The use of the word "dormition" to describe Mary's death in the Transitus Mariae readings got me thinking about the analogy between death and sleep and the religious implications of this connection. The "dormition" was especially emphasized in St. Andrew of Crete's second homily, where he writes, "It is death's tyranny, real death, when we who die are not to be allowed to return to life again. But if we die and then live again after death- indeed, live a better life- then clearly that is not so much a death as a sleep ('dormition'), a passage into a second life" (118-119). While reading this, I kept drawing parallels with John Donne's deathbed reflections Devotions upon Emergent Occasions (1624), and I think looking at these texts side by side could help us explore more ways of understanding the relation between sleep and death and dormition and assumption.
Donne approaches the dual nature of death as an end of life in the earthly realm and a rebirth in heaven by comparing it to the similarly conflicting effects of sleep: "Sleep is an opiate which gives us rest, but such an opiate, as perchance, being under it, we shall wake no more" (91). Sleep reduces the amount of time in your life spent living, prevents an excess of life and prevents humans from overstepping their bounds and exceeding the capacities of nature, but it also rejuvenates the body, so that it can be "reborn" in a new day. In the same way, death can be viewed negatively, as the withdrawal of earthly life and pleasures, but it is also positive in that it prepares your for a new life in heaven. St. Andrew of Crete is clear about the renewing effects of "dormition" before the final death, saying it is a period of preparation for the final judgment, in language that evokes a caterpillar changing inside a chrysalis, calling it "a kind of ecstatic movement towards the things we only hope for during this life, a passage that leads us on towards transformation into a state like that of God" (121).
In the same way, Donne proposes that sleep during life is a taste of death every time, and that every time one sleeps, one is cutting a little more time off one's life, training for "real" death through a long series of gentler versions of death: he says of death that it is "a preparing of the soul for the next" (91).
More than simply a training for death, sleep is, both Donne and the Coptic apocryphal text of Evodius of Rome agree, a gentler version of death that God grants us in remission of original sin. The reason Mary's death is a "dormition" followed by an "assumption" rather than simple death is because Christ's death had redeemed mankind's original sin, and though death could not be eliminated altogether, it was transmuted into a sleep, a gentler death, from which one could be awaken and reborn into heaven. This idea is most evident in the text of Evodius, in which Jesus tells Mary that Death cannot approach while he is there (interestingly juxtaposing Death as a separate agent in itself) but then tells Death to come to her in a less intimidating form. Donne says of this guise of Death as sleep, "God, I say, intended sleep only for the refreshing of man by bodily rest, and not for a figure of death, for he intended not death itself then. But man having induced death upon himself, God hath taken man's creature, death, into his hand, and mended it; and whereas it hath in itself a fearful form and aspect, so that man is afraid of his own creature, God presents it to him in a familiar, in an assiduous, in an agreeable and acceptable form, in sleep" (91).
Another interesting aspect of the dormition is how Mary always seems to prepare herself for her death by lying down in her bed, often facing east, even though none of the narratives say she is sick or that she has any condition that would confine her to her bed. This idea that comes out in the texts that the proper way to die is lying in bed compares death to sleep, and, perhaps, the reason Mary faces east is because that is the direction from which the sun rises, thus ensuring that she will be "awakened" when the time comes for the Assumption. According to Donne, this comes down, once again, to sleep as a kind of practice for death, that the dormition is a long period of renovation and preparation for the final death/rebirth. Donne says, "I must practice my lying in the grave by lying still, and not practice my resurrection by rising any more," implying that waking life is practice for life after death, which is why it is necessary to act morally (14). He also suggests that men must assume a prone position at death because it is the moment at which they are most humbled before God, and that it serves as a reminder that it was only because of God that he could stand erect, closer to heaven than other creatures, and that God could also take this privilege away at will: "When God came to breathe into man the breath of life, he found him flat upon the ground; when he comes to withdraw that breath from him again, he prepares him to it by laying him flat upon his bed" (13).
I'm sure the theological tradition Donne was building off of would have included narratives of the Assumption, so the similarities are probably not accidental, but I think his interpretation of the connection between death and sleep can be productively applied to the idea of "dormition" in these narratives and raises interesting questions about language.
