* * *
The Flame
WHEN HE LIFTS his head with great effort, all he sees is the grayness of the overcast sky—nothing else. The human wall made up of the unvarying dull black of the rough woolen habits is far too dense. But he knows that the Gnadensee1 is not glittering today. He knows that it lies dull and motionless, dead and leaden like a blinded eye. A sluggish wind, tepid and languid, prowls through the bed of rushes that grow tall as a man. The pale brown stalks scarcely shiver. Somewhere, a gull cries, harsh and contentious, and little coots call out like wailing children.
Hermann of Altshausen does not get angry with his confreres whose thoughtless eagerness blocks his view. All he would have liked was to breathe a little more freely. In the narrow corner between the wall of human bodies and the bed of rushes, the air—disagreeably mild for the late fall—is motionless. The crippled monk is tired, and he lets his upper body, which is already bent over, sink down even farther. He takes his skinny hands from the wooden arms of his wheelchair, lets them fall into his lap, and closes his eyes. If only he had stayed in his cell!
A wave of cries surges up, sudden and exciting: “The Holy Father!” Automatically, the sick man opens his eyes, but in vain … The wall of bodies has become even thicker. The monks are pressing forward. “The Holy Father!”
And then they sing, with joyful animation and too loud, much too loud, the song of greeting for which Hermann had written the melody. Ave, Pater et Pontifex! Augia, filia Dei et Mariae, exsulta in Domino. Benedic Christum, Insula. Lux fulgebit hodie: Fuit homo missus a Deo—Summum Pontificem Leonem quem totius Ecclesiae esse pastorem.—“Hail, father and pontiff! Exult in the Lord, O Reichenau, daughter of God and of Mary. Bless Christ, O Island. A light will shine out today: there was a man sent by God—the Supreme Pontiff Leo, whom he has granted to be the pastor of the entire Church.”
The austere, pedestrian voice of the abbot rings out. The Lord Udualrich reads out the Latin address of greeting. The Abbey of Mary on Reichenau offers Pope Leo IX its reverent homage. Hermann does not pay attention to the words that are spoken, since he himself had written the address. Abbot Udualrich strings together the sentences, monotonously and tunelessly. A slight unrest flows through the wall of bodies. With a half-suppressed sigh, one of the monks turns round. Brother Tradolf, the cellarer, stops short when he catches the eye of the lame man.
“Father Hermann,” he muttered, with consternation all over his kindly face. “You can’t see the Holy Father!”
The sick man lays a warning finger on his lips. “Speak softly, good brother. Otherwise they will hear you down at the Herrenbruck harbor.”
But the cellarer does more than utter a word of regret. His right hand roughly shakes the shoulder of Master Fridebolt, who is listening, immersed in what the abbot is saying, and the old scholar looks indignantly at the one who has disturbed his peace. Tradolf whispers an emphatic instruction to him. Fridebolt moves aside, and the strong figure of the cellarer clears a wide path. Before the gap can close again, he takes hold of the wheelchair and pushes it forward with a rapid jerk. Pain slices through the sick man. He wants to cry out, to whimper like a child, but no sound comes from his firmly closed lips. Only his blue eyes darken for a little time.
When Hermann can see once again, his eyes widen in happy amazement. Pope Leo IX stands close, very close to him. The Holy Father is just replying to the abbot with a voice that is calm and deep, and yet full of life. Restrained masculine gestures accompany the steady flow of the Latin words. His speech has something vibrant about it, a melody of its own. The tall figure of the Pope seems calm, serene, and exalted; but like his voice, it is full of life. This priest radiates a restrained glow. His haggard face is dominated by the gray eyes under dark eyebrows. The steep brow, the narrow lips, and the powerful chin reveal prudence, wisdom, and solidity. Abbot Udualrich plays uneasily with the heavy gold chain of his pectoral cross. Has he not noticed the glow of kindness in the eyes of the Pope, nor the mild smile on the narrow lips? For him, Lord Leo is a faithful follower of the reform of Cluny—a thought that gives little pleasure to the abbot, with his zest for life.
Hermann of Altshausen hears the words of the Holy Father, but he does not register them. He is all eyes, all looking, an amazed, sparkling, enthusiastic looking. He pays no attention to what is going on around him. Nor does he notice the splendid entourage of the Pope.
If anyone had asked him how he was, he would not have known how to put into words what had burst into his life and caught him up into the light of an overwhelming joy. Out of the depths of his subconscious, a picture rises to the surface, the memory of a tall, shining figure before a sky overcast with gray clouds.
“Yes, I have met him once before,” he murmurs, and he knows at the same time that this cannot possibly be true. “I have met him …” Yet that cannot be the case. Against everything that reasons says, he secretly insists that he knows Leo IX. Against all reason … It was only a couple of months since the election of Leo, the count’s son from Alsace and bishop of Toul, and he had never before visited the island in Lake Constance, the felix Augia.2
“
Now he had come in order to meet Hermann of Altshausen, the lame scholar about whom he had heard marvelous things in Toul. The official occasion for the visit was different: the Pope had come to consecrate a church on the village square and to be given a tour of the monastery on the island, which was highly celebrated for its scholarship and its skill at painting.
Hermann was still looking at the Pope, his eyes wide open. “I have met him once before …”
Suddenly, someone took hold of his wheelchair and steered it swiftly toward the village square. The sick man did not ask who it was. The fragile vehicle took the same detour as all those who wanted to get to the little church before the Pope, the abbot, and the cortege of the great men, in order to secure a good place. The wheelchair made its way, jolting and swaying over the bumps and stones in the rutted field-track, through hurrying monks, pupils, farm hands, and fishermen. Laughter and talk, cries and shouts swirled around him, as the churning waves swirl around a rowboat in a storm. The lame man frantically clutched the wooden arms. There was nothing to soften the blow of jolt after jolt on his poor body. His mouth remained silent; the only response was a terrible litany of pains. His cries were restrained by the strict self-discipline in which thirty years of suffering had trained him. Branches with the red-yellow leaves of autumn brushed against the sick man’s face, and he could not even lift his hand to ward them off—not even the thorny branch with fiery red rose hips that whipped his forehead and slit it open. Berthold, his faithful companion, would never have driven him so carelessly along this path. That day, the young monk was one of the Holy Father’s altar servers. In the midst of his pains, Hermann nodded. He shared Berthold’s joy that he had been given this favor.
The wheelchair landed in a hole in the path, came to an abrupt stop, and almost toppled over. The lame man hung helplessly on the very edge, half swaying over the ground. A strong hand tugged him back onto the seat.
“Keep on!” the lame man gasped. He was unaware that tears were running down his sunken cheeks, tears that the excessive pain squeezed out of him. He wanted to see, to be able to see, to see—to see the Pope again, in the church on the village square. Seeing the Pope had given him a joy that he had not experienced since the death of Abbot Berno, so he was willing to accept the pain involved.
