Offering 9 I Midwinter

Are they not all the seas of God? Lessons from a medieval mystic

photo from America Magazine

I spent a good portion of my January literary life reading Revelations of Divine Love, written by Julian of Norwich, a medieval English mystic who is referred to as the mother of English prose. It is the oldest surviving book in the English language written by a woman, as well as the oldest surviving book written by an anchorite—a religious person in the Middle Ages, often a woman—anchoress—who voluntarily chose to take vows to live a cloistered and contemplative life in an anchorhold, a small, dark, enclosed space on the side of a church.

Reading Julian’s words, 652 years later, truly felt like a miracle.

The revelations—or shewings as Julian called them—were a series of 16 mystical visions that communicated the deep and profound love of Christ in the world. The visions came to her in 1373 at 30 years old, radically changing her life and eventually leading her to a vowed vocation as an anchoress in Saint Julian’s Church in Norwich, England.

The history of anchoritism is quite fascinating—I think so anyway! Anchorholds were often attached to the side of the church, a very small enclosure with two or three small windows—sometimes called squints. One of the windows would have been used for communication with the outside world as anchorites were sought out for spiritual direction in their communities. But even then, a curtain would separate the anchorite from the visitor. Another of the windows would often offer a space to see into the church during communal mass services, as well as to receive the Eucharist. And then sometimes an additional window, if one of the two others wasn’t being used for dual purposes, would have been used to receive food as well as to discard waste.

Before an anchorite could enter into an anchorhold, the bishop would offer a rite of enclosure, similar to the rites of burial, the vocation of anchoritism itself symbolic of a “living death”¹. Julian would have lied on the ground prostrate as these rites were given, as if she were truly dead. Entering the anchorhold was a lifetime commitment, a vow to remain inside until your actual death. The anchorhold was literally sealed off from the outside, like a grave, and your life of enclosure would begin.

Julian was an anchoress during a tumultuous time in the world and the Church. She lived through the Black Death (Bubonic Plague) and several more waves of the pestilence that plagued the Middle Ages for a century. The Church was in schism, religious dissent against institutional orthodoxy was increasing, and heretics were being put on trial and killed—the bishops attributing all of this to the wrath of an angry and vengeful God—all of it a punishment for sin.

The Church of the Middle Ages had long moved on from the profound emphasis of the incarnational love of Christ as was taught and reflected in the writings of many of the earliest Church fathers—Ignatius, Irenaeus, etc. These teachings and realities that had undergirded the Church at its beginning had been largely and disproportionately replaced by a dreadful sense of doom, of judgement, and calamity at the hands of an angry God.

But there was Julian, alone in a little anchorhold in Norwich, contemplating the mystery of Christ—writing about God as our mother, about the tender love in which the motherhood of Christ is drawing all of humanity by light, life, and love. Her theology on the incarnation—for she was a theologian, indeed—is the most beautiful I’ve ever witnessed, her vision of the parable of the servant and lord moved me to tears and pieced together concepts on the life and incarnation of Christ that have been fragmented my whole life.

In age that had gone blind—

she could still see.

The lives and stories of the mystics may seem extreme, even morbid to our modern sensibilities, but it is important to remember that God has always revealed mysteries to those who have eyes to see.

In John 5:39-40, Jesus tells a group of religious leaders,

“You examine the Scriptures because you think that in them you have eternal life; and it is those very Scriptures that testify about Me; but you are unwilling to come to me that you may have life”.

Eyes that examine, eyes that search, are not the same as eyes that see.

The religious leaders of the Middle Ages were like this, too. There is nothing new under the sun. This spirit of religiosity was the backdrop in which Julian wrote about her visions. In an age where the institutional church of the Middle Ages had largely lost its sight, she chose to keep her gaze on Jesus, coming to Him, while the church examined and picked apart the scriptures for their own security and superiority, missing a Christ who was right in front of them.

But there was Julian, alone in a little anchorhold in Norwich, without a Bible², but having everything she needed to see—the Word incarnate himself, the Spirit of God, and the sacred tradition of oral scripture that she had visited time and again in the secret place of her inner being.

I think we forget, or are ignorant to the reality, that sola scriptura (scripture alone) was never a foundation of the apostolic Church that Christ instituted. The first gospel (Mark) was not written until 40 years after the death, burial, and resurrection of Christ, with Matthew, Luke, and John completed by 65 years after the death of Christ. And the Bible itself was not canonized and considered complete until the fourth century, hundreds of years after the death of Christ—and even once canonized, inaccessible to the majority of Christians.

What, then, was the foundation of the Church that Christ instituted?

Christ was—the living Word of God—the love of God expressed in the person and work of Christ, and the life of the Spirit at work in those who did not just believe (for even the demons believed)—

but for those who had eyes to see.