AB
Showing posts with label Transitus Mariae. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Transitus Mariae. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Fear of Death in Narratives of the Dormition of Mary
On Monday, while discussing the texts we read for class, we noted four main differences between the many accounts of the phenomenon of Mary’s assumption into heaven and the events surrounding it. These differences were: one, the location(s) of the events; two, the conversations that transpire during them; three, the details of what happens to the Jew who tries to attack the bed on which Mary’s body is being carried; and four, how Mary’s body and soul are actually assumed.
I’d like to add one more difference that I noticed in the accounts we read, one could perhaps be a bullet point underneath the second category of discrepancies listed above: Mary’s attitude toward death, and the way she expresses it. In many of the narratives of her dormition, Mary makes some expression of how she anticipates her coming death, and no story presents her emotions as exactly the same: she is variously anticipatory, fearful, melancholy, joyful.
Looking at these different tellings of how Mary approached her death, we wonder how such divergent stories found their way into ink. This, though, is a question we can bring to any of the differences in these texts, and one that, as discussed in class on Monday, can often be answered by considering the narratives as not only different accounts of the same story, but also as individual accounts belonging to local communities with their own interests, emphases, and observances. What I’d really like to know is: What is the motivation behind exposing about Mary’s attitude at all? As we noted in our first two classes, very little reflection or individual personhood is attributed to Mary in the four Gospels; in fact, with the exception of Luke, who gives Mary a few opportunities to display her critical and emotional faculties, none is attributed at all. So what did the authors of these texts about the dormition think that the accounting of Mary’s emotions regarding death would add to these narratives?
In order to consider this question, I’d like to leave behind the differences in texts; though I find them extremely interesting, I don’t think I have the tools or the space to do them justice. Instead, let’s consider the one element of Mary’s expression of her attitude toward death that is present in each of the narratives we read that attribute to her reflection on her death: her request that her Son, Jesus, protect her against the powers of the devil in the next world.
These requests vary in their magnitude, the place in the narratives in which they transpire, and the nature and intensity of the emotions by which they are accompanied. The kernel, however, is the same. Here are some examples.
Evodius: She besought him to save her from the many terrors of the next world—the accusers of Amente, the dragon of the abyss, the river of fire that proves the righteous and the wicked.
Cyril of Jerusalem: …she asked to be delivered from the terrors of the next world—the dragon and the river of fire.
Pseudo-Melito: And Mary said to him, “I ask that you would put your blessing upon me, that no power of hell may meet me in the hours in which my soul goes out of the body, and that I may not see the prince of darkness.”
Jacobus relating John the Evangelist: “And I also plead and pray that when my soul leaves this body, it may see no foul spirit, and that no power of Satan may confront me.”
Jacobus relating Saint Cosmas Vestitor: His mother had implored him, face to face, when her Son was still living on earth, not to let her see any malignant spirit.
At the core of these passages, we find similar cruxes: an anxiety about death, an acknowledgement of hell, and a trust that a plea to Jesus is not sinful or in vain. I’ve come up with a few ideas about why the authors of these texts would want to attribute these things to Mary; I’ll briefly mention them here.
Anxiety about death: Through our readings so far this quarter, we’ve learned that Mary’s humanity is absolutely crucial to the delicate infrastructure that is Christianity. Perhaps the authors thought that painting Mary as being unsure or fearful about her death would help confirm that she is fully human, without divine instinct or power regarding the afterlife.
Acknowledgement of hell: The concept of hell and the existence of Satan are sometimes pushed aside with discomfort in modern Christianity; this is pure speculation, but I wonder if these ideas presented as much of a problem to early Christians as they do to their modern counterparts. Maybe the authors of these narratives wished to attribute to Mary statements that would confirm Jesus’s teachings in the Gospels about the reality of hell. To stretch this a little more, it could be possible that these statements are also meant to leapfrog back to Old Testament mentions of fire and brimstone, reminding readers of Jesus’s fulfillment of the line of Hebrew prophets.
Trust that prayers of supplication are worthwhile: In class, we focused on how the narratives of Mary’s assumption are meant to present to Christians the Church’s teachings on life after death and the resurrection of the body at the second coming of Christ. Perhaps the authors were trying to establish acceptable attitudes and behavior toward death through Mary’s speech and actions: though a person may believe in Christ, Mary’s words suggest that it is not wrong to be frightened of death and the powers of evil, and that though a person is shaken, praying to Jesus will strengthen and calm a person encountering death and could influence God to show mercy during judgment.
