The Quest for the Christ Child in the Later Middle Ages. Mary Dzon

pious widow saw through this demonic trick, which interestingly reveals the imaginative seductiveness, for some, of the Mother-and-Child duo.⁹⁷

      Although Christ had acquired the characteristics of ordinary children by the later Middle Ages,⁹⁸ in contemporaneous sources he often seems distant and aloof, and occasionally imperious, so we would be wise to avoid the over-generalization that, at that time, the figure of a formidable Christ, such as the exacting Judge of the eerie Dies irae hymn, was completely superseded by the suffering Savior on the cross, as well as the gentle Child who is perpetually open to reconciliation.⁹⁹ All three manifestations of the Son of God are in fact referred to—in quick succession, suggestive of a conflation—in a much earlier passage by St. Jerome, with which medieval scholars well read in patristic writings would have been familiar. Intending to convince his friend Heliodorus of the superiority of the anchoritic way of life, Jerome concludes his letter to him by reminding him that the God who will come to judge him and the whole human race is he who was a lowly man and a child who suffered during life, implying that Christ will show mercy to those who are likewise simple, humble, and patient.¹⁰⁰ Given the many aspects of Christ’s persona—the different forms he assumes at the various stages of his earthly life, and in his current and future state of glory, forms which are able to coexist by virtue of his divinity—it is not surprising that medieval Christians imagined the child Jesus as a multifaceted and rather unpredictable personage. In an exemplum found in an early fifteenth-century collection of religious tales, “evidently compiled by a Franciscan in northern Italy,” the Christ Child (perhaps to be expected of one who is “purus”) is initially ill-disposed toward a prostitute who prays to him, but is then mollified by his merciful mother.¹⁰¹ In the famous early thirteenth-century collection of tales by the Cistercian Caesarius of Heisterbach, the Dialogus miraculorum, we learn, along similar lines, that the Christ Child turned his face away from a priest who presumed to consecrate the Eucharist unworthily.¹⁰² So the boy Jesus was not always imagined as a sweet and gentle child. He could express his displeasure in even more dramatic ways, as we have seen in an anecdote from the vita of Ida of Louvain, in which the Christ Child lashed out in a sort of temper tantrum at Ida’s sister, in defense of his beloved.

      The Christ Child is, however, more often shown to be mysterious and elusive than retributive. In a didactic dialogue text transmitted in various medieval languages, the Child appears to the Emperor Hadrian; without at first identifying himself, he instructs the emperor in the central tenets of the Christian faith, and then disappears, immediately after revealing who he is.¹⁰³ The Child likewise vanishes shortly after he appears to the boy Edmund of Abingdon (d. 1240), telling him that he was always beside him during his studies, and that he will continue to be with him.¹⁰⁴ In his mystical dealings with the fourteenth-century Dominican nun Margaret Ebner, who cared for the infant Jesus as for a real child, Christ made a point of emphasizing his ability to leave her at will.¹⁰⁵ In speaking of similar tales included in the so-called Sister Books that record the experiences and imaginary world of late medieval German nuns, Richard Kieckhefer remarks that “the theme of divine presence is expressed in these stories with something of the teasing playfulness associated with the Bridegroom in the Song of Songs.”¹⁰⁶ While Kieckhefer’s comment is applicable in this more general discussion of the Child who often seems to be a flirtatious and inaccessible lover, I would stress the playful paradoxicality of a divine child who seems almost to play a game of “hide-and-seek” with his devotees.¹⁰⁷ Along similar lines, in the vita of the Augustinian nun Clare of Montefalco by Berengario di Donadio, we learn that when she was still a child but had already entered the convent, the Virgin Mary appeared to her many times: “in her mantle the Virgin was [leading] the Child Jesus, who seemed to be the same age as Clare. Urged by his Mother, the Child Jesus [at times] approached Clare [on foot], took her hand, and filled her with wonderful consolations.” Yet Jesus made it clear to her that he was not accessible for play as she had assumed he would be, as someone her own age. “Seeing him thus with her own eyes, Clare wanted to take hold of him and play with him, but the Child eluded her and returned to his mother, leaving Clare in a state of deep desire.”¹⁰⁸ Perhaps seeking to get at the ultimate untouchability of the child Jesus that stems from his divine majesty, an early fourteenth-century fresco based upon this episode depicts the young Clare kneeling before the child Jesus. Standing erect on his own two feet and partly sheltered by his mother’s mantle, the divine child blesses his young devotee (Master of St. Clare, Church of St. Clare, Chapel of the Holy Cross, Montefalco, c. 1333; fig. 3).

