 2. 500 Harris (2011), 32–39. 501 Fabre and Duchesne, Liber, 2:139–77. Benedictus, Liber politicus ad Guidonem de Castello tunc Cardinalem S. Marci, qui postmodum factus est Caelestinus II. 502 Harris (2011), 33.

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of flowers’503 could be seen. In his hand, he carried a phinobulum, which was some kind of staff or stalk covered with small bells.504 After gathering around the sacristan, the ceremony continued in Harris’s words, as follows: From each parish, a procession of clergy and people made its way to the pope’s residence in the Lateran. Each of the archpriests wore a long ceremonial cloak known as a pluvial. When the pope joined the crowd outside, the laudes began. Each parish formed a circle, singing songs of acclamation to the pope in a mixture of Latin and Greek, while in their midst the sacristan ‘danced in a circle, ringing his phinobulum and bending back his horned head’. The verb used here (saltare) suggests a mimetic, leaping dance.505 This first part of the description contains the circle dance and a more leaping kind of action. The celebratory songs combined with the dance were in Latin or Greek which gives the impression that this was no vernacular folk prose but could have been part of the liturgical chants. At the same time, it is hard to tell whether the whole laudes Cornomanni[a]e was a mockery, or whether only parts of it were. Harris does not comment on this any further, but for me, it seems like the salutation of the Pope with dances was a sign of true dignity. Later on, the Pope was approached by the archpriests who lay their garlands or crowns (coronas) at his feet. They further offered the Pope gifts,506 none of which indicates any acts of mockery. On the contrary, what I find fascinating is that Peter Brown in his Cult of the Saints, states that once the feasts on the graves of the martyrs moved into the churches of the bigger cities and gained a more official liturgical form, they also took on features that resembled that of celebrating royal dignities. Brown explains that the practices of the populous were combined with what was a more familiar practise by ‘elite’, when it came to worship. The imaginary was taken from how festivities used for greeting an emperor had been conducted.507 These were attributed on the saint as a divine power on earth. In this manner, both new kinds of feasts and processions were introduced into the new liturgy of the cult of the Saints.508 Thus, I am not surprised at all that also the ceremonies around such dignity as the Pope, would carry traces of royal treatment. Furthermore, the honorary welcoming of a priest or king is also found in biblical stories. As we already saw, in the Rationale Divinorum Officiorum of William Durand, from a later time period, much of the symbology and meaning of liturgical acts during the Middle Ages is derived from the Old Testament stories. In the Hebrew Bible, both the warrior and his men are greeted by the women dancing.509 Also, in

503 Harris (2011), 34. Fabre and Duchesne, Liber, 2:171–72. Benedictus, Liber politicus ad Guidonem de Castello tunc Cardinalem S. Marci, qui postmodum factus est Caelestinus II. 504 Harris (2011), 34. 505 Harris (2011), 34. 506 Harris (2011), 34. 507 See also the use of dance in Byzantine courtly settings. Derbes (1996), 104–07. 508 P. Brown (1981), 94–100. 509 Jds 11:34; 21:21; 1 Sam 18:6; 21:12; 29:5. The word used here is khool: ‫( ְמחֹלַ ת‬mek-o-law’).

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the deuterocanonical story of Judith, we find a story that fits this greeting of the Pope, very well.510 The tradition to greet great dignitaries with dance, and singing in the feasts surrounding saints, seem to be unknown to Harris.511 Instead, he brings for another passage were dancing, and royalty is discussed. This is a depiction of a similar, but much later dance from Arles, in France. In 1365 the German Emperor Charles IV had just attempted to claim his position of Provence by being crowned the King of Arles. Within the celebrations in the Cathedral of St Trophime the people decided to greet him with dancing and leaping.512 This seems to be a practice that the Emperor was not accustomed to. Nevertheless, that did not nullify the fact that such a practice appears to have been and could also, in the case of the Pope, be a sign of true decorum.513 What follows, in the second part of the laudes Cornomanni[a]e is a somewhat different description. When the laudes and their accompanying dance were over, the game began. Each of the archpriests took turns to mount an ass, facing its tail. Then a contest started where the rider would end up falling off and all the people would laugh. After this funny episode came the lowering of the crown for the Pope and an exchange of gifts. The gifts were offerings of animals: a fox, a cockerel and a deer, in return for which the Pope gave gold and silver coins. Once this exchange was over, the groups returned to their home parishes.514 The celebrations, however, did not end with this. The sacristan, still wearing his alb, the archpriest in his pluvial together with two acolytes, would start house-to-house visits. They would ring the bells of the phinobulum. Bells, we have already learnt, was a sign in this period, which meant a blessing that carried the devils away, as well as bringing protection from storms and misgrowth.515 Durand has described the symbolic meaning of all of the actions that Harris has unearthed, in his liturgical commentary and, thus, I will bring them into the depictions that follow. The acolytes took holy water, which was sprinkled on the inhabitants of each house. Such a gesture would also be a blessing, carrying away evil spirits,516 cleansing a person from sin517 and bringing the Holy Spirit.518 Further,

510 First mentioning of dancing as a greeting is found in Jth 3:7. 511 Hen (1995), 86–88. 512 Harris (2011), 159–60. His source for this is Papon’s Histoire générale de Provence. 4 vols (1777–1786) 3:213. 513 For similar greetings with spectacle, dance and public celebrations for the birth of a noble child in Spain, see Devaney (2015), 52–55. 514 Harris (2011), 34–35. 515 Durand, Rationale Divinorum Officiorum I, Chapter 4, 1–5. 516 Durand, Rationale Divinorum Officiorum I, Chapter 1, 7. See also the importance of holy water when dealing with demons in Teresa of Ávila (2008). 517 Durand, Rationale Divinorum Officiorum I, Chapter 6, 10; Chapter 7, 10; 19; Rationale Divinorum Officiorum IV, Chapter 4, 5. 518 Durand, Rationale Divinorum Officiorum I, Chapter 6, 11; Chapter 7, 10–12; 18; Rationale Divinorum Officiorum IV, Chapter 4, 7.

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the sprinkling of water can be seen as a gesture of strengthening the Baptismal vows or the sacramental act.519 The priests further carried with them sweet wafers that Harris presumes were given to the children. The symbology of bread and the strong connotation520 to a land that flows of milk and honey521 present in such a gift was important. Finally, they also brought with them fronds of laurel that were placed in the hearths of the houses.522 Greenery, in more general, was already mentioned concerning the Corpus Christi feast in the last chapter. However, I have not found any symbolical explanation concerning the particular meaning of laurel in the liturgical books of the time. What can be found is the writing of Stephen Wilson in The Magical Universe. Everyday Ritual and Magic in Pre-modern Europe (2004). He states that branches of laurel and other trees, blessed during Palm Sunday, were put in the fields to prevent lightning and hail, and were burnt once a storm was approaching to protect the crops from getting damaged.523 Thus, even this detail potentially carries extra significance. All of these actions, as well as the visits from house-to-house, were accompanied by songs in a mixture of Latin and other languages.524 When the priestly procession left, they were thanked by the giving of a small coin.525 On the one hand, I agree with Max Harris when he states that we cannot know the meaning of all these practices.526 On the other hand, I think it foolish to assume that as there is a sense of play and joyfulness around these events, they could not have carried a spiritual significance to the people taking part. As was already seen, in the examples of Corpus Christi feasts, the artefacts used in processions carried meaning. The artefacts had, not only symbolic meaning but were also used as ‘tools’ with semiotic references. In Harris’s account, neither the symbolic nor the semiotic value and the theological connotations of each act are not brought forth. This also includes the actions of the second day of the ludi of the New year.527 Neither does his account explicitly give heed to the kind of reverentia examined by Peter Brown. In the light of an enchanted world, High Time and the intricate meshwork of reverentia, all of these gestures, practices and even the

519 Durand, Rationale Divinorum Officiorum I, Chapter 6, 26; Chapter 7, 11–13; Rationale Divinorum Officiorum IV, Chapter 4, 7–9. 520 As honey or some kind of natural syrup would have been the most presumable sweetener of the time. 521 Expression describing the Holy Land in Ex 3:8; 17; 13:5; 33:3; Lev 20:24; Num 13:27; 14:8; 16:13–14; Dt 6:3; 26:9; 15; 27:3; 31:20; Jos 5:6; Jer 11:5; 32:22; Ez 20:6; 15. 522 Harris (2011), 34–35. 523 Wilson (2004), 78. 524 Durand tells us also that during the sprinkling of water in the blessing of the church, such acts were combined with specific chants. See: Rationale Divinorum Officiorum I, Appendix H, On the dedication of a Church. 525 Harris (2011), 35. 526 Harris (2011), 36. 527 These include a sprinkling of salt which Durand would have much to say about, the sharing of honeycombs, throwing of leaves and blessing of the houses that were visited with words or a song. Harris (2011), 38. See both Hugh of St Victor, Mystical Mirror of the Church, Chapter 2, 239A; Durand, Rationale Divinorum Officiorum I. Chapter 6, 7–14, 39; Chapter 7, 8–14; Rationale Divinorum Officiorum IV, Chapter 4, 2–3; Chapter 6, 14.

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patterns of play, could be seen as liturgical acts or para-liturgical activity. In the social imaginary of the period matter itself carried meaning and performances of this kind were part of how clergy and laity together brought down heavenly power and God’s blessings into the streets and fields of the Corpus Christianum. In my opinion, one should not read these ceremonies as only some kind of customary mocking game. The Pope himself is seen as a servant of God on earth. Why then would one not, as the angels in heaven, greet him with a choral dance and songs? Furthermore, as with the Game of Pilota, the laudes Cornomanni[a]e as well as the singing where the Pope served wine,528 are said to have been part of the cycle of post-Easter events: a time of celebrations commemorating Jesus’ death and resurrection. As Taylor explains, High Time is also a period when the original event with its sacred time re-approaches our secular time-place. The 40 days after Easter is, according to the biblical story, the time when Christ himself is said to have walked upon the earth with his disciples, before his ascension. During this period, he celebrated with them, in bread and wine,529 joked with them over a meal of fish and bread530 and even surprised them in a crowded room.531 If such stories were part of the tradition of the Church and the social imaginary of these people had a space-time conception different from ours, I ask – along with the men returning to Boniface from Rome – why would they not be allowed to enjoy themselves in a period of games and play after Easter? Even in a kind of revelry? As stated earlier, I agree with Harris that we cannot know precisely which kind of sacred meaning these practices, so foreign to our own understanding, had for the people who enjoyed them. Nevertheless, what becomes apparent is that those interpretations which either condemn the dancing in these commemorations as pagan or dismiss them as mere entertainment have been unable to imagine different worlds than their own, even when the signs are there to be examined. Once the biblical stories, the symbolic meaning of sacred artefacts and an awareness of the ability to participate in the negotiation of sacredness and a myriad of ways to express reverentia are laid open, laudes Cornomanni[a]e and the accompanied practices of dancing seem less and less theologically insignificant. The other forms of games and practices found in Liber Politicus, which seem much more rowdy, would also need to be re-examined within these new parameters. This falls out of the scope of this study; suffice to mention them briefly, before continuing to the next aspect of the Feast of Fools-to be. The first, was the ludi of the New Year. It contained house-to-house visits, the making of loud noises and wearing of animal masks. It is difficult to distinguish which of these elements were of a liturgical form and which – if any – had other purposes. From Harris’s records, the masquerade of the ludi of the New Year tended to end with boys of the Schola Cantorum becoming loud and performing some kind of dance with weapons or spinning shields around



528 529 530 531

Harris (2011), 37. On the Road to Emmaus, Lk 24: 13–35. At the seashore of the Lake Galilee, Jn 21:1–14. In Jerusalem, Lk 24: 36–43; Jn 20: 19–23.

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on the floor, practices that do appear to have been done with less decorum or exemplary behaviour in front of dignitaries than what was described earlier.532 I have found no traces in the accounts, however, of this being a ritual of exorcism, yet, as the examples so far have shown, elements that might seem chaotic and even frightening are elements that the new Christian forms of reverentia were able to hold. The ludi harbouring loud noises and social disorder are not reasons enough to discount their spiritual meaning entirely. The second was the ludus carnelevarii, which is the first ever found evidence of Carnival games before the Lenten period which precedes Easter. Harris explains that the records include descriptions of Carnival games with either symbolic or real hunts of animals on the Testaccio Hill. Vices were understood to be cast away through this hunt.533 From the writing of Charles Taylor in A Secular Age, one can read that even these kinds of rougher actions were not without meaning. He explains that within the social imaginary of the medieval period Carnival was a period of inversion. This was the time of year when the world was turned upside down and inside out. Most things that were normally prohibited became part of the liturgical enactment of a reversal of the usual order. For a while, there was a ludic interval – a period where games and plays that even disrupted order – bore a significant theological meaning.534 Taylor draws much from Ladurie Le Roy’s Le Carnavalde Romans (1979), a description from the later period of the medieval times which has received important criticism. It is not, however, the reports of people permitting themselves various forms of licence, sexually and also in close-to-violent acts, which are questioned by his critics. Rather it is the interpretation of how such practices came about and how they should be understood which has been under discussion.535 Harris argues that what is problematic is when such action is seen as a pagan freedom, when in fact there are no traces of such practices before the creation of the Christian season of preparations for Easter.536 Taylor, in contrast, criticises those who presume that the point was to present an antithetical order of things which might replace the prevailing situation, when conversely being able to embrace these feasts with gusto lay in the conviction that better, superior, more virtuous and charisma-filled ecclesial people ought to rule the world.537 It is only because Christ is risen that a mocking behaviour can be displayed, with transforming consequences.538



532 533 534 535 536 537 538

Harris (2011), 37–38. Harris (2011), 38–39. Taylor (2007), 45–46. Harris (2003), 8; Taylor (2007), 46. Harris (2003), 139. Taylor (2007), 45–46. At the same time, nothing of a modern sense of revolution – as a human act of revolt – is what would have been sought for here. Taylor (2007), 53. Neither am I arguing here for, for example theatrical mocking of Jews in plays presented around Easter, being used as a legitimate reason to kill present-day Jewish population, even though such things did occur. Bynum (2007), 64, 68–69.

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Even those historians who tend to prefer to speak about carnival and similar time-out-of-the-ordinary periods of the year, as healthy ways to ‘let out steam’539 or ‘let in air into wine-bags so they will not burst’,540 all seem to agree that the prerequisite for the ritual was that everyone knew that God was in charge of changing political order (if such a thing was to happen), not man.541 The rhythm of these cycles is also seen in the third and last of the practices presented in Liber Politicus. The laudes puerorum, presumably practices in the middle of Lent, had the students of Schola Cantorum gathering in front of the Pope’s house singing. After this initial greeting, they continued with such a practice from house to house, extending and receiving gifts of eggs, with no signs of disturbance. Instead, the acts reverted back to a dignified honorary proceeding.542 This was possibly even a way in which the blessing of the Godly presence on earth (the Pope’s symbolic significance) was preparing the way for new life to arrive, as Easter drew closer. Again, the records are not explicit, yet somehow all of these practices were important enough to be depicted into the archives. Further studies would be needed in order to understand better what the deeper layers of meaning in these practices were. What has been shown in the examples of dancing and depictions of dance from the earliest stages of Kalendae Januariae, through the official rites of celebratory practices in Rome to the beginning of the Feast of Fools, are two things. First of all, I have identified that dance, in the development of these festivities, seems to have taken on traits of celebrating royalty. Dancing around the Pope or on certain feast days can be understood as a celebratory act which not only expresses joy but confirms dignity and confers sacredness. Secondly, I have identified dancing of a more rowdy form. This kind of dance should not always be seen as a sign of drunkenness or a social occasion that has gone out of hand. Instead, what has been identified is the fact that to be perceived as an act of worship, dancing did not always have to be of the harmonious kind. Particularly within a liturgical setting – be it during a specific time of year or a specific action within a ritual whole – the Christian imagination of this period was able to harbour certain amounts of chaos and social instability. Dancing, not only symbolised but materialised and ‘activated’ the experience of inversion. Thus, it may even have been sought out for its semiotic capabilities. As a ritual tool, for occasions where the liturgical framework aimed at enacting inversion, dance may have played an important role also outside its more harmonious manifestations. The idea of inversion in Christian practices if the medieval period has been criticised by Caroline Walker Bynum in Fragmentation and Redemption. Her critique centres around the fact that talk of inversion in liturgical settings is a male-oriented way of perceiving the world. However, as long as we are examining the praxis of clergy participating in dancing, liturgically, this analogy holds fast. When you have



539 540 541 542

Ehrenreich (2007), 102–03. Bakhtin (1968), 75. Davis (1975), 137; Humphrey (2001), 33; Ehrenreich (2007), 87–88, 102–05. Harris (2011), 37–38.

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the possibility of climbing a hierarchy of social order, the enactment of reversal becomes a particularly potent form of transformation.543 I am now ready to proceed to the next topic; a new kind of development which the early Church Fathers might well have condemned but which were welcomed into the churches of Medieval Europe: the Liturgical Dramas.544 2.d. 2. Liturgical Dramas

There is much to be said about liturgical dramas in the early medieval period,545 and the relationship between dances and drama is a theme in need of more research. In this sub-chapter, I will thus explore only the examples given by Harris as a ‘pre-source’ to the Feast of Fools that contain dancing. Harris is not concerned with any liturgical dramas other than those which centre around Herod and the slaughtering of the Innocents. These will be the closest, both in form and liturgical positioning of the year, to what is seen at the Feast of Fools. The use of liturgical dramas in churches, depicting Herod, seems to have been a practice localised mainly in the German territories, today reaching across Italy,546 Switzerland,547 Austria,548 over Germany549 to France550 and Belgium.551. The plays described by Harris ranged from small liturgical enactments to full set dramas, with costumes, swords and wild animals roaming inside the cathedral.552 The plays Harris refers to are all found in chapter records and descriptive manuals which include the hymns to be sung by the choir and liturgical gestures to be included by the priests. Even though they might seem violent at times, Harris argues they were part of an official ceremony.553 Clopper further mentions a Purification play during Candlemas and the Christmas ludi at Cambridge, in England, so more records could be found from other parts of Europe as well.554

543 Bynum (1991), 29–32, 34–43. 544 See discussion on the usual misunderstandings of statements against drama in Clopper (2001), 50–62. 545 For a short introduction see Campbell in Heffernan, Matter (2001), 619–44. For a more comprehensive overview of particularly the English context, see Clopper (2001). 546 A thirteenth century record from Pradua. Harris (2011), 41; 50–51. 547 A fragment from Einsiedeln from the eleventh-twelfth century. Harris (2011), 46. 548 Monastery of Reichersberg and Benedictine abbey of Tegernsee. Harris (2011), 45. 549 Two eleventh century plays from Freisig, forty miles east of Augsburg. Harris (2011), 41; as well as the Benediktbeuern Christmas play in Augsburg. Harris (2011), 46. 550 Short liturgical plays from the eleventh century in Nevers and Compiègne. Harris (2011), 42; As well as one from Strasbourg. Harris (2011), 46; and the Augustinian monastery of Hohenberg in its ourskirts. Harris (2011), 49. 551 Twelfth century play from Bilzen. Harris (2011), 45. – Harris (2011), 41; see also chapter 10 in Stevens (1986). 552 A live ass is featured in: The Benediktbeuern play in Augsburg. Harris (2011), 46; The play from Padua. Harris (2011), 51. See also Campbell in Heffernan, Matter (2001), 635. 553 Harris (2011), 41–53. 554 Clopper (2001), 60–62, 231.

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Commemoration of Holy Innocence, when the plays on Herod was displayed, were part of the feast cycle of Christmas. Christmas, in the early Middle Ages, was not only a celebration of the birth of Jesus but also centred around Epiphany. What can be found in the records is far removed from the fluffy angels and sweet Nativity scenes that, at least in the Nordic countries, are part of most Christmas tableaus today. Depending on local tradition in the region, emphasis was laid on the appearance of the Star, the receiving of the child Jesus, the visit of the Magi, Herod’s slaughtering of the innocent children, the circumcision of Jesus and his visit to the Temple in Jerusalem as well as the purification of the Virgin after the birth, including Candlemas.555 Often celebrating Jesus’s first sign or miracle – the creation of wine from water – at the wedding in Canaan, was also part of this series.556 Thomas P. Campbell writes in his chapter ‘Liturgical Drama and Community discourse’ (2001), in The Liturgy of the Medieval Church that plays centring on the events of the Christmas season were very popular across Europe. Some of the plays can be found in copies of up to a thousand!557 Let us now turn to the play celebrated in Freising, forty miles east of Augsburg. The play is know under the name of Officium Stellae and was composed around 1070.558 I will start at the point when, after two brief scenes in which an angel appears to the shepherds and the Magi follow a star, the action turns to Herod’s court. Herod receives a messenger telling about puzzling Magi’s being seen in the region. He calls the men to his court to explain their activity. Once he hears that they are following a star, Herod summons his scribes. The choir sings the antiphon Bethlehem, non es minima (Bethlehem, you are by no means the least), while the message from the books of the prophets is presented. Herod becomes furious and hurls the book aside, commanding the Magi be questioned.559 In a mix of humour and frightening anger, Harris tells us, Herod, playing on the fact that he was a tyrannical foreigner in this land, shouts: ‘‘Vassal, bring the foreign tyrants back – be quick about it!’ (line 80)’.560 Assisted by an adviser he plots to ask the Magi to help him find the child so that he too can pay his homage. The Magi find the Christ child, yet after being warned by an angel, they decide to take another route back. When Herod hears about this trick, he of course, bursts out in even

555 Harris (2011), 66; See also Borgehammar in Heffernan, Matter (2001), 15–17; 29–30. 556 Borgehammar in Heffernan, Matter (2001), 30. 557 The number refers to liturgical plays of all kinds, yet many did centre around the Christmas season. Campbell in Heffernan, Matter (2001), 620. See also Young (1933). 558 Harris gives the following sources: ‘Young, 1933/2, 92–99 (text); Dronke 1994, 24–51. (improved text, translation, and line numbers); William L. Smoldon (1980) The Music of the Medieval Church Dramas. Ed. Cynthia Bourgeault. London: Oxford University Press,(photograph of manuscript)’. For the date of the play, see Dronke (1994), 29. Fragments of earlier German Officia Stellae, in which Herod’s behaviour is still comparatively mild-mannered, survive from Metz, Lorsch, and the monasteries of Saint Emmeram (Regensburg) and Münsterschwarzach. Harris (2011), 42. 559 Harris (2011), 42–43. 560 Harris (2011), 43.

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stronger fits of fury and ends up in a scene ‘turning his sword to and fro’561 ordering the slaughter of all rival male boys.562 Harris tells us that the mood of the play suddenly changes. Instead of the anger and fury, the choir boys sing a joyous song: Eia dicamus (Let’s sing ‘hurrah!’). Inverting the rule of Herod, this procession of welcoming the new king brings peace to the world.563 Harris continues: Just as Herod thinks he has killed all the little boys and stamped out the rival King, the mutiny breaks out in his own palace: it is Herod’s own page-boys who, in his royal procession, proclaim the rival King, the true rex Iudeorum. As the choirboys of the cathedral, too, they hail ‘this yearly feast’, when the king whose birth they celebrate authorizes ‘sung poetry, festive holidays, choral dances’ (odas, festa, choreas). The recessional hints at lively celebrations to follow.564 After this joyous episode of dancing, singing and celebrating the new order of life in the universe, the liturgical office ends. The closing act constitutes of the choirboys singing the popular Christmas season sequence Laetabundus exultet fidelis chorus (Let the faithful choir exult in gladness).565 As we see from this passage, dancing is understood as an authentic manifestation of Joy – the new King himself gives his authority to such acts.566 Furthermore, the dancing and rejoicing work as a semiotic postlude which forms the anger and unjust rule of Herod into a celebration of Christ. The dancing is clearly enacted by both the clergy and others that participated in the enactment of the drama. Maybe even the laity that had come to watch could take part in the final revelry? A similar understanding of the Christmas season as an exceedingly joyful period is also reflected in much later depictions of Nativity scenes. I will return to the topic of medieval Nativity scenes further ahead. However, I want to present, already here some images of a Krippen exhibition that caught my attention at the Bayerisches Nationalmuseum. It is clear that these Crèche images from Germany and Italy from the seventeenth to the early nineteenth century, should not be confuses with the practices of the medieval period. In the booklet that was sold in the museum: Krippen – Nativity scenes, Crèches (1998), one can learn about the development of the social imaginary of Nativity scenes through-out the ages, ending with full scale installations of events in the villages and city landscapes of particular places. (Plate 19) As such traditions were unknown to me and I did not know how central the dancing element



561 562 563 564 565 566

Harris (2011), 43. Harris (2011), 43. Harris (2011), 43. Harris (2011), 43–44. Harris (2011), 44. Le Goff in his description of how Jacobus de Voragine worked for the sanctification of time and space through establishing a specific liturgical order to the feasts of the Nativity cycle, also emphasises the dual importance of condemnation of the worldly order and celebration of the heavenly rule, in and through the specific lives of Saints celebrated in this season. Le Goff (2014), xiii, 25, 33–34, 38–42, 51–52, 57, 61–65.

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was in this context, the encounter with the following images became a true eureka moment to me. (Plate 19 and Plate 20) After encountering these scenes of dancing and rejoicing in a variety of places and spaces, it was as if my eyes had ‘opened’ and I was able to recognise and see how dancing was there to be studied also in earlier descriptions of the Nativity. Through images like these, I was able to understand how earlier periods as well, might have created their practices on unconscious beliefs and values about God and the season they were celebrating. Thus, I am now suggesting that together with the joyful songs, dancing constitutes the image of exuberance for the New Creation. As was the case with celebrations of resurrection, so is the case Plate 19. Detail of musicians and dancers with the Incarnation – an over-flowing in a market scene and streets of Naples, gratitude is expressed in dancing. With the second half of 18th century.567 medieval liturgical plays and these later images of Christmas revelry, we are far from the stiff and solemn faces that some images of Saints and religious people depict. The liturgical play of Officium Stellae with Herod as the main character is further not averse to true human feelings of anger, disgust, hatred, jealousy or laughter and humour.568 One might even speculate that a form of emotional catharsis was present in being able to witness first the anger of Herod followed by the release of laughter into the new order of peace and goodness. At the same time, one should not be blind to the fact that at times the expressions of anger and depictions of evil in these plays were intentionally directed towards Jews.569 Such imagery led to real violence against Jews, a theme I will have reason to return to in the coming chapters. At the same time, Harris also gives us reason to believe that after watching these kinds of depictions of the Christmas Joy, people continued out into the streets singing, dancing and keeping a merry feast. As a comment on another of the liturgical plays on Herod Harris writes that they ‘would not be parodies of moral good, but joyous, raucous

567 Bayerisches Nationalmuseum, München visited 18.11.2015. (Image by author and reproduced through approval by referencing to the collection of nativities in Bayerisches Nationalmuseum Munich). 568 On the place and appropriate expression of emotions in liturgical drama of this period see also Stevens (1986), 348–61. 569 Harris (2011), 46–48. At times church authorities also forbade anti-Jewish rhetorics from their texts or songs. Harris (2011), 57–58. Unfortunately often such action was not the case.

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Plate 20. The marriage feast of Cana depicted for a family in Tirol in the mid 18th century.570

celebrations of the foolishness and ultimate impotence of evil’. 571 This play of Herod was a liturgical act where both evil and goodness were portrayed in a way where the message became clear: through receiving the New King into our world, we open the way for another way of life. Just as was the case with Easter celebrations, this kind of High Time was an occasion where not only singing but also dancing, was part of the celebratory actions of the celebrants. However, what might be relevant to examine further ahead is the question if the joy of Easter and Christmas were displayed in similar kinds of liturgical manners, or if there is need to differentiate what role the dancing played within these feasts. Not all of the plays were seen with equally positive eyes. Even though Thomas P. Campbell tells us that liturgical dramas have their origin in the monasteries,572 it was 570 Bayerisches Nationalmuseum, München visited 18.11.2015. (Image by author and reproduced through approval by referencing to the collection of nativities in Bayerisches Nationalmuseum Munich). 571 Harris (2011), 45. 572 Campbell explains that the first musical-textual additions to liturgical handbooks can be found in combination with a particularly festal occasion, already in the ninth century. It was within monastic communities that these complex addictions where created. Many of the leading people in these developments were women. Out of these festal additions grew the liturgical plays which can be traced back to the middle of the tenth century. Campbell in Heffernan, Matter (2001), 619.