If anyone else is interested in thinking about this topic, or has suggestions about or disagreements with any of the ideas put forth here, please share your insights.
-CCF
I’d like to add one more difference that I noticed in the accounts we read, one could perhaps be a bullet point underneath the second category of discrepancies listed above: Mary’s attitude toward death, and the way she expresses it. In many of the narratives of her dormition, Mary makes some expression of how she anticipates her coming death, and no story presents her emotions as exactly the same: she is variously anticipatory, fearful, melancholy, joyful.
Looking at these different tellings of how Mary approached her death, we wonder how such divergent stories found their way into ink. This, though, is a question we can bring to any of the differences in these texts, and one that, as discussed in class on Monday, can often be answered by considering the narratives as not only different accounts of the same story, but also as individual accounts belonging to local communities with their own interests, emphases, and observances. What I’d really like to know is: What is the motivation behind exposing about Mary’s attitude at all? As we noted in our first two classes, very little reflection or individual personhood is attributed to Mary in the four Gospels; in fact, with the exception of Luke, who gives Mary a few opportunities to display her critical and emotional faculties, none is attributed at all. So what did the authors of these texts about the dormition think that the accounting of Mary’s emotions regarding death would add to these narratives?
In order to consider this question, I’d like to leave behind the differences in texts; though I find them extremely interesting, I don’t think I have the tools or the space to do them justice. Instead, let’s consider the one element of Mary’s expression of her attitude toward death that is present in each of the narratives we read that attribute to her reflection on her death: her request that her Son, Jesus, protect her against the powers of the devil in the next world.
These requests vary in their magnitude, the place in the narratives in which they transpire, and the nature and intensity of the emotions by which they are accompanied. The kernel, however, is the same. Here are some examples.
Evodius: She besought him to save her from the many terrors of the next world—the accusers of Amente, the dragon of the abyss, the river of fire that proves the righteous and the wicked.
Cyril of Jerusalem: …she asked to be delivered from the terrors of the next world—the dragon and the river of fire.
Pseudo-Melito: And Mary said to him, “I ask that you would put your blessing upon me, that no power of hell may meet me in the hours in which my soul goes out of the body, and that I may not see the prince of darkness.”
Jacobus relating John the Evangelist: “And I also plead and pray that when my soul leaves this body, it may see no foul spirit, and that no power of Satan may confront me.”
Jacobus relating Saint Cosmas Vestitor: His mother had implored him, face to face, when her Son was still living on earth, not to let her see any malignant spirit.
At the core of these passages, we find similar cruxes: an anxiety about death, an acknowledgement of hell, and a trust that a plea to Jesus is not sinful or in vain. I’ve come up with a few ideas about why the authors of these texts would want to attribute these things to Mary; I’ll briefly mention them here.
Anxiety about death: Through our readings so far this quarter, we’ve learned that Mary’s humanity is absolutely crucial to the delicate infrastructure that is Christianity. Perhaps the authors thought that painting Mary as being unsure or fearful about her death would help confirm that she is fully human, without divine instinct or power regarding the afterlife.
Acknowledgement of hell: The concept of hell and the existence of Satan are sometimes pushed aside with discomfort in modern Christianity; this is pure speculation, but I wonder if these ideas presented as much of a problem to early Christians as they do to their modern counterparts. Maybe the authors of these narratives wished to attribute to Mary statements that would confirm Jesus’s teachings in the Gospels about the reality of hell. To stretch this a little more, it could be possible that these statements are also meant to leapfrog back to Old Testament mentions of fire and brimstone, reminding readers of Jesus’s fulfillment of the line of Hebrew prophets.
Trust that prayers of supplication are worthwhile: In class, we focused on how the narratives of Mary’s assumption are meant to present to Christians the Church’s teachings on life after death and the resurrection of the body at the second coming of Christ. Perhaps the authors were trying to establish acceptable attitudes and behavior toward death through Mary’s speech and actions: though a person may believe in Christ, Mary’s words suggest that it is not wrong to be frightened of death and the powers of evil, and that though a person is shaken, praying to Jesus will strengthen and calm a person encountering death and could influence God to show mercy during judgment.
If anyone else is interested in thinking about this topic, or has suggestions about or disagreements with any of the ideas put forth here, please share your insights.