A pilgrimage of sight

Ever since embarking on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land in 2023, before the massive shift in unrest was felt, I’ve been interested in the history of Christian pilgrimages, both geographical pilgrimages as well as the interior pilgrimage we are all on as followers of Christ.

In our modern age, tourism and pilgrimage have nearly become synonymous, the distinction between the two increasingly hard to discern. Even thoughtful “pilgrimage tours” are marked, to some extent, by a spirit of tourism—consumed by sightseeing and the drive to see and fit in as much as one can in a week’s time.

It becomes impossible to slow and truly see.

The concepts of tourism and pilgrimage translate well into the sphere of the modern institutional church(es) of the West. Here, too, it is becoming harder to delineate between spiritual tourism and spiritual pilgrimage.

We have become spiritual sightseers, tourists demanding that we see, dissect, and claim the right interpretation of as many scriptures as we can, gatekeeping the love of Christ from those who believe differently than we do, checking off as much of our Bible reading plans as we can, and showing up for as many events and series as we can in the name of following Jesus.

And all the while, our eyes are closed tightly to the pilgriming Christ who walks on the side of the road, asking us to see…

…Christ in the immigrant.

…Christ in the outcast.

…Christ in the uneducated and unseminaried (Yes, I did make up that word).

…Christ in the vision and wisdom and voice of a woman.

…Christ in the simplicity of a child.

…Christ in the steadfastness of another painted sunrise.

The earliest followers of Jesus were called followers of the Way because they understood that to follow Jesus was to take a pilgrimage of sight and heart—

a pilgrimage demanding a new way of seeing, of stepping beyond religious constructs into the heart of God—into the Way himself.

It is hard to see when you are obsessed with claiming rights over the words of Jesus, consumed with the gratification of the spirit of intellectualism and anti-enchantment pervading our age.

Jesus instituted the Church, the Body of Christ, because he is a pilgriming God, not a sightseeing God.

If the temple could have contained his love and glory, the veil never would have torn in two.

Dear readers, please do not hear what I am not writing. I am not undermining the power and divine gift of scripture or the importance of the institutional church as we take this pilgrimage.

In her revelations, Julian understood the importance of both. In fact, at many junctures in her revelations, she paused to acknowledge “Holy Mother Church” and its unbreakable endurance in the world—and yet still had the courage to say,

“But for I am a woman should I therefore live that I should not tell you of the goodness of God?”

Julian understood the importance of the institutional church, but she also understood the dangers of the institutional church.

And in the places where it had moved its gaze from Christ, she herself kept her own gaze on Christ—unapologetically—knowing that her place in the institutional church could never replace her life in Christ and her birthright as daughter of God to declare His goodness in a world and church gone mad.

And so, too, I am unapologetic in saying this—

there is a difference in coming to the scriptures and coming to the Word incarnate—Christ himself.

And the problem remains now, as it did in the discourse of John 5:39-40, and as it did in the medieval church and the centuries that followed, that so often we still can’t see the difference…

even as He is in our midst.

Dear readers, the Church needs people who can see.

The institutional church, particularly in its Western expression, must return its gaze to the pilgriming Christ.

Then, and only then, can we truly be the hands and feet of Christ in the world.

Farther, farther, sail

I recently discovered a poem by Walt Whitman, from his 1855 collection of poetry, Leaves of Grass, that brought several pieces of my journey together in this season, and revealed to me, on a deeper level, why I so resonated with Julian and her revelations.

He writes,

Reckless O soul, exploring, I with thee, and thou with me,

Sail forth—steer for the deep waters only,

For we are bound where mariner has not yet dared to go,

And we will risk the ship, ourselves and all.

O my brave soul!

O farther farther sail!

O daring joy, but safe! Are they not all the seas of God?

O farther, farther, farther sail!

O daring joy, but safe! Are they not all the seas of God?

Julian understood this daring joy because she knew she was safer sailing the seas of God than keeping her gaze on the fragmented reality of the institutional orthodoxy of her time and the prevailing messages of doom and wrath they espoused. She was quite ambiguous in her dissenting beliefs, paying careful attention not to undermine the institutional church. But at the same time, she had the courage to see and hold the tension between the anger and corrupt power of the institutional church and the gentle, kind, loving gaze of Jesus that would not let her go. One can gather from reading her revelations some of the areas she may have departed from the institutional church had she been safe to.

But of this she was sure—

The safety and love of God expressed in the passion of Christ.

And nobody could take that away from her.

I have come to settle into my own daring joy and while I’ve not had a series of mystical revelations like Julian, I have seen and experienced things that are quite mystical—mysterious in every sense of the word— and I have found a safety in waters that I once felt like I was drowning in.

When I began to untether my soul from the illusion of the safety of institution (important as it is and though I have my place in it), I began to see things hidden in Christ by sailing uncharted waters.

