What’s an Augustinian ̶c̶a̶n̶o̶n̶ friar? Wasn’t Luther a ‘monk’? (revised)

St Augustine, by Philippe de Champaigne

So you’ve probably heard it said that Martin Luther was an Augustinian monk at some point in the last few days. Except from me! My own academic pedantry prevents it. And you may even have heard it from Luther himself, who seems at some point to have used the German equivalent of the word ‘monkery’ to refer his activities as a member of a religious order.

This is, of course, a matter of terminology, but precision in these matters can help us see the diversity within medieval Latin Christian religious life. Like the Dominicans and Franciscans, Martin Luther’s Augustinians are friars. I thought they were canons, but they weren’t. There are Augustinian canons, though, so we’ll get into them first.

As early as the Carolingian Renaissance/Reforms of the late 700s, there were two main visions of the consecrated, religious life in western Europe. One was that of monks —monachi in Latin — and the other was that of the canons — canonici. Monks live in monasteries or priories, closed off from the world. Their main duties, historically, are to pray and to engage in work that will keep them alive, like gardening, and, according to the Rule of Benedict, to read the Bible and meditate on it.

By the end of the Carolingian Reforms, the Rule of Benedict was the ascendant monastic rule of western Europe and England.

Canons, on the other hand, are a different kettle of fish.

Canons are clerics who live together in community but, like the secular clergy (those who do not live according to a rule), they have duties beyond their own community’s enclosures. They are meant to engage in acts of mercy, in preaching, and in public liturgy.

In the High Middle Ages, the ascendancy for canons was gained by the Rule of St Augustine. There are a few versions of this document, and they all seem to descend from two different things St Augustine of Hippo (d. 430) produced. For canons, then, the vita religiosa, the religious life, was ordered according a fairly brief set of rules, intentionally flexible to allow them to engage in their duties beyond their community’s enclosures. St Augustine developed his rule explicitly for priests to live in community together, so it makes sense that canons would adopt and adapt it for their local situations.

At some point, there emerged a religious order of Augustinians. Any Luther scholars out there can correct me if I’m wrong, but I imagine that he was a member of the order. You may think, ‘Was there no order of Augustinians in the 700s?’ No — there was not even an Order of St Benedict.

The first order as such was the Cistercians, although the Cluniacs experimented in widespread centralisation. An order means that all the members and member houses of a particular group of people living according to a rule have a central administration and are ordered by constitutions. There are monasteries, canonries, or friaries that watch over their sister and daughter houses, as well as administrators over regions who make sure that the different religious houses are not falling into various abuses. The heads of the major houses and regions will meet to deal with the business of the order at prescribed times. They are bound together in a mutual society of give-and-take, regulation, and, in theory, fraternal love.

In the eleventh century, there arose a number of movements for the reform of the religious life. These coalesced monastically in the Cistercians in the next century and, at a much higher pitch, the Carthusians who are technically hermits who live in community. The living paradox of the monastic ideal.

Various groups of canons were also being founded and organised during the eleventh and twelfth centuries, usually, even if they began with their own charismatic leaders, finding themselves under the Rule of St Augustine in the long run.

In the thirteenth century we see the rise of the friars. Friars are most associated with the Franciscans and Dominicans, two preaching orders committed to poverty, preaching, and cities. They are mendicant, which means that they are meant to beg for survival, and not live off rich benefices the way many medieval monasteries did.

During the rise of the friars, the hermits were also doing their thing in Italy, and were inspired to move into the cities to be able to pursue the contemplative life and to engage in acts of mercy. Those who were granted recognition by the papacy adopted the Rule of St Augustine, and they eventually coalesced and organised into a mendicant order of friars alongside the Franciscans and Dominicans.

Thus, by the middle of the 1200s, we have three major forms of ‘religious’ life in western Europe. We have the monks proper, the canons (usually Augustinians), and the friars. There were also, of course, hermits and anchorites, but just monks, canons, and friars will always be few, so hermits and anchorites will always be fewer. All of these groups sought to lead lives of poverty and chastity, of prayer and asceticism, pursuing holiness according their respective rules in community.

The problem that rears its head throughout the history of Christian asceticism is the idea that the asceticism or the penance is actually what saves you. This is the chief temptation of the rigorous righteous. Cassian fights it. Benedict fights it. Evagrius fights it. Augustine fights it. Again and again, monks, friars, and canons need to be reminded that they are not saved by their ‘monkery’, as Luther called it.