The wheelchair jolted violently as it made its final bump against the stone threshold of the church and rolled across it. Pearls of perspiration flowed across the forehead of the lame man as the vehicle came to a halt beside one of the gray-yellow sandstone pillars, one of those closest to the sanctuary. Hermann wanted to thank his boisterous helper, but he was no longer the master of his own voice. He laboriously gasped for breath. His heart was beating furiously, as if he had run all the way to the Herrenbruck harbor. His trembling hands fluttered over his lap as if they were looking for something. They brushed against something cold and smooth, and he looked down in shock. It was only an autumn leaf, a delicate yellow, transparent leaf. Did it not bear the sun in itself? Is not a leaf like a light?
He closed his eyes; tears and perspiration ran down his pallid face. He crouched motionless in his little wheelchair, the monk with the slight, twisted figure and a yellow autumn leaf in his lap. This was how the Pope found him, when he consecrated the church of Saint Adalbert and came to that particular pillar in order to bless the cross of the apostle and the candle holder. He recognized the sick man and stopped short at the sight of such distress. Then the lame man opened his eyes. They brightened as they looked at the Holy Father, and the poor face was transfigured by a wonderful joy. Slowly, the Pope lifted his right hand and blessed the lame monk. The cross he traced was large and wide. His hand touched the sick man’s forehead at the point where the thorn had ripped it open and made it bleed. For Hermann, it was as if a flame came down and swathed itself around him, warming and consoling him, healing and purifying him, a holy flame. This emotion lasted only a moment, but it was one of those precious moments that are at the same time an eternity. The lame man hid the preciousness of this encounter by looking down at the trembling tent formed by his crippled hands. The yellow autumn leaf shone before his hands. Did it not bear the summer sun in itself, a leaf like a light, or like a flame?
Around midday, the Pope and the monastic community met in the refectory of the abbey for a festive meal. Young brothers bore excellent dishes to the table, one after the other—fowl from the steward’s farm, venison from the Hegau woods, trout, whitefish, eels from Lake Constance, vegetables and herbs, white bread, and marvelous fruits. Golden yellow wine from the island, or sweet red wine from the Italian lands of the monastery, sparkled in the richly decorated goblets. The Lord Leo ate sparingly of the fine foods, which even in the rich alluvial plain were served only seldom. His gray eyes noted carefully all that was going on around him. Sometimes they met the dark, restless eyes of Archdeacon Hildebrand in a silent agreement. The Pope already guessed something of what the severe and fiery champion of the Church’s cause would tell him that evening … The Pope engaged in an apparently relaxed conversation with the abbot on his right. The Lord Udualrich was pleased with himself, and thought that the Holy Father doubtless felt at ease in the island monastery. Once again, he had been worrying needlessly about the ability of his abbey to pass the test of the scrutiny of Leo, who was an adherent of the Cluniac reforms.
“I miss someone, Lord Udualrich. Do you know who that is?” asked Pope Leo, pensively.
“Father Abbot of Einsiedeln, who is sick, Holy Father?” asked Udualrich obsequiously.
“No, one of your own sons from Reichenau—the sick man with the wise and childlike eyes, whom I saw earlier today in Saint Adalbert’s.”
“You mean Hermann of Altshausen, Holy Father?” There was an unmistakable undertone of aversion and displeasure in the abbot’s voice, and he pursed his full lips. “No doubt, he is in his cell. His bad health usually keeps him away from the community.”
One of the brothers who served at table drew near to the Pope and asked reverently: “May I fill up Your Holiness’s glass?”
The Pope declined with a smile: “Thank you, my son. This drink is good only when it is enjoyed in moderation. We do not want to get tired. The service of the Lord on Reichenau has not yet finished today. Vespers begins soon.”
These words were spoken in a friendly tone, but they brooked no disagreement. They dashed the abbot’s hopes. He had been certain that Leo would take a long rest after the festive meal, and he had arranged the Offices in the church accordingly.
“Vespers … ah, yes …,” he murmured uncertainly. “Do you not wish to rest, Holy Father? Vespers … of course … with an especially solemn celebration in your honor …”
Leo IX understood him. Udualrich had assumed that he would not be present at Vespers. He noted that the prior, who was shocked and confused, gave the abbot a sign.
“Not Vespers … Compline will be celebrated solemnly!” whispered the prior, urgently and very audibly.
The Lord Udualrich shrugged his shoulders. What was he to do? Who could guess that the Pope intended to take part in all the Offices? Most of the high prelates in the empire who visited Reichenau were perfectly content to attend one single service. In those cases, Vespers had to be celebrated with an extraordinary solemnity.
When Udualrich believed that the Pope was deep in conversation with his neighbor to the left, the bishop of Constance, he summoned Gunter, the abbey choirmaster.
“Which Vespers have you prepared?”
“The weekday Vespers, Father Abbot,” replied the monk, somewhat indignantly. “You yourself said that we should sing Compline …”
The abbot interrupted him curtly: “‘I said, I said …’ That no longer applies. The Holy Father is coming to Vespers. Insert something special into the order of service.”
Gunter bit his lips. He checked his anger and replied: “Father Abbot, the various solemnities of this day have made, and will make, excessive demands of the choir. We have rehearsed and rehearsed, and we have really overexerted ourselves. We have nothing exceptional left, nothing that would do justice to the standards expected by His Holiness.” What was the abbot thinking of? He had not acknowledged with one single word all the efforts of the last weeks. He did not know what it meant to train a choir of monks to sing several completely new melodies. And was not Pope Leo IX well known as a connoisseur and an artist in the realm of music? Had not the sophisticated bishop of Toul himself composed chants for the holy Mass?
A deep cleft appeared between Lord Udualrich’s brows, and his little eyes narrowed to slits. Gunter knew these warning signs and hastened to ward off the impending outbreak.
“Hermann of Altshausen once composed a solemn Magnificat, but it was never performed, and the choir does not know the melody …”
Udualrich breathed an audible sigh of relief. “Good, then let the lame man sing it. He has a pleasant voice. Go and tell him!”
The choirmaster ventured to make one last objection: “Only … it is against the custom for one monk to sing on his own, especially at the Magnificat in Vespers, Father Abbot.”
The abbot leaned back with a laugh. “Oh, really? ‘Against the custom’?” he said cynically. “What a lot of scruples my virtuous son has!” He suddenly leaned forward and hissed: “Once and for all, Gunter, listen to what I am telling you: On Reichenau, the ‘custom’ is what I make it!”
Pope Leo IX had heard these last words.
Hermann of Altshausen lived in a little corner cell in the north wing of the abbey. Its windows looked onto the Gnadensee. After the exertions of the morning, the lame man was once again entirely dependent on the help of the young monk Berthold, his companion, who had to feed him. His left arm was around the shoulders of the sick man, supporting him, while he carefully fed him spoonful after spoonful of strong soup.
“Now I am helpless like a little child again,” smiled Hermann. “But today I am a happy child, a blessed child.”
“We have a good and great Pope,” said Berthold warmly. “I was so glad when he blessed you, Father!”