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also from monastic settings that some of the critical voices, in their time, were heard. One of them was Herrad of Landsberg (1130–1195). She spent most of her life in the Augustinian monastery of Hohenberg. From 1167 until her death in 1195, she served as the abbess of what is now known as Mont Ste.-Odile, some 47 km southeast of Strasbourg. Harris has found that in her writing, there is a clear distinction between liturgical representations that are practised in the mode that I have been calling reverentia compared to other kinds of actions. The first is orderly and devotional, the latter is not.573 An interesting note here is that Herrad herself is thought to have either composed (or at least collated) lighthearted songs for the feasts of the Nativity and the Circumcision.574 This indicates that even in her critique that which is devotional could also be joyous and happy. Harris suggests that the text even showed signs that Herrad and her nuns ‘would have sung the canon while engaging in a lively dance’.575 In contrast to such plays and action, in Hortus Deliciarum (1185), Herrad of Landsberg recognises disorderly behaviour as something which invaded the church and dismantled the distance between the clergy and laity, evidenced by the priests changing their clothes and going forth as a troop of warriors. She states that such plays were only masquerading as real seasonal feasts, and even lists the approved religious performances.576 These include: The star guiding the Magi to the newborn Christ, the rage of Herod and his deceitful cunning, the dispatch of the soldiers to slaughter the children, the lying-in of the Blessed Virgin, [and] the angel warning the Magi not to return [to Herod].577 According to Herrad, plays similar to the one we were privy to above, with the star, the Magi and Herod in his anger – performed in reverentia – had become a part of the established liturgy of Epiphany or its octave.578 This may be an indication of dancing being depicted as a more or less official part of the reverentia, enacted within these plays. Mainly when dancing was done in the right place at the right time and with the proper manner/intent, even a reformer such as Herrad did not make statements of disapproval against it.579 This point is particularly well made by Clopper when he writes that for Herrad both religious exempla and use of symbolic representations (imaginaria) were important tools to strengthen the faith of the community.580

573 Much of Harris’s work here builds directly on Clopper. See Clopper (2001), 43–50. 574 Engelhardt (1818), 132–39. 575 Harris (2011), 49 n. 32 gives us the following text: ‘Leta, leta concio /Cinoel resonat in tripudio / Cinoel hoc in natalitio /Cinoel Cinoel Noel Noel’ (May the joyful congregation, /dancing with happiness, cry out /on this day of his birth, ‘Noel, /Noel, Noel, Noel’ Latin text from Engelhardt (1818), 136. 576 Harris (2011), 49–50. 577 Herrad, Hortus, 2:492 (fol. 315v) according to Harris (2011), 49. I have been unable to get a hold of the original text. 578 Herrad, Hortus, 2:492 (fol. 315v) according to Harris (2011), 49. 579 The Hortus Deliciarum has nothing specific written about dancing in general. The only indication I have found is an image of the Israelites dancing around the golden calf while Moses met with the God at Mount Sinai. I presume this was a negative or wrongly directed form of dance. Griffiths (2006), 110. 580 Clopper (2001), 49.

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When reading Hortus Deliciarum, which is the first illuminated encyclopaedia written by a woman, it is essential to remember that it came about during a period of reform. Fiona J. Griffiths writes in her The Garden of Delights: Reform and Renaissance for Women in the Twelfth Century (2006), that Herrad was a contemporary of Hildegard of Bingen and Elisabeth of Schönau. All of these women worked hard on criticising the men of both church and state for their lack of good leadership.581 The intent of the book was to create a pedagogical tool for young novices at the convent, instructing them in their new lives. At the same time, Herrad also aimed at teaching the clergy. The texts of the Hortus Deliciarum played a dual purpose of both educating those who would be the pastoral caregivers and spiritual fathers of her nuns, as well as creating an independent source of theological knowledge that was exclusive of their priests.582 This might be one of the reasons she so clearly distinguishes between the acts of warriors and worldly men, compared to the behaviour she is longing for and demanding from the leaders of the church. She writes: The house of God is thrown into disorder by the confusion of priests and laymen, by feasting, drinking, buffoonery, unbecoming jokes, vulgar games [ludi plausibiles], the clang of weapons, the gathering of loose women, [and] the ill-disciplined assault of all the vanities.583 Harris reads Herrad as criticising lay masquerades entering the church from the streets while arguing that the clerical Herod games practised within the refectory of the monastic compounds would not have been problematic.584 I, on the other hand, am more inclined to read the statements as political and religious concerns. When Herrad speaks about the disorder, drinking and confusion, including loose women and weapons, she is working towards a renewal of the society and its structures of evil and misuse.585 She further makes a clear distinction between vulgar games as inappropriate forms of behaviour, while dancing cannot be found on her list of condemned practices. Neither is she really speaking about liturgical practises but ill-disciplined assaults of vanities. I think it safe to presume that either the feast had turned into a drunken party or then something completely different then the original intention of the liturgical dramas were at the core of her critique. Clopper agrees with this my understanding and adds that Herrad’s main focus, outside of instruction, was on appropriate decorum.586 Another plausible understanding of Herrad’s approach is found within the narrative framework presented by Bynum around the differences in male and female perceptions of religious practices. As a female, Herrad may not have experienced the

581 Griffiths (2006), 14–15, 59–64. 582 Griffiths (2006), 50–51. 583 Herrad, Hortus, 2:492 (fol. 315v) according to Harris (2011), 50. I have been unable to get a hold of the original text. 584 Harris (2011), 50. 585 This partly sounds like a typical, for this time period, controversy between ideals of the warrior and a monastic way of life. Portrayed in Duby (1981), 34–44. 586 Clopper (2001), 50.

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same kind of ‘benefits’ from rituals of liturgical inversion as her male contemporaries. She may even have seen them as bad excuses to cause havoc and cross boundaries that she would instead have kept intact.587 Other monastic voices, such as Gerhoh of Reichersberg (1093–1169), her contemporary, also works with the ideas of reform in mind. His approach, towards the liturgical plays, is much harsher than hers. He condemns even the clerical Herod games. Gerhoh functioned as the master of the choir school at Augsburg cathedral between 1119 and 1124, and in his writings, he remembers the foolish games of his youth.588 Gerhoh may have practised these games himself. He might even have been one of those for whom there had been no difference between liturgical dramas created in monasteries for festal purposes, dramas with liturgical elements acted out during the festal season by companies of laypeople589 or worldly partying during the holiday period.590 Now, when he saw what these practises were so easily confused with each other, he may have perceived his earlier experiences in a different light? Herrad of Landsberg and Gerhoh of Reichersberg thus show us that even reformers of the church that come from a more austere monastic setting differed in their views on both drama and enactment of faith through dance or games and play. For Gerhoh of Reichersberg, on the one hand, dramas and games – engaged by the clergy, maybe even the laity? – seem to be experienced as entertainment and misuse of this festive period of the year. This is the suggestion brought forth by Clopper, when he states that Gerhoh more than Herrad, really turns against any form of representations in the liturgy.591 On the other hand, Herrad of Landsberg, equally concerned with the well-being of the church and society, did find room for certain kinds of dramas, plays and worshipful practices within the confounds of the church. Thus, we see that varying interpretations and understandings can be found not only between people from different time-frames and regions, but also on more personal and perhaps gendered basis. Moreover, the participants of these dramas where both nuns and clergy. The consequences of this are that from her point of view, even expressions of anger, violence or joyous exuberance in dance and song, could – within the setting of a liturgy – be brought forth, as reverentia worthy of the occasion. She, contrary to him, may have been able to see the semiotic ability of art and particularly the importance of the imagination, in enacting a transformation within the community gathered. However, this does not mean that she would have accepted any kind of border transgressions

587 Clopper (2001), 48. Caroline Walker Bynum explains further that in Herrad’s imagery of the resurrection there is a very literal and materialist understanding of the body at work. This means that details such as gender and even clothes, indicate ones place in the Corpus Christianum giving also ones specific role and task in the church – something that should not be changed or altered with. Bynum (1995), 117–19; plate 1, 2, 3. 588 Harris (2011), 41. 589 For more on the difference between these see Campbell in Heffernan, Matter (2001), 640; 644. 590 Harris (2011), 45. 591 Clopper (2001), 49.

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or acts of violence as acceptable patterns of behaviour. What is displayed here and already seen in the earlier examples is that the idea of liturgical enactments creates space for a much broader set of plausible ways of interacting, particularly during a period of High Time and within a sacred space.592 Harris argues that to combat the critique that was raised against the misuse of the Kalendae Januariae activities, as well as the misunderstandings around the practices of the feast, the official rite of the Feast of Fools was created. In the spirit of reform, a third phase of the Feast of Fools was established. 2.d. 3. The forms of the New Feast

Max Harris does not claim that the creation of the liturgical Feast of Fools celebrations had nothing at all to do with the previous Kalendae Januariae activities. On the contrary, the Feast of Fools was, according to Harris, created to give the earlier practices a more dignified form.593 As I have been showing, the main argument in Harris’s account is that the previous practices, independently of claims made against them, were not genuinely pagan.594 Additionally, Harris shows that earlier scholars have continued to misunderstand the liturgical Feast of Fools. This is in part because they have insisted on reading the letter written on 12 March 1445 by Jean Gerson in Paris, as general claims against the Feast of Fools and in some cases, particularly against dancing in churches.595 However, Harris convincingly argues that the original letter was a schism played out between local theologians and leaders of the church that wanted to suppress the feast. The letter did lead to a broader condemnation issued from several more significant councils outside of Paris; however, it remains unclear if such statements had any effects on an already established liturgical celebration.596 Furthermore, the re-reading of this letter and subsequent strengthening of the claims of its content is a conviction that can be traced to have more to do with the religious sentiment of the writers in the modern period, than the medieval situation it describes.597 Harris

592 Clopper insists that once dramatical representations moved into the church buildings the critique of theatrum was mainly a question of form, not theatrical performances or what we today understand as drama. Clopper (2001), 34–39. 593 Harris (2011), 23. 594 This is emphasised also through the voices of medieval writers themselves, such as Jacob of Voragine in his The Golden Legend from 1260. He states the customs of the pagan Kalendae Januariae was a thing from the past in his telling of the practices of the Feast of the Innocents. Harris (2011), 23–24. A slightly different translation than used in Harris is found in Voragine (1941), 83. 595 Harris (2011), 118–236. 596 Harris (2011), 1–5, 221–22. 597 Harris (2011), 1–5. ‘Published in French translation by Jean-Baptiste Thiers in 1686 and Jean Bénigne Lucotte du Tilliot in 1741, in German translation by Guido Maria Dreves in 1894, and in English translation by E. K. Chambers in 1903, the list of abuses contained in the central paragraph of this letter has too often been regarded as an accurate description of the Feast of Fools at all times and everywhere. In fact, like many ecclesiastical condemnations of controversial behavior before and since, the letter is an exaggerated product of its immediate cultural environment’. Harris (2011), 3.

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thus returns to those historical accounts that can be found about the Feast of Fools as liturgically sanctioned practices to re-imagine it in a new light. In doing so, Harris does recuperate the Feast of Fools. Nevertheless, what he does not do, is to describe what role the dancing played in these feasts, outside the place of ‘innocent’ entertainment or unwanted inconvenience. To this, I will now attend. For this study, I have been tracking the traces of dance in Harris re-reading of the Feast of Fools account to ascertain whether dancing was the main argument in condemning the practices as pagan. So far, no such clear examples have appeared. On the contrary, claims of paganism seem to be attached more to certain forms of disorder, especially those where cross-dressing and masquerading occurred. Simultaneously, I have also looked to determine if dancing could have been one of the liturgically sanctioned practices that constituted the core of the Feast of Fools celebrations. So far, it has become apparent that dancing was part of the records of the liturgical dramas and that dancing in churches in and of itself does not seem to have fallen under condemnation during this period – sometimes it was even encouraged. However, not all kinds of dancing were viewed equally. Even when I have been suggesting that dancing conducted in the manner of reverentia is one way to understand the accounts of dancing found. Differing theological views on what was considered reverentia may, simultaneously, have been at the core of why and how different forms of games, dramas and dancing were accepted while others were questioned or condemned. In re-imagining dancing that took place outside of church context and in more rowdy manners, I also found traces that may suggest that dancing carried important theological symbology and enacted God’s praesentia and/or potentia amongst the people and their lands. Thus, the encounters with dance practices that I have found in the historical materials – contrary to those made by earlier scholars – have revealed that dancing may have had liturgical functions of sorts. This is particularly so when the term liturgical is widened to include ritual practices found to be part of celebrations both within and outside of churches.598 What this function exactly may have been remains unclear. In the following, I will continue to follow in the traces of dancing, now practiced within the new liturgy of the Feast of Fools, presented by Harris. This will reveal new insights into the place and function of dancing as a liturgical element of the feast. Harris writes that the first statement of a Festum stultorum is found in the Summa ecclesiasticis officis, of John Beleth.599 These are the same records where we already unearthed the Game of Pelota.600 Harris tells us the Summa ecclesiasticis officis was

598 This is contrary to claims, like that of even a scholar such as Nicholas Terpstra, who seem to have great difficulty imagining dance and masquerades to carry deeper theological meaning: ‘We may also be puzzled when confronted with sacred rituals that seem to date from pre-Christian times and express a more animistic spirit. At Pentecost, a spring-time holy day, the young men of Lyon would put on horse costumes and dance their way from the point where the Rhone and Saone rivers met through the streets to the major Rhone bridge’. Terpstra (2017), 33. 599 Harris (2011), 23; 66; 240. 600 Harris (2011), 54–55.

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composed between 1160 and 1164.601 In these records, Harris claims, it can be noted that the season of Christmas celebration had already been developed into a series of different feasts following upon each other. After Nativity, there was the feast of Saint Stephen on 26 December, a day which honoured the deacons. It was followed by the feast of Saint John the Apostle on 27 December; honouring especially the priests. It was followed by the Holy Innocents, on 28 December, when the choirboys were honoured. Ending a whole week of feasts – all centring on different parts of the clergy – was the Circumcision on 1 January or alternatively the feast of Epiphany on 6 January. The season might sometimes have ended with the feast of the octave of Epiphany on 13 January. Independently of whether the local tradition emphasised Circumcision, Epiphany or its octave, as the final feast, the last focus was on honouring the subdeacons. Harris explains that the feast of the subdeacons is the one called ‘of fools’ (quod vocamus stultorum). Furthermore, Beleth emphasises that the festum stultorum was one of ‘four tripudia’ honouring members of the clergy and the choir.602 As already stated in chapter 3.1.2.1. Ceremonial Game Plays, the term tripudia could be interpreted to mean dancing but might as well say ‘with joy’, which was how all of these feasts of the Epiphany were to be commemorated. However, in some congregations, as will be shown, the interpretation favouring an association of joy with factual dancing was taken more literally than in others. Both Mews and Harris explain that Beleth states there was no set order for how the feast of the subdeacons was to be conducted in particular.603 This view is also presented by William Durand, in his visions of the ceremonies of the church, in more general. He writes, in the ‘Proema’ of his Rationale Divinorum Officiorum, concerning all kinds of liturgies: Notice must be taken of how a great many different practices are utilized in celebrating divine worship; almost every Church has its own observance which are appropriate and full of meaning. These should never be rejected as reprehensible or absurd, for God and the saints can be venerated by innumerable harmonies and modulations, by different observances, for the Church Triumphant is, as the prophet says, ‘ornamented with vestments of diverse colors’, and even when it comes to the administration of the Sacraments, the Church allows for a variety of ceremonies established by the law of custom.604

601 Beleth, Summa ecclesiasticis officis 1.30, in Harris (2011), 66. Also in Mews (2009), 530–31. 602 Beleth, Summa ecclesiasticis officis 72, CCCM 41A: 133–34: ‘De festo subdiaconorum. Festum subdiaconorum, quod uocamus stultorum, a quibusdam fit in circumcisione [Parisian MSS add: ut in Parisiensi ecclesia], a quibusdam in Epiphania uel in octauis Epiphanie. Fiunt autem quatuor tripudia post natiuitatem Domini in ecclesia: leuitarum, sacerdotum, puerorum, id est minorum etate et ordine, et subdiaconorum, qui ordo incertus est. Vnde quandoque adnumeratur inter sacros ordines, quandoque non adnumeratur, quod exprimitur in eo, quod certum diem non habet et officio celebratur confuso’ in Harris (2011), 66. 603 Harris argues that this is partly due to the whole status of subdeacons being set only 1207 in a papal decree. Harris (2011), 66; Mews (2009), 529–31. 604 Durand, Rationale Divinorum Officiorum, Proeme 14.

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Durand shows an attitude where the freedom of local traditions was venerated. This may not have been the case with every medieval author. Nevertheless, Durand is one of those who gives his blessing to diversity in forms and practices within the liturgical services, as well as making room for local customs to flourish. Such diversity is also a trait which will become apparent in the different interpretations of the Feast of Fools celebrations of this period that I will present throughout this chapter.605 Furthermore, in the last example of this chapter we will also see that the law of custom was an idea that local congregations as well as church leaders took quite seriously. It was used as an argument when aiming at protecting their games, plays and dancing, if/when other voices judged them as inappropriate. Moving now to the earliest more detailed description of how the Feast of Fools itself was conducted, we end up in Chârlons-en-Champagne. In an ordinal dating from 1151, it is stated that on the feast of Circumcision this congregation celebrated the feast of the subdeacons.606 This is shown in the manner in which the subdeacons were given several liturgical privileges not otherwise part of their chores. At first, in the Vesper of the feast of Circumcision they were allowed to direct the choir and two subdeacons dressed in silk copes sang the responsory Stirps Iesse (The stem of Jesse).607 Then, in Matins, their duties were extended to chanting the inventory psalms, reading the lessons, chanting the responsory and reciting the capitulum. Following this, in the Mass itself, dressed again in the silk robes, two subdeacons read the epistle text of the day as well as sang the graduals following the lesson. By the following Vespers, the normal privileges of ecclesial rank were restored. As we can see, all of these passages were part of an orderly liturgy. Harris tells us that eighteen years later the celebration had been developed further into an outdoor procession including a joyous choral dance. During this period, the whole feast was now known under the name of festum baculi, of which we already saw a song in the opening of this chapter.608 Harris argues that the celebrations were clearly a rather new set of practices. Provided the expenses for materials, choir boys’s wages and other commodities were kept in check the feast encountered no opposition. He states that the processions incorporating both the laity and clergy – described in letters and poems – clearly bear marks of having a liturgical character.609 Furthermore, in the example from Chârlons-en-Champagne we can see that exactly the possible fusion of a joyous procession into dance that I envisioned in the Corpus Christi feasts come to fruition in this particular setting. A similar pattern as that occurring in Châlons-en-Champagne can also be found in the few remaining documents of the subdeacons’s feast held at Epiphany, in Laon. 605 Furthermore this view of what constitutes a proper form of worship or approved liturgical practices, lies in stark contrast with the later attitudes by Rahner and Gougaud. 606 Harris (2011), 68–69. 607 Harris (2011), 68. 608 Harris (2011), 68–69. See the introduction of sub-chapter; Feast of Fools, for the song from festum baculi. 609 Harris (2011), 71.

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The dating is unclear, but Harris tells us that in Laon there was not only a liturgical celebration of special music for Vespers and Prime, but also a liturgical play around the Office of Joseph.610 Harris has further found a song from the close of the second Compline where the tripudia is mentioned once again. In this situation and with this congregation, the interpretation is not left open-ended. Harris tells us that the last verse invites the assembly to sing ‘with jubilation’: Let this assembly filled with such beams of light out of such great love sing with jubilation.611 A more accurate translation here seems to be, ‘with dance’ as moments later, the final rubric further expands the joyous quality as much as it can. It adds ‘sing all the Benedicamus [songs] we know’612 and commentators add that there was ‘endless compline of song and dance’.613 As the statement that the singing should be done in jubilation already has been made, I see no reason for the second reference to tripudio repeating that exclamation. Instead, I read it as Harris, being an indication that the next level of jubilation is the actual expression of joy in dancing. This dancing further may have continued out into the streets and involved the whole congregation, but what is sure is that the feasting continued outside the formal setting of the liturgical office.614 Thus, we see in this passage a concrete example where dancing and singing in joy was not only a metaphorical statement or a situation where tripudio alluded only to a mode of celebration. Furthermore, the active presence of dancing as an element in the celebrations both inside and outside the churches of the earlier examples of the Feast of Fools, is here repeated. Together with the knowledge we now have gained about the liturgical character of other feasts – like Corpus Christi processions – to also include dance as an element of an act of jubilation and praise, these examples, rather raise the question as to whether or not a re-evaluation of more of the Latin translations might be needed? Clearly, no easy substitution of one word for another can be the sole answer in these cases. Rather, I am asking for a shift in imagination – that dancing could be plausible – instead of, by definition, rendered impossible.

610 Harris (2011), 110–11. 611 ‘Lucis tanto radio hec perfusa contio ex amore nimio psallat cum tripudio’. Harris (2011), 111. See also Lagueux (2004), 338. 612 Harris (2011), 111; Lagueux (2004), 338, 628, 689. 613 Harris (2011), 112. Harris builds his arguments on thorough analysis given by Lagueux in Glossing, 232. He writes: ‘The manuscript is Laon, Bibliothèque municipale, MS 263. As part of his careful study of the Christmas season in medieval Laon, Lagueux describes the contents of the manuscript (227–35); transcribes the text and music for the liturgies of the feasts of Saint John the Evangelist, Holy Innocents, and Epiphany (494–628); and transcribes and translates the texts of the three liturgical plays performed between Christmas Eve and Epiphany (690–711)’. Harris (2011), 111, fn 56. 614 Harris (2011), 111–12.

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There are two levels at which such re-evaluation could be targeted. The first one is a concern with what kind of pattern could be found if the use of the word tripudia/ tripudio were to be re-examined in liturgical texts and treatises more generally.615 Instead of presuming there to be no dancing, what would emerge if one asked could this situation have also included jubilation in dance? The second things that need to be re-evaluated is the possibility of the dances in the streets or outside church buildings accompanying the Feast of Fools celebrations being considered to have been part of the reverentia of the deacons, sub-deacons and clergy, even when they involved or mixed with the dancing of the laity. What has earlier been considered mere entertainment, needs to be re-examined in a new light. Unfortunately, I will not have space here to look at any particular examples in more detail, but leave these as suggestions for further research. What I will aim at doing, is to suggest an understanding of the social imaginary where these practices of dance carry theological significance. Sacralisation of Time, Space and Matter

There is another interesting detail in the accounts of Feast of Fools which I think is over-looked and towards which I will turn next. In the earlier two examples of the celebrations of the season of Epiphany what joins them together, is not only a reference to tripudia/tripudio. In the verse above, there is also a reference to beams of light upon the assembly. The reference to light is not only found here. In the celebration which took place in St Paul’s Cathedral in London, dancing and lights were also combined. Harris tells us that we know that at least since the Dean Ralph of Diceto (1180–1200) the boy bishop ceremonies had taken place at the cathedral. In his statutes, he wrote that the newest resident canon was the one in charge of taking the boy bishop on a round dance. It was after supper on the Holy Innocents’s Day that the canon was instructed to take the boy with dance and torches to the choirboys’s living area. There the boy bishop and the rest of the choirboys were given wine, spices, ale and candles. In the light of the torches, the canon gave a second dinner to the boys. During this feast, on the octave of the Holy Innocents’s Day the boys were not only fed but also received gifts. There further seems to have been a reversal of roles here too, where the choirboys play not only the bishop but also perform the roles of the dean and canon. In the end, Harris tells us, they all joined in a torch-lit processional dance.616 At first glance, this occasion may not be understood to be within the setting of a liturgical play or ceremony. It seems to be more of a continuation of the reversal of roles played out in the liturgies of the Feast of Fools, combined with a more profane form of merriment. Craig Wright tells us that even though the choirboys were often given their own residential quarters and expected to live chase lives while practising

615 The only re-examination that I have found of this kind is Steiner in Fassler&Baltzer (2000), which I will return to further ahead. 616 Harris (2011), 174.

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their profession, they were not under any monastic rules.617 Thus, one might assume that the almonry, where the choirboys lived, did not constitute a significantly sacred space. One could even think, that ales and festive dinners are also out of reach from what could be considered para-liturgical activities. On the other hand, Jaques Le Goff argues in his In search of sacred time that the whole point with the celebrations of Saints as well as liturgical enactments of feast days was to sacralise and sanctify both space and time.618 Even though Jacobus de Voragine’s project of liturgical ordering was spread only after his death in 1293, Le Goff states that this sacralisation of the world was started long before him.619 In the social imaginary of the medieval world, the sacralisation of human time and the worldly sphere of existence did not begin with the creation story. Instead, it began with the birth of Christ and the incarnation of God into the world.620 Thus, it becomes highly relevant that not only does Jacobus de Voragine provide us with a rich vocabulary of Advent as a time of renewal. Furthermore, the period from Jesus’s birth to Septuagesima is also described as a time of reconciliation.621 He specifically emphasises the importance of rejoicing and festive celebrations for this Christmas season.622 These are performative features of what sacralises time and space. When Le Goff summarises Jacobus de Voragine’s thoughts about the feasts surrounding Epiphany (including the Holy Innocents), particular importance is given to the fact that instead of being threatened by secular celebrations with pagan roots, this time has been and continues to be, sanctified by the feasts of the Church. This sanctification happens through the collective actions of the Corpus Christianum, celebrating in a new way. Jacobus de Voragine’s message is that through keeping the feasts of several of the important events in the life of Jesus and adding to those the sanctifying power of many Saints, the earlier rhythm and use of time is re-created in a Christ-centred pattern.623 A continuous element in Jacobus de Voragine’s stories around sacred time and retelling of accounts of sanctified persons of this period is the use of light. He returns, over and over, to the importance of light and how the Corpus Christianum in its celebrations are to carry light into the world.624 The use of light is both symbolic and executed in praxis. Carrying these remarks in mind, I will now read the materials accounted by Harris from London in combination with other sources featuring candles, torches and lights. Back in France, this time in the city of Tours, we find traits of an antiquum rituale. Harris tells us that in Tours there was a prophet play performed during both Matins and the second Vesper of the New Year. What makes this liturgy unique is that during



617 618 619 620 621 622 623 624

C. Wright (1989), 29–30. Le Goff (2014), xii–xiii, 38–39. Le Goff (2014), 10, 29. Le Goff (2014), 21, 51–52. Le Goff (2014), chapter 5 and chapter 6. Le Goff (2014), 16–17, 19–20, 33–34, 51. Le Goff (2014), 67–73. Le Goff (2014), 38, 45, 66, 69. See also the use of the star as a guiding light Le Goff (2014), 72.

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the office, a procession of costumed prophets were led into the choir, from where they sang their proclamations over the congregation. Furthermore, in this city as elsewhere, a boy bishop was elected. His special task was to give a blessing after the procession preceding the Mass. After this, Harris writes: During the afternoon, the clergy must dance in the choisters in surplice until the church is opened and all its lights kindled.625 We see, once again that not only the choirboys but all of the clergy together were engaged in dancing. Interestingly, this passage also states, not that they continued dancing in the choristers, but that they ‘had to’ dance. Furthermore, this dance was to be conducted until the lights were kindled and the church was opened. The details of the dance in Tours need further investigation. Such an examination might shed light also on the other dances of the subdeacons. What is it here that has not been noted by earlier scholars? First of all, the clergy in Tours was vested in their surplice. Guiliemus Durandus tells us that these were white linen vestments worn by all clergy. The white colour is a symbol of cleanliness and purity, including chastity. The surplice also detonates innocence and the ability to mortify our flesh.626 Earlier, we saw that people were horrified if the clergy put on the clothes of warriors or women and, thus, these specific symbols of the clothing should not be left unnoticed.627 The detail of how and with what the clergy were to be clothed was not left to chance.628 Instead of reading these details as merely a random description, the combination of clothes and action, open up the event for a more in-depth theological interpretation. Secondly, from what is further described – they ‘had to’ dance until the church was opened. I suggest that these dancers were on some kind of mission. Contrary to the dance found in the Game of Pelota, where the dancing continued after the official ceremony and sometimes was described to lead into a feast with songs, food and wine, here the description has a stronger sense of purpose to it. It is not only a joyful or celebratory reverentia which is expressed. It might have further purposes than the dance that teaches us to love God.629 Thirdly, Durandus explains that the space of the cloisters, which is the setting of the dancing in Tours, had a particular meaning and importance. The cloister is the specific part of the church set apart only for priests. As Moses was commanded to choose and instruct the Levites and set them apart, so is this space ‘turned toward’ God in a specific manner. The cloister signifies the celestial Paradise – here all are one, and everything is in common.630 What better place than this to conduct the harmonious dances of the spheres (as some of the earliest texts describe a choral

625 Harris (2011), 138. 626 Durand, Rationale Divinorum Officiorum III, Chapter 1, 9–10. 627 See also the importance of vestment for Jean d’Arc as it functioned as a permanent marker of her changed identity. Bynum (1991), 170–71; Crane (2002), 88–93, 97–104. 628 About the importance of dress in liturgical dramas, Yardley (2006), 146–50. 629 Pauper in Clopper (2001), 82. 630 Durand, Rationale Divinorum Officiorum I, Chapter 1, 41–42.

