A History of the End of the World (23 page)

The Inquisitor’s Manual,
composed in 1324 by Bernard Gui, singled out the so-called Beguines as an example of what can go wrong when Christians dare to read the book of Revelation for themselves. “They also teach that at the end of the sixth era of the Church, the era in which they say we now are, which began with St. Francis, the carnal Church, Babylon, the great harlot, shall be rejected by Christ, as the synagogue of the Jews was rejected for crucifying Christ,” writes Gui. “They teach that the carnal Church, which is the Roman Church, will be destroyed.” Such “errors and pernicious opinions,” he reports, were discovered “by lawful inquisition and through depositions and confessions”—that is, by interrogation under torture—but the grand inquisitor also allows that “many of them have chosen to die by burning rather than to recant.”
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Gui, in fact, readily concedes that the Beguines are perfectly confident of their ultimate victory over the “spiritual or mystical” Antichrist—that is, the church itself—and “the real, greater Antichrist,” who “has already been born” and will reveal himself in 1325, “according to some of them,” or perhaps 1330, or possibly 1335. “They say that the first Antichrist is that pope under whom is now occurring the persecution and condemnation of their sect,” explains Gui. “Also, they say that after the death of Antichrist, the Spirituals will convert the whole world to the faith of Christ and the whole world will be good and merciful, so that there will be no malice or sin in the people of that era, with the possible exception of venial sin in some.”
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Behind the rantings of the grand inquisitor is an intriguing example of what passed for heresy in the medieval church. The Beguines were women who lived communally, observed strict chastity, earned their livelihoods in nursing and teaching, and spent the rest of their days in fasting and self-mortification, mystical contemplation, and apocalyptic speculation. The houses of the Beguines, which appeared in Belgium, France, Germany, and Italy, offered a practical solution to the plight of single women who were otherwise unattached and unprotected. Not surprisingly, the Beguines aroused the suspicions of the Inquisition, but not only because they boldly condemned the church as “Babylon” and “the great harlot.” Just as threatening to men like Bernard Gui was the simple fact that they were women who had placed themselves beyond the authority of fathers and husbands.
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“We have been told that certain women commonly called Beguines, afflicted by a kind of madness, discuss the Holy Trinity and the divine essence, and express opinions on matters of faith and sacraments contrary to the catholic faith, deceiving many simple people,” a church council concluded in 1312. “We have therefore decided and decreed that their way of life is to be permanently forbidden and altogether excluded from the Church of God.”
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Among the women who fell afoul of the Inquisition was Marguerite Porete (d. 1310), author of
The Mirror of the Simple Soul—
an ironic title, as it turned out. She is reputed to have been a Beguine, but she apparently lived and worked as a wandering preacher, “solitary and itinerary” and “essentially homeless.”
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Inevitably, she came to the attention of the church authorities, and when she defied their warnings to silence herself, Marguerite was turned over to the Inquisition, imprisoned in Paris for eighteen months, and finally brought before a tribunal consisting of twenty-one theologians on the faculty of the University of Paris. Her sole defender was a man styled as the “Angel of Philadelphia” after a figure from Revelation—“Behold, I have set before thee an open door,” John writes of the angel, “and no man can shut it”
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—but he was rewarded for his efforts on her behalf with his own charge of heresy. Marguerite’s advocate recanted in order to save his own life, but she was convicted and burned at the stake.