“I think we have a holy … yes, truly a Holy Father, after a long period of dishonorable conflicts about the Chair of Peter. We cannot thank God enough for giving his Church a Pope Leo. By the way, Berthold, it sounds unbelievable … I have met Pope Leo once before in my life … I met him somehow and somewhere …”
Berthold pricked up his ears in astonishment. Father Hermann never made unclear, hesitant remarks like this, spoken as if in a dream. He was shocked, and asked: “What is the matter, Father?”
Hermann’s clear eyes met his concerned look. “No, no, my son, I am not dreaming. I clearly feel that I have met him once before. But I have forgotten the exact circumstances of our meeting.”
The young monk put the plate aside and took the goblet with the island wine. “Father, I don’t understand you. You cannot …”
He was interrupted by a quiet knock on the door. He carefully withdrew his supporting arm from the lame man and placed his head on the pillows. Then he went to the door and opened it.
“Gunter? Do you want to see Father Hermann?”
The choirmaster looked in consternation at the recumbent figure. “Father Hermann, are you sick again? This is terrible! You … are supposed to sing …”
Berthold quickly tried to send him away: “You see that Father Hermann needs rest. He needs looking after. He has already overtaxed himself this morning.”
Then the sick man’s voice rang out, labored and distinct: “Not so fast, Berthold! Gunter, wait, please … Who sent you to me?”
“Abbot Udualrich …”
Berthold looked angrily at Gunter, who was drawing closer to the bed. “Then tell the Lord and Father Abbot that …”
“Berthold!” The lame man’s weak voice took on a sharp tone. “Gunter, what am I to sing?”
The monk replied almost shyly: “Your Magnificat at Vespers. The Holy Father will be present unexpectedly at Vespers, and we have only rehearsed something special for Compline, as the abbot told us to do. Your glorious Magnificat should …” The choirmaster did not finish the sentence; he looked at the ground in embarrassment. If only he had not made the suggestion! The abbot’s injunction made an unreasonable demand of the sick man, whose every spoken word had to be wrested from his pains.
Hermann of Altshausen nodded almost imperceptibly. “Good, Gunter,” he replied with serene confidence and tranquility. “Tell our Lord and Father Abbot that I shall sing my Magnificat. Help me to pray that, with the help of God, I will be able to do so by the time Vesper comes.”
After thanking him almost excessively, the choirmaster left the cell. Hermann would sing! Deo gratias!3 Vespers will conclude solemnly.
Berthold gave the sick man his wine, feeling uneasy. Did he not deserve a rebuke for his over-hasty and dismissive words? “Father … ah … I …,” he began, tentatively.
The lame man did not allow him to finish. “Berthold, you will be beside me in the choir stalls. You will help me and hold me while I sing the Magnificat. I do not want to crouch while I sing Our Lady’s great song.”
The younger man stammered abashedly: “Father … I …”
Once again, Hermann interrupted him: “If I did not have you, my faithful son, I would be really poor. I realized that this morning, when you were not with me,” he said kindly. “My Magnificat will therefore also be a thanksgiving to the Lord for giving me a John to stand beneath my cross.”
“
At the conclusion of Vespers, the Magnificat resounded powerfully through the abbey church, which was fragrant with incense. It did not sound as if the voice came from the distorted breast of a cripple who was wracked with pains. Abbot Udualrich looked complacently from under his half-shut heavy eyelids, looking for applause. Leo IX stood immovably, taut and upright, before his faldstool with its velvet and brocade. An uncomfortable man, this Cluniac Pope … so pious, so learned, so ascetic. The people were already calling him a saint. Abbot Udualrich secretly feared that this visit might turn into a visitation. He felt unease at the thought of the address of homage that he must read at the ceremony in the chapter room. The Latin this Hermann wrote was much too eloquent. The abbot hoped that the Lord Leo would be content when he had presented him with the sick man’s Life of Saint Adalbert, and that he would then depart.
Oh, sometimes it was a good thing to have this lame man in the monastery—whenever it was necessary to convince an outsider of the scholarship and holiness of Reichenau. It was said that outsiders told fabulous stories of miracles in connection with the lame man.
Udualrich was surprised to hear the deep, resonant voice of the Pope.
“My dear brothers and sisters in Christ,” began Leo IX. He looked around at the expectant faces of the monks and brothers, of the bishops, prelates, and priests. His eye looked kindly on the island people, the farmers, fishers, and servants, who stood in the west-work of the church, and on the fresh faces of the boy pupils. The Pope read human faces like a book. He saw the traces left by struggle and suffering, by pain and distress, by sin and luxuriousness; he noted integrity, serenity, enthusiasm, joyfulness, and piety. He met the blue eyes of the sick man with a look of profound oneness. Were not those eyes guileless like the eyes of a child, and wise like the eyes of an old man on the threshold of eternity? The Holy Father’s look said: “Thank you for the Magnificat, Brother Hermann.”
He drew himself up to his full height and spread out his hands like the celebrant at the Preface of the Mass. He faced the exalted and grave majesty of Christ on the cross of the high altar and prayed:
“Lord Jesus Christ, exalted King of eternity, Lord and judge, Almighty God,
“We bow down before you in this hour and dare to join with profound reverence in the prayer of your most holy Mother, Our Lady Mary.
“You are the only Lord and Master of this blessed Reichenau. You are the only Lord and Master of your Church. In this song of your Mother, you stand in your glory before us, you, the eternal God.
“Who are we, that we should be permitted to draw near to you, O Most High? We are all poor, sinful human beings, poor, maimed creatures. No personal prestige, no beauty, and no bodily strength counts for anything in your eyes. We all are darkness, if you do not give us a spark from the infinite glowing sea of your divinity, you who are light from God, you who are true God from true God.
“Even when we receive your grace, we are only little sparks, wretched and weak. And yet what else can we do, Lord Jesus Christ, than come to you with the faith of Simon Peter, who once confessed, on behalf of us too: ‘You are the Christ, the Son of the living God’?
“We draw near to you with the shame and the confidence of the leper, and show you the ugly wounds of our souls. ‘Lord, make us clean!’ Stretch out your hand and heal us.
“We want to remain with you, with the fidelity of your apostle John that led him under your cross. Your love for him was greater than the human narrowness of his heart. His love for you was more powerful than his fear.
“Lord Jesus Christ, your cross ought to be the center and the dwelling place of our life. With you, we are ready to bear it over hard and painful roads; with you, we want to hold out under the cross in a fidelity that is stronger than the wretchedness of our creaturely being; with a love that is truly crucified with you, because it is consumed for the glory of the Father in a restless yearning for the coming of his kingdom.
“We will have to force ourselves to make our sacrifice every day. You know our weakness and our cowardice. But when we say our ‘yes,’ your grace will bear us up; and thus a secret exultation will be alive in us, a supernatural joy that we have been found worthy of your cross.