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dance to be.631)? Durandus further states that the cloister is the space that stands for the purest form of prayer that of the contemplative state.632 Through learning to watch for details, in combination with the knowledge of the importance of symbology for the theological understanding and discussion of this period, my claim is that these passages contain more than what first might meet the eye. Looking at these descriptions of dancing that ‘had to’ happen by the clergy during the celebrations of the Feast of Innocents and New Year, by the ‘innocent’ choir boys or clergy vested in innocent clothing, a much richer story might be revealed. It is not possible to pinpoint precisely what is meant and how these practices were understood. However, nonetheless, I find it at least more plausible that something of liturgical importance is described than that these are only random remarks. What might have been the liturgical function of these details and patterns of practices? Is it – as the name indicated – that the dancing was part of some ancient ritual? If space itself was enchanted, did the dancers when moving in this part of the building relate in a specific way to the presence of God? Was the choice of dancing in the ‘purest’ part of the church related to the meaning of the dance, the festive occasion of the season of the year? Or was the dancing itself a practice of purification, as was already suggested for the garden scenes of Via Veritatus (Plate 12)? How was that space effected by the particular festal season that was celebrated? How did it matter to the dancers that these dances were held during the Christmas period, compared to for example dancing in the season of Easter? Was this the time of the year and the particular High Time festivity, when innocent choirboys could part-take in the same movements as the angels above showed in their reverence to the Christ child? Again, I find reason to return to the Nativity scenes in altarpieces. Particularly, in later medieval artwork and the period of the Renaissance, when ancient texts are re-discovered, artwork too, starts to display the small cherubim’s in circular dances.633 (see Plate 21) Is there a connection here, between ancient ritual and turning in harmonious angelic movements? In this image, the light shines upon the Christ child through the praise of the angels holding hands and circling above his bed. Max Harris, seems to make no distinction between dance and the game of pelota practised in Easter or Christmas, but is this a correct understanding? Where all the periods of High Time ‘loaded’ with similar meaning and function or did it matter that this was a period of incarnation, renewal and reconciliation, for how the movements themselves were executed? Could these particular descriptions of dancing by clergy have been part of a specific form of prayer that was called for, especially during these circumstances and no other time of the year? Partly, I will not be able to answer all of these questions, however they show what kind of questions become relevant if dancing is seen to have had 631 Rohmann (2009), 17–18; Rahner (1967), 65–75. 632 Durand, Rationale Divinorum Officiorum I, Chapter 1, 42. 633 I am referring here to connections between the writing of Pseudo-Dionysius and liturgical rituals, which falls outside of the scope of this study. See particularly the descriptions of the development of the dance of the angels into Christian imagination in the following articles: Carter (1987); Morrison (2004).

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Plate 21. The Adoration of the Shepherds (1539–1540) Angelo Bronzino.634

a theological significance. Partly, I will also be suggesting that some of these questions might also be attained to, when turning towards understanding the social imaginary of the period. We will not arrive at complete answers, however, delving into the social imaginary will give us a broadened and deepened connection to what might have been at hand.634 Finally, asking so what of the lights and the torches: Could there be a pattern here as well? Turning towards a more popular form of understanding, Jacobus de Voragine writes that the history behind Candlemas – which was the other name of the feast of purification celebrated at the end of the season of Nativity – was not only about Mary presenting the Christ-child in the Temple.635 He states that Candlemas:

634 Wikimedia Commons: The Adoration of the Shepherds, Agnolo Bronzino (between 1539 and 1540). 635 To be clear, Le Goff does not present this combined feast of Mary and Jesus as a proper part of the time of renewal or reconciliation, but places it in the time of deviation. Yet, even though Candlemas was celebrated during the Lent cycle it had a clear theme of renewal in it, as the presentation of Jesus in the temple is super-imposed on the purification of Mary. Le Goff (2014), 92–95.

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Was instituted first to remedy a pagan superstition. For of old the Romans, in order to honour the goddess Februa, the mother of Mars, used to light up the whole city with candles and torches, in the first days of February. (…) In the month of February the Romans also honoured Pluto and the other gods of the underworld. In order to win their good will for the souls of the dead, the people offered them solemn victims, and passed an entire night singing their praises, with lighted torches and candles. The women especially were devoted to this feast, in accordance with one of the myths of their religion. For the poets had said that Pluto, enamoured of Proserpine’s beauty, had carried her off and made her his wife.636 From de Voragine’s account, we learn that the torches and lights did carry significance. He states that what was celebrated as Candlemas, was a remedy – a healing formula – for the things people were afraid of earlier. It is crucial to notice that de Voragine is not saying that lighting candles and torches at this particular time of the year, was a pagan practice. Instead, he is stating that Candlemas was the new form of reverentia, which was acceptable and able to deal with these old forms of anxiety as well as initiate a new form of praise. There are two aspects of the older customs that I find essential for understanding what might be at stake here. The first one is to care for the dead. The second is the Roman version of the story of Persephone. The story of Persephone is about a young maiden, which is carried away to the underworld and, thus, leaves her goddess mother so distressed that the earth is caught in endless winter and darkness. This state continues, until, as the story is told, she is found, and beauty, creativity and the cycles of the year are restored to the world.637 Thus, the emphasis of candles and the use of torches in combination with the dances by clergy vested in white or the innocent choir boys might all be part of some ritual dealing with the death and darkness active in this season. Importantly, I am not stating that Candlemass is a variant of pagan practice.638 Instead, I am saying that the darkest time of the year may have carried with it relevant fears and anxieties that the Church – as the new community of the Kingdom of God – wanted to attend to. These fears are not pagan superstitio they are human anxieties. Just like Persephone was kept in the cavities of the underworld and life returned to the world when she returned, there is a story of light and darkness in the Christian narrative of Christmas. What is compelling such an idea is that in the earliest depictions of the birth of Jesus, it is portrayed to have happened in a dark tomb-like cave.639 In (Plate 22), a painting by Guido da Siena (1230–1290), who was active during the same period as Jacobus de Voragine, and before the Nativity

636 Voragine (1941), 151. 637 For various ways to tell and interpret this story see Pinkola Estés (2005), 31, 365–67, 446–48, 463. 638 This point is also stressed by Le Goff in relation to how Jacobus de Voragine argues that the Christian Candlemass had an entirely different meaning than the pagan practices. Le Goff (2014), 93. 639 In Krippen – Nativity scenes, Crèches (1998) the author states that such scenes where Mary is in a cave in Bethlehem can be found already from the third century. The first representation of the cave in the West is from the seventh century, in Rome. Gockerell (1998), 6.

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Plate 22. La Nativité (1275–1280) Guido da Siena.641

scenes inspired by St Francis, spread across Europe, the play of darkness and light can be seen particularly well.640 The angels that worship Christ are up in the golden light of the top part of the painting, while Mary and Jesus lie down in the cave that is filled with darkness. From the central globe of heaven, a small string of light reaches the cradle of Christ where the star is shining above his head. One could also read the image from the inverted position that the light, is ‘activated’ from the Christ child and then fills the whole sky. An important detail is the fact that the first to see or perceive the miracle of incarnation are the lowly animals that gather around the crib. Except these animals, some simple people at the right-hand corner and the angels in the sky are the only ones who have been honoured to receive this gift. An appropriate form of reverentia portrayed as a response to witnessing this scenery is to gesture in various bodily forms. An interesting detail here, is again that the human gestures follow the reflection of what the angels are showing. 642 In the earlier mentioned Krippen installation such gestures by angels were clearly portrayed in one of the small vitrines. Again, we must remember that these images

640 Gockerell (1998), 6–9. 641 Le Louvre Museum, Paris visited 02.09.2016. Wikimedia Commons: Nativity, Guido of Siena (1270s). 642 More on traditional gestures and prayer positions see: Trexler (1984); Schmitt (1984); (1992); Hood (1986).

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Plate 23a&b. Angels, Lindenholtz, München, end of 19th century, Unknown artist.643

(Plate 23a&b) are from a much later time-period, so they should not be taken as indicative of the medieval social imaginary. Rather, what I wish to show by bringing in these pictures is the fact that hand gestures and body posture by angels, come in many different forms. As is seen in Guido da Siena’s Nativity scene, the worshipful positions of angels included kneeling or bowing forward, arms crossed in front of the chest, hands kept together with the palms against each other and gestures were one or both hands and arms are raised towards the heavens. My main interest in pin-pointing these gestures is that just like the light is reflected inside and outside of the cave, so the heavenly gestures by angels are mirrored in the gestures of the humans on earth. The praxis of the heavenly and worldly amplify each other and what is portrayed as angelic worship, is depicted here, also as human reverentia. On the night of Christ’s birth, the heavens are opened to the creatures of the earth and an extra-ordinary encounter takes place. Furthermore, a cleansing of the Christ child is also presented as part of this grotto by Guido da Siena.644 Underneath the scene of Mary laying inside the cave, the Jesus child is bathed in a chalice-like baptismal font. The choice of that imagery gives an even stronger echo of resurrection being superimposed on the incarnation. Contemplating what this image shows, what comes to me is the idea that in the new life, the new world order has arrived, one where death also is over-come. To imagine

643 Bayerisches Nationalmuseum, München visited 18.11.2015. (Image by author and reproduced through approval by referencing to the collection of nativities in Bayerisches Nationalmuseum Munich). 644 Gockerell (1998), 6–9.

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that people would celebrate this kind of feast with candles lighting up the darkness, letting animals enter the church buildings and showing the reversal of world order by letting choir boys dance and sing, gesturing like the angels in heaven, does not seem so hard to imagine or comprehend anymore. Situating the celebrations not only in the season of Christmas and/or Epiphany but taking into account that in Northern Europe this would have also been the darkest and coldest period of the year, make de Voragine’s comments even more relevant. Before trying to make sense of all these layers of symbology and different kinds of stories told around the meaning of the celebrations, one crucial understanding needs to be clarified. When the symbolic meaning of myths and legends might unify some stories – as here, with the symbology of darkness and light, underworld and resurrection of life – one should not take for granted that the meaning always was the same. There is a need for differentiation to be made for a particular age, period, place and group of people. What was read in one way during one period might not have been interpreted in the same way during another. Thus, I would, for example, not make too essentialistic claims between Persephone and Jesus as similar resurrection figures, even when the theme of the return of life does unify them. The choice of celebrating with candles and torches – during the darkest period of the year is – in itself – a festive element, known to everybody who has lit cressets on New Year’s Eve. Imagining that these lights are a symbol of life and new beginnings – a practice that still prevails in the midnight Mass of Easter or the creation of bonfires during specific transitional periods of the year – might have quite natural explanations. Similarly, the use of fire as a cleansing and purifying element in a ritual is known to have both factual and symbolic relevance. Using the elements of light, candles or even fire in a feast does not indicate that this is a practice of superstitio. Just as Le Goff, I am arguing that Jacobus de Voragine is better understood as a scientist and historical scholar of his time, than a simple compiler of miracle stories.645 Others describe the use of torches to guide the living away from the dead, as a magical act, indicating that these people were not yet ‘proper’ Christians.646 While, I am arguing that the sacralisation of time and space initiated by de Voragine and presented by Le Goff, more clearly describes, how the medieval worldview of a theologian, was able to deal with the ambiguities between the continuation of past and present practices.647 Instead of imposing a romanticised gaze or a modern paradigm of science and ideology on these sources, I am reading them from a theological point of view that wants to gain deepened understanding of the social imaginary of a medieval context. Thus, I want to open up for the possibility that, as these stories come from a period I have been calling the enchanted world, each aspect carries some in-depth spiritual meaning. I am suggesting to look for a narrative framework where the story of lighting up the city with candles and torches combined with the clergy being

645 Le Goff (2014), x–xiii, 13, 15–16. 646 Chambers (1923), 401–02. 647 Le Goff (2014), 5–8, 35, 54, 92–95.

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compelled to dance throughout the night or into the evening, might be significant to analyze. Enacting these patterns of ritual ceremonies might even have been the only logical and ‘authentic’ course of action available at that time, to live fully in a liturgically appropriate way. What I am suggesting is not only to understand liturgically necessary rituals as addressing the so-called spiritual side of things but also social or soul needs of the people living in this period. Deepening the understanding presented by Harris on the Feast of Fools, with these symbolic and liturgical details, I am suggesting that even more in-depth knowledge about the celebration can be gained. My reading would suggest that investing the clergy in white robes, creating processional dances with torches and choosing to let the innocents have feasts and celebrations, are indeed best perceived as real acts of reverentia. Faithfully directing one’s focus and attention to the saints and the Christ child in times when darkness and evil were particularly close and active, is what we might be seeing in these ceremonies. What if these dancing processionals or the need to dance during the Nativity season was not only a form of merriment and joyous celebration but was perceived as ritual enactments of blessing the world with light and the life of New Creation instead? What if the dancing ‘must be’ part of a performance with and of, lit torches and liturgical vestments in order to purify the space and time as a preparation of the arrival of a New Kingdom? Gathering of these medieval narrative frameworks and investigating the artwork of the period, now enables us to understand the praxis we have found, in a new light. With these clues into the social imaginary it is further possible to imagine that even the endings of the liturgical ceremonies conducted in the churches carried specific meaning. The dancing could be understood as invitations and proclamations to go out into the world of darkness and sorrow with the life and light-bearing message of a newborn King, come to us. To further continue dancing into the streets of the city or village, after a Mass, Vespers or a liturgical drama had been celebrated, may not have been an added profane feature of the festive season at all. Instead, this practice may have been an indication of a similar idea of the Corpus Christianum being able to bring blessings and link the sacred space of the church with the other parts of civic society as was described to be the purpose of the processions conducted during Corpus Christi celebrations. The Corpus Christianum can in these dances on the streets be understood to take part in the liturgical praxis of proclaim light, life and the new order of the Christ child. Performing this reverentia in deeds as much as words and as the embodiment of joy, would be to be participating fully in the Kingdom to come. One final remark needs to be added to this; my use of the stories and legends of Jacobus de Voragine and others. It is, also plausible that these stories and symbolical meanings that are left for us to read are not a construction of the social imaginary of actual people. Instead, they might be a compilation of narratives that certain theologians want people to believe. To this kind of objection, I have two remarks. First of all, the sheer popularity of the writing of de Voragine needs to be accounted for in a time and age when books were scares. The spreading of, for example, the liturgical dramas that were part of the celebrations do also show that there was popular demand for these stories. The stories and interpretations were not imposed from above, but seem to have been resonating with the whole population. It might not be that the depictions

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presented every person’s particular worldview, however somehow these stories were meaningful for people to read and participate in. Secondly, as the methodology of this study has claimed all along, there are very many ways that one can interpret the same set of historical facts. Thus, the dancing of the white-robed clergy can probably be understood in other ways then what I have been suggesting here. Nevertheless, from the viewpoint of this thesis, I do argue that attending to the meaning of the dancing has been left unnoticed in earlier research and from the narrative frameworks I have presented here, such ignorance is not called for. What I have presented shows that some stories and symbols can be attended to, to give a plausible pattern of interpretation for understanding dance as a liturgical and theologically significant praxis. After this presentation of some initial medieval narrative frameworks of myths, legends and symbology that have assisted in opening up the social imaginary within which I am claiming it possible to gain deepened understanding of how dancing mattered, for whom it mattered and how it may have been part of a liturgical praxis, it is time to return to two particular texts. In these final examples of bones that I have been collecting from liturgical manuscripts we will be able to see both the presence and absence of dance in a specific way. Presence in Absence?

Let us now turn to two last examples of the Feast of Fools that bear importance for understanding dance in the medieval context. The first one, is an example of the presence of dance, while the second one, at least taken literally shows an absence of dance elements in the liturgical scores. My first examples comes from how Harris approaches the office of the Circumcision in Le Puy-en-Velay. Le Puy-en-Velay was a major pilgrimage centre in the Massif Central of southern France. The manuscripts we have today, date only back to the sixteenth century, but Abbé Payrard who is accredited with having rediscovered them in 1885, states that the celebrations can be traced at least as far back as 1327.648 Harris writes that the manuals for the offices of the Circumcision were, in content, contemporary with those of the other major festival books. He refers here to books from Sens, Beauvais, and Laon. He indicates not only the songs but also the essential structure and character of the service itself, as being in accordance with other celebrations of the Feast of Fools.649 On the one hand, Harris tells us that the celebration in Le Puy-en-Velay had no sub-diaconal Feast of Fools incorporated into its practice, yet it contained other elements of ‘lightness’. To these, he clearly includes the dancing and an extension of gifts to the holder of the baculus. In Le Puy-en-Velay, instead of the emphasis being laid on the sub-deacon, the relics that attracted visitors from afar were at the centre of

648 Steiner in Fassler&Baltzer (2000), 324. 649 Harris (2011), 109.

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attention in the office.650 The most prominent of these was the claim of possessing the foreskin of Christ in the cathedral, which also explains why the feast of Circumcision was more central here than the celebration of the other Saints of the festive cycle.651 On the other hand, Ruth Steiner, in her chapter of The Divine Office in the Latin Middle Ages: Methodology and Source Studies, Regional Developments, Hagiography (2000), makes a case for the unique character of the liturgical manuscripts from Le Puy. She states that the Bozolari, from which we can find the descriptions of the office of Circumcision, is extra-ordinary, not due to its descriptions of ‘lighter’ elements of the service, but due to its completeness of details. She explains that these document: Contain detailed information of the sort not usually provided for the study of the medieval Office: complete instructions for the performance of the Office, including its chants, prayers, and readings, plus examples demonstrating the means of amplifying the standard materials of the Office on a singular and very important occasion. In addition, the wealth of material is gathered in single, well-coordinated sources, and this is very different from the situation with liturgical materials for the Office in the earlier Middle Ages, which were collected by genre in a variety of books.652 The records, of the office Ruth Steiner implies to, are described in one of two ways. Either, they are an exception to the rule and show signs only of this particular office. Or, then, as she suggests, they are in principle equal to other sources, only that in this rare book of offices each part of the celebrations have been clearly described in detail. While other liturgical books display only the main traits of an office, what can be found here is a copy with all the minute details included. If the latter judgement is to be held more in line with the actual situation, we might be faced here with a structure which shows that there is more dancing to be found than earlier accepted. Before commenting more on this suggestion, let us turn to what Steiner has to say about her findings. Ruth Steiner lists specifically six things to be unique about these records of a medieval Office. The first is that the procession during Vespers was not merely walking in a straight line into the church. The text states ad chorum sancte crucis, which could be understood in one of three ways. Taken literally, this term could be translated as dancing to the sacred cross. A more common understanding is, that what is aimed at is a choir of singers. If not translated as dancing or singing, it still seems to indicate that the processional troop moved circularly before reaching the Holy cross. The circular form is further shown by the notion that the procession moved to several different places in the sacred space before arrival. They stopped for reading in the

650 Le Puy-en-Velay is part of the pilgrimage route to Santiago de Compostela (now a Unesco World Heritage Site since 1998) and is know for the visits of both Charlemagne and other important royalty. Source D. 651 Harris (2011), 109. 652 Steiner in Fassler&Baltzer (2000), 330.

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chapter, the refectory and the aula of the chapter. Thus, creating a movement-pattern that involved both the exterior and interior parts of the church.653 The second detail was that, in addition to High Mass, there was also a first Mass dedicated to Saint John.654 In this manner, the practices found in the Cathédrale Notre-Dame du Puy did not seem to differ from the over-arching themes of the Christmas season. Steiner also writes that a unique feature of the celebrations in Le Puy was that the celebrations did not centre on one clearly defined class of clerics. Instead, this was a feast for all of the orders kept simultaneously.655 The third detail was that before Prime a song656 and a text from that station was recited in front of the picture. It remains unclear, however, which image is indicated here. Was it the famous Black Madonna, brought to the cathedral by Louis IX and the King of Aragon in 1254, when they returned from the Holy Land, or an image of another Saint?657 The fourth detail was that after Prime there was one more addition to the proceeding. This time a station was held in the chapter hall and another station in front of the fresco of the Virgin. The fresco was an image found at the entrance after the long ascending stairs to the cathedral.658 The fifth detail was that after Second Vespers there were chants for the meal, which would later be enjoyed in the refectory, as well as chants for the procession.659 Just as with the feast in London and the records of Easter celebrations described by Mead, one can notice that eating and drinking together seems to have been a communal practice that was part of the whole celebratory cycle in place. Sixth and lastly, Steiner explains that after the close of Compline, there was another procession and immediately after it, three chants were sung. These formed a song for the dance of the youngest among the clerics.660 Now we have observed three separate liturgical celebrations connected to the Feast of Fools, ending with dancing in joyous celebration. Just as was the case in Laon, here too the ceremony can be said to have, either ebbed out into or ended with the high climax of, exuberant dancing executed by the clergy. Both Harris and Steiner note that it was recorded that the Le Puy office lasted for more than twenty-four hours. From a bequest made in 1327, we are told that night and day, without interruption, beautiful sung prayers, lessons, and proses were held to welcome the New Year.661 Steiner adds that the whole celebration ended with the – to us already familiar song – Hoc in anno, proclaimed in a raised voice by the



653 654 655 656 657 658

‘ad lectionem in capitulo, ad cenam, and in aula capituli’. Steiner in Fassler&Baltzer (2000), 331. Steiner in Fassler&Baltzer (2000), 331. Steiner in Fassler&Baltzer (2000), 330. ‘ad Breviatorium’ Steiner in Fassler&Baltzer (2000), 331. Source D. ‘In gradibus coram transfiguracione domini and coram y magine beate Mariae’. Steiner in Fassler&Baltzer (2000), 331. 659 Steiner in Fassler&Baltzer (2000), 331. 660 ‘clericuli tripudiant’. Steiner in Fassler&Baltzer (2000), 331. 661 Harris (2011), 109; Steiner 2000, 239.

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succentor. The notes made in the margin further explain that this happened while the youngest danced vigorously.662 What can be seen in this example is the repetition both of a song that is sung in other places and the description of a celebration that contained dancing and ended in rejoicing. The difference is that this record states that the dancing lasted for hours, and even days, in a row.663 The climactic dance conducted at the end of a cycle of songs, processions and other liturgical practices, in particular, seems to me to be a highly congruent act. To end a festal Mass with a final outburst of joy, indicating that what we partook in – be it the living blood and broken body of our Saviour or chants of praise and prayer – cannot and should not be contained within, but rather is made to break out into the world, is, as I see it a fitting culmination of every worship service done in reverentia. Dances conducted towards the end of the liturgy, have through these examples, now been observed in various places and regions to such an extent that it can be described as a pattern. Dancing as an expression of the reverentia of Joy, seems to have been an integral part of the liturgical enactments that not only expressed joy but showed and shared God’s goodness towards his people as a ritual element of the Feast of Fools. Is it this kind of occasions that are in mind, when the author of Dives and Pauper, expresses that dancing may teach people the love of God? However, what fascinates me in this particular description is the term Clericuli tripudiant firmiter. It can mean dancing with vigour, but it can also be stoutly or firmly. When Philip Knäble brings up this section in his Eine tanzende Kirche: Initiation, Ritual und Liturgie im spätmittelalterlichen Frankreich (2016), he portrays it as happening in front of the Holy Cross, in the chapel of John the Baptist.664 This raises the question, that was this a specific kind of dancing that might have been initiated by the praesentia and potentia of the relics? Further research needs to be done, to verify this point. Nevertheless, it also raises another question. As this detailed reading shows, we now know that dancing was part of the office of the Circumcision in Le Puy-en-Velay. If this latter part of the ceremony was described to be dancing in a particularly vigorous way, what kind of dancing was then the part played by the choir boys in the Benedicamus?665 And, may it even have been so, that the most likely reading of the entrance of the first Vesper, is that it also was a procession of dancing and singing? Maybe the description of Steiner that the songs and dances lasted for hours in a row, actually means that there was a practice of dance in various different formats. With this new understanding, we would have here an example of a celebration where dancing had various different liturgical meanings in one and the same Office. Furthermore, the scholarly work presented by Ruth Steiner on these liturgical records also opens up the possibility that dancing may have been the practice of many more church feasts that remain unknown to the modern-day reader of these records. The lack of knowledge about these practices seems to be due, more to the



662 663 664 665

‘Clericuli tripudiant firmiter’. Steiner in Fassler&Baltzer (2000), 239. Steiner in Fassler&Baltzer (2000), 239. Knäble (2016), 195. Harris (2011), 109–10.

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inability of earlier researchers to imagine such dancing, than the absence of such descriptions. However, the lack of detailed descriptions, like the one presented by Ruth Steiner, might also be due to fact the dance might well have been such a common and natural part of the celebration (during certain times) that there was no need to write it down in records. As Steiner and others have explained, few records seem to have been keen on writing down every minute detail of a liturgy. Here, we have this rare note on vigorous dancing, which catches the attention of the reader, while in other cases, many more of the tripudium, chorum and other such terms, with a variety of meanings attached to them, might need to be re-considered in the light of possible dance practices. Of course this needs to stay as a speculation only, and cannot be claimed a fact. Nevertheless, my earlier statement of the need to re-examine liturgical records in a new light is only strengthened by this, her example of more open-minded scrutiny. Furthermore, what Steiner has written about the Bozolari, shows that the unearthing of only a few written sources, which evidence dancing in churches, should not be held as a clear indication for such practices being only an exception to the norm. Not the accumulation of evidence, but the interpretative understanding of the few records that have already been found should be the criteria on which to build a case for when, where and why dancing could be further examined. Finally, Ruth Steiner also brings forth the Offices of Sens and Beauvais, were records are found of processions and appendixes of chants, that might have been part of similar ongoing dances and other forms of ludi, relevant to this particular season.666 This was my first example of how dancing, once it is made explicit may turn out to be found also in the absence of particular mentioning of it, in the liturgical records left for us today. Now, it is time for the second shorter example. Here, dancing is not directly mentioned as an action or description, in the liturgical records. However, the presence of dancing actions might still be noticeable in other ways. In the following lyrics from the celebrations in Sens, dancing is not explicitly described as the practice. Yet, the manner in which the ceremonies should be conducted is in line with what has been outlined above.667 Harris writes that the song of Vespers begins with the phrase Novus annus hodie, celebrating the New Year as an annual feast of new beginnings. This was a time when the congregation enjoyed the loosening of the bonds of mortal sin and the restoration of spiritual health.668 In the refrain, the text states: Ha! Ha! He! He who wants to sing truly should sing his part triply; with his heart and mouth and deeds he must do his work 666 Steiner in Fassler&Baltzer (2000), 331. 667 Harris (2011), 98–107. 668 Harris (2011), 105.

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so that he can worship and please God.669 What is of interest to us in this text is the strong link made between bodily action and works of worship. As was seen already in the sermons by Caesarius of Arles, also in the medieval view, reverentia was never just a state of mind. What the heart is full of, the mouth proclaims,670 and this can also be seen in the deeds of the body.671 If dancing was perceived, not as something which disturbed, but, on the contrary, an act of joyful worship dancing might well have been understood – along the lines of these verses – as a pleasing work for God. Exuberant, joyful movements might, even, have been a way in which the heart and mouth and deeds came together as one unified expression. Maybe the participant in these dances, were not only taught the love of God. They may also have been able to express God’s love to each other. Furthermore, returning to the ideas presented in the image of Via Veritatus (Plate 12), could dancing in some of these occasions also have been a preparation of the body to become a pleasing work for God? Thus, understanding prayerful and worship-filled actions as a pleasing work for God is one of my suggestions on how dance can be re-imagined to carry layered theological significances. Finally, as we already know, that there was dancing in the city of Sens during the Easter tide, the association of a verse like this to dancing during the Christmas period, is not a far-fetched idea.672 Particularly, when finding that the liturgical records in Sens do mention a particular space for ludi, we might here be faced with examples where dancing might be accurately presumed even in its literal absence from the textual materials.673 As we see, the written words are not the most important sources for the indication of theologically significant dancing in the social imaginary of the medieval period. As earlier theological research has been so logocentric in its scrutiny of dance, also this my study has been, in my opinion overtly pre-occupied with textual sources. However, my hope is, that for future scholars, different paths of examination will be opened through my work.

669 ‘Ha! Ha! He! Qui vult vere psallere trino psallat munere; corde, ore, opere debet laborare, ut sic Deum colere possit et placare’. Harris (2011), 105–06. 670 Lk 6:45; Mt 12:34. 671 See also: Jacobus de Voragine’s quotation of Chrysostom: ‘The third category of saints is that of the confessors. Their dignity and excellence are manifest in that they have confessed God in three ways, namely, in the heart [corde], in the mouth [ore], and in works. [opere] (…) “If faith in the heart were sufficient, God would have created only a heart for you. Now, however, he has also created a mouth for you [tibi creavit], in order that you may believe in your heart [corde creavat] and confess with your mouth [ore confitearis]”’. Jacobus de Voragine, Legenda Aurea, 162 De omnibus sanctis. 672 Harris (2011), 60. 673 Harris cites Villetard and states: ‘Designated “Conductus ad ludos” (Procession to the games) by the rubric, this joyous announcement of the birth of Christ brought the clergy and choir in procession to the bacularius. Then, after the bacularius introduced the Te Deum, the procession made its way out of the cathedral. Matins was over, but it is fair to suppose that some unspecified ludi followed’. Harris (2011), 103.

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From this, it is time to turn to my last examination of evidence that dancing has played a liturgical and important theological role in the Feast of Fools celebrations of the medieval period. In this example, we will finally encounter not just small traces of dancing in the margins or comments of liturgical records or general prohibitions against dancing. Instead, what will be displayed is a wholesome argumentative pattern for and against the right to keep on dancing in churches during the Christmas season. 2.d. 4. Battle for the Right to Dance

What I hope has become apparent through this chapter is that dancing, independently if it has been accepted or recognised by previous research as a liturgical practise, or related to the expressions of religion for clergy and laity alike, can be found and traced in the records of the churches of the Latin West in the medieval period. Furthermore, various different forms of dancing have been excavated to belong to the praxis of the Christmas season. The popularity of the dance becomes especially clear from the final example of dancing that I will be referring to from Max Harris’s writings. In the historical records of the city of Nîmes, an interesting discussion takes place, starting in December 1392.674 Some months earlier, Clement VII who had been voted by the cardinals in Avignon to be a rival Pope to Urban VI, had died. Due to the schism, public prayers were proclaimed throughout France. According to Harris, lieutenant Vivien of Nîmes saw this as an opportunity to interfere with the traditions of the Christmas celebration. Vivien made a statement where he explained that it was inappropriate for the clergy and male and female laity to indulge in dances and other licentious activities.675 This practice was to be abolished in particular churches of Nîmes, especially in such unhappy times. He proclaimed that people should be engaged in prayers for the unity of the church instead.676 A public proclamation was made on 25 December, stating that: no person, of whatever estate, was to engage in ‘dances [dansas] inside places set aside in Nîmes by God for prayer’ until such time as the schism was over.677 It may be, as Harris has indicated that this was just the occasion Vivien had been waiting for to abolish the custom of dancing. However, to my knowledge, there is no indication that such attempts had been made earlier. Neither have I found evidence that objections had been raised before this. If no earlier attempts at abolition can be found it might mean that there had been no attempt from Vivien’s side to abolish dancing altogether this time either. Instead, this declaration can be understood

674 The original in Occitain or Latin can be found in Ménard (1706–1767) and also in French from 1752, vol. 3 XC, 93–105. For help in understanding the Latin I am deeply grateful to Joonas Vanhala. Yet I am mostly using Harris’s translations. 675 ‘tripudia et alie lacivie’ Ménard, 3:208, 125; Harris (2011), 160. 676 Harris (2011), 160. 677 ‘que neguna persona, de qualque estât que fié, justiciabla al rey nostre senhor, non sia non sia si ardìda doras en avant de dansar dedins los luocs ordenatz à Nemze per Dieu pregar, on mieils al jour d’euy se devon far plors que dansas, par la union de santa eglieyza’. Ménard, 3:208, 126; Harris (2011), 160.

