the midst of a synod in Rome, around the middle of the twelfth century, the Pope met with a number of his trusted counselors to consider the matter of a German nun: her visions, her outspokenness, her effect on the flock. Once obscure, she had risen to prominence and even popularity among the people by her piety and through the vehemence and magnitude of her visions–as well as through her skill in healing and her ability to help people with their daily problems. Her current exposure, all the way to the the apex of Church power, placed at risk her public and private voice and perhaps even her life, but she had no choice: she lived at and for the will of the Church, at and for the will of God. The voices of the council, grave and formal as they discussed her case, buzzed in the warm Italian air.
Such review, common enough, had found for once an uncommon subject, the writings of one Hildegard of Bingen, abbess and mystic. Pope Eugenius called not only his usual advisors, but also representatives of her own region and in fact her own secretary, who had seen her in the full flight of recounting her visions for him to record: Volmar, monk and scribe, served devotedly, recording her speech with accuracy and awe. A papal scribe (no manuscript records his name) recorded testimony as men of power, learning, and experience argued the fate of the learned nun, yet little known to the wide world, but loved among her folk. Some of the men sipped Tuscan wine. The Pope drank nothing, not even cool water, which he knew would have done him good: he wanted his thoughts fixed and precise. Volmar scratched his tonsure and drank several bowls of water as the discussion continued and as he knew his time to speak drew near. The Pope’s stern forehead and impassive, almost charcoal-grey eyes intimidated the monk, but something affable about the mouth made him feel eager to speak. He tried to calm himself to wait his turn.
Eugenius: Enlighten us to your opinion, Constance.
Herman: I have indeed sought her prayers, Eminence. She is as well known for their efficacy as for that of her medicines, which, though we value the less, draw the more worldly of her flock. And yet I fear to give too quick credence to these wild visions.
Eugenius: And you, Mainz: fair or fulsome?
Henry: Sincerity scatters like moths at the dawn, your Holiness, and yet I think her sincere. The visions seem to come conveniently, when she desires what the vision confirms, and yet I believe them from God.
Volmar: Visions, Holy Father, visions that spark joyous as a greenwood fire on the Christmas hearth, youthful as spring and ancient as air, dancing as mayday children yet somber as final unction.
Eugenius: Please, my son, we will hear you, but let us defer first to your father the abbot.
Volmar: Apologies, your Holiness.
Eugenius: She has been in your charge many years, Abbot. What then do you see in these visions, our dear Kuno? Have you not compassed her training?
Kuno: In truth, My Lord, neither drawn nor circled it. She is a willful one, given more to flowers, trance, and parchment than hours and office.
Eugenius: Has she failed in her duties or offended?
Kuno: Not so much failed or offended as strayed from a sister’s truer course, that of quiet, unobtrusive obedience. The folk flock to her, write to her . . .
Herman and Henry: So we have.
Kuno: . . . call her name in the towns, and for herself, she will fall into a fit or lingering humor until her latest fancy is dictated word for word for posterity.
Volmar: But her words, Holy Father, or rather God’s words through her, have such truth and power!
Herman: This council shall determine that.
Eugenius: We have reviewed much of her book, but we would hear more. If you please, Our Son, read to us and let the words speak, that we may judge whence they come.
Volmar: Gladly, Holiness. “Behold, in the forty-third year of my journey I saw a living light, from which heaven’s voice spoke to me, saying ‘Weak one of ashes, dust of dust, decay of decay, tell and write what you see and hear. Because you are simple and timid, do not speak according to the words of humans, but listen and tell plainly the wonder of God according to the words of God.’” (He thumbed through pages.) And later she tells, “Then I saw a multitude of living torches and, beneath, a wide lake deep as the mouth of a well that billowed forth clouds of smoke that climbed, till out of them fell like a shooting star the figure of a man into the smoking depths, and the heavens were brightened again, but the earth trembled.”
Herman: Surely that means Satan!
Volmar: And again later: “And then I saw a huge egg, encircled by flame, and within the egg a fire-red globe, and above the globe torches that kept the flame from burning the globe to ashes, and the globe would rise and fall toward the willing flame above or sink toward gloomy fire below.”
Herman: God and Satan calling the souls of the earth, and the saints interceding.
Volmar: “And next I saw a great, peaceful brightness full of eyes turned toward all the four corners of the world and, within, a purple lightening brightening the way for those who carried milk and bread and cheese, and among the folk a woman carrying a child inside her, and the brightness, from its own heart, reached within her, quickening the child from the womb.”
Herman: That is God bringing Christ to the world.
Eugenius: I see, Bishop, that you are as taken with these visions as I am.
Henry: And I, am, too, Milord, and so the people, who love her benign temper and humble wisdom without knowing her visions.
Eugenius: And you, our dear friend Bernard? You have kept silent. Tell us what you think–and why you gape so.
Bernard: Out of wonder rather than desire: these visions touch my soul.
Eugenius: As they do mine, Clairvaux. But you, Abbot, remain skeptical.
Kuno: Unconvinced, Milord. How does one prove visions, which may come from God or the Devil?
Eugenius: Can you believe such beauty and piety from the devil?
Kuno: Though she be sincere, she is simple, insistent, and, finally, Milord, but a woman.
Eugenius: And we, dear Abbot, are finally fearful, dust, and but men. The people do love this nun, and we would loath to see the Church, local or general, suffer from her censure when all can benefit from her talents and service. We do approve these remarkable visions, and with our thanks to all of you, we believe they may come from God and should be harbored, plenished, and praised as His gift. We declare this woman one of our living lights. Abbot, you will support and sustain our sister in her study, speech, and writing. For love of Christ do so.
Kuno: Holiness, shall we churchmen be led by a woman, and shall this woman drain the faith of the populace from us? We should wield God’s pen and be God’s flagons, filling souls with His spirit.
Herman: With His spirit or our own?
Eugenius: You must understand, Kuno, that we wish you no harm, but that we wish our Church good. As the Church flourishes, and as our flock flourish, so we flourish. Draw the water from the bread, and though it be but water, the flour blows away like dust. She tends the flowers that we may grow them, and she draws the hungry to us that we may feed them.
Kuno: And be fed by them. And to them. I defy this pragmatism, and I defy the vomit of these visions that reek of earth’s decay rather