-CCF
The Flesh of Mary in Transitus: serving as bridge between Christ and humanity
Amid the various stories of the Transitus of the Virgin Mary, we find a number of discontinuities and sometime even discrepancies in the accounts of what actual transpired in the moment of Mary’s Assumption into heaven. Some very important details such as the location of the events of the Assumption for example, which could serve to legitimize the truth of the accounts, are scattered and even contradictory depending on the account. Rather, the variations that arise from this accounts have given cause for dismissal or at least high skepticism of the events surrounding Mary’s passing. Still, however, it seems to me that focusing on the moments of discontinuity can often lure us away from any truth (whether historical or theological) that can be derived from these accounts. I do not wish to down play the value of consistent and dependable evidence, especially in the case of a ‘historical’ event such as claimed by these accounts. I simply wish to understand these accounts of the Virgin Mary’s Transitus as they might function within the context of the development of faith and devotion despite their misaligned details. Thus, again, though these accounts do vary, the concerns operative in these accounts is the point of continuity I find valuable to consider and evaluate.
Looking to the accounts we have discussed in class, I find two points regarding the Church’s considerations of Mary is key. First, as discussed, the flesh of Mary which is shared by the divine Son of God, Jesus, is centrally important. As we previously saw in looking at the understanding of Mary as the “Theotokos,” the humanity of Christ is intertwined and perhaps even dependent on the flesh of the Virgin who bore him into the world. As human, the redemptive works of Christ have currency for the salvation of humanity. We can go so far as to say that Mary herself, on this level, is then responsible for our redemption. Therefore, it would seem absurd to think that the flesh which was not only shared with Christ but gave human substance to Christ would not get some serious special treatment. Secondly, Mary is slowly transformed into the human example, meaning that she, in her passing, becomes an example for all human beings as we should and will be in our own moment of passing and resurrection. Hence, there are two veins of consideration I would like to make in regard to these points. Mary, as the Mother of God, can be considered in her own right; she is unique in all that shares with Christ. At the same time, she is like all of humanity in how she is human (and only human). Through her flesh/humanity she becomes a point of intersection between Christ and human beings. She is both mold and model; clay and pot.( Here, I think it is easy to see how these levels of relation slowly transition Mary into the bridge between realm of the divine and human often referred to present day Marian cults.) I find these points of continuity to be quite candidly carried through in the narratives. The two veins of consideration can be broken down in the text by looking at these two sets of relations: Christ and Mary; Mary and humanity.
Considering the relationship between Christ and Mary, the ‘sharing’ between Mary and Christ is quite apparent throughout. Many parallels are drawn between the passing of Mary and the death of Christ. Whereas, only John was present at the foot of the cross, consistently in most of the accounts of Mary’s passing all twelve apostles are present. By some mode of transportation whether by cloud and smoke, foot, or translocation, they all arrive to send off the Virgin. Consistent also is the formal presence of John in all the accounts since it was Christ who entrusts Mary to his care. In Joseph of Arimathea’s account, after Mary is informed that she is to leave this world, she asks the disciples to watch and pray with her just as Christ asked his disciples in the Garden of Gethsemane (section 10). In the Gospels, Peter runs to the disciples and tells them that he has seen the Lord and Thomas disbelieves but here Thomas provides proof of what the other apostles are unable to see and believe, namely the raising of Mary’s body into Heaven (section 19).
Though the Transitus of Mary mirrors the death of Christ, many of the accounts refer to the same details in an effort to legitimize their claims to the validity of this connection between Mary and Christ and affirm the special status of Mary. In every account we read it is Christ himself who takes Mary into Heaven whether her body, soul, or both. The narratives seek in this way to establish the specific investment Christ has in the Virgin. Also, in most of the earliest accounts we read, either the Jews or Satan himself plan to burn the body of Mary after her soul is lifted. This is quite an interesting detail that stays pretty consistent throughout the narratives. Eventhough this may be a response to an accusation made regarding the absence of Mary’s body, it may serve a purpose beyond this. What would be consequence of burning the body of Mary? Burning the body of Mary has serious implications for the flesh and perhaps the humanity of Christ. For the same reason Mary is not left to decay in the tomb, the flesh of Mary is unique and cannot, or perhaps more appropriately, will not be corrupted. In fact, in the accounts of both John the Evangelist and Pseudo-Melito, Mary’s body exudes beautiful fragrance as it lies in the bier and tomb.