I was recently reflecting with my spiritual director on my own pilgrimage to safety. She paused to acknowledge and celebrate that I was able to name that safety, when for so long all I could name was unsafety.

When I first began meeting with her, the waves felt utterly terrifying, and I remember sharing with her that it felt as if I was going under— that I would surely sink into the depths of uncharted waters— full of questions, doubts, shame, and insecurities that left me feeling helpless.

There was no lifeboat.

There was no life vest.

And grace did not permit me to swim to shore.

But neither did grace let me sink,

even as I wrestled and flailed and gasped for air.

It felt as if somewhere along the way, my soul became brave.

But I know now that she was brave to plunge the depths in the first place.

Slowly, the waves themselves, grace itself, became my ship and my eyes were opened to the secrets of uncharted waters.

At this point on my journey, I can say with Julian,

“The sweet, gracious hands of our Mother are always ready and carefully working on us. He works on us like a kind nurse, who has no other care in the world but saving her child.

It is His unique job to save us.

It is His delight to carry us.”

The waves—the dark, rushing, engulfing waters—have always been carrying me—

and I am safe, enclosed in the womb of God.

Farther, farther, sail.

The arms that hold us

If you were to read my journals, going back to high school, I ended every single conversation with God by writing,

“Do not let me go.”

I had a deep-rooted fear of the arms that held me. And I wrestled with this fear, this quest for safety, for years.

Last February, while on a spiritual retreat with a dear friend at a monastery in Alabama, I had one of the most mystical encounters I’ve ever experienced. And while that experience is tucked away in the safety of my soul, it was a pivotal moment on my journey.

It was at that monastery where I made a commitment to fix my gaze, above all else, on Christ—it is there where I began to end my conversations with God differently and instead of writing, “Do not let me go”,

I wrote,

“May I gaze at the mystery of Christ, evermore, all of my days.”

And now all of my conversations with God end that way.

When you learn to gaze at the mystery of Christ—in the fullness of his life, death, burial, and resurrection—you begin to understand whose arms you are in and you no longer fear falling.

Exploring becomes a daring joy—finally safe—and it’s worth risking it all just to rest under the gaze of the living Christ.

The Church needs unfettered souls who are unapologetic in sailing the seas of God, who can see and hear the secrets of uncharted waters. Who are not afraid to keep their gaze on the living Christ when all around them the world has gone mad and so many have set their gaze on a counterfeit messiah.

May we know, along with Julian, in the anchorhold of our own soul that,

“…all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”

Farther, farther, sail, dear readers. Are they not all the seas of God?

Thank you for reading Cadence & Canticle—I’m so glad you stopped by! May you leave this space blessed and heartened as you return to the soil and stewardship of your life. I’d love for you to join this community of fellow pilgrim-souls!

For further engagement with this season’s offering, head to the Trysting Place right below!

---

WELCOME TO THE TRYSTING PLACE—

a contemplative space at the end of each offering for you to quiet your soul and slow down in the presence of your Creator. Settle in with all three sections or choose just one, moving through them at a pace that is right for you. This is designed to be a spacious place for your soul—a sacred rhythm for your life.

---

CADENCE & CURIOSITY—

an invitation to quietly contemplate and become curious about what is stirring in the depths of your heart.

• Spend some time with the poem, Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman referenced in this season’s offering. What do these words bring up for you? Do you resonate? Or perhaps the concept of exploring uncharted waters feels terrifying. Spend some time reflecting and praying through what comes to the surface. Our emotions and responses often give us insight into what we believe about ourselves and what we believe about God.

CADENCE & CONVERSATION—

an invitation to reflect on and share what the Lord is revealing to you in this season. Use this as a personal and private extension of reflection or use it to share your heart with other readers in this community of fellow pilgrim-souls. I’d love to hear from you in the comments!

• In what ways have you seen the institutional church in our modern age lose the gaze of Christ? In what ways is the Lord calling you into the Living Body of Christ, which far exceeds the confines of brick and mortar? Where are you on the journey?

  Do you resonate more with the concept of a spiritual sightseer or are your eyes fixed on the pilgriming Christ who is often in unfamiliar places and uncharted territories? How does your sight need to be restored?

  I believe the assignment of our age, and every age, is for the institutional church (particularly in the West) to return its gaze to the pilgriming Christ. Only then can we truly be the hands and feet of Christ in the world, and truly become the Body of Christ.

CADENCE & CUE—

The final stop in each offering—a cue to still your soul before the things that are good, true, and beautiful as you ponder how you might carry them with you into your season!

This was such a fun podcast episode! I read Claire’s, I, Julian, while also reading Revelations of Divine Love and it was such a unique experience. Claire is a scholar and wealth of knowledge on the life and context of Julian’s medieval world.

1. A Living Death

2. Bibles were written in Latin and reserved for aristocratic religious leaders during the Middle Ages