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as an effort to implement a traditional biblical way to join in a communal act of commemoration during a period of crisis.678 Whatever Vivien’s true reason, the people of Nîmes were not pleased and what followed is described by Harris as a spirited defence of the custom of dancing. The cathedral canons were the first ones to react, making inquiries as to whether Vivien had acted with the approval of other civic authorities. It turned out that neither the royal judge nor the consuls had approved of the ordinance. None of these instances further agree with Vivien’s statement.679 Even the royal viguier – a person whose duty it was to see that the local administration ran smoothly – said that he had not approved of such proclamations and would have objected to them if he had known about them.680 The first interesting point here is that dancing during the festal season seems to have been an essential practice for many. In line with my earlier arguments about the popularity of dancing stemming from more elite practices when conducted in these celebratory forms, is further confirmed here, when the defenders of the dancing come from the higher strata of the society. Secondly, the fact that so many leading townspeople, who could have joined lieutenant Vivien in restricting the dance practices if they had been in agreement and had found them unruly or disturbing acts – did not participate in his quest to abolish dancing. Instead, they joined ranks to keep this vital custom alive. The next step in the dialogue was that on 3 January 1393, the consuls made a formal appeal to the King and his court of Law and parliament in Paris. Sending a letter to the King was no small business. Furthermore, the letter was written on behalf of the three consuls, their wives, children, and all other laypersons living in the city of Nîmes. The complaints were not just directed towards the proclamation itself, but also against how Vivien had made it. They protested against the fact that such a declaration had been made in the sacred space of the cathedral. They also had issues with the fact that such a proclamation was made on the feast day of the Nativity of the Son of God. Not only had Vivien, in the mind of the writers, disturbed the Holy day, but the disturbance had also occurred during the time when ‘a great crowd of people had gathered for the celebration of a certain honest dance, to the honor and reverence of the Nativity’.681 Townspeople were upset that Vivien, was disturbing their peace and harmony. By making his statement, he had violated their celebratory activities. The whole ordeal shows signs of how dancing was perceived as an act of reverentia, while rejecting it and making loud noises in the cathedral, was not.682 What is even more interesting, is that the letter goes on explaining that the dance was a tradition bearing roots far into the past. The townspeople explained that: 678 Qu 3:4 states: (there is) ‘a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance’. Furthermore, as already stated about the Corpus Christi feast, an appropriate way of expressing the reverentia of sorrow would have been a ritual use of ashes and sackcloth. 679 Harris (2011), 160–61. 680 Harris (2011), 161. 681 Harris (2011), 161. See the whole quotation in Latin fn 693. 682 Harris (2011), 163–64.

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As far back as people could remember, the whole Christian populace of the city had been in the habit of gathering in the cathedral ‘to the glory of the Son of God and his holy Nativity’ and there ‘celebrating the feast with resounding musical instruments’ and ‘a special kind of joyous dance’.683 The dance enacted at the feast was not merely a kind of joyous celebration, but rather it had a specific form, fitting for the Glory of the birth of the Son of God. They explained that the dance was a vital element of the appropriate reverentia and that the participants were all the citizens and inhabitants of Nîmes – including wives, the good and honest canons, and their new bishop. Harris reads the latter as indicating the newly elected boy bishop, thus linking the dancing to a Feast of Fools celebration.684 At the same time, the consul wrote that such dancing was not merely part of the Christmas season but was also performed at weddings and on Ascension Day. The particular dance enacted on this occasion was not only a practice of the celebration of the birth of Christ. It was part of what happened in the cathedral even during other important Christian feasts. The letter ended by stating that nothing in the dance was sacrilegious or contrary to good order. Furthermore, dancing was in no way a threat to public safety, as everything was done ‘to the honour, praise, and glory of God’.685 As these first examples have shown, the quotes from this particular quarrel reveal the deeper embedded meanings of the dance for those who participated in it. The discussion further warrants our attention for more detailed scrutiny of the significance of dancing, as it shows layered meanings and arguments used to describe not only the positions against dancing but also those defending the practice. There will be altogether four more prominent themes in this correspondence that I will examine: the appeal to tradition, the question of potential harm or benefit from dancing, the mixed-gender dancing and the pollution of space. All of these themes have been hinted at in earlier examples on discussions on dance. Here, however, they are brought up in an ongoing dialogue and presented in interaction with each other. In the following, I will review the topics thematically while also showing how the dialogue between the inhabitants of Nîmes and lieutenant Vivien escalated. Furthermore, I aim to deepen our understanding of these arguments by placing them within the social imaginary of the medieval world.

683 ‘ex eo capto eo quòd die festi nativitatis filii Dei proximè lapsâ, preconisari fecistis & mandastis in valvis ecclesie cathedralis beate Marie civitatis Nemausi, & in loco sacro, copiosâ multitudine gencium & habitancium dicte civitatis ibidem presencium & congregatorum, pro celebrando quandam honestam tripudiosam jocunditatem & leticiam, ob honorem & reverenciam nativitatis predicte, quòd nulla persona, cujuscumque conditionis existeret, justiciabilis domino nostro regi, abindè in antea esset ause tripudiare in locis, ubi divina officia celebrantur, & hoc sub pena decem librarum Turonensium, sisco applicandâ’. Ménard, 3:208, 127; Harris (2011), 161. 684 Harris (2011), 161. 685 Ménard, 3:208, 128; Harris (2011), 162.

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dan c i ng i n and aro u nd chu rche s Tradition

As we already saw with the example of the nuns of the Paraclete, during the threat of abolishing their dances at the Rogation and Ascension, a valid argument for dancing was an appeal to tradition. The townspeople of Nîmes saw themselves being part of a long-standing tradition of practices of dance as reverentia as well as a perception of expressing exuberant joy as a mode of worship. All of this is also in line with the opening remarks by St Hugo Victor on the law of customs as a legitimate point of appeal when liturgies take different forms in different places. The law of customs and appeal to tradition has two important aspects to it, which carry significance in a social imaginary of a medieval world. First of all, there is the idea stated in the initial remarks above that for as long as the population could remember, dancing and instrumental music had been a legitimate practice during feasts. This statement is further deepened when a second letter is sent to Vivien. This time the appeal is prepared and written by the chaplain to the Avignon pope: Jacques Arnaud. In this text, posted to the lieutenant on 26 January 1393, we can read that to call the prohibition issued by Vivien a suspension due to the current schism is a ‘frivolous’ claim.686 According to Jacques Arnaud, dancing has been an ongoing practice in churches during essential celebrations for the whole duration of the schism. When the King of France was restored to health from his attacks of insanity, and when his wife bore him a son, these were both ceremonies that were celebrated by dancing in churches.687 In these instances, the kind of dancing that was performed was the special glorifying and honorary dances of tripudium. Arnaud states that as the Church is glorified in this manner when a worldly king is born, even more so then should the Church, in strength and as a communal act, celebrate the fact that the Saviour of the human race has come to us in the Son of God.688 What Arnaud’s arguments show, is that the appeal to tradition, is not only an appeal to what people are used to doing, but it is an appeal to the theological significance of the custom. What Arnaud states, is that dancing was a continuous practice in churches – not only in the earlier mentioned ceremonies surrounding Saints and festal commemorations but also in the rituals where the church sanctified the civic authorities and negotiated sacredness with the ‘worldly’ sphere.689 As we have already seen in the examples from the Corpus Christi celebration, to speak about a sharply distinct profane or sacred part of the communal life, really makes no sense within the

686 Harris (2011), 165. 687 Ménard, 3:208, 138. 688 ‘Nec prodest color exquisitus, videlicet quòd propter cisma quod viget in ecclesiâ Dei hoc feciftis, quoniam durante cismate predicto, propter gaudiosam & desideratam sanitatem domini nostri Francorum regis, necnon pro gaudiosa & desiderata nativitate serenissimi principis dalphini, dicti domini nostri regis filii, indifferenter tripudiatum est in ecclesia & tripudiare decuit & debuit, propter tantum & tam necessarium gaudium totius regni: & certè multò fortiùs tripudiare potest in nativitate filii Dei Domini nostri Jhesu Christi, humani generis redemptoris’. Ménard, 3:208, 139. 689 See also the importance of the King in Duby (1981), 11–19, 23, 228. As well as customs around the celebration of new born royalty in other parts of Europe in Devaney (2015), particularly chapter 2.

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enchanted world. The King of France was a temporal ruler, while the Christ-child was the eternal king; nevertheless, both of them were honoured with ritual dancing at their birth. In the examples of the painting by Andrea da Firenze: The Church Militant and the Church Triumphant (Plate 12), we further saw that royal dignities could be assigned space to rule from the sphere of the Church, which would make the parallels between reception of a new King and birth of Jesus even stronger. In line with what Jacques Le Goff tells us in In search of sacred time, about Jacobus de Voragine’s understanding of how the temporal and sacral times intertwined, it was the praise, in chants, Psalms, readings and vestments that enacted the sacral over the temporal.690 These liturgical enactments were part of how the laity participated in sanctifying people, place and space. Thus, it seems like Arnaud and his community, understood, not just the music, but also the communal worship of dance, to have been one way through which the enactment of the heavenly order in the ‘worldly’ sphere took place. The whole participation of the Corpus Christianum was needed in this enchantment of space and time. What deepens this argument further is how time was perceived in the medieval social imaginary. The second argument concerning an appeal to tradition has to do with how temporal constructions where understood. As was seen in the discussions concerning the Game of Pelota and dancing in the holiest of sacred space within the churches, the idea that dancing would be part of the heavenly spheres of angels, as well as the life to come, seems to have been part of the medieval social imaginary. However, such emphasis laid on the future, the medieval historian Le Goff, reminds contemporary readers is an understanding of time and space that was almost unknown to the listeners of Arnaud. Instead, history was portrayed as a sloping line towards decline. Thus, to make references to the past was not to go back into a dark period of unbelief but rather to grasp towards the shining light of a mature and normative past where things had not yet gone awry.691 Turning towards the past is also how Jacques Arnaud builds his theological arguments for the continued practice of dance. He states that: ‘David celebrated the feast of the ark of the covenant, with all the people of Israel, with all kinds of musical instruments and dances’.692 The festal worship of his community was to resemble that of Jerusalem. The reference Arnaud makes here to David has three different layers to it. Today, many theologians would understand mentioning Jerusalem as a reference to the Heavenly Jerusalem of the New Creation, which is best portrayed in the descriptions of the book of Revelations. Contrary to this view, from the social imaginary of the medieval world, looking into the practices of biblical times was to see something unspoiled and worthy to resemble. We saw already in the depiction of Via Veritatus (Plate 12), that images of a pristine garden, where references both to Eden and to the Heavenly sphere. Similarly, in the much later artwork of Renaissance painter Lucas Cranach the Elder (c. 1472–1553), we can still see the

690 Le Goff (2014), 16–17. 691 Le Goff (1991), 166–67. 692 Harris (2011), 165; Ménard, 3:208, 140.

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Plate 24. Das Goldene Zeitalter (1530) Lucas Cranach the Elder.693

idealisation of the past in his two depictions of the Garden of Eden. (Plate 24 and Plate 25) Even though, Lucas Cranach the Elder might arguably not be classified as a medieval painter, the idea of turning towards the past as a space were answers to how things ‘should be’ was still highly relevant for his time and age. 694 The first ancestors of humanity are depicted as dancing. What is interesting in these depictions of humanity dancing in paradise, is the clear eroticising tendencies present in the artwork.695 The image I saw in Germany (Plate 24) is one of two paintings with the same theme. The other picture is found in the National Gallery of Norway, in Oslo. Both images are named, the Golden Era and show naked women and men dancing around a tree. Independently of the eroticisation, what is seen, is an idea that in an ‘unspoilt’ state, the worship of humans took the form of dancing. Moreover, when humans lived in harmony with the animals, their praise of God and his creation was expressed in harmonious movements where all of them lived in peace together. 693 The Alte Pinakothek, München visited 18.11.2015. Wikimedia Commons: Das Goldene Zeitalter, Lucas Cranach d.Ä. (c. 1530). 694 Kristensson Uggla explains that such tendencies continued in scientific research all the way to the break of the modern era. Kristensson Uggla (2019), 128–44. 695 There is need to do much further studies around the connections of this theme with the later racialised eroticising tendencies found in Groves and her contemporaries, however there is no space for that in this study.

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Plate 25. Das Goldene Zeitalter (1530) Lucas Cranach the Elder.696

In Plate 25, one can clearly see even how the lions and their pray are able to spend time, side by side. Thus, the eroticisation is in some ways linked to an idealisation. On the one hand, an argument can be made for this kind of eroticisation to be part of the particular early modern period of Lucas Cranach the Elder. On the other hand, as we already saw with the boys climbing the trees and display of fruits, in the garden scenes of (Plate 12), a certain kind of sensuality relating to the paradisical state of communion with God is not foreign to the medieval social imaginary, either. What makes these images (Plate 24 and Plate 25) important for the argument I am making here is that they have their ‘sister’ image in depictions of the feast of Nativity from the medieval period. In the scene of the Annunciation to the Shepherds (Plate 26), people are gathered around a tree, in a garden-like setting. Behind them we see the outlines if a city and they are surrounded by cleansing waters, both on the front corners and the back side of the fields. This picture comes from a book of hours in the late medieval period and shows the feast of the Christmas season. Not only does the angel proclaim the birth of Christ, but this is celebrated by ordinary people though a circular dance around a tree. Both animals and a bagpipe player accompany the people in their festal celebration. Even though I have been emphasising the importance of the past, for the medieval social imaginary, it is also so that the parallels between Paradise and New Creation, in the celebration of the coming of Christ, carry symbolic significance also for the

696 Wikimedia Commons: The Golden Age, Lucas Cranach the Elder (c. 1530).

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Plate 26. Annunciation to the Shepherds: country dance, Heures de Charles d’Angoulême, BNF, Lat. 1173, folio 20, (1475–1500).700

medieval understanding of the portrayed situation. When Christ is born, we find the scenery of dance and merriment where all of creation participates, which further combines the narratives of both the past and the future. The castle-like building or portrayal of a city bears a triple meaning, where those outlines simultaneously can portray the Heavenly Jerusalem, the Temple of the biblical stories as well as carry significant details referring to an earthly city, known to the artist. During the season of the Christmas celebration, these images and the praxis showed, it was appropriate to join into a reverentia that combined not only the earthly and heavenly realms but also the past and the present, with the practices of the Jews and Christians. (details in Plate 24, 25, 26) 697 Wikimedia Commons: Annunciation to the shepherds: country dance, Heures de Charles d’Angoulême – BNF Lat1173.

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In the theological understanding of Arnaud and his contemporaries, the link between celebrating like David at the birth of Christ had more layers to it. For Arnaud and his contemporaries, genuine worship was first and foremost created around the Psalter psalms and made to resemble the temple worship in the Holy City. Thus, we find that not only the use of musical instruments was a given, but dancing as well. The Jewish community had celebrated their feasts with exuberant joy.698 In the quite literal reading of psalms like this: Sing to the Lord a new song, his praise in the assembly of his faithful. Let Israel be glad in its Maker; let the sons699 of Zion rejoice in their King. Let them praise his name with dancing making melody to him with tambourine and lyre.700 From a biblical text where appropriate reverentia is depicted with dances and singing, the Corpus Christianum took their reason to model the feasts and celebrations in the here and now.701 All of this is part and parcel of Arnaud’s theological explication as to why dancing was part of the official church practices, not only during the season of Christmas but also at other celebrations during the church year. What is interesting to note here is that the arguments made for dancing are theologically grounded, not only in tradition but also in scripture – in the examples – biblical stories carried for the Christian life. Returning once more to Arnaud’s use of the example of David for the celebrations and dancing of the Christmas period. He does not only emphasise the worship of David and the Jewish community as an ideal to be followed. He also creates an even stronger link between David and the legit practice of the Church, during Christmas in the following theological reflections. Arnaud states that there is a link between David, the Ark and the celebration of the birth of Christ. As David had celebrated the feast of the Ark of the Covenant so also followers of Christ, who were part of this same line of Kings, were to commemorate their feasts. In the medieval depictions of this occasion, what is portrayed is always the dance of David. In the two following images (Plate 27 and Plate 28) from early medieval picture bibles one can see how it is not only David who is dancing and leaping, but the whole congregation joins in the celebration. In Plate 27, there is a first dancer in front of the Ark (in the left square). Candlesticks are placed around the Ark. In front of the whole procession (right square) the



698 699 700 701

Ménard, 3:208, 140. Translation from Brown (2007), 68. Ps 149:1–3. Ménard, 3:208, 140.

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Plate 27. David: Fetching of Ark, Psalter-Hours of Guiluys de Boisleux, MS M.730 fol. 109r, France, Arras, after 1246.702

congregation sings praises with a multitude of musical instruments and rejoicing gestures. Also in Plate 28, the leaping move of David’s dance is portrayed in front of the Ark. David’s leaping movement is seen in both Plate 27 and Plate 28, through his raised leg. While the rest of the people play the instruments of praise, David is the one dancing. As we see in these depictions, David had led all the people of Israel, with many kinds of musical instruments and dances, into Jerusalem, for the establishment of the temple. Thus, Arnaud argued, people of his time should also be allowed to follow these practices.703 Harris further explains that the biblical story of David and the Ark is not only to be read literally. As was the method during medieval periods, it also had an allegorical reading. As I have been arguing throughout this thesis that was the custom of the medieval period, Arnaud builds his theological claims on a combination of symbolism, metaphor and concrete praxis. The practices are never merely actions. They always

702 Illustration of II Samuel 6:1–7. David: Fetching of Ark – Uzzah lies prostrated on ground, before Ark of Covenant flanked by two candles in candlesticks in draped cart pulled by four oxen, driven by Ahio wearing hooded garment, holding rod. To right, David, crowned, plays portable organ, accompanied by group of men and youths, some wearing caps, playing musical instruments including horns, viol, pipe, and psaltery (?), and women, one dancing, one playing castanets, and another, wearing snood, striking tamborine. PsalterHours of Guiluys de Boisleux, MS M.730 fol. 109r, France, Arras, after 1246. Purchased by J. P. Morgan (1867–1943) in 1916 for The Morgan Library & Museum. 703 Ménard, 3:208, 140.

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Plate 28. David dancing before the Ark, Picture Bible, MS M.638 fol. 39v, France, Paris, c. 1244–1254.704

carry a hidden meaning which can be found in the details of the accounts and the spiritual dimensions of each separate part of the description. So, Arnaud claims that:

704 Illustration of II Samuel 6:14–16. Zone 1: David: dancing before Ark, and David: despised by Michal – Eight men, including two blowing trumpets, attend Ark of Covenant carried on handbarrow by two men from house of Obededom. David, crowned, dances with harp in left hand, looking up at Michal, wearing berbette, pointing at him, in window of building; below six men play fiddle, square tambourine, clappers, bell, pipe, and two trumpets before portal. Two men, kneeling, with knives cut throats of two lambs from

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Within the Ark was contained the golden urn, Manna from heaven, the tables of the covenant, the staff of Aron and on the sides where written down the Deuteronomical book. The golden urn symbolised the Humanity of Christ, Manna, Christ’s Divine aspect, the tables of Law signify the unification of the first and second covenant, the Staff combines the power of priests to king and the Deuteronomical books show us that the Gospel is fulfilled in Christ’s coming.705 Through combining all the mystical meanings of Incarnation, Christ’s coming and the fulfilment of new world order, Arnaud explains that celebrations of the Ark are the protocol for celebrations of Christ. It is not just the dancing at the Feast of Fools that Arnaud is referring to in this biblical quote, here are also gathered the symbols of the staff, celebrating with food and the processions. The Ark was carried seven times around Jericho just as Christ will be brought into all of the worlds. If the Kings, Patriarchs, Prophets and all the people of Israel celebrated the coming of the Ark in this manner, how much more, should then not Christ’s people now celebrate His coming? In Arnaud’s view, all of the examples given by the people of the Holy land of how to celebrate – what they practised – laid there, in the biblical narratives, as a foundation for coming Christian feasts. To dance and rejoice in this manner was what the followers of Christ were to be doing also today, Arnaud seems to be saying. We should show our exaltation in even more prominent way, than these prefigurations of God’s redemptive powers. In this new covenant, we are indeed brought out of sin and freed from slavery. Thus, when not even the worldly order has anything against the way these celebrations have been practised, there is no reason now to start changing them, Arnaud argues.706 Furthermore, Lawrence M. Clopper argues that prominent writers of the medieval period, such as Bernard of Clairvaux, would also reference back to this depiction of David’s dance, when it came to teaching or modelling appropriate behaviour.707 In Plate 28, we see that while David danced, Mahail glances down at him from her window. In the Biblical account she condemns him for acting inappropriately. However, in the medieval exempla, this scene and passage is taken as a sign that even when worldly authorities would express concern or scorn a religious person for their foolish behaviour, one should know that in the eye’s of God David’s dance is the example to be followed. Particularly, as clergy and monks, followers should know that exuberant rejoicing in reverence to God is never condemned in the books of God.708

705

706 707 708

which blood flows into two cups (sacrifice). MS M.638, fol. 39v. Old Testament miniatures (MS M.638)., fol. 39v. Paris, France, c. 1244–1254. Purchased by J. P. Morgan (1867–1943) in 1916 for The Morgan Library & Museum. ‘In qua quidem archa recondita erant urna aurea, manna, tabule testamenti, virga Aaron, liber de Euteronomio reconditus in latere arche. In urna aurea, intelligitur Christi humanitas; in manna, ipsius divinitas; in tabulis, utriusque legis conjunctio; in virga Aaron, sacerdotalis & regalis potestas; in libro de Euteronomio, secunde legis, id est evangelii, intelligitur in Christo consumatio’. Ménard, 3:208, 140. Ménard, 3:208, 140. Clopper (2001), 56–57. Clopper (2001), 56–57.

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In this manner, dancing not only mattered as a practice of exuberant celebration within the social imaginary of the medieval period. It also linked the Corpus Christianum to its Jewish roots and the commemorations practised in the Holy Land. In the theological reflections around the practice of dancing, what can be seen is an opening up of this communal ritual towards the earthly family of a biblical community. Might this also be the reason that exceptions are given in Murcia to the Jewish and muslim communities during High Time celebrations? To root a celebratory practice in the custom of law and tradition is to evoke the biblical narratives as one’s argument. Thus, Arnaud was claiming that Vivien indirectly suggested breaking with the law and tradition of the Biblical examples, which was no small issue. Finally, the tradition of dancing like David clearly gave permission to even step outside of the ordinary boundaries of law and order, when it was done in reverentia to God. Harm and Benefit of Dancing

The second kind of discourse that was presented in this quarrel was that of the potential harms and benefits of dancing. Returning to the first statement made by the townspeople, they had claimed that the dancing was not a threat to public safety, contained no sacrilegious elements and did not disturb the proper order of the city or church. These claims can be read in a way where it is explicitly admitted that other types of dancing could have been something which, if not conducted appropriately, would have been seen as jeopardising the well-being of the community. The appeal, however, clearly stated that the laity and canonical celebrants saw their dances as being part and parcel of a liturgical enactment of church festivities.709 Even more interesting is that in the letter written the next day, directly to Vivien, there was also an appeal to the Kings and Lords, who had not only approved of but also participated in these ritual enactments of dancing.710 As I have already mentioned, dancing in this manner, cannot be seen as solely a practice conducted by the unlearned populous. Such may have been the situation with some aspects of the practices of the Saint’s day feasts, but by the high medieval period, people from all social strata participated in these customs of dancing. In the second letter, more descriptions are found that confirm the idea that what was celebrated through these activities was the liturgical practice of the Feast of Fools which included dancing as an expression of appropriate seasonal joy.711 Both these

709 Harris (2011), 161–62. 710 Harris notes: ‘Léon Ménard, the distinguished eighteenth-century historian of Nîmes, confirms and dates these royal visits: John, duke of Berry, was in Nîmes on 29 December 1360; John II attended the city’s Christmas festivities in 1362; Louis, duke of Anjou, and his wife, did so in 1373; and Philip, duke of Burgundy often traveled with his brothers and was presumably part of the company on one or both of their Christmas visits to Nîmes’. Ménard, 3:99–100, and, for further details of each visit, 2:220 (duke of Berry), 2:248 ( John II), 2:317 (duke of Anjou); Harris (2011), 162–63. 711 Harris (2011), 162.

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written appeals show how ritual enactments and the negotiation of sacredness were perceived not only as a practice performed by the priests. Instead, it was an ordeal that involved each segment of the community. When each part played their role, appropriate celebrations in honour of God’s birth could be lifted up as worship. The benefit of dancing and singing in this manner could thus be expressed as a worshipful practice that included all parts of the Corpus Christianum. Dancing was a unifying form of reverentia. Even the counter-arguments by Vivien, do not interfere with the above representation. In his reply on 15 January 1393, Vivien acknowledged the distinctive features of the cathedral liturgy; the representations of the crib, the wise men, Herod and anything else that led people to godly remorse. He further agreed that if the ban had been proclaimed in the sacred space of the church, then he would pay the penalty for that. He had intended to have it announced in the streets of the town and for it to be only a temporary banning of dancing. However, what Vivien continuously opposed was the lewdness of the dances and that they were taking place inside the church.712 I will return to the question of the space of the church; for now, I will instead examine the claims of lewdness. In Vivien’s response, he too takes the help of biblical passages to make his claims. He states that we know, from the story of John the Baptist and the dance of Salome, what the consequences of dancing are.713 The example of Salome’s dance was used as a factual reference to how the presence of dancing women brought all men into sin.714 Such a statement could be read as a proclamation that whenever a woman danced, a space of plausible sin, which is particularly problematic to the male clergy, would be created. This reading is what seems to have been the association of many Early Church Fathers with the story of Herodia’s daughter.715 However, arguing that Vivien’s main problem with the dancing of the Feast of Fools, was that women brought men into sin, would not have been resolved by only moving the dance outside of the church building or restricting it for a specified period. If dancing led to sin and if dancing was in no way an act of worship, but only suitable for the crazy tumult of festivals and markets, why then would it be allowed during normal festivities and in any space of the city? There might, of course, have been certain groups of people who did use the season of Christmas freedom as an excuse to partake in sins just like dancing can be used in a sexually manipulative manner. However, I doubt, the leaders of the city of Nîmes and the chaplain to the pope Jacques Arnaud, would have engaged in defending that kind of dancing. It is more likely that Vivien’s cause was raised by something else. The potential harm described by Vivien is that dancing lead to sin, and that disorder was the consequence of the 712 Harris (2011), 163–64. 713 ‘ceterùm puelle saltanti, quia placuit Herodi & discumbentibus, capud Johannis-Báptiste petenti concessum fuit’. Ménard, 3:208, 135. 714 ‘Racio additur, quia talia non fiunt de facili sine peccato (…) propter eciam quiàm plurima que fortè non licet homini loqui, que in talibus coreis occurrere possunt’. Ménard, 3:208, 135. 715 Webb (1997), 123, 128–29, 135–38; Arcangeli (2000), 108; Davies (1984), 20; Tronca (2016), 57. See also: Ambrose, De virginibus Book III, chapter 6, v. 25–26.