In class, we discussed quite a bit about the separation of Mary’s soul and body and the assumption of both. In many of the narratives, Mary’s soul is taken up first; her body is taken up later after some time. It strikes me as interesting to note the special features Mary’s body, once separated from its soul, takes on in the narratives. As mentioned above, it is only after her soul departs that temptations to burn it arise and sweet fragrances begin to exude from it. There is a quality to Mary’s flesh as flesh alone that is, I think worth noting here. As flesh alone, it would seem that Mary is Christ’s alone. Perhaps, this is why in many of the narratives Christ is the one to call the body of Mary into heaven/paradise.
Mary’s relationship with Christ is a moment of model for humanity as well. Again, in most of the narratives, Mary’s expressed desire for Christ directly sets into motion the steps of her Transitus. Despite her special relationship with Christ as mother, she also refers to him her Lord and is often portrayed as falling prostrate before him when he appears to her (Daley, 701). In addition, the joyful passing of Mary, as discussed in class, serves as a model of our own future glory. The first part of most of the descriptions of Mary’s passing, for all intents and purposes, look quite similar to the death we often observe. Though we do not typically see multitudes of angels, our soul is said to depart our bodies. Later, in what Christians hope to be the final judgment, the body and soul are expected to unite and glorified must like what Mary experiences in the narrative. Her relationship with Christ and Transitus are thus in many ways exemplary.
By following the points of continuity and consistency in the narratives of the Transitus, we are able to trace the moments where Mary begins to take shape as the bridge by way of her flesh between Christ and humanity.
Looking to the accounts we have discussed in class, I find two points regarding the Church’s considerations of Mary is key. First, as discussed, the flesh of Mary which is shared by the divine Son of God, Jesus, is centrally important. As we previously saw in looking at the understanding of Mary as the “Theotokos,” the humanity of Christ is intertwined and perhaps even dependent on the flesh of the Virgin who bore him into the world. As human, the redemptive works of Christ have currency for the salvation of humanity. We can go so far as to say that Mary herself, on this level, is then responsible for our redemption. Therefore, it would seem absurd to think that the flesh which was not only shared with Christ but gave human substance to Christ would not get some serious special treatment. Secondly, Mary is slowly transformed into the human example, meaning that she, in her passing, becomes an example for all human beings as we should and will be in our own moment of passing and resurrection. Hence, there are two veins of consideration I would like to make in regard to these points. Mary, as the Mother of God, can be considered in her own right; she is unique in all that shares with Christ. At the same time, she is like all of humanity in how she is human (and only human). Through her flesh/humanity she becomes a point of intersection between Christ and human beings. She is both mold and model; clay and pot.( Here, I think it is easy to see how these levels of relation slowly transition Mary into the bridge between realm of the divine and human often referred to present day Marian cults.) I find these points of continuity to be quite candidly carried through in the narratives. The two veins of consideration can be broken down in the text by looking at these two sets of relations: Christ and Mary; Mary and humanity.
Considering the relationship between Christ and Mary, the ‘sharing’ between Mary and Christ is quite apparent throughout. Many parallels are drawn between the passing of Mary and the death of Christ. Whereas, only John was present at the foot of the cross, consistently in most of the accounts of Mary’s passing all twelve apostles are present. By some mode of transportation whether by cloud and smoke, foot, or translocation, they all arrive to send off the Virgin. Consistent also is the formal presence of John in all the accounts since it was Christ who entrusts Mary to his care. In Joseph of Arimathea’s account, after Mary is informed that she is to leave this world, she asks the disciples to watch and pray with her just as Christ asked his disciples in the Garden of Gethsemane (section 10). In the Gospels, Peter runs to the disciples and tells them that he has seen the Lord and Thomas disbelieves but here Thomas provides proof of what the other apostles are unable to see and believe, namely the raising of Mary’s body into Heaven (section 19).
Though the Transitus of Mary mirrors the death of Christ, many of the accounts refer to the same details in an effort to legitimize their claims to the validity of this connection between Mary and Christ and affirm the special status of Mary. In every account we read it is Christ himself who takes Mary into Heaven whether her body, soul, or both. The narratives seek in this way to establish the specific investment Christ has in the Virgin. Also, in most of the earliest accounts we read, either the Jews or Satan himself plan to burn the body of Mary after her soul is lifted. This is quite an interesting detail that stays pretty consistent throughout the narratives. Eventhough this may be a response to an accusation made regarding the absence of Mary’s body, it may serve a purpose beyond this. What would be consequence of burning the body of Mary? Burning the body of Mary has serious implications for the flesh and perhaps the humanity of Christ. For the same reason Mary is not left to decay in the tomb, the flesh of Mary is unique and cannot, or perhaps more appropriately, will not be corrupted. In fact, in the accounts of both John the Evangelist and Pseudo-Melito, Mary’s body exudes beautiful fragrance as it lies in the bier and tomb.