And I would argue that the time for reading set aside in the Rule of Benedict and the amount of study Augustinians like Luther did ought to have helped balance them out, for it is rich in the tradition of asceticism, this battle against trusting in the asceticism itself rather than God himself.

But, alas, it is too easy to trust our own works than simply rest in the grace of God, isn’t it?

(Not that I’m one of those, ‘Ah, those poor, benighted medieval papists and monks who needed Luther to rediscover the long-lost true Gospel for them!’ types.)

Advertisements

Gregory the Great: Monks, missions – Contemplation, action

The top of St Gregory’s crozier

I’ve been doing some reading on and of Pope St Gregory I ‘the Great’ (pope, 590-604, saint of the week here) recently, and this ‘last’ of the Western Fathers bears much relevance to my recent discussions of both contemplative prayer and of the ongoing demise of white Anglophone Christianity.

In R.A. Markus’ Gregory the Great and His World, there is a good discussion of Gregory’s own spiritual ideal of the contemplative life and how he was forced to reconcile that ideal with his own calling to be Bishop of Rome. It is a standard trope in Late Antiquity that one resists being ordained bishop but finally acquiesces. Every once in a while, though, we meet a figure who seems to genuinely have preferred the cloister and the cell to the cathedral and the throne. Gregory the Great is one, St Gregory of Nazianzus another. Shortly after being elected Bishop of Rome, Gregory writes:

Yet in this way, I have been bought back to the world in the guise of a bishop, in which I am as much a slave to earthly cares, as I remember being a slave to them in my life as a layman. For I have lost the profound joys of my peace and quiet, and I seem to have risen externally, while falling internally. Wherefore, I deplore my expulsion far from the face of my Creator. For I was trying every day to move outside the world, outside the flesh, to drive all corporeal images from my mind’s eye and to regard the joys of Heaven in an incorporeal way. Not only with my words but also with the innermost parts of my heart I kept saying, panting before a vision of God: “My heart said unto you, I have sought your face, your face, Lord, shall I seek.’ (Ps 26 (27):8) But desiring nothing in this world, fearing nothing, I thought I was standing on some high pinnacle, in such a way that I could believe that what I had learnt from the prophet promised by God was almost fulfilled in me: ‘I will raise you above the heights of the earth.’ (Is. 58:14) For a man is ‘raised above the heights of the earth’ who contemptuously spurns even the very things that appear noble and glorious in the present world. But suddenly driven by a tornado from the pinnacle of this temptation, I have fallen headlong into fears and trepidations, because, although I am afraid of nothing for myself, yet I greatly fear for those who have been entrusted to me. From all sides I am shaken by the waves and weighed down by the tempest of affairs …’ Ep. 1.5 to Theoctista, sister of the Emperor Maurice, October 590 (trans. J.C. Martyn)

Gregory’s main outline of how to wed these two lives is the Pastoral Rule. Rather than seeing them as two stages of progression as many other ascetics would — from the active to the contemplative — Gregory saw the two forms of life working in an integrated manner, operating cooperatively. At different times of life, the same Christian can experience each of these forms of life. And the duty of the pastor is, in fact, to take the grace and knowledge and peace attained through contemplation and use it in the service of others, through preaching the Word of God in particular.

In the Pastoral Rule, Gregory argues that someone who has been given gifts from God through seclusion and the contemplative life sins if he rejects the call from the church to the service of the people of God. At Rome, Gregory lived in community with fellow monks and promoted monks within the ranks of the Roman clergy throughout his tenure of the Apostolic See. Because Gregory was such a fan of St Benedict, some think this the Benedictine ideal, but it is actually Augustinian, for the Rule of St Augustine is for clergy, not cloistered monks.

Gregory, the first monk to be Rome’s Bishop, would send a band of monks, with a monk at the their head, to evangelise the English. An interesting thesis put forth, I believe, by Dudden’s 1905 work on Gregory the Great is that Gregory wanted monks to convert the English in a manner integrated with his own monastic programme within Latin Christianity. By so doing, the Anglo-Saxon church would be a bulwark of monastic missionaries in the North; their influence could later extend South into Gaul and Germania (which it would; see my posts on Sts Boniface and Willibrord).