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feasting. If the harm was not created directly by female dancers, could it have been caused by the mixed-gender dancing? To this, I will turn next. Mixed-Gender Dancing

When I speak about the mixed-gender dancing, I am not only referring to the fact that males and females shared space in their dancing, but a larger question of social order. In Vivien’s response to the townspeople he writes: The church is a space created for prayer, not for dancing. There is no law that proclaims the right of clergy to dance in such spaces of reverence, not with laity and especially not with women.716 What is pointed out in this passage is that Vivien junta-poxes dancing and prayer. Furthermore, he makes a counter-move against the statements offered earlier of claiming there to be a tradition of dancing, by arguing that no such law has been given. The latter is a point that is obscured by the translation provided by Harris. Thus, I offered my own, based on the text found in Ménard.717 On the one hand, the townspeople have shown that in their view the mixing of honest men and their wives in this dance was not and had never been a problem of the celebrations (as seen in Plate 26). Instead, it was a prerequisite to have both men and women participate in the dancing if what was sought for, was the liturgical activation of the Corpus Christianum.718 On the other hand, Vivien is stating that for him, the proper reverentia was not obtained, when clergy danced with laity and especially with women. Maybe the core question for Vivien, was that of combining clergy and women in the same space? As presented, in the Corpus Christi celebrations, the processions of liturgical enactments were often divided into the social and gendered strata of the population. One plausible description of the difference in understanding presented by Vivien and his opponents could be that Vivien envisioned the proper form of reverentia to be one where the seven ranks of the angelic order, was mirrored in how processions and communal movements were made. If the appropriate ‘stations’ of the communal dance depicted for example in the images of the dance of death, were not kept, the dancing turned into unproductive revelry. The depictions of the dance of death is

716 Ménard, 3:208, 134. 717 Harris translation: ‘The church, he maintained, should be a place of peaceful worship, not the clamor that accompanies a dance involving both men and women’. Harris (2011), 164. While the Latin is as follows: ‘Nam deduci non potest aliquo jure, quòd in ecclesia, nec in talibus locis, ad horandum dedicatis, sit licitum coreare religiosis, cum laicis, maximè cum mulieribus, propter supradicta, sine quibus non loquitur dicta preconisatio’ Ménard, 3:208, 135. 718 Another section further states: ‘The canons also reminded Vivien that seneschals, “with their wives and families, [and] with the canons”, had “danced eagerly and publicly in the church”. None of these dignitaries had ever attempted to prohibit the dance. What higher approval of its probity, the canons asked, could one desire?’ Harris (2011), 163.

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Plate 29. Danse Macabre (1435–1509) in St Nicholas’ Church, Tallinn, Estonia by Bernt Notke.719

not the topic of this study, so I will not comment them more. I will only show the image of Danse Macabre murals found in Tallinn. (Plate 29)719 Similar images are found in Ingå, London and are know to have existed in Paris. In the accompanying pieces of poetry, dancing is described to be strongly linked not only to questions of gender but also social status. The skeletal figures of death separate each social class and gender group from another.720 These separations can partly be seen as not human construction, but God-given patterns of interaction and could thus explain why also a man like Vivien would like to uphold them. Furthermore, the idea of not mixing gender, may also have been one of the topics represented in the earlier painting of Via Veritatus (Plate 12). There we saw, first of all, that all of the dancers in the image were women. Secondly, the section with the boy who was carried away from the dancing by one of the young maidens may actually have been indicating this specific division of spheres. In that image, he as a male, got to play in other ways and forms, however, not mixing with women. This kind of analysis would strengthen the case that there was no problem with dancing being a worshipful act – rather there were other questions that came to interfere with what was proper reverentia, and what was not. The idea of keeping the strict separation between particularly celibates and non-celibates is also confirmed by chapter records about Christmas practices in England. There we can find two different kinds of attitudes towards nuns dancing during the Christmas tide. In one statement by Bishop Spofford from Limebrook in 1422, the elements of secular music – minstrels and dancing – are not to be brought into the sacred space of the church building.721 The arguments presented here around the use of sacred space are in line with the earlier descriptions that I have given from Horowitz and Hayes around the idea of not confusing the areas of the sacred and profane. Even though I did not fully agree with their strict line of argument to be valid in all situations, I would still see these remarks as one option for how to

719 Wikimedia Commons: Danse Macabre in Tallinn, Bernt Notke (1475/1499). 720 Gertsman (2010), 3–5, 8–13; Oosterwijk (2017), 45. See also Oosterwijk&Knöll (2011). 721 ‘Also we forbede all maner of mynstrelseys, enterludes, dawnsyng or revelyng with in your sayde holy place [Also we forbid all types of minstrelsy, interludes, dancing or reveling within your holy place]’. Yardley (2006), 93, fn 67.

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understand what kind of thinking might have influenced the views of both Bishop Spofford and Vivien. However, from the nuns at St Helen in London, we find a different approach. There, it is made clear that rejoicing during Christmas tide is part of a proper kind of reverentia. Dancing may be enjoyed during High Time, as it is liturgically appropriate to rejoice. This practice only needs to be kept in a form where the nuns are in the presence of themselves alone.722 Emphasising thus the social group gathering rather than a specific space that is considered sacred or profane. Furthermore, there is evidence that in another nunnery in Catesby, the prioress would even go to the extreme of calling it whoring, if the nuns engaged in dancing outside of the liturgically appropriate time and in the presence of clergy.723 From that example, it is harder to tell if it was time, space or the company that created imaginary borders for appropriate behaviour. Nevertheless, from these examples, it is possible to understand the conflict between Vivien and the townspeople of Nîmes to be one of reverentia in space and time. Contrary to a view of strict social boundaries penetrating all aspects of life, perhaps the townspeople of Nîmes saw, as the examples given from Peter Brown’s accounts revealed to be the case in early Christianity that the freedom to interact and cross over social categories and societal structures was a key feature of how celebrations during the High Time were to be conducted. To them, reverentia during the season of Christ’s birth may have meant exercising the liberty of a new world order and taking a repose from the ordinary patterns of interaction. As Christ had overcome death – the most robust boundary of life – thus, in celebrating his birth, some may have found it appropriate to transverse strict social and gendered boundaries as a sign of His New Kingdom. There was more written in both the response of Vivien and Arnaud that also needs to be examined. Taking us to the last aspect of the claims against and for dancing that of the use of the space.

722 ‘Their constitutions state “Also we enjoyne yow that alle daunsyng and revelyng be utterlely forborne among yow, except Christmasse and other honest tymys of recreacyone, among yowre selfe usyd in absence of seculers in alle wyse” [Also we enjoin you that you refrain from all dancing and revelling except at Christmas and other proper times of the recreation when they may be done among yourselves, but in all cases in the absence of seculars]’. Yardley (2006), 93, fn 67. 723 ‘Isabel complains that the prioress gets angry and calls them whores even in choir. A later comment reveals the probable basis for this action: “Item dicta domina Isabella die Lune vltimo preterito pernoctauit apud fratres Augustinianos Northamptonie et ibidem cum ipsis saltauit et citherauit vsque mediam noctem, et nocte sequenti pernoctauit cum fratribus predicatoribus Northamptonie consimiliter citherisando et saltando, etc.” [“Also the said dame Isabel on Monday last past did pass the night with the Austin friars at Northampton and did dance and play the lute with them in the same place until midnight, and on the night following she passed the night with the friars preachers at Northampton, luting and dancing in like manner”]’. Yardley (2006), 93, fn 67.

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dan c i ng i n and aro u nd chu rche s The Space and Dancing

Intertwined with the arguments about mixing genders, there was also a discussion about the space of the church. In Vivien’s response to the townspeople already addressed the whole argument goes as follows: The church is a space created for prayer, not for dancing. There is no law that proclaims the right of clergy to dance in such spaces of reverence, not with laity and especially not with women. Further, in such spaces, for the presence and sanctity of the Body of Christ, the bodies that have been buried in this place and for the remembering of those whom established this church, there should be a spirit of reverential prayer present, not tumultuous movement. The entombed bodies of the dead, are disgraced though the trampling of bare feet and their spirits scream against this kind of shaking and trembling.724 What characterises Vivien’s main argument, is a concern about the sacred space and the kind of movements that are acceptable in such a space. Reading the totality of the passage opens up the possibility that it is not so much a general claim against dancing. Such a viewpoint is strengthened by the fact that Vivien at a later point explains that it was perfectly fine for the canons to dance in the cloister or bishop’s house located next to the church.725 Vivien’s concern is instead centred at specifically tumultuous movements in the specific spots of the most sacred area of the altar and graves of the dead. Further on in the text, Vivien again turns towards biblical passages. He compares the actions of the people, creating this tumult, with Jesus’s proclaiming that the Temple was not a house of merchants or a den of robbers, but a place of prayer.726 Vivien stated that he wanted to end all activities that created noise and were perceived as rowdy. Desacralising the space with noise and tumult, further seems to have been a concern where the joint efforts of both the townspeople and Vivien met. As earlier 724 Harris translation: ‘The church, he maintained, should be a place of peaceful worship, not the clamor that accompanies a dance involving both men and women. Reverence should be shown to the sacramental body of Christ, which is kept in the church, and to the entombed bodies of the dead, which should not be trampled by dancing feet’. Harris (2011), 164. While the Latin is as follows: ‘Nam deduci non potest aliquo jure, quòd in ecclesia, nec in talibus locis, ad horandum dedicatis, sit licitum coreare religiosis, cum laicis, maxime cum mulieribus, propter supradicta, sine quibus non loquitur dicta preconisatio; scilicet quin alii quàm justiciabiles regis possent coreare; propter eciam reverenciam corporis Christi, in eisdem locis corporaliter & continuè residentis; propter eciam defunctorum corpora in eisdem sepultorum, que à pedibus conculcaris non debent, quorum anime contra tales trepidantes clamant; propter memoriam fundancium ecclesias, qui eas non ad coreandum, sed ad adorandum fundaverunt; propter eciam quàm plurima que fortè non licet homini loqui, que in talibus coreis occurrere possunt, & fortè propter que ecclesiâ veniret reconcilianda, quòd absit, & interim divinus cultus cessaret’. Ménard, 3:208, 135. 725 Harris (2011), 164. 726 ‘Omnes negociationes & cujuslibet fori tumultus in eis cessare debent; nam Dominus negociatores ejecit de’ templo, & mense nummulariorum evertit, dicendo, Domus mea domus oracionis vocabitur, & vos eam speluncam latronum fecistis fortiori ratione tales coreantes & trepidantes de talibus locis ejici debent’. Ménard, 3:208, 134–35.

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indicated, he had even excused himself over the fact that his proclamation was made in the sacred space of the church and not outside. Furthermore, when the chaplain Jacques Arnaud stepped into the discussion, we see that the concern of the space is a mutual topic of care. In the texts from 26 January 1393, this concern is expressed in two ways. Firstly, Arnaud insists that the dancing which happened was one which did not violate the sanctity of Christ’s body – the eucharist – nor could it be seen as a disturbance of the dead in their tombs.727 Secondly, he writes clarifying this point beyond doubt. They did not even dance in those parts of the church – close to the altar or the chapel apse – where the sacraments, relics or tombs of the dead were. The dancing happened, according to Arnaud, in the nave and not in the choir.728 Nevertheless, he insisted that dancing at the bishop’s palace was not an option; this had been the practice only when heavy rains rendered the floor of the nave too slippery.729 Thus, disturbing the dead and performing rowdy movements on top of the tombs of the dead was not part of the reverentia envisioned by the clergy. What is communicated here is a mutual care of the space. What is further implied is also a mutual awareness of the power of bodies, their various movements and what is performed in a sacred space. What is further interesting to note, are the specific comments made by Vivien on bare feet trampling on the graves, as well as his frequent use of the wording ‘such dancing and trembling/shaking as…’730 These passages are not only found in this particular text by Vivien. Instead, the image of bare feet and a trembling movement that can disturb the dead is found already in sermons from Augustine of Hippo731

727 Harris (2011), 164. 728 Ménard, 3:208, 137–38; see also Ménard 1752, 3: Pr 137–38, 98; Germain, Histoire, 1:432–33 in Harris (2011), 165. 729 Harris (2011), 164. 730 ‘…fortiori ratione tales coreantes & trepidantes de talibus locis ejici debent’. (…), 3:208, 134; ‘que à pedibus conculcari non debent, quorum anime contra tales trepidantes clamantatt (…) quòd homines utriusque sexûs, tam mares quàm mulieres, propter jocundum adventum ipsius in ecclesia dicte civitatis coreantes seu trepidiantes, hoc molestè gerens, ipse imperator in eadem ecclesia sieri non permisit, ymò ipsos statim ejecit (…) attento maximè quia alia sunt satis loca dictis trepidiare & coreare volentibus insra eorum clausuram, vel in domo episcopali contiguo dicte ecclesie ad hec congrua, ubi religiosi & laici predicti honeste satis convenue possent, sicut aliàs fecerunt, & quandoque faciunt’. Ménard, 3:208, 135. The bold is my amendation. 731 Sermon 311 concerned with celebrating the feast day of the martyr Cyprian: Not many years have passed, from the time when they wanted to bring here those impudent dances. Into this holy place, where lie the body of such a holy martyr. You elderly amongst us – you remember, don’t you? Into this sacred space they wanted to bring such infectious and freakish dancing. All through the night, they sang wicked songs and danced to the rhythm of the song. ‘Aliquando ante annos non ualde multos etiam istum locum inuaserat petulantia saltatorum. istum tam sanctum locum, ubi iacet tam sancti martyris corpus, sicut meminerunt multi qui habent aetatem; locum, inquam, tam sanctum inuaserat pestilentia et petulantia saltatorum. per totam noctem cantabantur hic nefaria, et cantantibus saltabatur’. Augustine of Hippo, Sermo In natali Cypriani martyris 311.5. For help in understanding the Latin I am deeply grateful to Joonas Vanhala. Plausibly also this part: ‘Alibi dicitur quòd melius esset homini die dominico terram fodere quam coreantes respicere, & forciori racione quàm coreare; & ratio redditur de loco, quia ubi peccando non debet dari occasio’. Ménard, 3:208, 134.

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and Basil of Caesarea where dancing is involved.732 Thus, it becomes unclear that is Vivien concerned with these topics a real-life situation, or is he only turning towards authoritative statements known to all, about dancing, to state his point. Harris lets us know that there does seem to be some other concerns involved as well, in this schism, except the practical questions of were the celebration should take place. In the first letter sent by the townspeople to Vivien, they had not only accused him of disturbing the peace and harmony with blowing trumpets and making loud noises inside the cathedral.733 They also accused him of being immoral and initiating this ban as an act of revenge due to an earlier dispute. Contrary to their claims, he maintained his right to make this kind of ban. He further refuted sending the appeal to the high court, as had been requested by the canons.734 It is only after this point that the chaplain Jacques Arnaud enters the discussion and Vivien moves towards the more rhetorical and formal pattern of argumentation where the biblical quotes and possible references to Augustine are found. Thus, it may be so that some of the arguments presented by Vivien about the dancing, are indeed not factual descriptions. Instead, he might be using existing statements in order to force his point of view. It is impossible to know exactly what in the letters, are rhetorics, what factual depictions and at what point the discussion turned towards a defence of positions more than descriptions of what actually had happened. However, what I found most interesting, independently if the statements of Vivien are genuinely turned against the trembling dances or just rhetorical statements against a kind of dancing that might be more easily proclaimed as problematic, is that the use of the space is kept as a central topic of discussion. Arnaud writes in his lengthy answer to Vivien in detail, about what was ‘scandalous’ with the behaviour initiated by the lieutenant, in the following manner: You ordered to be published by the voice of a herald, on Christmas Day, when the horrible voice of a herald should not be heard, with a trumpet, after vespers, through the town, openly and publicly, in a religiously privileged place, a place consecrated and blessed, in great injustice to the church, chapter, and canons, there where it was neither customary, nor was it permitted, nor is not now 732 Basil the Great writes about a feast at the tomb of martyrs: ‘These licentious women … having cast the veils of modesty from their heads, showing contempt for God and for his angels, shamelessly in the sight of every man, shake their hair, as with wanton eyes and excessive laughter they are driven madly to dance … they form a dancing troop in the martyrs’ shrines before the city, making of those holy places a workshop of their characteristic indecency; they defile the air with their harlot’s songs, they defile the ground with their unclean feet’. Basil of Caesarea, Homilia in ebriosos i; PG xxxi, 445. (quote from McKinnon (1987), 70). 733 ‘According to the canons, the manner in which Vivien’s order had been proclaimed further betrayed his impiety and hostility. After vespers on the feast of the Nativity, a day when ‘the dread, loud voice of justice’ should properly remain silent, the herald had faced the doors of the cathedral, in a ‘sacred place, where the crucifix stands during the procession for the absolution of the dead’. There, ‘with a most terrible blast of his trumpet’ [cum tuba terribiliter clangendo], he had so loudly delivered his proclamation that it had ‘scandalized’ the great crowd of faithful Christians gathered in the nave to honor God with their dance’. Harris (2011), 163. 734 Harris (2011), 163–64.

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permitted to make even the smallest proclamation, yes indeed, a herald armed with a trumpet, who faced the open doors of the church, so that his horrid voice might enter the church more freely and immediately, disturbing the souls of all the canons and all those present, filling and scandalizing them with shame, injury, confusion, and disgust.735 What Arnaud is emphasising in his writing to Vivien, is not just that the dancing that was conducted was kept within a specific form and place. (as seen earlier) Instead, what is brought forth here is a disturbance of space. However, it is not only the sacred space of the church, which is desacralised by loud sounds. Instead, on a day and in a season when power was given to the lowly, the smallest proclamation from a man in authority, broke the sanctity of space and time – throughout the city! There is both an individual concern presented here and a communal dilemma. If we are to take Taylor’s and other scholars bodily landscape into consideration, the porous self could be violated by sound. Just like the porous self could be uplifted by celebration, it could also be harmed. Sound had the ability to create what we today call emotional states, but then were described as eliciting passions.736 As Arnaud writes, to make disturbing sounds arose shame, disgust and injury. This was a serious offence both on the individuals and on the whole social realm. I would argue, contrary to Harris that what is discussed here, is not only different customs and what is portrayed is not merely a new form of the feast meeting with an older style.737 I would instead suggest that what is described in these arguments is a clash of worldviews. In the understanding of the townspeople of Nîmes and chaplain, Jacques Arnaud’s all the examples and arguments point towards the experience that the dancing and rituals of the Feast of Fools liturgy were not just deeply meaningful. For them, these actions and part-taking in the reverentia concretely mattered. Thus, also the contrary behaviour – to produce disturbing sounds, to uphold worldly order and to intervene with customary dancing – was a severe offence and potentially harmful to the community. When the reverentia of the people is understood as an interactive relationship where actions mattered and a constant vigilance was needed the discussions around right kind of worship could and would initiate these kinds of strong reactions. From my point of view, Harris tends to look at the practices of dancing, dressing up and participating in dramas of the Christmas season, too lightly, as mainly being a form of liturgical entertainment.738 Even though I do not doubt the possibility that Godly play and Christmas merriment may have had a very joyful and lust-filled

735 736 737 738

Harris (2011), 165. Taylor (2007), 30, 32–33, 40; Van Dijk (2014), 24–25. Harris (2011), 166. The dance in Senlis is for example expressed from the point of view of condemnations, in this manner: ‘In 1403 the cathedral chapter in Senlis discussed the future of its “pope [papa] of fools”. Five canons were in favor of continuing the custom inside the church but felt that the pope should wear “decent, secular clothes” and that there should be no elevation (elevatio) or accompanying dance (dansio). The majority insisted that the pope not enter the church, but allowed that “chaplains and other [clergy] can do whatever they want outside”’. Harris (2011), 200.

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part to it, I would also argue that these enactments were more serious then scholars thus-far have been able to perceive. The concern with the space described above and the attention to details concerning which kind of movements and sounds were enacted, where and by who, all indicate that what was discussed and negotiated in these discussions, were practices of vital importance. To further describe what I mean, I will turn for a final time, towards the narrative descriptions given by Jacobus de Voragine, in The Golden Legend, about the birth of Christ. I will also examine artwork centring around the Nativity. I will argue that to re-imagine the battle for dancing in Nîmes; the dancing needs to be envisioned as a concern with reverentia, High Time, the communal actions of the Corpus Christianum and sacredness of time, space and matter. I will suggest that where the viewpoints differed, between Vivien and his fellows, was not in one group seeing dancing as entertainment while the other did not. Instead, this was a quest for what form of reverentia was most appropriate and maybe also a discussion about the consequences of different kinds of ritual enactments in space. Cycle of Incarnation

Jacobus de Voragine explains that the birth of Christ was genuinely seen as an event that altered the universe. Not only did humans receive a Saviour in the incarnation of God, but the whole creation was affected. Voragine tells us about the night that Christ was born. This night the eternal temple of peace, in Rome crumbled into the ground. He also states that Nativity: was revealed to every class of creatures, from the stones, which are at the bottom of the scale of creation, to the angels, who are at its summit. (…) Moreover it is known that in the night of the Nativity, the darkness of the night was changed to the brightness of day. In Rome, the water of a spring changed to oil and flowed thus down to the Tiber; whereas the Sibyl had foretold that the Saviour of the world would be born when a fountain of oil began to flow.739 What is displayed is a narrative were all parts of the created order took part in the trembling event of the birth of the new world order. First, the inanimate created ‘objects’ were affected, then the flora, the fauna and finally even humans and angels

739 ‘Secundo ejus nativitas fuit multipliciter ostensa. Ostensa est enim per omnes gradus creaturarum. Est enim quaedam creatura, quae tantum habet esse, sicut pure corporea, ut lapides; quaedam quae habet esse et vivere, sicut vegetabilia et arbores; quaedam quae habet esse et vivere et sentire, sicut animalia; quaedam, quae habet esse, vivere, sentire et discernere, sicut homo; quaedam quae habet esse, vivere, sentire, discernere et intelligere, sicut angelus. Per has omnes creaturas hodie Christi nativitas est ostensa. Prima autem creatura, id est, pure corporea, triplex est, scilicet opaca, transparens sive pervia, et lucida. (…) Nam in ipsa nocte nativitatis dominicae, obscuritas noctis in claritatem diei versa est. Romae etiam (…) fons aquae in liquorem olei versus est et crumpens usque in Tiberim profluxit et toto die illo largissime emanavit. Prophetaverat enim Sibylla, quod quando erumperet fons olei, nasceretur Salvator’. Jacobus de Voragine, Legenda Aurea, 6. De nativitate domini nostri Jesu Christi secundum carnem.

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witnessed the breaking through of something new. The image portrayed gives the idea that at the first event and during the celebration of such a feast, almost anything could happen. (see also Plates 26, 31, 32, 33, where animals and humans worship together) Furthermore, we know, from the dramas and descriptions already portrayed that indeed out-of-the-ordinary things did happen, like boys becoming bishops, kings like Herod were made ridiculous and mixed-gender dancing was acceptable. In some places, even cross-dressing seems to have existed. As has been explained throughout this chapter, such reversals were not taken upon lightly. Rather, I would state that these practices were made possible because what was celebrated, was the reversal of the world order. Vivien had broken this seasonal atmosphere by making loud noises and using his worldly power to introduce new profane jurisdiction. Even he himself understood that the proclamation was illegally made, as he too, wanted to respect the Christmas season. The trembling and shaking movements of dance that Vivien, on his side, seems to have been upset about, may, from the townspeople and the clergy, have been intended actions. Maybe there even existed a specific type of dance movements that were used to portray the trembling and shaking of the world, when the temple in Rome shook to the ground? As the actions and movements of bodies, further were known sometimes to activate matter, there might have been a mutual concern in not bringing in those movements into the place of the altar. The more tumultuous forms of dancing may have been delegated into the nave of the church. This tumult may have been created by a particular choreography echoing that of David or only by the fact that for this specific dance clergy and laity, males and females, all joined together in a specific form of dance. Harris writes that the only time we know for sure that the dancing happened in the choir, this was in the Office of circumcision in Le Puy-en-Velay.740 Such a practice might have been a local variation in custom, if not related to the relic itself. It may also have been a consequence of the fact that only the choirboys danced as we saw with the ancient ritual in Tours. What seems most likely to me, is that in fact there is a variety of dances at display in these examples. Maybe some were more harmonious and celebratory – as the ones conducted to honour kings or prayer rituals by clergy. Others, may instead have been particularly created for the Christmas season and displayed other elements of the celebration. The Golden Legend further tells us that the ox and ass, miraculously recognizing the Lord, knelt before Him and adored Him.741 The incorporation of the animals in the worship of the newborn Christ continues to strengthen the possibility that many of the practices portrayed by Harris to be part of the Feast of Fools celebrations – spotting animals inside the church building or even dressing up as animals – were a perfectly natural way of celebrating these aspects of the narrative. Not only did the New Creation break the patterns of interaction between humans from different social strata. The birth of Christ also brought humans and animals close to each other. Of

740 Harris (2011), 221. 741 Jacobus de Voragine, Legenda Aurea, 6. De nativitate domini nostri Jesu Christi secundum carnem.

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course, such behaviour created chaos, but this might as well have been an acceptable form of tumult, as it mirrored the Christmas narrative. When turning towards the portrayal of humans de Voragine continues to explain; to those created beings who possessed existence, life, sensation, and reason – God revealed this glorious moment, through a multitude of angels singing and worshipping.742 As I understand this passage, if the inanimate objects had trembled, the plants and vegetable aspects blossomed or flourished out-of-season, the animals knelt and bowed their heads. All of these forms of reverentia are also opened to the human, as the pinnacle of creation. However, the story also reveals the expressed understanding of Arnaud and his contemporaries that the most refined form of reverentia was to resemble the worshipping practice of the angels. Leading us back to the idea that human worship may indeed, in certain times and certain spaces and in particular seasons, resemble that of the angels dancing in the heavenly spheres. More importantly though, for the case of this study, what I am ready to argue, is that not only a harmonious dance resembling the angelic reverentia, but a much wider variety of different traditions of dancing that run through all of these stories, images and textual examples may carry theological meaning and arise from a religious experience. In a modern period, the tradition of dancing during the Christmas season may bear only the meaning and marks of being a cultural custom. However, from the traces we have found of dancing in the medieval period we can see that it arose from worship – a thick texture of norms, values and practices – where dancing made sense as a response to encounters with God. Finally, what I have been arguing is that earlier research has not taken notice of these possibilities due to a pre-set bias against dancing having Christian roots. Once this possibility was planted in me, I started to understand that I could further search for dancing in sacred texts and artwork. The place I turned, was to illuminated bibles. From there I found not only the dancing depicted around the tree of New Creation, but many more images of devotion during Christmas. These will be my last images to finalise the social imaginary where all of these different forms of dancing may make sense. Illuminations of Christmas

One very rich source of depictions of dance during the Nativity are not just the stories shared so far, from liturgical enactments, descriptions of seasonal feasts and paintings hanging in the churches. Particularly the illuminated manuscripts and Books of Hours that could be found in wealthier homes, where filled with images of worshipful dancing in the season of Christmas. Examining all of the codexes and Books of Hours for images of dance, would require their own profound study. Still, I want to share a few of my observations strengthening the case I have been making here of various forms of dancing being part of the reverentia of the Christmas season.

742 Jacobus de Voragine, Legenda Aurea, 6. De nativitate domini nostri Jesu Christi secundum carnem. See fn 749. for the complete latin text.

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In the following scene (Plate 30a) of the Nativity depicted in France, some 50 years after the quarrel about dancing in Nîmes we see Mary seated with a naked baby Jesus in her lap and two angels kneeling in front of her. The space is a garden-like setting and no animals nor other humans than Joseph can be seen. The paradisical atmosphere is further enhanced by the fact that the whole page is filled with exotic flowers, birds and detailed finery. The text about the details in the bottom of the page states: Margins decorated with floreate border, including strawberries, inhabited by birds and moths. In bottom margin is man, wearing hat, dancing; woman, with hands raised; man, playing pipe and tabor; and man, wearing hat, dancing.743 Indeed, in the detail of Plate 30b one can see that in the bottom of the page, in the middle strands a woman in fine clothing making gestures with her hands and bare feet. Around her are found musicians with bells on their legs and drums in their hands. One man also plays the flute. If these men are fools or just ordinary jongleurs, is hard to determine.744 However, it is clear that both the males and the female are engaged in dancing. Bruce Holsinger in his Music, Body, and Desire in Medieval Culture: Hildegard of Bingen to Chaucer (2001), notes that earlier research has tended to see the depictions of peasant bodies dancing and players of bagpipes as something grotesque. These images found in the margins of religious manuscripts are interpreted as an inversion of the angelic and perfect dancing in heaven.745 This is a conclusion that I will contest. As I see it there is a distinction that needs to be made between distorted bodies moving and what could be actual depictions of worship, praise and what could be understood as a devotional image. First of all, as we saw already in the image of angels dancing around Mary (Plate 4 and Plate 5) flutes, drums and bagpipes have been found as depicting musical instruments in heavenly worship. Strict classification in this manner build on a pre-set conceptual framework of sacred and secular (in this case instruments) that has been proven problematic through-out this study. More indications than merely dancing or a specific instrument needs to be brought forth, if an image is to be stated as an inversion of angelic movement. Secondly, as this thesis has shown, harmonious circular dancing was not only a feature of heavenly worship. It has been described and portrayed to be part also of the worship practiced by humans in the earthly sphere. This will further be demonstrated in the image on the next page. Thirdly, instead of stressing the dichotomy between sacred and secular elements or heaven and earth, this thesis has further argued that in many ways the medieval society seems to have lived and functioned in a social imaginary were a continuation

743 Source S. 744 For more on the many tasks of a jongleur in the medieval period see: Rokseth (1935); Ziolkowski (2018), 79–89. 745 Holsinger (2001), 20. 746 Joseph the Carpenter, wearing headgear, holding walking stick in both hands, sits on ground behind Virgin Mary, nimbed, seated on cushion, holding in her lap nude Christ Child, extending left hand toward two angels, nimbed, kneeling with arms crossed. Figures in garden with flowers, surrounded by wattle fence and trees. In distance are figure, buildings, and windmill. Rays in sky. MS M.157 Book of hours., fol. 119v. [c. 1440] Purchased by J. P. Morgan (1867–1943) in 1916 for The Morgan Library & Museum. © BREPOLS PUBLISHERS THIS DOCUMENT MAY BE PRINTED FOR PRIVATE USE ONLY. IT MAY NOT BE DISTRIBUTED WITHOUT PERMISSION OF THE PUBLISHER.