“Lord Jesus Christ, we belong to you. We are the vassals, the messengers, the bondsmen of your love and the heralds of your cross. Receive the oath we swear at this house: We are yours, O Lord. We want nothing other than your love. Lift up your holy cross high above this island and in the hearts of those who dwell here, so that all may be blessed and may become a Magnificat for you. Amen.”
The Lord Leo made a deep bow before the altar and knelt down. The monks waited, spellbound. The simple island people too had felt the fiery glow of this faith and looked silently and reverently at the Pope, who was praying, lost in contemplation. Leo IX was a man of prayer! His fervor made the Lord Udualrich even more uneasy. There was something unearthly about the Pope—a man full of depths and surprises … The abbot stared in irritation at the shining face of the lame man. It was the face of one who had received rich gifts and had been made happy; and yet, all one could speak of in the case of Hermann was the cross.
Was the Pope intending to go on praying much longer? Had they not already spent far too much time in the church today? Was the festive meal to be ruined by overcooking? Abbot Udualrich noted the discontent on the faces of some monks. They were probably muttering now: “Abbot Berno would have found a better conclusion!” They were still grieving after his death. Abbot Berno … A cold fear gripped Udualrich as he thought of the Pope’s praise of the deceased abbot.
With some effort, he reined in his wandering thoughts. The Pope was still praying. But what was he to do? He could not tug the Pope’s vestment and tell him it was time to stop. Perhaps Hermann of Altshausen had another chant he could sing? Then Leo would pay attention, and he could finish the service. As a matter of fact, Hermann had supplied the words for the whole day. All the hymns, chants, and verses were his work. But … Pope Leo was still praying, and he was as deeply recollected now as if he had only just started.
“Hermann should sing … something,” murmured the abbot to the prior, who nodded and made his way silently to the sick man, who did not object to the command. After a brief pause for reflection, Berthold lifted the lame man to an upright position.
The cripple was ugly! When he saw him, the Lord Udualrich’s shoulders were already wide under his cowl. But whenever he saw the cripple, he automatically made them even broader. The pale man from Altshausen, the son of one of the most powerful counts in the Swabian region, stood in the choir stall, a pitiable figure with a hideously crooked back. His narrow head sat between his high shoulders; the head was too big for the rest of his frail body. The hands on the choir screen were noble and slender, but the illness had distorted them and bent the fingers. If Berthold had not held the sick man with both hands on his leather belt, he would not have been able even to stand. Abbot Udualrich was unaware that a strange smile played on his full lips, a smile that told of arrogance, dislike, and fear.
Young Berthold seethed with anger: “They make use of the Father and despise him,” he thought. “He is good enough to help them out of their predicament.” He took such a firm hold of the belt that Hermann was forced to protest in a low voice: “Not so firm, Berthold, not …”
Then the lame man sang. His face was calm, unselfconscious, recollected. His voice had found its best tone—clear, sonorous, and warm. He thanked the Holy Father for his prayer, which gave him strength. He sang for Pope Leo.
“Death cannot defeat you. For you came, O Lord Christ, to bring me your light, you who are my life.—Therefore my heart exults in you and is very glad in you. It sings in the cross and in pain and in every trouble. You are my path and my end and my homeland, O Lord Christ. I place myself in your hands, you who are my life.—Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia …”
Had the Alleluia ever resounded so exultantly and strongly through the church of Our Lady on Reichenau, as it now resounded from the mouth of a maimed and crippled man? His strong certainty in faith that he was kept safe in the love of Christ sounded like an echo of Leo’s prayer.
Christ. Did not the heavy curtain that natural thinking weaves between time and eternity part for a moment? Christ was near, with a nearness that both startled and brought joy.
“
The Lord Udualrich shook off the unwelcome spell that had fallen on him and approached the Pope impatiently. Leo IX looked up, and his clear eyes became cold and severe. Now he was the Pontifex maximus.4 Udualrich blushed under his gaze and started to stammer an excuse, but the Holy Father arose, genuflected deeply before the high altar, and left the church with quick, unceremonious strides. The abbot hurried gloomily after him.
Berthold set the lame man down again in his place as soon as he had finished singing. To sit down unaided required more independent power of movement than the man from Altshausen possessed. He was exhausted, and waited with his eyes closed for Berthold to bring him to the celebration in the chapter room. He heard whispers, the rustle of monastic habits, and the scraping of feet. Then there came the voice of Brother Eginhard: “Come, Master Hermann.” Where had Berthold gone? Eginhard lifted him into the wheelchair and took him into the side aisle. He murmured: “Our Lord and Father Abbot wants to spare you the exertions of the ceremony, Father. He thinks that it has all been too much for you today.”
The sick man nodded and smiled his weary, knowing smile that was not wholly free of bitterness. “Yes, it was too much today, far too much. Dear Brother, please take me to the west-work, to the tomb of the Lord Berno, and leave me there. The silence will do me good.”
Eginhard hastened to grant this modest request, and then left, since he did not want to arrive too late. The door slammed shut behind him.
The lame man was alone in the church. The last golden rays of the sun contended with the dark shadows between the pillars, light at the end of the day … No, the morning too had its light, a great deal of light. A broad path of light passed through the open window behind the imperial loge and fell on the gravestone of Abbot Berno, lending an almost excessive clarity to the letters of the inscription, “Berno Abbas, †1048,” to the severe and alien relief of the face, and to the abbatial coat of arms. The brother stonemason had not captured the abbot’s face very well, but in the end, what did that matter? There was no need of a stone portrait to tell how a man like Abbot Berno looked. His figure shone out in the pages of the gospel, and he was still alive in Christ.
As he contemplated the path of light from the imperial loge, Hermann reflected on what he had experienced when he sang the last chant.
All at once, he had felt as if he saw—though only with his mind’s eye, of course—a great bright unity, a path of light, that began with the Lord and made its way to many people, taking hold of them and embracing them … Abbot Berno, Pope Leo, his own mother, Burkhard, Arnulph of Rahnwyl, the Lady Veronica, Ruodpert, Berthold, Irmingard …
The man in the wheelchair folded his hands. The path of light had surrounded him too—the great bright unity in Christ. Now that he was completely calm again, he felt with absolute certainty, with no trace of doubt or anxiety, that the light of Christ was flowing around him.
A pleasant feeling of security washed over him, like the sensation that morning when the Pope had blessed him. He wanted to pray, and he began: “Lord …” Then he fell silent. His prayer no longer needed any words. The silence held him fast and penetrated him. The silence was light and flame. There was nothing frightening in this bright, flowing silence. It lets him forget that he, a sick cripple, was crouching alone in the darkening church, while the others were celebrating the Pope with his verses and his songs, and presenting the Pope with a work that he has written. This silence was free of all bitterness. It contained neither numbers nor formulas, neither constellations of the heavens nor neums.
Nothing, nothing at all existed in this silence, not even the pain that shot through his limbs. He fell silent.
This silence knew a presence: God. The sick man no longer thought about himself. He was at rest in the living silence, in the breathing silence of the divine closeness, like a child in its mother’s arms, with no wishes, safe, at home. And yet, he was completely alert, completely open, and completely ready. His alertness was an act of listening to God, whose light flowed through the open chambers of his soul, and his readiness was like a soliloquy on the part of God.