      In the later Middle Ages, Christ not only at times suddenly absented himself from his devotees, but also often appeared all at once, showing himself to be engaged in an activity or in a form that caused surprise.¹⁰⁹ Vito of Cortona, the Franciscan biographer of the devout Florentine widow Humiliana de’ Cerchi (d. 1246), recounts how Jesus once visited her as a four-year-old boy, playing in her room—a discovery that produced some flirtatious banter: “O sweet love! Dear boy! Don’t you know how to do anything except play?” Right after recounting this incident, the hagiographer casts a shroud of mystery on Humiliana’s interactions with the Christ Child, commenting: “There are several things about the child Jesus which we will not put down in writing lest we should relate uncertainties.” While Vito may seem dismissive of such mystical encounters, his further remark suggests that Humiliana herself chose not to disclose such intimate experiences: “We have also heard it said that she kissed his feet; and we believe it, because she received many more things from Jesus than can be related and she concealed more than she declared.”¹¹⁰ Explicitly calling Humiliana an “enclosed garden” (hortus conclusus, Sg. 4:12), her reticent biographer delicately preserves the mysterious character of Jesus’ apparitions to, and interactions with, the holy woman—thus in a way imitating John the Evangelist, who opted to leave much about Jesus’ life unspoken (John 21:25). Whereas Humiliana did not expect to find Jesus playing in her room, the Dominican tertiary Osanna of Mantua (d. 1505) must have been startled to an even greater extent when, in a vision, she saw the Christ Child bearing a crown of thorns on his head and a large cross on his shoulders.¹¹¹ These examples show that the Christ Child was present to medieval Christians under many guises, and that he remained mysterious to them, despite their confidence in being able to gain an increasing knowledge of and greater familiarity with him. Thus, even when the Child became more humanized in the later Middle Ages, he still maintained his mystique, often to the frustration of his devotees as well as to writers and artists who had little authoritative material to work with (yet, positively, much creative space at their disposal). Furthermore, the Child sometimes made known his superiority in ways that took people aback.

Figure 3. The boy Jesus appears to Chiara of Montefalco in her girlhood. Fresco by the Master of St. Clare, Chapel of the Holy Cross, Church of St. Clare, Montefalco (fourteenth century). By permission of De Agostini Picture Library/Art Resource, NY.

      The medieval tendency to ascribe a surprise element to the Christ Child is clearly seen in the Life of St. Christopher that was extremely popular in the later Middle Ages: a giant with a “fearsome visage,” Christopher set out to find “the greatest prince in the world,” but after he realized that the powerful king he initially hoped to serve was not the mightiest lord of all, and that neither was the devil, he continued his search. He then came across a hermit, who instructed him in the Christian faith and assigned him a task suitable to one his size: ferrying people across a tempestuous river. After a while, the giant was graced with a mysterious visitation by the child Jesus, when Christopher answered the repeated plea for transportation from what looked like an ordinary child, standing on the riverbank. As he carried the child across the treacherous water, the giant felt his little burden on his shoulders become extremely heavy. This prompted him to remark, after he had completed his task: “My boy, you put me in great danger, and you weighed so much that if I had the whole world on my back I could not have felt a heavier burden!” Rather than thank the giant for the transportation he had been given, the Child informed him that he had just borne the Creator of the world, and his king, on his shoulders. As if the Boy’s almost unbearable weight were not proof enough of his almighty power, the Christ Child