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Plate 30a. Virgin Mary and Christ Child, Book of Hours, MS M.157 fol. 119v, France, c. 1440.746 746 Joseph the Carpenter, wearing headgear, holding walking stick in both hands, sits on ground behind Virgin Mary, nimbed, seated on cushion, holding in her lap nude Christ Child, extending left hand toward two angels, nimbed, kneeling with arms crossed. Figures in garden with flowers, surrounded by wattle fence and trees. In distance are figure, buildings, and windmill. Rays in sky. MS M.157 Book of hours., fol. 119v. [c. 1440] Purchased by J. P. Morgan (1867–1943) in 1916 for The Morgan Library & Museum.

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Plate 30b. Detail of Virgin Mary and Christ Child, Book of Hours, MS M.157 fol. 119v, France, c. 1440.

between heaven and earth could be envisioned. What was simultaneously envisioned was a system where movement between the Church and profane ‘order’ where not as tightly kept apart as sometimes has been assumed. Particularly, during the festal season of Nativity and/or in the setting of worship and proper reverentia what was experienced was a communion between God and humans as well as humans and angels. The Corpus Christianum actually realised itself when all parts of creation came together. Furthermore, the idea that the Corpus Christi also was realised in the artwork and artefacts of the Corpus Christianum problematises the idea that certain aspects of a Holy book would be less sacred than others. This means that it would be problematic to describe illuminations in the manuscripts of a Book of Hours or Bible as grotesque, just because it portrayed dancing, drums, bagpipes or any other pre-set criteria assumed to be ‘devilish’ and irrelevant to worship. These kinds of views need to be revisioned. Fourthly, what cannot be stressed enough is the scholarly work of Caroline Walker Bynum and Jeffrey F. Hamburger, were they show that the creative activity of making illuminated artworks and how art was handled, rendered these images sacred. Even when there might be odd figures in the margins of some books, what will be displayed in the images of Nativity scenes is a devotional setting. Such images would not be filled with and intricately created to illustrate dancing, if the practice was considered contrary to devotion or lacking in sacred meaning. Instead, I argue that when we see images like Plate 30, even the dancing in the margins is part of the important message that is conveyed about the Nativity.

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Plate 31. Shepherds Annunciation, Book of Hours, M.287 fol. 64v (c. 1445) Northern France or Flanders.747

Once we move to images like Plate 31, depicting the Shepards: Annunciation, it is without doubt to me that this should be understood as a picture of appropriate reverentia. Plate 31 wants to convey the moment when the angel from above declares ‘Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace to those on whom he favours!’748 What is depicted is that the lambs gather in a harmonious flock. Part of them gaze 747 Shepherds Annunciation – Five shepherds, three wearing hats, three wearing hoods, and four shepherdesses, three wearing headdresses, dance in circle, all but two holding hands. (Scene, Sports and Games: Dancing) Another shepherd, playing bagpipe, and looking upward, sits in center of the circle amid sheep. More sheep sit in background amid rays descending from half-figure of angel, with joined hands, in rayed arc of Heaven. Scene in meadow with flowers; stream, hills, trees, city, and possibly church in distance. Miniature and text surrounded on three sides by gold frame, terminating with foliate ornament. Margins decorated with border of foliate and floreate ornament. MS M.287 Book of hours (MS M.287)., fol. 64v. Northern France or Flanders, c. 1445. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1907 for The Morgan Library & Museum. 748 Lk 2:14.

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directly at the angel, while the other part gathers in the middle of the image. Around these lambs the Shepards, shown as both males and females, join into a circle dance. The dance is shown by holding hands and lifted feet. In the middle of the circle a man plays the bagpipe but there is no inclination of rowdiness portrayed in the image. However, what is noteworthy is the fact that here are both married and unmarried women depicted as joining the men in the circular dance. Thus, clearly breaking ordinary structures of social hierarchy and norms. Just like the other narratives of Christmas state – extra-ordinary things may happen in this setting of celebration. The inclusion of not only dancing but also animals in the adoration can further be seen in Plate 32 of the Shepards Annunciation. In Plate 32, from Belgium and the same time period as Plate 31, the setting with Shepards is an all-male dance. In this image one can further see, even more clearly that also the animals take-part in the adoration of the New Creation that has been pronounced. The faithful dog lifts his paw in a participatory gesture of reverentia when the proclamation of peace is given by the angel. In both Plates 31 and Plate 32, there is no claim to be made for these images being small marginal side-notes. The dancing, even when both males and females, as well as animals join it, has the circular form that has already been brought forth as a feature of appropriate reverentia. Furthermore, these images can be found in highly valued Books of Hours and created in the form of a vaulted depiction of an altarpiece. Also the materials in use are expensive colours and golden shimmer. Nothing indicates that this would be a mockery, inversion or grotesque display of bodies. Rather, it seems clear that what is portrayed is the worshipful joining of laity into the praise of a newborn King. As I see it, these images do not only display the social imaginary of what was possible as a form of reverentia for the Christmas season. I am ready to argue that from all that we have read and discovered, these images display art as image – what actually happened amongst the laity during Christmas and what they imagined themselves doing, when participating in the customary dances. What is of further importance, but cannot be dealt with in further detail here, is also the main audience of these Books of Hours. The creation, use and distribution of Books of Hours is closely associated with the rise of not only a more wealthy group of city dwelling but also religious movements like Devotio Moderna.749 What is of particular interest is the fact that most, if not all of these images of devotion at the events of Nativity co-inside with shift in religious art called realism. Most often, it is Jan van Eyke and his extremely realistic altarpieces in oil, that are associated with this turn in art history.750 However, manuscript illuminations are also part of the period in European devotional art history when images become more and more concerned with depicting thing exactly as they are. Symbolism and realism go hand in hand, however, each minute detail of a picture, carries significance and nothing is left to chance. Arguably, finding this much dancing in the scenes of Nativity, strengthens my earlier point. What is

749 I am grateful to William Dyrness for pointing out this connection. 750 For an example of this, see Bocken (2018).

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Plate 32. Shepards Annunciation, Book of Hours, MS M.19 fol. 50v (c. 1440) Belgium, perhaps Bruges.751

shown in these images are the experiences and the factual practices of the people in the period, including their claim that dancing could be part of a devoted life. Somewhat puzzling, is the fact that even though the use and distribution of Books of Hours, often is associated with the heightened literacy amongst laity devoted to the new movements of piety offered by Devotio Moderna, where emphasis is put on personal devotion, meditative reading of scripture, daily prayers and work in 751 Angel, holding scroll inscribed GLORIA IN EXCELSIS, flies above three shepherds, one playing flute, and the other two dancing with joined hands. Beside them are dog and sheep, including two black sheep. Scene in landscape with trees and mountains. Margins decorated with ivy-rinceaux floreate ornament. Book of Hours, MS M.19 fol. 50v, Belgium, perhaps Bruges, c. 1440. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1907 for The Morgan Library & Museum.

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Plate 33. Christ Nativity, Book of Hours, MS M.1001 fol. 44r (c. 1475) France, Poitiers.752

trade or art, there is nothing so-far know about the practices of dance within these movements.753 In the mystical and already mentioned beguine traditions, normally

752 Within stable, Virgin Mary, nimbed, kneels with joined hands raised before Christ Child, cross-nimbed, nude, lying amid rays of light in wattle manger. Two angels, joined hands raised, and Joseph the Carpenter, nimbed, kneeling, hands crossed at breast, wearing moneybag at waist, adore Christ Child. Ox and ass look on. Miniature and text framed by historiated border with the following figures and scenes: Left border: Angel appears above roof of stable forming frame of Nativity scene. Below, shepherd, playing pipe, tends sheep within landscape. Right border: Shepherds: Annunciation – Angel, holding scroll inscribed GLORIA IN EXCELCIS, appears above two shepherds tending sheep and one goat in barnyard. Shepherdess stands in doorway of building beside barnyard. Lower border: Scene, Sports and Games: Dancing – Men and women, joining hands, dance near forest. One man grasps front paws of dog standing on its hindlegs. Another man plays bagpipes. Book of Hours, MS M.1001 fol. 44r, France, Poitiers, c. 1475 Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1907 for The Morgan Library & Museum. 753 Van Engen (1988), 23–28.

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contrasted to the followers of Devotio Moderna, dancing is an existing trope. In more recent work by Indigo Bocken in his ‘Jan van Eyke and the active mysticism of the Devotio Moderna’ (2018), this juxtaposition is somewhat starting to get questioned.754 Still, what the association between dance and these new forms of spirituality came to be, is an area of study only now unravelling.755 In my final example, two consecutive images will be analysed from the same Book of Hours. In the first one, Christ Nativity (Plate 33), the devotion happens not only out in the countryside, where only peasants are present, but rather in a manger placed in a village. In this picture, we see a very detailed image of a young Mary and an old Joseph kneeling in awe. The angels above the manger sing their Glory, while one of the older shepherds kneel (to the left) the younger peasant engaged in taking care or the sheep (to the right) lift his staff and foot in what looks like a leap of Joy. Underneath this scenery, in what might be presumed at a first glance to be the border or margins of the page a row of men and women respond to this even by standing in line in what seems to be a procession of dance. This dancing happens in a forest and first in line (to the right) stands a man with a bagpipe, while last in the dance is the dog holding paws with a man. Here, all the women carry veils as when married, still, every second person is male and every second female. As in the previous images, what is seen here, is mixing of genders and animals, as well as a harmonious dance of praise, at the moment when the heavenly and earthly spheres merge in the birth of Christ. Even the oxen and the ass known from The Golden Legend story are here depicted as crossing the border between the manger and the rest of the world. All social, cultural and natural boarders have been rearranged if not completely broken with the birth of the Saviour. However, we may also find images like that of the Shepherds: Annunciation (Plate 34). In this miniature, the image is much more chaotic. There is no harmonious holding of hands in a procession or circular movement of dance. The animals are jumping and leaping and scattered around into the countryside. In the middle frame, we still have a man playing the bagpipe and male and female Shepards receiving the message of Gloria from the angels. However, in this image the gestures of devotion – which might also be dance – are more eruptive, spontaneous and freely expressive. The woman raises her hands towards the sky, one of the men kneel, while the last one makes a dance-like bow. The man playing the bagpipe lifts his foot just like the previous images where dancing was depicted. What further differentiates Plate 34 from Plate 33, is the fact that even though the image portrays the Annunciation to the Shepherds, the scenery is actually a setting placed in a town or village. This raises the question, that what if this image wants to portray the festive revelry of a much more rowdier kind, which was part of the practices of several cities of this period? Independently, what the purpose was, the effect of this image is that we see that both more lively forms of dancing, movements where children, animals and people of both genders mix together, could be part of the illustrations of reverentia during the Nativity. 754 Bocken writes nothing of dancing, however, he highlights the importance of art and concrete practices for the followers of the Devotio Moderna. Bocken (2018), 62–87. 755 Lindsey Drury’s Three Imagined Dances: the somatics of early modern textual meditation (2019).

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Plate 34. Shepherds: Annunciation, Book of Hours, MS M.1001 fol. 48r, France, Poitiers, c. 1475756 756

Throughout these stories, images, biblical passages and argumentative patterns, what has been shown, is that dancing during the Christmas season was part of the reverentia of the people. Sometimes the dancing was part of a practice of prayer, worship and thanksgiving practiced by the clergy only. It is plausible that the in the social imaginary of this period these dances where modelled on the idea of a perfect harmonious ongoing worship of angels. When dancing was practiced in seclusion, by priests, choirboys or nuns, in the most sacred space of the church, it may also have contained some kinds of petitions or prayerful devotional meaning.

756 Two angels, holding scrolls, appear above shepherdess and four shepherds, including one playing bagpipe, tending flock of sheep in pasture. Shepherdess and shepherds gesture or fall back. Miniature and text framed by historiated border with the following continuous scene: Scene, Occupational: Pastoral – In upper left corner, angel, holding two scrolls, appears above man, in left border, holding staff, raising left hand to forehead, seated among rooftops of buildings. In upper right corner, angel, holding scroll, appears above two men, in right border, tending sheep and cattle in fenced pasture. Below, in lower border, man, holding flail, stands beside fence. Within fence, in lower left corner, woman, supporting herself with staff, stands in doorway of building behind second woman, seated, milking goat beside sheepcote within which is flock of sheep. Several sheep graze outside sheepcote. Child, wearing coif, extending left arm, pulls toy ship on wheels. He points towards several animals, including two dogs, one of which chases horse, and ass. Shepherds: Annunciation, Book of Hours, MS M.1001 fol. 48r, France, Poitiers, c. 1475. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1907 for The Morgan Library & Museum.

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Other times, our examples have shown, dancing was part of the singing and devotion of a liturgical play. At those occasions it may have been so that the only ones dancing were the choirboys and different ranks of clergy. However, at times particularly when the office or celebration of mass ended in this joyful reverentia of song and dance, the culmination may have lead to also other parts of the Corpus Christianum joining the feast. It seems further plausible that some of these festal celebrations were arranged and organised so that the service should be followed by the whole congregation part-taking in the singing, dancing and later feasting, involving food and drinks. Nevertheless, not even the joining of laity and clergy or mixing of genders in dance and celebration does seem to have been problematic in the way earlier research has tended to portray the practices of the Feast of Fools. This, is due to the fact that sacred folly and crossing of ordinary structures of social hierarchy was part of the liturgical enactment envisioned for this occasion. Contrary to the dancing discussed in Corpus Christi feasts, where the reverentia of the Corpus Christianum tended to keep the structure of processions and at least ideally, ordered ranks of different parts of the society, the Christmas season seems to have allowed for more freedom of movements and formats. From the correspondence between Vivien and his opponents this chapter also showed us that even when the dancing was practiced by mainly lay people and in the interior spaces of the church, this was also a form of reverentia. These dances seemed to carry ritual purposes so theologically significant and deeply meaningful to the people of the city of Nîmes that they would appeal to the highest of courts and the King, to make their case for keeping the practice. Using references to the dance of David in their claims, may further have indicated that the laity was not merely imagined to take part in the reverentia of the harmonious and joyful kind, seen in the dances of the angels. They seem also to have perceived their dance to be fashioned according to their ideas of how royalty was to be treated and greeted. Finally, the references to David also brought up the possibility that at times reverentia could break with the patterns of contained and harmonious movements normally perceived as appropriate for worship. What the correspondence further revealed, was that the arguments for the liturgical importance of even lay-dancing were situated deep in biblical imagery of both David dancing before the Ark and the new order of the world arriving with the birth of Christ. The dancing was portrayed not only as appropriate reverentia of joy and merriment, but even as the prayerful service – enactment of faith, in deeds and words – of the whole Corpus Christianum joined as one. The correspondence hinted at the possibility that dancing had been used as a prayerful practice that would bring healing to both the King and the community of the church, during a period of hardship. If not used as petitions against sickness, at least the dancing had been part of the petitions of thanksgiving when health was brought back to the King. We do not know what the dancing looked like, but as most of the images portraying dance co-inside with the description of a harmonious circular dance, one might presume that at least one of the patterns of dancing was that of a circle.

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There may of course, have been various other kinds of dancing practiced in and around churches in medieval Europe. Some of these may, particularly during the Feast of Fools also have taken more rowdy forms, without that directly initiating a lack of reverentia nor a direct mocking of the practices of the church. In these cases the movements may have been patterned upon ideas of how David danced. It seems that particularly the season of Christmas opened up for, maybe even invited people into a period of the year when they sensed that God wished them to revel and take part in a celebration that would give them a for-taste of the Kingdom to come.

3. Conclusions This chapter started with showing how earlier research has understood and interpreted the historical materials showing signs of dancing in and around churches in medieval Europe. I have argued that Gougaud’s and Rahner’s statements that dancing was not part of the official liturgy of the church are based on three different modes of reasoning that bear little resemblance to the situation in the medieval period. Earlier research has judged dancing to either be a direct remnant of pagan worship practices or be based on cultural practices that carry pagan roots. The direct or indirect connection between dance and paganism is one of the narrative frameworks around dance practices which has deemed dancing unchristian and, thus, not part of the traditions of the church. A second narrative framework that has hindered earlier research from considering dancing as a liturgical praxis is the list of condemnations against dancing, which can be found. Scrutinising those condemnations, we see that; Yes, there were condemnations of dancing by church authorities. However, these condemnations were not as persistent as earlier research makes it look. I found that there are significant variations in what is condemned and when or where the condemnations are issued. Sometimes, it was found that what was condemned can hardly be seen as dancing. Instead, the discussion evolved around partying, disturbing social order by being drunk and sacrilegious practices unknown to us. Earlier research has argued that dancing was a persistent but unwanted element in Christian celebrations of the past. However, I say that this would be a misjudgement that may be fitting to discussions on disturbing parties but does not apply to all kinds of dancing. Longer gaps between the condemnations can further be found, which seems to indicate that there may also have been dance practices in the medieval period that did not disappear nor did anyone try to abolish them. Instead, I suggest that there existed dancing which was more or less accepted in its more liturgical forms. The third narrative framework which hindered earlier research from understanding dance as a liturgical practice is the pre-set theological criteria that all liturgical practices need to be described and defined in textual form, by authoritative males of the church tradition. However, even with this criteria, I found that the arguments by earlier researchers are highly problematic, as we found liturgical manuscripts from various periods of the medieval time-frame that both describe and explain the dance practices that have been found. We may not fully understand all of these practices; nevertheless that is not a reason to deem them theologically insignificant.

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The scrutiny of historical sources conducted in this study did not find traces of dancing being part of the ‘ordinary’ Sunday services and Eucharistic Mass, as some scholars have argued that the Acts of John accounts could be read to indicate.757 Instead of excluding this possibility altogether, I am suggesting that earlier research around liturgical manuscripts has tended to presume that there is no dancing to be found and, thus, translated and analysed textual evidence in particular ways. Once manuscripts are examined from a new point of view, offered in this thesis, future research might come to new conclusions. Furthermore, my most cogent critique of the earlier research lies in the fact that their interpretative framework has preceded from an understanding of both Christianity, Theology, Religion and Dance, from a social imaginary embedded in Secular values, stories, understanding and tainted by particular interpretative frameworks. These contain limiting judgements and blind-spots concerning what role dancing may have had in a medieval social imaginary. Thus, I instead aimed at providing a narrative framework based on the stories, myths, symbols, artwork and practices of the medieval social imaginary, concerning which the practices of dance could be interpreted in a more profound and correcting way. When approaching dance praxis from the interpretative framework of a medieval social imaginary, what was revealed was that there seems to have been different kinds of dancing to be examined. Certain types of dancing seem to have been almost unanimously condemned. The need for regulating these kinds of dancing arouse from their rowdy form disturbing sacred space or the social and spiritual harmony of the Corpus Christianum. There may even have been certain kinds of dance that was judged to lead towards sinful behaviour. However, any clear traces that dancing was considered an act of superstitio, directly associated with worshipping daimones cannot be found. When dancing in the medieval period is found in discussions of superstitio, the daimones are either understood to be in disguise where bodily actions could invoke them, or then the author had a particular view of reverentia which was not shared by the whole Corpus Christianum. If something, the condemning writing where dance is involved in discussions of superstitio, only strengthens the case for dancing being a powerful practice of reverentia. What I further found, through examining the examples of the Game of Pelota, the feast of Corpus Christi and Feast of Fools celebrations, was that dancing figured as a form of reverentia, not merely as insignificant amusement. When the dancing was examined from an enchanted universe perspective, dance as a form of reverentia, figured in processions, in games and play, drama, joyful celebration as well as prayer and supplication. When the practice was performed within a strict liturgical setting, those who danced were often clergy or nuns. However, also the reverentia of the populous took the form of dancing, inside and outside of churches. The latter, should not, from a medieval social imaginary point of view, be seen as less essential nor lacking in liturgical significance. Dancing processions, harmonious dances in circles or with circular movements as well as celebratory dance exclamations seem to have been entirely appropriate 757 See particularly: Yingling (2013); Beard-Shouse (2010); Bowe (1999).

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forms of reverentia. Dance of joy, a dance of exuberance, a dance of celebration and dancing as a sign of goodness and thankfulness seem to be the most straightforward practices to distinguish as not only expressions of love to/for God, but ways to express worship of God. These were practised at special occasions of feast and jubilation. Furthermore, there are indications of dance also being a prayer practice, where not only gratitude is expressed but petitions and intercessory prayers through movements of dance for the community, animals, land and people, are conveyed. In the examination of textual and artifactual evidence, I found several references to dancing and dance that may indicate that dancing as a devotional practice may even have been practised amongst communities of nuns, beguines and/or ordained persons. These aspects need further studies to be confirmed. What is further noteworthy, is that, in the prohibitions found from councils and some of the examples concerning Corpus Christi feasts, there is an emphasis laid on women who dance and the dance of nuns. In these cases the movements may not have been associated only with joy, but sorrow or mourning. The particular naming of women has been/could be interpreted as a sign that the prohibitions against dancing are related to behaviour of females. However, in both the examples of the Game of Pelota and the celebrations surrounding the Feast of Fools, the majority of people we have found described as dancing are male clergy. Thus, I have not found in these materials, any clear evidence that dancing can be stated to have been a female practice in the medieval period. Simultaneously, I also found evidence of traditions of dancing within female monasteries that do need further investigation to be understood fully. These may also shed light on particular forms of female piety in the medieval period involving dance. Furthermore, as the sermons by Caesarius of Arles and other examples of condemnation against dancing seem to state, an emphasis has been laid on dancing being a practice of the unlearned or part of popular piety. What instead is found in the Feast of Fools as well as the Game of Pilota, is evidence that those who fiercely defended the practice of dancing, where part of the upper social strata of society; learned men and clergy. Thus, stating that dancing was a practice that was condemned due to its association with the populous is neither a statement that can be used as a sole explanatory narrative framework in understanding dance. The statement mentioned above does not negate the fact that there also seems to have been practices of dance that were part of the popular expressions of piety. It only highlights that no simplistic categorisations of dance as feminine or pagan or unlearned can be made. Neither is it possible to claim that dance never was an accepted practice of the liturgical life of the medieval church, nor that dancing would not be an essential category of Christian religious practice that needs to be given theological and philosophical consideration in future research. However, it does seem plausible that some of the more rowdy forms of dancing that were enjoyed by the laity, choirboys and sub-deacons in the Feast of Fools celebration can be understood in the light of a male-oriented view of how transformation and liturgical acts of inversion could be enacted. Even when dancing at times met with resistance – as in the historical record of lieutenant Vivien’s prohibitions – it was far from a practice that mattered for only

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a few, or which stayed at the margins of the celebrations of the church. Instead, it seems as if what has hindered earlier generations of scholars from finding, recognising or acknowledging those traces of dancing that are there to be found, are the interpretative frameworks used. Once we turn to read the theological reasoning written in the medieval context as a defence for dancing we find that the practices of dance were understood to have been a way to enact the Kingdom of God on earth. It manifested High Time by sacralising time and space. Dancing was described as a pattern for reverentia that revealed both the praesentia and potentia of God amongst his people. The practices of dancing in the context of worship further connected the Corpus Christianum with both the angelic host in the heavenly spheres as well as the biblical community of past generations. The practice of dance joined the Corpus Christianum both to the perfect communion in paradise and the future Glory of a resurrection body. In this context, I am ready to suggest that dancing was a practice through which the Corpus Christianum could not only bring down heavenly power into the level of streets, rhythm of clocks and calendars, but also commune with the potentia and praesentia of God. In conclusion, dancing in the Christian traditions of the West, have long been neglected and ignored but foremost been left unnoticed due to the cognitive biases, epistemological defaults and narrative frameworks of earlier research communities. What the study of dance theologically further reveals is that these problematic aspects of earlier research are linked not just to a different social imaginary which has hindered people from fully grasping the contextual framework of earlier historical periods. What this study reveals is how diseased social imaginaries, constructed around racialised gaze and Christian cultural hegemony, distort the ability of researchers still today, to detect the importance of dancing for Christian communities present and past.

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Dancing Bodies Today and Then

Preparing for Joy?1 We had been preparing for this day for a year. Most of the practices involved taught to get in touch with our bodies, listening to the small voices of pleasure and truth rising from within; learning to trust an interior space where guidance is given and answers can be found. Other parts of the preparations had centred around getting to know each other, trusting the group. In this, we were encouraged not only to share thoughts and what was on our heart. We were also encouraged to play and interact without words. Playfulness was a key component in many of the communal exercises and, thus, it also was at the centre of the Sacred Play of this day. On a cognitive level, the first year had also involved a kinetic and explorative relation to the five different parts of the Mass: The Welcome and Preparation, The Word, The Prayers of the Community, The Meal and The Sending of the Body into the World. We had taken part in different ways of portraying these aspects of the Sunday Service and participated in creating authentic connections with the root of the meaning of each part of the whole. Today was the day when all of these would come together, for the very first time. We were divided into five groups with two to four individuals in each, given only the instructions that we were to translate a particular part of the Mass into some dance or bodily practice of sort. There was excitement in the air. Moreover, some hesitation – was it really possible to dance the whole liturgy? Would it be ‘for real’, if we chose to do it in this playful way? Each person I talked with shared how the different aspects of the Mass had opened up to them and revealed a deeper meaning, through the exercises we had been practising together. However, to combine all of these parts into one whole Liturgical Play, how would that be? I also heard voices sharing that the form or the structure of how things ‘must be’ – both as an idea of their professional role, the tasks one needs to stick with within the Mass as well as the given patterns of how a proper dance needs to be executed – had become so rigid and tight that people were feeling their life-force being drained out of their bodies. The lack of freedom and fluidity outside of this schooling has stiffened their creativity, and many longed to break loose, reaching out for what is alive and healthy. They longed for this exercise, giving them permission to find Joy again.

1 Joy written with capital letters or with a capital J, is a marker for what is expressed as something more than an emotional state. Joy spelled in this manner is more of a sensory experience independent of feelings. It could also be described as state of openness and/or connection in Body, Mind and Soul.