In class, we discussed quite a bit about the separation of Mary’s soul and body and the assumption of both. In many of the narratives, Mary’s soul is taken up first; her body is taken up later after some time. It strikes me as interesting to note the special features Mary’s body, once separated from its soul, takes on in the narratives. As mentioned above, it is only after her soul departs that temptations to burn it arise and sweet fragrances begin to exude from it. There is a quality to Mary’s flesh as flesh alone that is, I think worth noting here. As flesh alone, it would seem that Mary is Christ’s alone. Perhaps, this is why in many of the narratives Christ is the one to call the body of Mary into heaven/paradise.
Mary’s relationship with Christ is a moment of model for humanity as well. Again, in most of the narratives, Mary’s expressed desire for Christ directly sets into motion the steps of her Transitus. Despite her special relationship with Christ as mother, she also refers to him her Lord and is often portrayed as falling prostrate before him when he appears to her (Daley, 701). In addition, the joyful passing of Mary, as discussed in class, serves as a model of our own future glory. The first part of most of the descriptions of Mary’s passing, for all intents and purposes, look quite similar to the death we often observe. Though we do not typically see multitudes of angels, our soul is said to depart our bodies. Later, in what Christians hope to be the final judgment, the body and soul are expected to unite and glorified must like what Mary experiences in the narrative. Her relationship with Christ and Transitus are thus in many ways exemplary.
By following the points of continuity and consistency in the narratives of the Transitus, we are able to trace the moments where Mary begins to take shape as the bridge by way of her flesh between Christ and humanity.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
"Joined to the spiritual in a spiritual way": Mary's 'Rebirth' and Dual Assumption
One need not be a self-proclaimed 'skeptic' to find the apocryphal stories of Mary's early life before the conception of Jesus somewhat fabulous. However, even to those familiar with the Marian birth and childhood tradition, the fantastical quasi-scriptural imagery of Mary's death narratives must strike most modern readers as completely ridiculous. Moreover, consider the fact that there are numerous versions in various languages from multiple regions, each with its own twist or flavor, and one must wonder how anyone ever truly bought into this stuff. However, regardless of the offense it may cause to our historian sensibilities, these very stories inspired countless Christians of every sort to fervent Marian devotion throughout Late Antiquity, the Middle Ages, and beyond. Despite its complete lack of scriptural foundation, the tradition of Transitus Mariae profoundly and effectively catalyzed the development of various liturgical and doctrinal innovations in the increasingly rigid dogma of the fifth century Church, including not least of all the designation of a special feast day still celebrated enthusiastically today.
My aim in the present post is not to ridicule or challenge the personal beliefs of Mary's devotees, past or present, but merely to question from where such an extra-scriptural tradition could have arisen and how it gained such widespread acceptance, especially within a Christian climate characterized by McCarthyist-style investigation and persecution of anything perceived to flirt with heterodoxy. This is clearly not the forum for in-depth examination of each death narrative and its possible background, but there are several prominent features of most of them that may be drawn out and addressed. Generally, the plot goes something like this: Mary receives notice from an angel or a vision that she is going to die, the disciples are teleported to Palestine from the various locations of their ministry and visit with her in her final hours/days, her soul is taken up by Jesus (usually into his bosom), the disciples carry her body to a tomb, en route they are attacked by Jews who are immediately stricken by divine punishment, the body is interred, and within three days it has disappeared. The presence of these key features in several distinct texts indicates that there must have been some original common tradition, but where might we find the roots of such a legend?
The process of Mary's dormition and assumption has been described as a kind of 'rebirth,' similar to Jesus' resurrection and ascension after three days in the tomb. But she is not exactly 'resurrected' in the Transitus tradition; her soul is first removed from her body, as if her spiritual element could be simply drawn out, and only afterward is the physical aspect 'assumed' into heaven. And even then we do not hear of the body being revived in any way, since it simply disappears. As we discussed in class, this is not even the way that Jesus' death transpired in the gospels, since there is no explicit description of his soul departing from his body in any way until much later traditions (i.e. the "Harrowing of Hell," but even that is ambiguous on whether his corporeal elements were left behind on earth or went down to the underworld too). Furthermore, when Jesus does ascend into heaven, his whole being is taken up together, physical and spiritual aspects intact. So why the emphasis on the unique separation of Mary's soul from her body, and why the need to explain the disappearance of her physical remains?