For a moment, he then felt as if all the hours of his life were rushing together like a roaring stream and flowing into the sea of a light that was not his own, into the sea of the love of the God whom he sought and loved. Was this death, the end? A creaturely fear crept out of his subconscious, but he had granted admittance to the light, the silence, the stillness of God. So now, he made no resistance, but handed himself and his will over into God’s loving will.
Hermann of Altshausen did not know that this love gave itself back to him as a gift, in order that he might continue to bear witness to it among his brethren.
Oblatio
Berthold had to call the lame man’s name several times before he answered, and then it was only a painfully disappointed murmur: “Not yet? Not yet?” The young man looked with concern at the sad face of his master. Hermann’s eyes looked wearily at the lantern. An unfathomable pain had made them strange and dark.
“Father, what ails you?”
“A long path … Let me stay for a little while longer at the grave of our Father Berno.”
“It is already late, Father. You have been alone for a long time. Compline will begin soon.”
“Long, my son? No, not long. It was only a moment.”
Berthold replied bitterly: “The ceremony and the festive meal without you lasted for more than three hours.”
Hermann’s response was mysterious: “Three hours, Berthold? But does that matter? What are three hours of eternity?”
Three hours of eternity? What did Father Hermann mean by that? Berthold was on the point of asking him, but Hermann had noted the bitterness in the voice of his faithful helper, and he reached out for his hand. “Do not grieve that I was not present at the celebration, my friend. Believe me, it was good to be here. I would never have experienced such joy if I had been there. But you are very tired after all your work today. Bring me to bed.”
Slowly, with a careful and reverent tenderness, the young monk took the light vehicle into the left side-aisle and then into the cloister courtyard. He did not need to ask which path he should take. Father Hermann loved the little detour around the inner courtyard before the narrowness of his cell enclosed him for what was usually a sleepless night.
The clatter of crockery came from the kitchen, where the monastery servants were working. A heavy odor of roast meat, fat, and vegetables hung in the cloister. Laughter and men’s voices rang out, and the old linden tree rustled in the evening breeze that had suddenly sprung up.
The lame man’s soul longed with an almost irrepressible yearning for the silence in the monastery church, so close to God—for the silence in which he was blessedly unaware of his own condition. Now, the pains tugged and pulled at him again, and his poor head was assailed by his thoughts. He wanted to protest and cry out to Berthold: “Why did you tear me away from this silence?”
But he answered his own question: “Because that is what the Lord wanted. Like Peter, I planned to build a tent on Mount Tabor. But then he touched me and I saw no one else but him alone, him … in the wretched reality of my daily existence.”
The wheelchair stopped with a light jolt, and Hermann was startled out of his thoughts. A group of people was drawing near, led by a man in a bright garment, the Holy Father. Berthold wasted no time on reflection. He lifted the wind-light so high that its light fell on the master, and Leo IX stopped short at once.
“Hermann of Altshausen!” he cried out, joyfully. “At last I can see you again. I have been looking for you. Could you keep me company for a little while this evening? Good, then we will forgo Compline.”
Abbot Udualrich made a displeased face. After all, he had ordered that Compline be celebrated with especial solemnity! But Hildebrand, the severe archdeacon of the Roman Church, smiled at the sick man.
“It is too much of a burden for you to come to the palace, Hermann. Come with me into the library.”
Berthold steered his master alongside the Pope. He felt a great joy: at last, Hermann, who had been the object of so much contempt, was receiving the kind of honor that he deserved. But then the young monk recalled the supper that was waiting for the master in his corner cell. He had eaten nothing since the midday meal.
“You are most welcome, Father Hermann!” said the Pope, when the lame man sat at table opposite him. “But I missed you earlier on, at the ceremony and at the festive meal. Where were you all the time?”
“In the church, Holy Father,” replied Hermann, not without embarrassment.
At this point, Lord Leo noticed Berthold, who was lingering hesitantly. “My son, is there something you wish?”
“Yes, Your Holiness … It is this … The Father only ate a little soup at the midday meal, and he has not eaten anything since then.” Berthold stammered shyly and blushed right up to the shock of dark hair about his broad brow.
The lame man was shocked and held his breath. As if that was so important! Why had Berthold brought this up? Was he to sit here beside the Holy Father and break the bread with his trembling hands? His fear of embarrassment made him almost angry at his eager assistant.
“Bring the food, my son,” ordered Leo, who had not failed to notice the hidden distress of his visitor. “I hope that it will be to the liking of the Father in my presence.”
Berthold quickly left the library. Hermann’s eyes wandered uncertainly over the backs of the broad folios, until he dared to meet the Pope’s gaze.
“You have a faithful companion,” said the Lord Leo, appreciatively.
“Yes, Holy Father.” Hermann sighed and smiled. “Sometimes I have the impression that he is too faithful.”
“I noticed that,” replied Leo.
The lame man warned him: “You will discover that it is not in any way edifying to be present when I eat, Holy Father.”
“But what if that is what I want, Hermann, because I do not want to do without your company for the duration of your meal? It is because of you that I came to Reichenau. Is not every moment that we spend together precious?”
Berthold’s entry relieved the lame man of the need to reply. The young monk placed an earthenware plate with bread and cheese and a goblet of wine on the table, and then withdrew quietly.
Hermann said grace silently and began the difficult task of his evening meal. His gaunt face had the same intentness and recollection that it had when he performed an intellectual task. His trembling hands slowly and laboriously cut up the bread and cheese and brought the small pieces to his mouth.
Pope Leo IX automatically lowered his eyelids, as if he was embarrassed to be the witness of such painful endeavors. What a terrible life this celebrated scholar of Reichenau leads, if he can scarcely manage to perform such an ordinary task! What a burden his existence must be to him, since he keeps on encountering obstacles, boundaries, and fetters where other people do things with a playful ease! A life of dependence and helplessness in everything, even in the most personal matters—surely that must make a person bitter?
The trembling, distorted fingers were trying to pick up a couple of small pieces of bread that had fallen onto the smooth surface of the table, but they kept on eluding his grasp.
We read in chapter 53 of the prophet Isaiah: “No stateliness here, no majesty, no beauty, as we gaze upon him, to win our hearts. Nay, here is one despised, left out of all human reckoning, a man of sorrows, and no stranger to weakness …” Did not these words apply to this poor man?
Pope Leo turned his gaze from the sick man’s hands and contemplated his face, which was marked by suffering. His cheeks and temples were gaunt and sunken, but the brilliant blue eyes and the clear, convex brow told the onlooker about the purity, the wisdom, and the goodness of heart of this man. Leo was once again reminded of a child’s guilelessness, but at the same time of an old man’s wisdom, close to eternity.
“And when are you going to drink your wine, Father Hermann?”
The lame man lifted his trembling hands in a helpless gesture. “Today I am sure I would spill it, Holy Father, and it is the wine for a feast. May Berthold give it to me later?”