The same fate befell a mystic called Na Prous Boneta (1290–1325), who assured her followers that Jesus had carried her to heaven “in spirit” on Good Friday in 1321. According to her visions, Francis of Assisi is the angel described in Revelation as “having the seal of the Living God,” and Peter John Olivi is the angel with a “face like the sun” who declares that “there should be time no longer.”
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Jesus had sent these two holy men as apocalyptic witnesses, she asserted, but his divine will was foiled by the Antichrist in his incarnation as Pope John XXII. Na Prous Boneta insisted that the third and final age of human history was imminent: the Antichrist would be defeated, and the papacy itself would be “annulled for perpetuity” along with all sacraments except holy matrimony.
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Significantly, everything we know about Na Prous Boneta is preserved in the meticulous minutes of her interrogation and trial. Like so many other readers of Revelation about whose lives we can only speculate, she would have slipped through the cracks of history if she had escaped the attention of the Inquisition. “Having been warned, called, and urged many times in court and elsewhere, to revoke and adjure all the aforesaid things as erroneous and heretical,” the inquisitors concluded, “she persevered in them, claiming that in the aforesaid, as in the truth, she wishes to live and die.” Her final wish, so principled and so courageous, was granted, and Na Prous Boneta was burned at the stake along with her sister, Alisette, and one of their companions.
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The tragic fate of these women offers an example of the price that more than a few true believers have been called upon to pay for their idiosyncratic readings of Revelation. Long after they were dead and gone, many others would also literally go down in flames because they were inspired by Revelation to act out their own end-time fantasies. But they also remind us that Revelation has always seemed to exert an especially powerful attraction for the female reader, ranging from the prophetesses Prisca and Maximilla through the visionary nun Hildegard of Bingen and not excluding the female Bible scholars who figure so importantly in the modern study of Revelation. Here is yet another irony that has attached itself to Revelation, a book whose author seems to regard all fleshly women with fear and loathing.

W
omen do not fare well in the book of Revelation itself. Its author, as we have already noted, is appalled by
all
human sexuality and betrays a distinct “hatred and fear” of women in particular.
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Among the most vivid figures in Revelation—and an all-purpose symbol of satanic evil among sermonizers and propagandists over the last twenty centuries—is the Great Whore of Babylon. By contrast, the only flesh-and-blood woman whom the author actually identifies by name in the book of Revelation, the prophetess he calls Jezebel, is singled out for condemnation “for beguiling my servants to practice immorality.”
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And yet flesh-and-blood women were among the most ardent readers of Revelation at a time when it was rare for women to read at all.

Unlike Hildegard—or her less fortunate sisters such as Marguerite Porete and Na Prous Boneta—most of the medieval women who opened the book of Revelation were seeking spiritual self-improvement or entertainment of the chills-and-thrills variety rather than revelations of their own. Deluxe editions of the text, richly illuminated and lavishly illustrated, were specially commissioned by wealthy women for their private contemplation. Thus, for example,
The Birth and Time of the Antichrist,
a treatise on the end-times, was composed in the tenth century by a monk especially for a woman called Gerberga, the wife of the Frankish king Louis IV. And the book was yet another medieval best seller, copied out and circulated throughout western Europe over the next several centuries.

The story line of Revelation, such as it is, can be approached as a romantic tale, full of intrigue and suspense, or so scholars have suggested. Many of the same characters and incidents that are found in medieval accounts of chivalrous knights and damsels in distress can also be found in Revelation. The woman clothed with the sun is stalked by a bloodthirsty dragon who seeks to devour her newborn son, and she is ultimately rescued by a dragon-slaying champion. Jesus Christ is presented as a crowned prince on a white charger who rides into battle to defend her honor. And the happy ending of Revelation includes the wedding feast of the King of Kings and his bride, an occasion that marks the founding of a kingdom that will, quite literally, last forever.

Even more popular than the challenging biblical text itself were abridged, simplified, and illustrated versions of Revelation, the medieval version of a Classics Illustrated comic book. Picture books were especially appealing to Christians who could not actually read the Bible in its original Greek text or in its Latin translation, the only versions of the Christian scriptures generally available in the Middle Ages, or who could not read at all, a category that included a great many women. Above all, the book of Revelation, with its angels and demons, monsters and marvels, signs and wonders, was an early and enduring favorite of artists ranging from Albrecht Dürer to Hieronymus Bosch. The strange visions that the author of Revelation saw in his mind’s eye were readily and repeatedly transferred to canvas, fresco, or woodcut, where they came to define the Christian imagination of the end-times down to our own times.