In Andrew of Crete's first Homily on the Dormition, he attempts to broach the question, asserting, "She who turned dust into heaven today strips the dust away, lays aside the veil of this world of change, and gives back to the earth what belongs to it." So he appears to believe that her physical elements were left behind to be reassumed into the earth, decaying like every other body into the dust from whence it came. But doesn't this directly contradict the traditional narrative on which he bases the Homily? Continuing, he qualifies his statement: "She who bestowed life ascends to the transformation which is rebirth, and enters the place where life begins and never ends, a place far from all the conditions and complications of matter and the passions. Now, finally, her visible frame rises up from the visible world and is joined to the spiritual in a spiritual way: something only he understands who first joined matter and spirit together, then separated them to rejoin them again—if I may speak boldly and touch upon the intangible!" (§5, trans. Brian E. Daley). He presents the imagery of rebirth, but seems to portray it as a reunion of her body with her soul, not a resurrection of her body per se. So she first gives her body back to the earth, but then it is reborn soulless and rejoined to her spirit? Even Andrew himself recognizes how confusing and illogical this process seems, and claims that only God could possibly understand how it actually happened.
Before we join Andrew in throwing in the towel, let us consider the scriptural examples of others assumed into heaven. Next in the Homily, he invokes the traditions of Elijah and Enoch, "who both appeared above the visible world, having put sensation to rest and been released from this world of flesh—the one carried off in a chariot, the other raised up in the air. Their human parts were not separated, did not decay..." Indeed, that is just about all the scriptures say about the assumption of Enoch; God simply took him (Genesis 5:24). Elijah's ascension provides somewhat more detail: a chariot of fire seizes him from the earth and carries him into the heavens, leaving behind only his mantel for Elisha to show the people (2 Kings 2:11-13). In the narrative attributed to Joseph of Arimathaea, Mary's girdle is thrown down to Thomas as she ascends to heaven, so that he might present it to the other apostles as proof. This could be a pretty clear allusion to the Elijah story, but any precedent for the division of Mary's soul and body remains unattested. As Andrew points out, neither Enoch nor Elijah undergoes any sort of spiritual separation during their assumptions.
So much for possible scriptural foundations; let us briefly resort to hypotheticals. Mary had become a monumental figure in the Church by the time of these narratives' composition, but like her birth, there were no scriptural references whatsoever discussing her death. In the views of contemporary ancient Christians, such a holy figure as the Theotokos, the very conveyor of the Messiah to the world, surely could not have suffered a regular human death, and her flesh must not have merely rotted like everyone else's. If the spiritual giants Enoch and Elijah had been taken up before their physical expirations, Mary must have as well. No one could indicate with any certainty where her remains had been interred, and the tomb of such an important saint would certainly have been remembered; therefore, there must not have been any remains. As for the separate assumptions of her soul and body, the story mirrors the developing tradition that Jesus descended into hell for a time before appearing risen on earth; it would only be one step further to imagine his soul alone traversing into the underworld before returning to his physical body. This indeed would have set the example for Mary's spiritual departure and subsequent physical assumption, even if all the details had to be imagined. Perhaps then the most effective way to approach the question is to place ourselves in the position of those Marian devotees: how would you have imagined the death of the mother of your savior, if not like this?
My aim in the present post is not to ridicule or challenge the personal beliefs of Mary's devotees, past or present, but merely to question from where such an extra-scriptural tradition could have arisen and how it gained such widespread acceptance, especially within a Christian climate characterized by McCarthyist-style investigation and persecution of anything perceived to flirt with heterodoxy. This is clearly not the forum for in-depth examination of each death narrative and its possible background, but there are several prominent features of most of them that may be drawn out and addressed. Generally, the plot goes something like this: Mary receives notice from an angel or a vision that she is going to die, the disciples are teleported to Palestine from the various locations of their ministry and visit with her in her final hours/days, her soul is taken up by Jesus (usually into his bosom), the disciples carry her body to a tomb, en route they are attacked by Jews who are immediately stricken by divine punishment, the body is interred, and within three days it has disappeared. The presence of these key features in several distinct texts indicates that there must have been some original common tradition, but where might we find the roots of such a legend?