The Pope declined this request gently. He rose and lifted the goblet to the mouth of the sick man. “Drink it now. The wine is good for you.”
He helped him carefully until the goblet was empty. Then he pushed the plate and the goblet aside, straightened up the cushions in the sick man’s armchair, and drew the candles close to him.
“I thank you, Holy Father,” said Hermann simply. His embarrassment had given place to a good joy. “Today, Reichenau was truly once again a rich water meadow.5 It has not been so rich since the death of the Lord Berno. You brought much blessing with you, Holy Father. The consecration of the church … We ought to have sung the Vespers for the feast of the dedication! Its short reading is made just for this day: Vidi civitatem sanctam, Jerusalem novam, descendentem de caelo a Deo, paratam sicut sponsam ornatam viro suo.”6
“Deo gratias,”7 replied the Lord Leo. “You are right, Hermann. I too always feel that heaven descends to our earth when we celebrate the dedication of a church. Locus iste sanctus est.8 And that is really the case, is it not? Where Our Lord Jesus dwells, there is heaven. We take far too much for granted the fact that he dwells in our midst. Yet this is the most exalted, the most terrifying, and the most exhilarating mystery of our faith, that he … comes when a human mouth pronounces the words of consecration. Mysterium fidei …”9
“And Our Lord comes in other ways too. That is a great consolation for a priest who cannot celebrate the holy sacrifice,” said the sick man in a low voice.
“Could you never do so, Father Hermann?”
“After my ordination to the priesthood, I have been able to do so twice, Holy Father, and I am infinitely grateful to the Lord for that. Look at this …” He showed the Pope his hands with their crooked fingers. “With these hands, I cannot even break the natural bread every day. Mostly, someone else has to do it for me. Someone else moves the spoon, the pen, and the stylus for writing on wax. There are days when I cannot even turn a page when I want to read.”
“Can you not bring all this into the holy sacrifice of Christ, Hermann?” asked the Pope, who was moved by the serenity with which he bore his harsh fate. “And you yourself said that Our Lord comes to us, to you, in other ways—through his word, through his grace, through his cross. And we may be sure that his promise holds good for this moment too: ‘Where two or three are gathered together in my name, I am there in the midst of them.’”
Many red-brown grains ran down in the hourglass on the bookshelf, and fat white-yellow tears of wax ran down the candles, before the Lord Leo broke the silence: “Yes, where Christ is, there is heaven. He is heaven, he is our bliss. If our eyes were not held shut, we would see him.”
“Today the curtain on Reichenau was torn asunder, Holy Father. The Lord was close at hand. But his closeness must be a gift. One cannot force it. Often, he lets us wait for a long time for his coming, and then he comes suddenly, like a thief in the night … The nights of God can have many hours. One must wait patiently, one must be sober and vigilant … As a child, I once wanted to get heaven for myself through sheer obstinacy.” The lame man laughed at the thought, and all at once, his face became young, lit up by the memory from his childhood days.
“Tell me about it,” the Pope requested. It was clear that Hermann regarded dwelling in a happy memory as a gift, and Leo IX wanted to give him a very great gift.
“Holy Father, you will be disappointed. It is a small event from my childhood.”
“Tell me about it, Hermann, if you would like to do so. The simple stories are always the most beautiful.”
The sick man did not wonder why the Pope from Rome wanted to hear a story from him. The express wish was enough for him, since he was always ready to accommodate other people’s wishes. He did not reflect on the reason for this wish, but told the following story:
“My lady mother and the castle chaplain had described heaven to me in the most glorious colors, when I was inconsolable at the death of two of my brothers. But they did not give any real answer when I asked where this marvelous heaven was, so I made my own picture of heaven. I was convinced that heaven began at the place where the earth seems to come to an end. A huge curtain must separate the two—for I had heard in a sermon the astonishing statement that only a thin curtain separates earth and heaven, time and eternity. In death, this curtain would be lifted, so that we could look into eternal bliss. I wanted to see heaven during my lifetime. My father and mother would surely be glad if I brought back greetings from my brothers. My grandfather would probably grumble, because I had run away from home. But I would see the holy Bishop Udualrich of Augsburg, who was an uncle of my grandmother Berchta. Oh, I had long ago decided that I would become like him—a bishop who wore a knight’s armor when wild hordes threatened our native land.”
Hermann shook his head as he thought back to his boyhood dream. Nothing in that dream had become reality. Nothing? Pope Leo IX looked reflectively at the flame of the candles. Was there not a heroism greater than that of the warrior?
“I had no difficulty in winning my younger sister, Irmingard, for my plan, and we set out one fine summer day to slip into heaven through the thin curtain at the ‘end of the world.’ We ran and ran, until Irmingard got tired and started to cry, because she wanted to go back home. I was angry, and brought her back to the castle. I set out on my own several times, to look for heaven. Strangely enough, the grown-ups seemed to disapprove of this. Someone found me and brought me home.
“One gray day in the fall, I escaped for the last time. One of our servants had left the castle gate open. I ran quickly down the hill and across meadows and fields that had been harvested. I felt really lonely and uncomfortable. I was a little child, a seven-year-old boy, but despite my inner reluctance, I ventured into the wood. Bright autumn leaves rained down on me, and they rustled so wonderfully under my feet in some places that I walked through them again and again. This game made me almost forget heaven.
“I went back part of the way I had come. The wood was so silent, and I was tired. Finally, I came out into the open hilly landscape. I felt sad, and I crouched in the wet grass. I wanted to rest a little. An inexplicably urgent yearning filled me when I looked into the gray heaven. It seemed farther off than ever …”
The sick man broke off his tale with an astonished cry: “Holy Father, now I have it! That is why you were so familiar to me when I saw you this morning at the Herrenbruck harbor.”
The Lord Leo was puzzled. “When you saw me? Hermann, what have I to do with your childhood experience?” he asked.
“What I saw then, Holy Father—and what I remembered when I saw you today—was only a dream. Yes, it must have been a dream, woven out of my strong desire to see heaven and its radiant glory. It must have been a dream, because suddenly it seemed me to that a man was standing over against the gray clouds of the sky, a man in a bright garment, a man who was great and exalted. He was like a light, like a flame. I was not afraid, because the face of the man was also full of the light, and his eyes were kinder than those of my lady mother. Then he lifted up his hands, like rays of light that were beginning to shine. It was as if he was waving to me that I should come … or as if he wanted to bless me. And I wanted to go to him, to the flame, to the light …
“When the servants found me, I lay at the foot of the hill and slept.
“It must have been a dream; but perhaps it was one of those dreams that are bearers of a mysterious reality.
“When I was back home, I behaved as I always did. I accepted my mother’s rebuke without feeling any particular remorse. Indeed, I asked: ‘Is there anything wrong about looking for heaven?’ This question disarmed my lady mother.
“At the evening meal, Irmingard mocked me, because I had once again been looking in vain for heaven.