Apocalyptic speculation, then, was never confined to the musings of cloistered monks or the disputations among contesting theologians. Augustine’s call for a sober reading of Revelation, as it turned out, was mostly ignored by the preachers and pamphleteers, artists and scribes, who addressed a far larger and noisier audience than the clerical insiders ever managed to reach. And they borrowed freely from the legend and lore that appear nowhere in the Bible but had come to be attached to the book of Revelation in the popular imagination. As rich and strange as Revelation may be, still richer and stranger ideas and images boiled up out of the apocalyptic imagination of these “dreamers and diviners,” whose sermons and tracts passed into the popular culture of medieval Europe.

Among the most exotic reworkings of Revelation, for example, was a text that supposedly originated with the so-called Sibyl of Tivoli. The sibyls were legendary women of pagan antiquity who were believed by the ancients to channel the voices of the gods and deliver messages from on high: “The Sibyl with frenzied lips, uttering words mirthless, unembellished, unperfumed,” writes Heraclitus (ca. 500
B.C.E.
), “penetrates through the centuries by the powers of the gods.”
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The original Sibylline Oracles, a collection of the various enigmatic sayings of the Sibyls, were purely pagan. Later, however, both Jewish and Christian authors composed their own editions of the Sibylline Oracles in an effort to turn the pagan world to the worship of the One True God. The Sibyl of Tivoli, for example, was styled by some anonymous Christian author as a seeress who is summoned to the court of the emperor Trajan in the early second century to interpret a dream that had miraculously disturbed the sleep of one hundred Roman senators in the same night.

The dream, as deciphered by the Sibyl of Tivoli, is an elaborate prophesy of the end-times that puts a wholly new spin on the visions of Revelation. She sees the arrival of a tall and handsome man, “well put together in all of his parts,” who will call the Jews and pagans to baptism and unite the “Greeks and Romans”—that is, the eastern and western halves of the Roman Empire (or, from a medieval perspective, the eastern and western realms of Christendom). The Sibyl predicts that he will defeat the armies of Gog and Magog and rule over a world empire for exactly 112 years, an era of miraculous abundance: “A measure of wheat, a measure of wine, and a measure of oil would all come at the price of one denarius.” But, according to the Sibyl, his empire will end with the enthronement of the Anti-christ in “the House of the Lord” in Jerusalem.
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“After this he will come to Jerusalem, and having put off the diadem from his head and laid aside the whole imperial garb, he will hand over the empire of the Christians to God the Father and to Jesus Christ his Son,” go the words of the oracle. “The Lord will shorten those days for the sake of the elect, and the Antichrist will be slain by the power of God through Michael the Archangel on the Mount of Olives.”
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The Sibyl of Tivoli may have originated in a lost manuscript of the fourth century, but the medieval version of the text began to attract a sizable readership only in the eleventh century. Some 150 manuscripts of the oracles of the Tiburtine Sibyl, as she is also known, survive from the Middle Ages, about the same number of manuscripts as those of
The Travels of Marco Polo,
another medieval best-seller. And the comparison is telling: both of these books reveal that medieval readers were curious about the origin and destiny of the world in which they lived.

Not everyone who lived in or after the year 1000, in other words, was gripped with despair and terror when they contemplated the end-times. Indeed, some looked forward to the millennial kingdom with hope and joy—an approach to reading Revelation that turned out to be one of the great and enduring theological innovations in the long history of John’s little book.

Embedded in the visions of the Tiburtine Sibyl is one of the assorted apocalyptic improvisations that came to be added to the story line of Revelation in the Middle Ages—the idea of the Last World Emperor. A single all-powerful monarch, as the Sibyl suggests, would reign over the world in the last days, and the idea prompted much speculation about which of the contending kings of medieval Europe would play the role of Last World Emperor in the end-times that were surely and soon to come. The notion is found nowhere in the book of Revelation, of course, but it turned out to be yet another convenient rhetorical weapon in an era when the vocabulary of the Apocalypse was readily put to use in politics and propaganda.