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One single voice also said that after all these exercises of freedom and breaking patterns, she desired a form. She was tired of her voice, making all the demands and everything centring around her petty little self. She longed instead for the unity of a community moving as One. A balance that she explained was gained when freedom and form came together. After the session of sharing our thoughts and experiences, we did a communal mini-preparation. The mini-preparation was a 30-minute warm-up exercise at the same time as it was a run-through of the stages of the Mass through wordless movements led by our teacher. The Welcome and Preparation was expressed in the stomping of feet, searching for a rhythm. Once the unison beat was there, the circle of people started moving towards the centre. The Prayers of the Community were expressed as gestures and mimicking a lived life situation. Each person who wanted could step into the circle and share a pattern – tell their story – and then the group mirrored this gesture back. The Meal was portrayed as splitting into pairs where each member took turns in giving their full attention to the other one. An exercise of reciprocity whereby bodily gesture, emotional expression and movement patterns were displayed to be seen – broken in vulnerability – for one person to follow the other in every detail. After a while, the attention shifted, and it was the task of the other person to mimic and be in the position of giving their full attention and energy to the other’s disposal: A gift of receiving and extending towards the other. The Sending of the Body into the World ended our session through movements where we blessed each in the pair. Once each individual had been touched, the whole community came together, and as one Body we connected and were sent out. The last piece of music was upbeat and joyous, leading the entire congregation out into the different parts of the room, and beyond this space into the whole World. We were given 30 more minutes to prepare ourselves in our groups, and then we met in the Sanctuary for the Celebration of the Mass. *** What happened in the Mass itself was an experience that cannot be put into words or be reproduced. *** When we gathered to share, amongst the most energetic tones that rose where those of freedom, relief, the utter JOY of celebrating a real, authentic Feast, full of Life, full of Presence and authentic experiences of participation. This Mass had materialised all of the things people in the group were longing to have in their churches and in their Sunday Services. Many expressed that in this exercise, the deep sense of Joy came from the experience of playfulness, to be able to approach even sacred things – like the water of the baptismal font or the Eucharist – with the curiosity of a child and ease of a mind wrapped in delight. Once again, there was one small voice, which had not shared. A voice I had come to appreciate for her sensitive insightfulness, so I went to ask: How had her experience of the Mass been? At first, she said that she agreed, especially with the experience of

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Joy and delight that the others had shared. Yet, for her, the kind of actual Presence and full awareness had been most present in the opening and closing of the Mass. In these more free-form dances, she had had time to sense the communion with the whole Body: entering into the space where a feast was about to be celebrated and stepping out into the community as a group on a joyful mission together. She had also had one precious moment during the Kyrie – a piece of music that had permitted her to give everything up, into the hands of God; To give herself wholeheartedly away into His care and let everything go. Outside of these few fleeting moments – she hesitated to be honest and vulnerable – there had not been much of that well-known experience of God being present in the room. We stopped to reflect upon this, as I too, had not really felt that thick sense of Spirit filling the space. She said, there had been that sense of ‘almost’ – as if God was just about to enter – but then, in the last moment hesitated, and left the moment to itself. What was such an experience about? My fellow dancer presumed that it could not be about the actual presence of God. Instead, it might be about her, being ‘open’ to the touch. Did I sense that there had been space and time, for the presence of God, in what we did together? Together we followed this thought, having a reminiscence of the question not really being about speed – sometimes a song can be up-beat and the movements fast, still we can sense how God enters the scene, and he IS there. Sometimes God is sensed as more palpable in the Silence or in the Stillness, yet other times he can be just as actively there, in an uttering of words and in a variety of movements. She continued that maybe this was only one of those; ‘He Blows as the Wind’ – things, where we cannot decide or ‘do’ anything… We are not in charge. Still, somehow, she concluded, the experience of a true Liturgy, is that it prepares us. My dancer friend said: We DO have the option of making ourselves ready. Of opening the way – not in the sense of manipulating feelings or experiences – which might happen in some charismatic movements – but in an exercise of paving the way. Maybe this is different from person to person, the way such a preparation happens? But there is a way to Welcome the Spirit, to Open oneself and Space, for something to enter or happen. Perhaps this can be done in the body, in mind, in spirit? Somehow, such a preparation is the experience she had in, for example, a Service called the Desert Mass – a liturgical practice containing many elements of the senses being activated, the tempo of life taken back to the beat of the Heart and the communal aspect of doing these exercises together. Sometimes the Desert Mass Service may take two hours, yet it is all just a preparation. Then, all of a sudden – when the water is sprinkled over the participants at the end of the Service – this is the moment where she most clearly has felt His Presence: a Silence, an intense, sacred, silence, which just is. The space is filled with Presence, and this can continue for several minutes. That is the moment when she feels, NOW I AM ready, to Start celebrating the Mass. Now we are prepared to have a Communion.2



2 KR 5.1.0-KR 5.2.3.

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Reflecting back on this encounter with the practice of dancing a whole mass, after scrutinising the historical records of dancing in the medieval period, several things come to mind. First of all, I am overwhelmed by the fact that Joy, Playfulness and Freedom are such strong themes in the stories of these dancing women in Sweden today. Just as Lisa Felski, these women affirm the need for creating and upholding specific practices that strengthen connections, coproduction, invention, imagination and love.3 These women model for us what Church could be, at its best. Furthermore, they raise political critique by expressing what they desire. To long for a situation where one is not judged, wayed and measured, evaluated continuously, is also what Jonna Bornemark writes about in her book Det Omätbaras Renässans – En uppgörelse med pedanternas världsherravälde (2018). She describes the two concepts of ‘ratio’ and ‘intellectus’ and states that in today’s society many of us have been led to believe that the only things that count are ‘ratio’ perspectives of life. This means that everything that is of importance can be measured and should be understood through clearly defined concepts and descriptions. However, Bornemark counters this thinking by saying that we will lose something immensely valuable concerning knowing, but most of all, life, if we abandon cultivation of ‘intellectus’.4 ‘Intellectus’ practices are any form of art, but particularly word-less and ritual forms of dance, meditative walking in nature and other forms of exercise where one develops the ability to listen and be. However, the arts may also play other significant roles for the formation of the human. As has been suggested by some theologians, already Paul, in the New Testament states that formation and cultivation of a Christ-like mind and Jesus centred ways of perceiving, experiencing and thinking about the world, is best done through the arts.5 What I am suggesting is that not only does engaging with art render us able to think about the world and imagine life in it in new ways. Expressing ourselves in dance and artistic movement may also open us up to new ways of being and acting. Traditionally, the church has been a place and space were being, and listening has been practiced, encouraged and developed. However, with the turn, today, to more and more achievement and technology-oriented ways of approaching life, even spiritual exercises and meditation can be measured, weighed and evaluated. In the dance schoolings, I encountered several discussions about the possibility of teaching Mindfulness and Yoga or other bodily practices of awareness in church settings. Such discussions can be approached from several different viewpoints. However, when churches choose to present more of the same things that are offered



3 Felski (2015), 17–18. 4 Bornemark (2018), 34–47, 244–59, 262–67. 5 For the importance of art, images and poetry for the formation of Christ-like thinking, see: Dyrness (2010), 267–79, 292–300; Willard (2002), 32; N. T. Wright (2007), 234–36; Source Y. For a broader perspective on Theology and Art, see Begbie (1991).

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in society – a healthy body, mental clarity and more productive life – the risk is that what is presented is just more pressure to achieve.6 Contrary to this, some of the liturgical practices presented in chapter 3 of this thesis seem instead to have provided the perfect antidote against the ‘ratio’ – focused society – Playful Games and Sacred Folly. To engage in perfectly ‘meaningless’ activities of dancing and gesturing outside of the ‘box’ could be considered as a sacred and well-hidden asset of the theological tradition of the Latin West. Dancing, contrary to Yoga or Mindfulness, is not only a practice that – as this study has shown – carries deep roots in the Christian traditions of the West. Dancing also does not require specific clothes, yoga mats, health accessory or even physical abilities. The latter is particularly well shown by Ruth Illman and W. Alan Smith in the chapter entitled ‘Embodied Grace’ in Theology and the Arts (2013), where they write about the dance practices of the mentally and physically disabled.7 Furthermore, recent research at the University of Eastern Finland, by Hanna Pohjola, shows that even paralysed bodies can gain access to and find healing through, dance.8 Even though I would encourage every-body to start moving and exploring their physical abilities of connection, presence, awareness and sensory access with their own body and that of others, only watching somebody else dance, will, thanks to our mirror neurones, activate the sense of dance within us. Simultaneously, as the comment by one of my dancing ladies indicated, loosening oneself from Ego-structures or, as in the words of Hugo Rahner, gaining the lost Christian virtue of eutrapelia, is not as easy as just doing whatever one wants to or always choosing freedom. Eutrapelia is a virtue that can be trained and gained, but also lost and over-indulged in. Thus, the question that arises is, how could the Church today engage in practices that cultivated the sense of playful self-importance and revitalising jollification that the medieval Corpus Christianum seems to have been so skilled at doing. One key element in the medieval world seems to have been the placing of freedom into a form, creating a liturgical pattern for how such enactments should be performed. Furthermore, the practice of eutrapelia does not need to be only an individual formation into less ego-centric structures of thought and action. In its liturgical forms of a communal feast, eutrapelia could be a praxis of the community where worldly hierarchies are challenged and social conformity to capitalist societies’ willingness to ‘sell’ you a shame-free identity could be uprooted at its core. These are themes that require more theological studies; however, I also want to emphasise that as soon as scientific studies turn into showing the benefits of dance, games and play, we are already loosing the cause to the dominant world order. Instead, in-depth studies on understanding the relationship of different forms of liturgical enactments, ritual forms of dancing and playfulness with a sense of being fully alive, is what I would envision as the path of exploring eutrapelia.



6 See also the increase in sick-leave due to mental health issues related to increased pressure at work and around other societal concerns. Source E; Source F; Source G; Source H. 7 Illman&Smith (2013), 150–60; See also Ahlvik-Harju (2016). 8 Source 2.

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The second thing that caught my attention was that both the medieval records portraying dancing and the encounters I had with dancers in the church today showed that dance could be used for and portrayed many different kinds of encounters with the divine. Dancing is not only an emotional expression of Joy and merriment. Dancing can and is used in Gloria, in Kyrie, for lamentation, in dramatic depictions, as a prayer practise, a path for communing with God but also as sensing divine presence and power. Furthermore, the vulnerable and paradoxical body of a trained dancer sometimes seems to approximate the porous body of a medieval self. This is, of course, something that needs many further studies, to be verified. Still, both in the case of my Angels Lady and in the case of other dancers I encountered, their descriptions of how they experienced the praesentia and sometimes even potentia of God seems somewhat removed from the buffered self of a Secular Age. God is actively present and experienced on a sensory level by these dancers. Overall, the depictions of experiencing the presence and closeness to God increased during the period that we regularly danced together independently if people otherwise experienced a sense of increased wellbeing or not.9 Thus, the comment presented by one of my dancers about the fact that one can practice and prepare oneself for the encounter with God by becoming open in body, mind and spirit is worth noticing. Was dancing as a practice of preparation known to the medieval people? Did they experience that they could somehow engage with God more deeply after practising the communal dances? Or was this kind of dancing a personal devotional practice? Did the nuns and beguine women, who had devotional pictures of Jesus dancing with them, also practice dancing as a path of communion, as had Elisabeth of Spalbeek? Many paths of inquiry are opened by these encounters between the past and present. However, one critical remark needs to be made on these comparative strands of thought between the present-day practices of dancing in churches, dance as a religious practice and the medieval materials examined in this study. Even though dancing is described as an expression of Joy and embodied outpouring of rejoicing in a Mass or celebration now, we do not find strong evidence that dancing was related to an emotional output. The language and depictions from the Medieval period do not speak about emotional expression in any detailed or positively engaging ways. If anything, we will find cautionary remarks about how to engage with strong emotional incentives a.k.a. the passions. Furthermore, as the examples of exorcism and experience of praesentia and potential of the divine in relation to relics, pilgrimage sites and Saints Day feasts indicated, negotiation with the divine, in a medieval context seems to have been dependent on the activity of forces outside of the human. Even defining it as outside, in the context of a porous self, is somewhat problematic. These aspects of how dancing became and functioned within the performance of reverentia call for much further research. Particularly the activity of dancing found at the Saints Day feasts would warrant its own study, tracing the development of dancing at the feasts of the martyrs in the Early Church, to the fully-fledged celebrations of feasts of the Saints in medieval Europe.

9 KR AI 1; KR AI 2; KR AI 5; KR AI 6; KR AI 7.

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Results What the re-reading of the historical records of earlier scholarship in this study has shown is that there were much more accepted forms of dancing happening in the medieval society, than earlier reckoned with. Earlier research has focused not only on the prohibition of dancing but on the frenzies and manias of dance that showed to have little historical evidence, except in legendary form. Scrutinising these accounts further will probably reveal more critical remarks about this topic. Some of the medieval dancing seems to have been more in line with feasting and partying to get intoxicated and have a chance for procreation. Church authorities generally condemned these forms of dance gatherings, and they were definitely not acceptable practices for the clergy. However, a kind of merriment seems also to have been practised which today might be interpreted as entertainment, albeit under other circumstances was revered as sacred. What would still need further research is the possibility that such liturgical activities were perceived as the semiotic expression of the Holy Spirit working within the community. When we read the defence of the dancing at the Feast of Fools celebrations, the practices are given symbolic explanations built on a biblical and customary tradition. However, this does not remove the possibility that dancing was perceived as a powerful practice that upset the worldly order through its semiotic abilities. Furthermore, the dancing may even have been used for activation purposes, when it comes to interacting with the Holy Spirit. What has been found, through my re-reading of liturgical manuscripts, stories of dance, hymns of dancing and prohibitions against it, in the light of a medieval social imaginary and analysing of artwork, is that dancing performed reverentia of different kinds. I could identify at least the following types of performed reverentia. Dancing seems to have performed the reverentia of Joy, the reverentia of supplication and the reverentia of prayer. At these occasions, dancing is described to have been a harmonious circular dance, even though it may very well also have been performed within processions and in other patterns. Furthermore, some signs – particularly the descriptions given by the people of Nîmes and during communal Corpus Christi activities – indicate that dancing also performed the reverentia of manifesting praesentia and potentia of the divine in the worldly sphere. If the dancers experienced themselves as agents in relationship to and with the divine, they might actually have perceived the dancing as a performance that activated the praesentia and potentia of the divine. From this point of view, the dancing presented amid liturgical activities, feasts and prayers would indeed have been a powerful tool or practice that would also have raised the need for regulation from church authorities. Further studies are needed to verify these possibilities. From the activities of the Corpus Christi feasts we at least know that organising processions and part-taking in dancing, with various forms of artefacts incorporated into the reverentia, also functioned as a powerful incentive for creating a sense of community. This communal aspect of the dancing cannot be over-emphasised, as the joining together of a Corpus Christianum during festivities and pilgrimage activities

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are one of the aspects of both female and lay reverentia that are left unnoticed if one uses pre-set criteria of what constitutes liturgical practices in the manner that earlier research has done. This further brings us into the discussion of how earlier research has perceived and discussed the practices of dancing. The first task of this study was to describe how earlier research has depicted dancing as part or not part of ‘a Christian tradition’ of the churches of the Latin West. Furthermore, I wanted to give an account of the narrative frameworks that have been used for these depictions. The Body of Works I encountered was both broken and distorted in very particular ways. I called the historical evidence of dancing bones, while the social imaginary that put together these bones in particular ways was the fascia of the body. The fascia contains specific narrative frameworks that can further be divided into both joints and ligaments as well as muscles. I found myself in a situation, like that described by Helgard Mahrdt with the help of Hannah Arendt at the symposium Feminist philosophy and the presence of the past, at Södertörn University in Sweden, 19 March 2019. Mahrdt states that what we are faced with today, is both fragmentation of the past and a kind of manipulated state of amnesia. What is meant by this is that we have lost our connection to the past.10 The amnesia and fragmentation can be played out in a variety of different ways. People, in the society of Hannah Arendt and even more so in the culture of today, may have a solid sense of how history has been unfolding. For example, on the webpage of the Church of Sweden, there is a description found about the history of sacred dances in the Church, which is in urgent need of revisioning. The text contains many of the claims I heard about dance during my research period that build on a very broken Body.11 Wouter J. Hanegraaff called it a poeticising historical imagination when there is a robust narrative framework stating that either dancing has never been part of the practices of the church, its liturgies, or it has been seen as a fully accepted ‘Christian’ behaviour by theologians. The opposite narrative framework states that dancing was always part of the ‘real’ or ‘authentic’ spiritual practices that were not smeared by dogma or man-made ideas about religious, moral reverence. What came as a surprise to me was how strongly the narrative frameworks have also tainted the academic discourses. Why the narrative frameworks are found both inside and outside of academia, I concluded, has to do with them being rooted in one shared social imaginary. Independently, if the narrative framework posed dance at the romanticised pinnacle of religious experiences or at the animalistic bottom, both frameworks are imbedded in the fascia of a racialised gaze, a gaze that coverages around a Christian cultural hegemony, a hegemony that has been blinded to a more robust set of evidence for and against dancing in the Christian traditions of medieval Europe.

10 What we are left with is still ‘the past, but a fragmented past, which has lost its certainty of evaluation’ (Arendt, The Life of the Mind, 212). In private conversation with Mahrdt 27.06.2019. 11 After this thesis was defended the text on the webpages has changed considerably. However, there is still some room for more accuracy. Source 3.

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What might be seen as a fault of this study and that needs further attention, is to follow the arguments that Coulton presented in the opening of this thesis on medieval preaching against dancing as sinful.12 Are these statements yet another broken bone, or do they reveal new sources for understanding dance, in the particular situation of the medieval world? Scrutinising those bones, will a new pattern of understanding in relation to particular dances be revealed? What is at least evident is that Coulton’s analysis, just like that of Gougaud, is not built on the complete set of bones that can be found. Neither do their interpretations follow the patterns of meaning, argumentation and experiences of the medieval social imaginary. Instead, these authors and many others with them, uphold their narrative frameworks around Christianity and dancing and then impose their particular examples on the joints and ligaments they understand to be situated in front of them, as to how the world ‘is’. Besides the two opposing narrative frameworks on dance, there was also a third option found in the earlier scholarly work on dance in churches. In that narrative framework, it was emphasised that dancing had been part of the traditions of the West. Still, its roots go either into pagan practices or folkloric cultural practices that have very little to do with what ‘religion’ or ‘church’ is truly about. Instead, dance is the ‘primal root’ of all human behaviour as a cultural phenomenon. I argued that this last strand, together with the negative view on dance, is the main reason why dancing has not mattered theologically in earlier research, except maybe as a ‘movement in the margins’. This is what I would call a fragmentation of history, where specific subjects are put in particular boxes and not considered from other points of view or how they may be connected. Also, the narrative framework of a ‘cultural tradition’ of dance is embedded in the same fascia of a social imaginary where ultimately a racialised gaze defines the agenda. However, in this narrative structure, race is removed from a discussion relating to religions and instead inhabits the sphere of ethnic differences and, ultimately, a narrative framework converging around nationalism. This further ties into what Helgard Mahrdt has to say about tradition, read in the light of Hannah Arendt’s thinking. One more way in which we are losing our sense of connection to the past, according to Mahrdt, is when we lose our connection to tradition. With the help of Arendt, she pointed out that historical facts often become either unimportant or ‘unreachable’. One can understand this as a counter-action to the earlier option, where people are seeing through the falseness of the narrative stories but are unable or unwilling to connect the bones in a new way. Either it is seen as too complicated to forge new connections, or it just does not matter for the here and now what may have happened in the past. In addition to these examples, I am suggesting that being unwilling to look at history may also have to do with the fact that it hurts too much. If the distorted gaze on dance actually has to do with questions of race, it is easier to deny the need for discussion. Dancing is for the exotic ‘other’ while ‘we’ remain standing still.

12 For more on this see Dickason (2020).

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Mahrdt tells us that Hannah Arendt warns people of both paths for losing connection to the past.13 She states that in the first option scholars and thinkers create concepts that, as they are not connected to the real facts of the historical past, mould our thinking so that we cannot be creative. It is only when we and our concepts are connected to real memories that they can create new things for the future.14 Similarly, I described, as an answer to the second task of this study, that the narrative frameworks of earlier scholarly work have defined categories and concepts like pagan and secular, sacred and Christian. These I called muscle pairs that inhibit the Body of Works from movement and life. One of the aims of this study has been to show how these muscle pairs and the unfortunate use of them in distorting ways has led to discomfort and pain. This discomfort affects not only those who want to dance but the whole body of Theological tradition. When dancing is taken out of the picture, we lose valuable input from the past and creative possibilities of the future. As Rowan Williams and Sarah Coakley so aptly have described it, the Church is a community in via that needs to reimagine its past to heal the current diseased social imaginary and relationship to creation.15 Particularly the perceived disconnection between heaven and earth and profane and sacred space, which is challenged by the practices of dance, is one asset that the world currently needs to imagine anew for a new future to be possible. Another such insight might be the sacramental presence of God in all created matter. Helgard Mahrdt continues to explain that the other option to losing connection is equally problematic; where we lose the sense of connection due to not having a tradition to stand on. The loss of contact creates a situation where people lose their sense of agency. Mahrdt concludes: Only where events, deeds and words of the past are available to memory, we meet the condition of freedom necessary of thinking and acting and the possibility of a responsible relation to history.16

13 Today we may navigate ‘without a securely anchored tradition’ and yet not forgetting the past. Arendt is concerned about this condition, because ‘without a securely anchored tradition (…) the whole dimension of the past has also been endangered. We are in danger of forgetting, and such oblivion (…) would mean that, humanly speaking, we would deprive ourselves of one dimension, the dimension of depth in human existence. For memory and depth are the same’. (Arendt, Between Past and Future, 94) In private conversation with Mahrdt 27.06.2019. 14 She is drawing from Benjamin’s ‘Concept of History’ as a frame for her own work, in particular his critique of historicism and conformism in Thesis XIII and his notion of crystallization in Thesis XVII. Benjamin is claiming that history is never ‘revealed in the naked and manifest existence of the factual; (…) [he] claims that the “facts themselves” must be wrested from history, a wresting that is always incomplete and ongoing. (…)’ Benjamin claims that the factual truth of what happened, especially what happened to victims, is often purposely hidden away in the subterranean stream of history. ‘[Thus], the historian works as a witness to testify the subterranean stream’ (Peg Birmingham, ‘Why Are We So Matter of Fact about the Facts?’ in Hannah Arendt, The Journal of the Hannah Arendt Center for Politics and Humanity at Bard College, 2012, 77). In private conversation with Mahrdt 27.06.2019. 15 R. Williams (2009), 104–14; Coakley (2013), 15–20, 36. See also R. Williams (2015). 16 In private conversation with Mahrdt 27.06.2019.

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Not only do we need to forge out the evidence from the stories that are told to us, finding what is grounded in real experiences and what is not. We also need to be witnesses to the stories that have been left untold. It is only when we can tell these new stories that we are also enabled to forge new concepts. Such concepts are, according to Arendt, the only possibility we have for freedom of thinking which may illuminate the dark times we live in. As I agree with Mahrdt’s analysis, one of the main goals of this study has been to do precisely this. I have sung over the broken bones and seen a living body dance. Now it is up to others to further give responsible actions to these new stories of dance.

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Bibliography

Database The Cult of Saints in Late Antiquity (CSLA) database. http://csla.history.ox.ac.uk/(visited 07.09.2019) The following sources are in use: E05724 – Sermo seu narratio de miraculo s. Genesii martyris Arelatensis (BHL 3307, CPL 504) http://csla.history.ox.ac.uk/record.php?recid=E05724. E00718 – Basil of Caesarea, Homily 19, On the Forty Martyrs (CPG 2863, BHG 1205) http:// csla.history.ox.ac.uk/record.php?recid=E00718.

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Websites Source 1: Gurdjieff ‘International Review’ https://www.gurdjieff.org/ (visited 14.06.2019). Source 2: Tanssi voi herättää halvaantuneet aivot – lääkärit eivät antaneet toivoa, mutta tanssi auttoi Sirkka Kirjosta kuntoutumaan aivoinfarktista https://yle.fi/ uutiset/3–10825255?utm_source=facebook-share&utm_medium=social&fbclid=IwAR1Twg1wthSdfdLEvXkts0Rsv2b3kH2mvCu730i9VuPoShNpAr9gzlNF9Rw (visited 20.06.2019). Source 3: Heliga danser-historia, Svenska kyrkans hemsida https://www.svenskakyrkan.se/ heliga-danser (visited 29.04.2021). Source A: Wosien, Bernard (‘One Earth’, Volume 3, issue 5. ‘The Arts’.) quoted on: https:// sites.google.com/site/circledancedcmetroarea/how-it-all-began/bernard-wosien (visited 26.02.2017). Source B: Wosien, Maria-Gabriele http://www.sacreddance-wosien.net/mgwosien/ mgwosien.html (visited 26.02.2017). Source C: On Paralitugies http://www.ewtn.com/library/liturgy/zlitur248.htm (visited 21.12.2017). Source D: On Le-Puy https://sacredsites.com/europe/france/le_puy.html (visited 13.04.2018). Source E: Försäkringskassan ‘Psykisk ohälsa bakom nästan hälften av alla pågående sjukskrivningar’ published 10.10.2017 https://www.forsakringskassan.se/!ut/p/z0/Lcix CoAgEIDhZ2lwjFMagjbfQlziyKMkPY8Ue_0cmn6-Hzw48Iw9nthiYUzD7j3yJtguZR ar9FG4EbdK-0NVCtf YSWkZqH8yhUAJORCPk2ezGm00yG2nD7-QCkQ!/(visited 21.05.2018). Source F: Dagens Samhälle ‘Nytänk krävs för att bromsa sjukskrivningarna’ published 24.03.2016 https://www.dagenssamhalle.se/debatt/nytaenk-kraevs-foer-att-bromsasjukskrivningarna-23727 (visited 21.05.2018). Source G: Expressen ‘Det största hotet mot ett friskt samhälle är vår egen duktighet’ published 05.03.2017 http://www.expressen.se/debatt/det-storsta-hotet-mot-ett-frisktsamhalle-ar-var-egen-duktighet/ (visited 21.05.2018).

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bi bli o graphy

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Index

1. Index of Scripture Ex 3:8, 17; 13:5; 33:3 Lev 20:24 Num 13:27; 14:8; 16:13-14  Dt 6: 3; 26:9, 15; 27: 3;31:20 Jos 5:6 Jds 11:34; 21:21 1 Sam 18:6; 21:12; 29:5 II Sam 6:1-7 II Sam 6:14-16  Ps 149:1-3 Is 14:12 Jer 11:5 ; 32:22 Jer 31:15-22 Ez 20:6, 15

257 257 257 257 257 255 255 299 300 298 177 257 217 257

Mt 11:25-30; 18:2-4  Mt 12:34 Mk 10:13-16 Lk 2:14 Lk 6:45 Lk 9:46-48 Lk 24:13-35; 24:36-43 Jn 1:9-13 Jn 20:19-23; 21:1-14 Jn 21:15-17 1 Cor 12:12-13 2 Cor 6:16 Eph 5:4 1 Pet 2:4-9 2 Pet 1:19 Apoc 2:28; 22:16

209 289 209 317 289 209 258 209 258 203 192 195 161 214 177 177

2. Index of Ancient and Medieval Authors Abelard, Peter  216 Ambrose 303 Augustine  66, 70, 114, 176, 186, 191, 226, 241-43, 246, 251, 308-09 Basil the Great  184, 309 Beleth, J  18, 59, 66, 77, 157, 164-65, 185, 270-71 Benedictus 254-55 Bernard of Clairvaux  301 Caesarius of Arles  242, 248-51, 289, 326 Cassiodorus 185 Chrysostom  75, 289 Dante  66, 208-09

Durand, W  157, 173, 175-76, 179, 214, 217, 255-57, 271-72, 276-77 Ebreo da Pesaro, G  202 Elisabeth of Schonau  267 Elisabeth of Spalbeek  231, 334 Gregory of Nyssa  170 Gregory of Tours  244 Gregory the Great  67, 214-15 Hildegard of Bingen  229, 267, 314 Hippolytus 158-59 Honorius, A  165-66, 176, 185 Hugh of St Victor  52, 173, 182, 214, 257 Isidore, de Sevilla  105, 176, 226, 242, 247-48, 251

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Jacobus de Voragine  31, 52, 214-15, 217-18, 263, 275, 278-79, 282-83, 289, 294, 311-13 Jerome  176, 244 Martin of Braga  248, 250 Mechthild of Magdeburg  230 Paulinus of Nola  244

Peter Chrysologus  242-43, 245-48, 250 Philo of Alexandria  64, 66 Sicard of Cremona  18, 59, 77, 164-66, 171, 176, 185 Tengswich of Andernach  229 Teresa of Avila  256 Zacharias 253

3. Index of Modern Authors Ackerman, R  60-61, 65, 90, 92 Adams, D  15, 59, 63, 70-71, 75, 107 Ahlvik-Harju, C  333 Allen, Sr. P  48 Apostolos-Cappadona, D.  15, 59, 63, 70-71, 75, 107 Arcangeli, A  97, 101, 303 Backman, E.L  13, 22, 59, 63, 66-67, 71, 74-77, 101, 142, 171-72, 253 Bailey, M.D  117, 249-51 Bakhtin, M  260 Barad, K  24, 48 Barber, E.W  98, 150, 220, 223 Bartlett, R  217 Baumann, N  184 Beard-Shouse, M.G  325 Begbie, S.J  332 Ben-Aryeh Debby, N  204 Bocken, I  318, 321 Bolte Taylor, J  12 Borges da Costa, A.L  12, 81 Bornemark, J  139, 332 Bourdieu, P  86 Bowe, B.E  325 Bridgeman, J  205-06 Brooks, L.M  74, 99, 123 Browe, P  218 Brown, D  59, 63, 298 Brown, P.R.L  51, 86, 125, 150, 186-89, 194, 232, 240, 243-46, 249, 252, 255, 257, 306 Bunker, J  24 Burnett Tylor, E  92

Bynum, C.W  51, 116, 127-28, 186, 19495, 199, 210-12, 214, 225-26, 228-31, 233, 235-36, 245, 248, 259-61, 267-68, 276, 316 Caciola, N.M  119, 186, 235, 248 Calhoun, C  124-25 Cameron, E  89 Carpenter, S  242 Carter, F.S  182, 277 Casanova, J  113 Cavanaugh, W.T  113-15 Chaganti, S  234-35 Chambers, E.K  22, 50-51, 62-64, 67, 70-71, 75, 97, 124, 133, 148-52, 156, 17172, 182, 190, 197, 211, 215, 221-22, 236, 269, 282 Chitty, C  92 Clopper, L.M  131, 197, 223, 226, 230-32, 236-37, 248, 261, 266-69, 276, 301 Coakley, S  27, 29-30, 32-33, 38-40, 43, 48-49, 91, 106, 116, 133, 196, 338 Cohen, M  24, 34, 93 Conklin Akbari, S  245 Copeland, R  24, 34, 93 Coulton, G.G  14, 124, 337 Cox, J  123 Cox, D.L  12, 81 Crane, S  276 Csikszentmihalyi, M  12 Daniels, M  15, 59, 63, 71, 74 Darwin, C  92 Davies, J.G  13, 15, 59, 63, 70, 74-75, 77, 99, 123, 303 Davis, N.Z  218, 260

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Derbes, A  255 Devaney, T  214, 219, 224, 226, 256, 293 Dickason, K  21, 43-44, 209, 251, 337 Dilley, P  159 Doob, P.R  167, 169-72, 175, 190 Dronke, P  262 Drury, L  205, 227, 321 Duby, G  192, 195, 227, 232, 267, 293 Dyrness, A.W  318, 332 Edgardh Beckiman, N  84 Ehrenreich, B  15, 150, 260 Engelhardt, C.M  266 Faivre, A  69-70 Federici, S  189, 225-26 Felski, L  30-31, 332 Ferguson, E  142 Fisk Taylor, M  14-15, 58-59, 70 Fless, F  176 Frazer, R  60-61, 90, 92, 94 Friedland, L  61, 74, 77-80, 85-87, 90, 92, 94-96, 98, 102, 105, 110, 111-14, 123 Fukuyama, F  196 Gadamer, H-G  22, 24, 27, 38 Gagne, R  15, 59, 63, 71 Gavrilyuk, P.L  64 Genet 163 Gertsman, E  59, 74, 305 Gil, J  33-39, 119 Gockerell, N  279-81 Gotman, K  50, 54, 58, 75-76, 78, 101 Gougaud, L  13, 17-18, 22, 50-51, 62-63, 66-68, 70-72, 75, 97, 108, 128, 133, 14358, 162-64, 166, 169, 176, 182, 190, 193, 197, 272, 324, 337 Granholm, K  56 Green, H  222, 224 Griffiths, F.J  266-67 Grove, L  22, 50, 60-72, 75, 77-80, 84-85, 88-97, 99, 102-03, 106-09, 115, 118, 127, 134, 145-46, 157, 176, 182 Gruber, M.I  63, 106 Haimerl, X  218 Hakola, R  100, 249 Hämäläinen, P.R  106 Hamburger, J.F  48, 144, 229, 231, 316