“‘Perhaps I have seen something of heaven today. And I will go again!’
“‘Our lady mother has forbidden you to do so.’
“Was there any objection to this? Well, I had one objection. I was not wholly sure of my theology, but I wanted Irmingard to stop talking.
“‘One must look for heaven. That is what God wants.’
“I felt my first hesitations when I said my night prayers. Did not God also want children to be obedient? When my mother wished me good night, I drew her to myself and whispered in her ear: ‘Please, please, lady mother, give me permission to look for heaven!’
“She caressed my hair and said: ‘That is not as easy as my little boy imagines.’ But she gave me permission to look for heaven. I had to promise her that I would never again try on my own. She was willing to help me in my search, and I fell asleep happily.
“My lady mother faithfully cherished these apparently unimportant little things in her memory, in her heart, including the … dream … of the figure that was like a flame. I had told her about it in a whisper. She forgot nothing of what had happened, and it was she who awakened it to new life many years later when she told me about it. I imagine that she kept it so well in her memory because that was the last evening we were to spend together in that way. Next morning …”
Hermann suddenly paused and clenched his hands. He breathed rapidly and jerkily. Delicate pearls of perspiration appeared on his brow and his eyes flickered unsteadily.
The cross stood out sharply, black and painfully dark against the gray-white wall of the library.
After a little while, Hermann went on, calmly and collectedly: “Next morning, I was lame, unable to speak, unable to move. The Lady Hiltrud, my good mother, held me in her arms hour by hour, without complaining and without weeping. Once, she bent over me and whispered a strange word of consolation that I was to understand only much, much later, indeed years later: ‘My child, now heaven has found you.’”
The Pope took the sick man’s hand. “Hermann, you have a wonderful mother. With you, I thank the Lord for this grace. I am sure that, alongside Our Lady, the Lady Hiltrud will be a ‘Porta caeli’10 for you. Thank you for allowing me to see the most painful and most blessed moments of your life.”
“May I thank you for the patience with which you listened to me, Holy Father? You are giving me a lot of your time.”
“And you are permitting me to share in your union with God, Father Hermann. What is the value of time, compared with that?”
“Your time, the time of the Supreme Pastor of Christendom, is an extremely valuable thing.”
Pope Leo shook his head. “It is not more precious than yours, Hermann. And like your time, my time belongs to Christ. Indeed, your time is probably more precious in the eyes of the Lord, your time that is full to the brim of suffering and patient endurance.”
“You suffer and endure more, Holy Father. You have the greatest share of his cross. The worldliness of the Church must cause you great distress, since you represent the Lord on earth and your task is to present the Church to him as a spotless bride. And to speak of nothing else, how heavy Byzantium must weigh upon you!”
The Lord Leo suddenly bent forward, so that his gold pectoral cross struck the table with a heavy thud. His face seemed distorted in the light of the six candles. “Byzantium,” he whispered excitedly. “Hermann, you are poking around in a fresh wound. Byzantium … Must I drink the chalice, or will it pass me by? Will the separation come?” The Pope looked intensely at the flames of the candles and pressed his lips together, as if he had to suppress a cry of terrible distress. He continued, his voice breaking: “Patriarch Michael did not even reply to the reconciliatory message of greeting I sent him after my election. And what I want is peace, unity …”
Hermann looked sadly at the sorrowful face of the Holy Father. It was rare for him to see such naked pain in another person’s face. “You bear the inheritance of others’ guilt. The man on the Apostle’s Chair was not always a pontifex.11 Rome was not always willing to build bridges over the stream of contradictions, as you wish to do. Indeed, Rome not infrequently broke down through imprudence and false zeal a pillar that Byzantium had erected in the stream. Pride, impatience, pedantry and fanaticism, imperiousness and narrowness were at work on both sides. People were looking out for themselves and for what they supposed to be their rights, forgetting that they were meant to serve the one work and the one Lord.”
Leo IX loved noble candor and did not resent the bold words of the lame man. “You are right, my friend. Your words are all too true. Now Patriarch Michael will break down every pillar that I attempt to erect in the stream. I have a feeling that he will not come to an accommodation with me.”
The monk stretched out his hand to the Pope, imploring him: “Then let the barque of Peter cross over to the other side and ask in the name of the Lord for peace and forgiveness of the wrongs committed by past generations.”
Pope Leo IX flew into a rage. “Do you know what you are asking, Hermann? The Patriarch is proud, so proud that my request for forgiveness would only make him more arrogant.”
“Does humility become … poorer, when it makes a request?” asked Hermann quietly.
For a moment, it seemed as if the Pope would be overwhelmed by his anger. His eyes looked at the monk with displeasure, but Hermann met his severe gaze without batting an eyelid. Leo’s features became smooth again, and he replied calmly: “Humility does not become poorer, when it makes a request. And yet—in this case, humility’s entreaty must be crowned by success, or nothing will be able to prevent the separation. Peter may ask. But for the sake of the truth, for the sake of Christ, he must not relinquish his own self—and that is what the Patriarch demands.”
The Lord Leo hid his face in his hands. His voice was muted, as he went on: “Hermann, if there was some means that I could use to propitiate the Patriarch, without harming the Church of Christ, without abandoning the truth, I would use it … no matter what sacrifices and renunciations I would have to make thereby. If my person was the only obstacle to an agreement, how gladly would I lay the keys of Peter in the hands of a worthier man! But this is not about me, Hermann. It is about the ministry of Peter, and Peter cannot abandon his ministry without being unfaithful to the command of the Lord, who charged him: ‘Feed my lambs, feed my sheep!’”
“Will Our Lord abandon Peter, Holy Father? Perhaps it is he who is sending the Church this division, because she needs a harsh penance in West and in East? If he wants unity, there will be unity. Then he will let you strike the rock like Moses, and waters will flow down, waters of salvation and of reconciliation. Our Lord does not abandon Peter. But he does not spare Peter in any way. He girds him and leads him where he never wanted to go …”
The Pope still held his face in his hands and sat motionless. The sick man too fell silent, but he waited without inner unease. He was not disappointed, for when Leo removed his hands, the tension was gone from his face.
“Peter will lead the Church faithfully through the wilderness of these times, even if he is not allowed to see the promised land of reconciliation. But—you must help me in this, Hermann! I rely on you. Widen the walls of your cell in your spirit, until it encompasses Rome. Grant admittance to Rome and to the Pope. Grant me admittance! The Church needs you. Leo needs you. Christ needs you for the great missa orbis, for the consecratio mundi.”12
The sick man lowered his eyes, confused and perplexed by this forceful appeal. “For the missa orbis? Ah, Holy Father, how could I be of use there? Not even one little drop of water in the chalice of Christ the High Priest …”
“No, Hermann of Altshausen, you cannot get out of it that easily,” said the Lord Leo, urgently and impatiently. “More is demanded of one like you, one who has seen the flame!”
“More?” The lame man lifted his face, gaunt under the white hair, toward the light. “More?” The lines of pain around the narrow mouth looked like deep furrows in a plowed field. “More?” The candlelight darted over the crooked, weak hands. “More?”