The process of Mary's dormition and assumption has been described as a kind of 'rebirth,' similar to Jesus' resurrection and ascension after three days in the tomb. But she is not exactly 'resurrected' in the Transitus tradition; her soul is first removed from her body, as if her spiritual element could be simply drawn out, and only afterward is the physical aspect 'assumed' into heaven. And even then we do not hear of the body being revived in any way, since it simply disappears. As we discussed in class, this is not even the way that Jesus' death transpired in the gospels, since there is no explicit description of his soul departing from his body in any way until much later traditions (i.e. the "Harrowing of Hell," but even that is ambiguous on whether his corporeal elements were left behind on earth or went down to the underworld too). Furthermore, when Jesus does ascend into heaven, his whole being is taken up together, physical and spiritual aspects intact. So why the emphasis on the unique separation of Mary's soul from her body, and why the need to explain the disappearance of her physical remains?
In Andrew of Crete's first Homily on the Dormition, he attempts to broach the question, asserting, "She who turned dust into heaven today strips the dust away, lays aside the veil of this world of change, and gives back to the earth what belongs to it." So he appears to believe that her physical elements were left behind to be reassumed into the earth, decaying like every other body into the dust from whence it came. But doesn't this directly contradict the traditional narrative on which he bases the Homily? Continuing, he qualifies his statement: "She who bestowed life ascends to the transformation which is rebirth, and enters the place where life begins and never ends, a place far from all the conditions and complications of matter and the passions. Now, finally, her visible frame rises up from the visible world and is joined to the spiritual in a spiritual way: something only he understands who first joined matter and spirit together, then separated them to rejoin them again—if I may speak boldly and touch upon the intangible!" (§5, trans. Brian E. Daley). He presents the imagery of rebirth, but seems to portray it as a reunion of her body with her soul, not a resurrection of her body per se. So she first gives her body back to the earth, but then it is reborn soulless and rejoined to her spirit? Even Andrew himself recognizes how confusing and illogical this process seems, and claims that only God could possibly understand how it actually happened.
Before we join Andrew in throwing in the towel, let us consider the scriptural examples of others assumed into heaven. Next in the Homily, he invokes the traditions of Elijah and Enoch, "who both appeared above the visible world, having put sensation to rest and been released from this world of flesh—the one carried off in a chariot, the other raised up in the air. Their human parts were not separated, did not decay..." Indeed, that is just about all the scriptures say about the assumption of Enoch; God simply took him (Genesis 5:24). Elijah's ascension provides somewhat more detail: a chariot of fire seizes him from the earth and carries him into the heavens, leaving behind only his mantel for Elisha to show the people (2 Kings 2:11-13). In the narrative attributed to Joseph of Arimathaea, Mary's girdle is thrown down to Thomas as she ascends to heaven, so that he might present it to the other apostles as proof. This could be a pretty clear allusion to the Elijah story, but any precedent for the division of Mary's soul and body remains unattested. As Andrew points out, neither Enoch nor Elijah undergoes any sort of spiritual separation during their assumptions.
So much for possible scriptural foundations; let us briefly resort to hypotheticals. Mary had become a monumental figure in the Church by the time of these narratives' composition, but like her birth, there were no scriptural references whatsoever discussing her death. In the views of contemporary ancient Christians, such a holy figure as the Theotokos, the very conveyor of the Messiah to the world, surely could not have suffered a regular human death, and her flesh must not have merely rotted like everyone else's. If the spiritual giants Enoch and Elijah had been taken up before their physical expirations, Mary must have as well. No one could indicate with any certainty where her remains had been interred, and the tomb of such an important saint would certainly have been remembered; therefore, there must not have been any remains. As for the separate assumptions of her soul and body, the story mirrors the developing tradition that Jesus descended into hell for a time before appearing risen on earth; it would only be one step further to imagine his soul alone traversing into the underworld before returning to his physical body. This indeed would have set the example for Mary's spiritual departure and subsequent physical assumption, even if all the details had to be imagined. Perhaps then the most effective way to approach the question is to place ourselves in the position of those Marian devotees: how would you have imagined the death of the mother of your savior, if not like this?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)