Dudden, I think, goes too far in his analysis of Gregory’s works, hunting for references to St Benedict’s Rule. It is not, as far as I can tell, explicitly referenced by Gregory, and all of the parallel ideals of the Rule are easily found in Sts Augustine and John Cassian as well as western canon law. That is, Gregory the Great was not imposing and enforcing the Rule; the Rule simply stands at the end of a long tradition of monastic practice. Nevertheless, St Gregory certainly promoted his own view of monachism, a view influenced by the same sources that influenced the Rule of St Benedict.

But his own transplantation from the contemplative to the active life means that he has adapted this monastic ideal. The cloister is to go abroad and adventure. The fruits of contemplation are to be shared. Evangelistic preaching is to be wedded with meditative silence.

Perhaps a renewed commitment to both contemplation and mission will help us revitalise our congregrational life and bring more people to faith?

The Impact of the Desert Fathers

The Desert Fathers and Mothers have a powerful impact, stretching far beyond the deserts of Egypt.  While I was engaged in my research into John Cassian’s demonology, I wanted to organise my comparative demonologies into “Desert” and “Not-Desert”.  I was advised that, while this was a useful exercise for organisation, the boundaries of the Desert are not so easily defined.

For example, one of my “Not-Desert” sources was St. Augustine of Hippo.  As a source for demonology in relation to John Cassian, he shows us that, if Cassian did not draw ideas directly from the Bishop of Hippo Regius, their western locale informed both men’s writings.  However, to say, “St. Augustine of Hippo is not a Desert influence,” is to ignore the fact that St. Augustine had desert influences upon him, both in his Rule and from St. Athanasius’ Life of St. Antony.  St. Augustine, in fact, cites the Life of St. Antony as being instrumental in his road to conversion.  The Desert has impacted St. Augustine.

Another man impacted by the Desert whose ideas on spirits resonated with John Cassian’s is St. Gregory of Nyssa.  St. Gregory did not himself spend time in Egypt.  However, his elder brother Basil, who confirmed his ordination to the episcopate in 372, did.  Furthermore, when we think of the interconnectedness of the Eastern Church, we realise as well that both St. Gregory and Evagrius Ponticus were present at the Council of Constantinople in 381, and that Evagrius maintained contact with people outside of Egypt after he retired to the monastery at Nitria (Kellia? I forget).  Who knows what words of Evagrius may have made their way to Nyssa?

By the late 300s, anybody who was anybody had some contact with the Desert Fathers, including St. Jerome who had his own monastery in Bethlehem, where some of the Desert ascetics lived as well, and Rufinus who spent time living amongst the Fathers, and Egeria of the bestselling travelogue.

In the West, Athanasius’ biography of St. Antony was translated by the mid-fourth century and circulated widely (thus St. Augustine’s acquaintance with it).  As well, a collection the Apophthegmata Patrum, the Sayings of the Desert Fathers, were made available in Latin by the 500s.  They had a wide circulation, not only with the Life of St. Antony but also with the Lausiac History and Rufinus’ translation of the Historia Monachorum in Aegypto — all gathered together, these are called the Vitae Patrum.  Monks all over Western Europe would continue to read these works down to the Renaissance, seeking wisdom for how to live.

In wide circulation as well were John Cassian’s Institutes and Conferences.  These two works had a lasting impact on western spirituality in mediating the Desert tradition as well as much of Evagrius Ponticus’ spiritual wisdom.  For more on the legacy and impact of John Cassian, read my post on the topic.

St. Benedict felt the impact of the Desert as he organised his monastery and Rule.  He recommended that his monks read John Cassian.  Thus did John Cassian’s mediation of the Desert pass into the round of monastic reading alongside the Vitae Patrum.

Throughout the Middle Ages, the Desert Fathers would make their impact visible in the Franciscans, in the Augustinians, even amongst the Brethren of the Common Life, being cited by Thomas a Kempis as worthy reading.

In the East, the monasticism of Egypt has continued in unbroken ascetic labour to this day.  Its sister monastic movements, inspired and sprung from the soil of Egyptian toil, exist to this day, living by the same desire for detachment and prayer in Mt. Athos and in the monasteries of Cyprus, Russia, Greece, the Middle East, Ukraine, the Americas.

They were enshrined to be required spiritual reading for all eternity in the Philokalia.

In the contemporary world, the Desert Fathers have impacted Thomas Merton, Henri Nouwen, Benedicta Ward, Richard J. Foster, Christopher A. Hall, and me.

Will they impact you?