A feeling of compassion made the Pope hesitate, but then he raised his voice and said: “Yes, Hermann, the Lord wants more from you. He wants you to offer the sacrifice of your suffering and your loving to him every day, every hour, unceasingly in a new, pitilessly clear consciousness. Place your suffering in the sacred sacrifice offered on Golgotha and say yes to it despite all the resistance offered by your nature; love it as a participation in the sacrifice of Jesus Christ. You are permitted to complement in your body that which is still lacking in the sacrifice of the Lord, as the Apostle Paul says. You must also love the contempt you encounter because you are a cripple … and the even more painful compassion of those who are well.
“To be a sacrificial gift with Jesus Christ, to be for Jesus Christ in the missa orbis—let that be your great service for the world, your glorious office, my brother, that which makes your cell the house of God, when you prepare the bread for the sacrifice there in your suffering and through your suffering … bread for his hands … oblatio.13 Our Lord breaks the bread that he blesses and distributes. Are you afraid, when you contemplate that?”
“Ought I to be afraid of Our Lord, Holy Father? He takes only in order to give,” replied the lame man quietly. Sadness clouded his face. “My bread is not pure … My gift is not worthy of being offered. I have often mixed in poor-quality corn when I baked my bread. I wanted to rest in my own condition. I looked for sympathy and human closeness. I was willing to accept only my own opinion, and my anger was quick and intense. There is much in me that is not good, much that must be displeasing to the Lord. Once again, a flame came over me.”
“Then let the flame burn out all that is not good, Hermann. The flame of the Holy Spirit can burn without destroying what is whole.” The Lord Leo bent down kindly to the lame man.
A smile of childlike honesty was the response he got. “I shall do that this very evening, Holy Father. May I ask some time tomorrow for your fatherly blessing on a new and conscious living, loving, and suffering for Christ and his Church, for you, for the world?”
“May I take from you that which is oppressing you, Hermann?” asked the Lord Leo with a reverent gentleness.
“You wish to do that in person, Holy Father?” The sick man’s astonishment gave way to joyful thanksgiving, a silent prayer, and serious reflection. He looked up to the Lord confidently, in repentance, and made a tranquil promise.
Pope Leo IX turned to the cross and listened, deeply moved, to the simple confession. He took up one point in Hermann’s self-accusation: “You must no longer mourn for Abbot Berno, Father Hermann, as you have been doing up to now. Your grief for him would become a sin against the love for God and for human beings, if you were to continue to bury your talent. God wants you to sing. From now on, write down all the canticles and hymns that the Spirit of God gives you. Let your penance be to compose a prayer for Us that accompanies Us on the paths We take and that continually reminds Us of your promise to assist Us through your loving and suffering.”
The Pope was still holding out his hands in blessing over the white hair of the lame man, when they heard an imperious loud knocking at the door. Before the Lord Leo could speak, the door was flung open and Abbot Udualrich appeared, broad-shouldered and full of his own importance.
“Oh … excuse me, Your Holiness! I didn’t know … that is to say … I thought you had called out.” He looked at the sick man with displeasure and with curiosity.
The Pope rebuked him sharply: “We did not call. You gave Us no time to do so, Abbot Udualrich! But come in, come in. There is something We wanted to say to you in any case.”
The abbot hesitated, then knelt down before the stern figure. Pope Leo IX was no longer the kind father, no longer the fraternal friend who was close to him in Christ. His voice was grave, and his eyes looked sternly at the Abbot of Reichenau.
“We have decided that We will not yet leave, Abbot Udualrich. We want first to look at the intellectual, spiritual, and economic situation of the abbey. We would be truly pleased if that would permit Us to act against the negative rumors about Reichenau that have come to Our ears in far-off Rome.”
The abbot bowed deeply. This was the disaster that he had feared with such trembling and apprehension—the papal visitation.
“As you know, We have an outstanding knowledge of the rules and customs of the holy founder of your order. We want to be sure that these are observed to the letter in your abbey, in the spirit of the reform of Cluny. We would find it very … painful, if these had been interpreted or even changed in accordance with your own ideas. We will eat breakfast alone. After that, We await the entire monastic community in the chapter room, where We will make Our decision known. We want no one to be informed about this beforehand. We order and command that everything be left in the state in which it is at present. See to it that your monks assemble punctually, Abbot Udualrich. We have a lot to do, and only a few days to do it. Thank you …” A movement of the Pope’s hand indicated that the abbot should leave. The Pope did not stretch out his hand for the abbot to kiss his ring. Udualrich left the library with noticeable haste.
Pope Leo IX rubbed his forehead. He was tired. His face and his voice lost their sternness when he turned again to the sick man: “Tell me honestly, Hermann, whether Reichenau still is as it was in the days of the Lord Berno.”
“Is that at all possible, Holy Father?” Hermann asked in his turn. “Abbot Berno not only left his mark on the spirit of our abbey. He himself was the purest embodiment of that spirit. He was a living model, who gave encouragement and support. He led us along a straight path to Christ.”
“And Abbot Udualrich?”
“He too was given to Reichenau by the Lord, Holy Father. God wants to tell us through the Lord Udualrich that we must go along his path unshaken and unshakable, when his light can no longer be seen clearly in the words and teaching, the action and attitude of a religious superior. God is with us … in the nights without stars. Blessed are those who do not see, and yet believe.” The lame man smiled at the Pope, as if he wanted to say: “You understand my meaning …” He added aloud: “God has great trust in us, and he expects that we will have great trust in him.”
“And he gave you a special task through me today, Hermann. And that concerns the abbey of Mary in Reichenau too. He demands a great deal of you.”
After saying this, the Pope rose and went to the door. He summoned the monk Berthold, who had been waiting and praying in the cloister all the time.
“May the Lord watch over your sleep, Father Hermann.”
Stars burned like pure flames above the Gnadensee and the island of Reichenau. The sick man felt no fear of what was to come. He experienced a profound joy, a good peace, and a rich thankfulness. When God makes demands, this is always an expression of his love.
1. [The Gnadensee (literally, the “Lake of Grace”), between Allensbach and the island of Reichenau, is in the western part of Lake Constance, known as the Lower Lake.]
2. [Happy Reichenau.]
3. [Thanks be to God!]
4. [“Supreme Pontiff.”]
5. [The name “Reichenau” (Augia in Latin) literally means a “rich water meadow.”]
6. [“I saw in my vision that holy city which is the new Jerusalem, being sent down by God from heaven, all clothed in readiness, like a bride who has adorned herself to meet her husband” (Revelation 21:2).]
7. [“Thanks be to God.”]
8. [“This place is holy” (from the liturgy of the dedication of a church; see Genesis 28:17).]
9. [“The mystery of faith.”]
10. [“Gate of heaven.”]
11. [“builder of bridges.”]
12. [“The Mass of the world,” “the consecration of the world.”]
13. [“oblation.”]