Hanegraaff, W.J  16, 19, 54, 56, 107, 10910, 113, 117-18, 124, 336 Hanna, J.L  74 Harari, Y.N  101 Harper Collins, S  217 Harris, M  17, 51, 125-27, 142, 150-52, 156, 167, 169, 176, 236-37, 239-43, 247-49, 252-77, 283-294, 299, 302-304, 307-10, 312 Hayes, D.M  18, 158, 172-73, 197-99, 225, 305 Heffernan, T.J  144, 211-12, 261-62, 265, 268 Hellsten, L  39, 57, 57, 69, 74, 90, 106, 245 Hen, Y  248, 256 Heng, G  196 Holsinger, B.W  179, 314 Hood, W  280 Horowitz, J  13, 17, 77, 152, 193-95, 197, 199, 305 Huizinga, J  58, 71 Humphrey, C  260 Hutton, S  60, 172 Illman, R  13, 333 Intravaia, T  59 Isar, N  122, 176 James, M  218 Janson, A.F  45 Janson, H.W  45 Jennings, W.J  91, 102-03, 106, 133 Joynt, M  62 Kahneman, D  106 Kant, M  79 Karina, L  79 Kateusz, A  42-43 Kay, S  227 Keesing, R.M  78 Keller, H.E  230 Kendi, I.X  98 Knäble, P  287 Kozel, S.P  19-20, 23, 34 Kozlova, E  217 Kristensson Uggla, B  15-16, 18, 20-22, 24-32, 38-40, 110, 113, 141, 295

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Lagueux, R.C  273 Lahtinen, T.J  106 LaMothe, K  13, 15, 19-20, 23-25, 27-29, 33, 38, 40-41, 57-61, 63, 65, 68, 72-73, 76-77, 79-80, 90-94, 96-98, 101-02, 106, 108, 115, 147 Langer, S.K  19 Laqueur, T  116 La Rue, D  75, 176 Lassander, M  56 Lawler, L.B  98-99 Lear, J  86 Leber, C  69, 164, 167, 169, 172 Ledercq, J  248 Lee Eden  37, 42, 99, 124 Le Goff, J  51, 188, 194-96, 215-17, 263, 275, 278-79, 282, 294 Le Roy Ladurie, E  259 Lewis, G.J  217, 228 Lindman, M  107, 110 Louma, J  106 MacIntyre, A  208 Mahrdt, H  336-39 Marder, M  107 Marett, R.R  58, 92 Marshall, T  98 Matter, A.E  144, 211-12, 261-62, 265, 268 McGinn, B  248 McKinnon, J  309 McNeill, W.H  15, 98 Mead, G.R.S  22, 50, 62-63, 66-72, 75, 109-10, 127, 133, 157-58, 162-64, 166-67, 169-72, 176, 190, 286 Meek, E.L  32 Meiss, M  205-06 Menard, L  290, 292-94, 298-99, 301-04, 307-08 Mews, C.J  14, 17-18, 59, 66, 77, 158, 16267, 169, 172-73, 175-76, 185, 194-95, 195, 197, 216, 271 Meyendorf, J  248 Meyer-Baer, K  44, 180-82 Miller, J  166, 176 Mittermaier, A  139-41

Moede, K  176 Monni, K  19 Montgomery, S  98 Morris, J  63, 66, 146 Morrison, T  182, 277 Muir, E  218 Mullally, R  152 Nevile, J  42, 245 Newberg, A  12 Nikki, N  100, 249 Nyman, L  39 Nynäs, P  56 Obelkevich, J  123 Oesterley, W.O.E  22, 50, 57-59, 61, 63, 70-71, 75, 80, 90, 94-96, 98-99, 101-103, 106-08, 110, 142 Ogilvie, S  222, 224 Ohaneson, H.C  161 Oosterwijk, S  305 Osterman, T  78, 80, 85, 87, 91-93 Ottosson, M  179 Pakes, A  24 Papon, J-P  256 Parikka, J  35-36 Parviainen, J  19 Pinkola Estes, C  135, 279 Polanyi, M  28 Polzer, J  203-09 Quasten, J  59, 71-72, 74, 128, 142-44, 155 Rahner, H  13, 17, 22, 51, 59, 71-72, 109, 128, 133, 142-44, 147, 149, 154, 156-64, 166, 169, 182, 190, 197, 208, 272, 277, 324, 333 Reed, C  59 Ricoeur, P  22, 26-27, 30, 43 Robertson Smith, W  92, 94 Rock, J  59 Rohmann, G  77, 149-50, 190, 235, 240, 253, 277 Rokseth, Y  314 Ross, J  245 Rouhiainen, L  19, 24 Rowell, B  24 Rubin, M  212, 227

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Saarinen, E  106 Sahlin, M  71 Sandys, W  67 Schmitt, J-C  280 Schwan, A.H  59 Seppälä, S  81 Shahar, S  199 Sheets-Johnstone, M  25-26 Shirt, D.J  142 Simon, W  212, 231 Sjostrand, L  24-25, 37, 43 Skovsbol, U  84 Smith, J.K.A  44, 114 Smith, W.A.  42, 44, 333 Smith, W.R  92, 94 Snoek, G.J.C  219 Sparshott, F  34, 109 Steiner, R  274, 284-88 Stevens, J  261, 264 Strumpfl, R  71 Taylor, C  23, 47, 50-51, 54-56, 91, 111-13, 118-28, 141, 149, 163, 172, 188-89, 196, 218, 245-46, 251, 258-59, 310 Terpstra, N  51, 121, 125, 192-93, 196-97, 214, 219, 224-27, 270 Tervahauta, U  100, 249 Tiainen, M  35-36 Tillich, P  59 Tonstad, L  39 Trexler, R.C  218, 280 Tronca, D  77, 101, 155, 191-93, 197, 235, 245, 248, 303

Tuhiwai Smith, L  90 Twycross, M  242 Ulvros, E.H  75 Utriainen, T  56, 139-40 Uzukwu, E.E  140 Vanantwerpen, C  124-25 Van Dijk, M  201, 220, 310 Van Engen, J.H  320 Wagner, A  74 Waldman, M.R  12 Waller, J  76 Warner, M  124-25 Webb, R  77, 99, 155, 162, 241, 245, 247, 303 Wetter, G.P  71-72, 74, 108-09, 127 Willard, D  332 Williams, D  23-24, 50, 57-58, 61, 78-80, 88, 90, 92-93, 95-98, 102, 105 Williams, R  116, 141, 338 Wilson, S  257 Winniford  37, 42, 99, 124 Wosien, M-G  44, 80-81 Wright, C  150, 162-63, 167, 169-75, 190, 192, 197, 212, 274-75, 332 Wright, N.T  29, 44, 46-48, 172, 332 Yarber, A.M  81-84, 86-87, 96-97 Yardley, A.B  197, 276, 305-06 Yingling, E  166, 325 Young, K  262 Youngerman, S  77, 99, 123 Ziegler, J.E  231 Zika, C  51, 210, 213-14, 218-19, 225-27 Ziolkowski, J.M  314

4. Index of Places Alkborough 167 Amiens  169, 171, 237 Arles  58, 237, 256 Arras  169, 171, 299 Augsburg  261-62, 268 Auxerre  45, 67, 69, 158, 163, 167, 171-72, 237, 239 Benedictine abbey of St. Hildegard, Rüdesheim am Rein  46

Benedictine abbey of Tegernsee  261 Berlin  45, 160, 200 Bilzen 261 Bourn 167 Brussels  45, 58 Bulgaria  220, 223 Canterbury 45 Châlons-en-Champagne  237, 239, 272 Chantilly  45, 177, 185

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Cologne  154, 167 Croix du Maître  216 Dresden 45 Echternach  146-48, 220 Edinburgh 46 Einsiedeln  228-29, 261 Ely 167 Florence  180, 182-83, 201, 203-04 Freising 262 Hereford Cathedral  45 Ingå 305 Jericho 301 Laon  169, 237, 272-73, 284, 286 Le Puy-en-Velay  237, 284-85, 287, 312 Liège  45, 210, 212-13, 231, 233-34 Lille 45 Limebrook 305 London  13, 45, 60, 237, 274-75, 286, 305-06 Lorsch 262 Madrid 45-46 Metz 262 Monserrat 46 Monastery of Helfta, Lutherstadt Eisleben 46 Monastery of Hohenberg  261, 266 Monastery of Reichersberg  261 Monastery of Saint Emmeram  262 Mont Ste. Odile  266 München  45, 178, 181, 264-65, 281, 295 Murcia  219, 225, 302 Naples 264

Narbonne  157, 167, 175 Nimes  174, 237, 290-93, 302-03, 306, 310-11, 314, 323, 335 Nivelle 45 Notre Dame of Chartres, de Paris  17, 45, 167, 212 Noyon 169 Nürnberg  45, 221-22 Paris  17, 45, 156, 161, 165, 167, 169, 198, 212, 216, 228, 237, 269, 280, 291, 300-01, 305 Pavia 171 Padua 261 Ravenna  171, 242-43 Regensburg  180, 194, 262 Reims  164, 169, 171, 237, 239 Romania  220, 223 Rome  156, 176, 189, 215, 232, 240, 25254, 258, 260, 279, 311-12 Sense  45, 167 Sienna 180 St. Bertin  169 St. Omer  169 St. Quentin  169, 171 Strasbourg  45, 261, 266 Testaccio 259 Therouanne 169 Tours  187, 237, 275-76, 312 Vadstena 11 Venice 46 Verona  46, 180 Vienne  167, 237, 239 Würzburg  218, 222

5. General Index Agency  115, 119, 129, 141, 175, 225, 233, 338 agency and causality  25 agency and matter  227 agency of matter  47, 51, 115, 149 personal agency and stability  120 Agriculture 200 crop, crops  95, 120, 123-24, 195-95, 217-18, 220, 235, 257

land, lands  11, 82, 89, 103, 167, 196, 219, 222, 232, 235, 248, 257, 262, 270, 326 plant, plants  36, 313 Amici dominici 187-88 Amusement  96, 110, 232-33, 245, 326 Angels, angelic  137-141, 146, 159-60, 176-86, 188, 190-91, 194, 198, 201-03, 205-06, 208-10, 219, 233-34, 258, 262,

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266, 277, 280-82, 294, 296, 304, 309, 311, 313-24, 327, 344 Cherubim  138, 146, 179, 277 Animal, animals  15, 36, 89, 98, 103, 139, 175, 239-40, 242, 244-48, 254, 256, 25859, 261, 280, 282, 295-96, 312-14, 318, 321, 323, 326 ox, oxen  299, 312, 320-21 ass  239, 256, 261, 312, 320-21, 323 birds 314 dog  138, 203-04, 207, 209, 318-21, 323 fox 256 horse  270, 323 sheep  203, 317, 319-23 Antiquum rituale 275 Apocalypse, apocalyptic  69, 183 Ark  166, 294, 298-301, 324 Ascension, Ascension Day  159-60, 214, 216, 218, 258, 292-93 Banner, banners  215, 225, 227 Beguine, beguines  210, 230-31, 234, 320, 326, 334 Bells  167, 212, 215, 220, 227, 254-56, 300, 314 Benedicamus  273, 287 Bergeretta  67, 162 Body  11-12, 24-25, 33-39, 49, 65-66, 72-73, 85, 87, 95, 100-01, 104, 122-24, 129-35, 141, 147, 161, 165, 172-73, 186-87, 189, 191-93, 196, 198, 212, 215, 218, 225, 229, 234, 243-44, 247, 249, 251, 254, 268, 281, 287, 289, 307-08, 314, 327, 32931, 333-34, 336, 338-39 bodies  11, 19, 21, 24, 34-36, 49, 52-53, 76, 87, 89, 99-101, 105, 114-15, 119, 129, 132, 139, 165, 183, 186, 191, 193, 196, 198, 201, 212, 307-08, 312, 314, 318, 329, 333 body of works  50-51, 57-59, 77-78, 87-89, 101-03, 105, 107, 109, 116-17, 133, 336, 338 Body of Christ  123, 173, 192, 212, 218, 307 Bone, bones  53, 65-66, 68, 72-74, 76-78, 84, 87, 102-05, 108, 110, 130-35, 147-49, 152, 157, 162, 166, 171, 186, 188, 237, 284, 336-37, 239

Fascia  131-34, 148-49, 336-37 Joints and ligaments  60, 65, 78, 84, 87, 101-02, 104-05, 107, 134-35, 14749, 152, 336 Muscles  51, 53, 65, 76, 98, 105-06, 128-35, 137, 147-48, 191, 336 muscle pairs  105, 107, 109-10, 129-30, 152, 199, 222-23, 338 Book of hours  184-85, 296, 315-17, 319-23 Boundary, boundaries  119-20, 140, 236, 246, 249, 268, 302, 306 Bozolari  285, 288 Bread  110-11, 146, 173, 212, 257-58 Candlemas  261-62, 278-79 Candles, candlesticks  11, 53, 173, 192, 227, 237, 274-75, 279, 282, 298-99 Lights  274-76, 278-79, 282 Torches  227, 274-75, 278-79, 282-83 Capitulaire apocryphe de Benoit Lévite 153 Carnival  113-14, 222-23, 259-60 Cemetery, cemeteries  17-18, 46, 155, 186-87, 198, 225, 244 Choir, choirs  15, 59, 69-70, 158-59, 17374, 176, 179, 182, 185, 194, 212-13, 261-63, 268, 271-72, 276, 285, 289, 306, 308, 312 Choirboys  197, 223, 263, 271-72, 274-77, 279, 282, 287, 312, 323, 327 Christmas  66-67, 137, 152, 162-63, 210, 238, 246, 261-65, 271, 273, 275, 277, 279, 282, 286, 289-90, 292, 296-98, 302-03, 305-06, 309-10, 312-13, 318, 323-24 Annunciation  159, 296-76, 317-23 Christmastide 149 Carol, carols  63, 66-67, 151-52 Epiphany  262, 266, 271-75, 282 Ludi, ludus  155, 237, 254, 257-59, 261, 267, 288-89 Magi  262, 266 Nativity  144, 262-64, 266, 271, 27781, 283, 291-92, 296, 309, 311, 313-14, 316, 318, 320-21 Circumcision  107, 110, 241, 262, 266, 271-72, 284-85, 287, 312

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Civic liturgies  114, 224 Cloister, cloisters  158, 276-77, 307 cognitive bias  106, 327 Colonial, colonialism, colonialization  27, 76, 91 Contemplative practice/method  3233, 38-39, 106 Contemplative life  64, 214 Contemplative state  277 Contemplative worship  216 Corona, crown  164, 176, 185, 255 Corpus Christi, feast of  51, 67, 146, 14849, 156-57, 190-93, 203, 210-14, 218-24, 226-27, 231, 233-35, 247, 257, 272-73, 283, 291, 293, 304, 316, 323, 326, 335 Corpus Christianum  47, 51, 125, 146, 149, 165, 185, 192-94, 196-98, 201, 20305, 209-10, 214, 215, 217, 223-27, 231-33, 236, 246-47, 258, 268, 275, 283, 294, 298, 302-04, 311, 316, 323-27, 333, 335 Councils Council of Agde  155 Council of Auxerre  153, 155, 211 Council de Bale  154 Council of Basel  156 Council de Chalon Sur-Saone 152-53 Council de Cognac  152, 154 Council de D’Avignon  152, 154 Council of Elvira  155 Council of Laodicea  155 Council de Narbonne  154 Council de Paris  154 Council de Rome  152-53 Council de Rouen  154 Council de Soissons  154 Council of Toledo  152-53 Council of Vannes  155 Council of Wurzburg  154, 156 Daimones, demonic, demons  77, 99, 109, 118-19, 140-41, 155, 190, 215, 217, 224, 241, 244-47, 250-51, 256, 326 Dance, dances  152, 208, 211, 286, 321, 326 chôra, chorós  122 Chorea  176, 185

Choreae, choream, choreas  17, 15354, 163, 166, 194, 239, 263 Circle-dance  12, 159, 202, 344 Circular dance  165-66, 178, 205, 277, 296, 318, 324, 335 Coreantes 307-08 Cosmic Dance  159, 166 Dance of David  298, 323 Dance of Death  44, 59, 63, 74, 180, 304 Dance of Los Seis  145 Dance of Salome  303 Dance of Swords  221-23 Dance of the angels, angelic beings 179, 182, 191, 208, 277 Dance of the children  76 Dances of Savages,  60, 79, 88-91, 94, 99-101, 151 Folk-dance  61, 81-83, 85-87, 94, 9697, 107, 211 Folkloric  71, 81-84, 86, 92, 97-98, 115, 123, 150-52, 163, 172, 190, 199, 211, 222-24, 337 Liturgical dancing  69, 71, 145-48 “No flight” dance  88 Origins of dance  94, 98 Sacred Dance Guild  15, 59 The dance of nuns of the Paraclete of Heloise  216, 326 The dance of Rachel  217 The Dance of the afterlife, heavens 182, 188 The Dance of the Canons  69, 171 The Pyrrhic dance  88 The Sacred Dance of Jesus  62 The Sacred Dance of the unio mystica 70 Vernacular dance  111-12 Dance epidemics, dance mania  50, 54, 75-77, 149, 235, 335 Danse macabre 305 Devotio moderna  318-19, 321 Dichotomy, dichotomies  50, 110-11, 114-17, 122-23, 128, 199, 205, 235, 314 Dicta Priminii 153

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Differentiation  111-12, 129, 151, 182, 282 Diseased social imaginary  21, 102, 133, 148, 338 Dominican, Dominicans  62, 201-04, 206, 210, 216 Dramas Hortus Deliciarum 266-67 Itinerarium Cambriae  151-52 Liber politicus  254-55, 258, 260 Office of Joseph  273 Officium Stellae  262, 264 Easter  122, 144, 152, 157-59, 162-65, 167, 169-70, 172, 177, 183, 188, 210-11, 220, 239, 254, 258-60, 265, 277, 282, 286, 289 Ecclesia, Ecclesial  184, 259, 272 Economic and social class  85, 87, 90 Ecstasy  101, 159, 234 Entanglement  47, 113 Entertainment  18, 96, 114-15, 152, 15758, 160, 199, 220, 232, 235, 245, 252, 258, 268, 270, 278, 310-11, 335 Epistemic defaults  20, 101, 132 Erotic 295-96 Etudes de Sully – Eveque de Paris 17, 153, 194 Eucharist, Eucharistic  123, 144-47, 174, 211-13, 219, 231, 233-34, 308, 325, 330 Eutrapelia  160-61, 208, 333 Exempla  266, 301 Feast of Fools  51, 125, 127, 149-52, 15657, 175, 190, 193-94, 223, 226, 236-40, 252, 258, 260-61, 269-70, 272-74, 28384, 286-87, 290, 292, 301-03, 310, 312, 323-24, 326-27, 335 Festa, festal  75, 144, 155, 157-58, 223-24, 240, 263, 265, 268, 277, 287, 291, 29394, 296, 316, 323 Festum baculi, magister baculi, festum stultorum  239, 270-72 Flourish, flourishing  118, 194, 272, 313 Franciscans  201, 204, 230 Gnostic  69, 84, 109 Greenery, laurel, leaves  227, 257 Guild  46, 118, 218, 221-24

Hegemony  87, 91-92, 99-100 Western Christian cultural hegemony 77, 85, 88, 96, 102, 106, 150-51, 199, 327, 336 Heretic, heretical  70, 120-21, 204, 233 Hermeneutics of charity  29-32, 39-41, 50, 57, 87, 128, 140-41, 163 Hermeneutics of suspicion  27, 29-30, 32, 39-41, 50, 57, 87, 124, 128, 141-42, 163 High Time  47, 118, 122-25, 149, 163, 188-89, 246, 257-58, 265, 269, 277, 302, 306, 311, 327 Holy Innocence  262 Holy oil  173 Hymn Eia dicamus 263 Hoc in Anno 286 Histrio 237 Laetabundus exultet fidelis chorus 263 Victimae Paschali laudes  67, 163 Idols, idolatrous  30, 114, 120, 165-66, 242-43, 245, 250 Indiculus supertitionum et Paganarium 153, 155 Intellectus 332 Intercessory prayers  326 Jerusalem  99, 184, 232, 258, 262, 294, 299 New Jerusalem  183, 201 Heavenly Jerusalem  203-04, 206-09, 234, 294, 297 New creation  162, 183, 207, 237, 264, 283, 294, 296, 312-13, 318 Holy City  298 Jews, Jewish  13, 64, 79, 81-84, 87, 95, 98-99, 102-03, 127, 155, 166, 186, 204, 219, 226, 233, 259, 264, 297-98, 302 anti-Semitic, anti-Jewish  64, 84, 233, 264 Jewish feasts  110, 111 Jongleur, jongleurs  195, 314 Joy, joyful  14, 58, 73, 146, 159, 162, 176, 191, 201, 215, 219-20, 230, 235-36, 239, 247, 254, 260, 263-66, 271, 273, 276, 283, 287, 289, 293, 298, 302, 310, 321, 323-24, 326, 329-32, 334-35

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Jubilation  162, 226, 273-74, 326 Kalendae Januariae  240-43, 245, 247, 249, 251-53, 260, 269 Kingdom of Heaven/God  232, 279, 327 Labyrinth, maze  150, 158, 164, 167-72, 174-75, 190 Lacanian  43-44, 48-49 Laity  143-44, 163, 169, 192, 195-96, 199, 208-09, 212-14, 216, 223-27, 231-33, 236, 258, 263, 266, 268, 272, 274, 290, 294, 302, 304, 307, 312, 318-19, 323, 327 Lament, lamentation,  217, 219, 236, 334 Penance, penitence  207, 214, 219, 232 Last Judgement  182-83, 200-01 Lateran Council, Fourth  211 Laudes  12, 254-56 laudes Cornomanni(a)e  220, 254-56, 258 laudes puerorum  254, 260 Law of customs  293 Leap, leaping  28-29, 45, 155, 159, 239, 247-48, 255-56, 298-99, 321 Jump, jumping  45, 146, 148, 220, 321 Letania major, Letania minor  214-15 Liturgical practice  18, 49, 143-45, 148, 167, 215, 272, 287, 302, 325, 331, 333, 336 para-liturgical  143-44, 258, 275 Liturgical vestments  283 Magic, magical  11, 61, 88-89, 94-96, 103, 110, 120, 127, 199, 251, 257, 282 Martyr, martyrdom  144, 162, 182, 184, 186, 204, 214, 243-44, 246, 252, 255, 308-09, 334 Masks  239-40, 242, 245-47, 258 Masquerades, masquerading  242, 249, 258, 266-67, 270 Matins  12, 272, 275, 289 Mendicant  201, 204 Mimus, mimetic, mime, pantomime  88, 151-52, 222, 237, 247, 249, 255 Minnenden Seele 228-29

Mirror 228-29 Mixed-gender dancing  248, 292, 304, 312 Musical Instruments  46, 142, 166, 17980, 201, 292, 294, 298-99, 314 Bagpipe  179, 296, 318, 321 Cymbals 166 Drum  179, 205, 229, 314, 316 Horns 299 Flute  146, 314, 319 Lyre 298 Organ  67-68, 164, 166, 299 Pipe  299-300, 314, 320 Tambourine  166, 179, 298-300 Timbrel 179 Trumpet  166, 177, 300, 309-10 Violin  28, 146 Muslim  204, 219, 226, 302 mysticism, mystics  77, 109-10, 122, 158, 230, 301, 320-21 Mystical Mirror  51, 173, 182, 214, 257 Myths  52, 93, 133, 149, 157, 236, 279, 282, 284, 325 Narrative framework (s)  19-20, 22-23, 27, 29, 37, 50-51, 54-57, 60, 70, 78, 91-94, 96-97, 100-02, 104, 107-10, 116-17, 121, 123, 130-32, 134, 148-49, 152, 158, 163, 170, 199, 210, 230, 243, 249-50, 267, 28284, 324-25, 327, 336-38 Nationalism  27, 77-82, 84-85, 87-88, 97, 102, 106, 111, 113, 151, 199, 337 Nave  158, 164, 174, 212, 308-09, 312 Nicomachean Ethics  160-61, 163 Odas 263 Oil 311 Oil painting  42, 318 Pagan, paganism  16, 56, 66, 100, 109-10, 116-18, 120-30, 142, 147-50, 152, 158, 162-63, 165-66, 174-75, 187, 190, 198, 211, 215, 217, 236-37, 240-44, 246-53, 258-59, 269-70, 275, 279, 324, 327, 337-38 Heathen  86, 121, 253 Paradise  203, 207, 209, 276, 295-96, 327

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Garden  183, 201, 203-04, 206-09, 267, 277, 294-96, 314-15 Paschal, Paschali  68, 158-59, 163-64 Passion, Passion of Christ  162, 215 Performance  24, 33, 34, 42, 59, 75, 77-78, 83, 98-99, 122, 155, 170, 227, 234, 241, 251, 258, 266, 269, 283, 285, 334-35 performative, performativity  24, 37, 122, 133, 171, 192, 235, 275 Pilgrimage  51, 122, 124, 127, 144, 146, 147, 189, 194, 210, 213-14, 225-26, 231-33, 235, 246, 284-85, 334-35 Pilota, pelota, pila, ball  67, 157-59, 16265, 167, 169-70, 172, 175, 184, 188, 253, 258, 270, 276-77, 294, 326-327 ceremonial game plays  51, 149, 15657, 162, 177, 271 Tripudia, tripudium, tripudio 170, 176, 271, 274-74, 288, 293 Plagues  118, 196-97, 204, 215 Poeticising historical imagination  16, 107, 109, 113, 116-17, 336 Porous self  47, 118-22, 125, 149, 172, 175, 189, 310, 334 Possession, exorcism  101, 119, 244-45 Potentia  187-88, 244-46, 252, 270, 287, 327, 334-35 Praesentia  187-88, 244-46, 252, 270, 287, 327, 334-35 Prime  273, 286 Primitive, primitives  24, 58, 83, 88, 9096, 98-100, 106, 108-11, 151, 189, 225 Procession  17-18, 45, 51, 113-14, 146, 185, 201, 208, 210, 212-27, 234, 236-37, 255, 257, 263, 272-74, 276, 283, 285-89, 298, 301, 304, 309, 321, 323, 326, 335 Purification  232, 261-62, 277-78 Racial, racially, racialised  80, 85, 87, 89-90, 103, 106, 295, 327, 336-37 racist, racism  92, 98, 101-02, 103 Ratio 332-33 Relics  108, 119, 122, 126, 173, 186-88, 194, 213, 219, 227, 231-34, 246, 284, 287, 308, 312, 334

Religio  249 Remembering  81, 83, 87, 114, 182, 307 Responsory, responsorial  272 Resurrection  123, 159, 171-72, 177, 183, 186, 191, 200-01, 215, 230, 234, 258, 264, 268, 281-82, 327 Reverentia  47, 51, 125, 149, 187, 189-91, 210, 214-15, 218, 224-27, 235-36, 245-47, 251-52, 257-59, 266, 268, 270, 274, 276, 279-81, 283, 287, 289, 291-93, 297-98, 302-08, 310-11, 313, 316-18, 321, 323-24, 326-27, 334-36 Rogatory, rogations  214-19, 247, 293 Roman Empire  117, 155, 186, 189, 240 Romantic  16, 80, 83, 91, 108-09, 113, 167 Romanticised, romaticising  14, 18, 24, 47, 80, 85, 91-92, 96, 98, 103, 108-09, 124, 163, 198, 283, 336 Sacred spring  123 Sanctuary  112, 174, 212, 214, 330 Semiotic  41, 43, 48-49, 78, 230-31, 235, 257, 260, 263, 268, 335 Shepards  317-19, 321 Shepherds  262, 278, 296-97, 317, 319-23 Spectacula  101, 191, 237 Staff, special staff  220-21, 223, 239, 301, 321, 323 Baculus 284 Phinobulum 255-56 Statut de l’Archeveque de Cologne  154 Statutes of Paris  17-18, 194-95 Statut Synodaux de Lyon  154 Statuta Synodalia de Treguier  154 Stirps Iesse 272 Superstitio  117, 243, 249-51, 254, 279, 282, 326 Symbolic, symbolical  14, 20, 23, 26, 41, 46-49, 52, 55, 67, 133, 145, 147, 151, 157-58, 169, 172-73, 190, 192-93, 203, 208, 215, 218, 222, 230-32, 234-35, 252, 256-60, 266, 275, 282-83, 296, 335 Syncretism  121, 124, 150, 174 Theatrum  237, 269 Théologie totale  27, 43-44, 48-49 Therapeutae 64

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Vesper  11-12, 167, 272-73, 275, 283, 28588, 309 Via Veritatis  202-03, 210, 224, 277, 289, 289, 295, 305 Vitae  231, 248

Water  53, 173, 244, 256-57, 262, 296, 311, 330-31 Wine  145-46, 163, 167, 169, 173, 247, 258, 260, 262, 274, 276

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