ComedyThis summer, as every summer, a theatre company made up of idealists is putting on an open-air production of a classical work in Trondheim’s Bakklandet. This year’s offering is the Comedy of Errors masterfully rendered into the local dialect of Read More
Auden in IcelandNotes from Auden’s Letters from Iceland written in concert with Louis MacNeice, an immortal travel book. On the locals: ‘They are genuinely proud of their country and its history, but without the least trace of hysterical nationalism.’ On vegetarians: ‘It Read More
VesleolsokI Norge forberedes Nasjonaljubileet som skal nå sitt høydepunkt den 29. juli 2030. Jubileet markerer at det er tusen år siden slaget på Stiklestad. Det fastslås offisielt at “1030 ble en milepæl for riksdannelsen og kristningen av landet.” Det er vel og bra. Selvsagt vil vi som norske katolikker støtte opp om alle felles tiltak. Vi deler Jubileets målsetning om “at hele landet skal bli kjent med historiene som har formet Norge”. For å ta oppgaven på alvor, må vi dog insistere på at Stiklestads utslagsgivende uttrykk ikke kom i 1030, men året etter. 1030 var helst preget av knugende uro. Følgen av slaget var ikke stødig nasjonsdannelse, men fremmedgjøring. Svein Knutson, en fjortenårs jypling, sønn av Danmarks konge og hans medkone Alfiva (for Kong Knut var moderne i den forstand at han praktiserte polyamori), ble hersker i Norge. Svein innførte danske lover. Mange var ydmykende: “Danske menn skulle ha så mye å si at vitnesbyrd fra én av dem kunne velte vitnesbyrd fra ti nordmenn”. De som hadde stått på bøndenes side mot Olav måtte svare for seg. Folk hvisket: “Det ble lovet dere fred og bedre rett, og nå har dere fått tvang og trelldom”. Snorre legger til: “og det var det ikke godt å si noe imot”. Ja, sånn så det ut her til lands etter slaget på Stiklestad, AD 1030. På samme tid ble det sagt at Olav, om han så hadde vært streng, var en rettvis konge. Rykter gikk óg om at han var en hellig mann. Jærtegnene som tok til oppe på Stiklestad kvelden etter slaget, da Tore Hunds hånd ble hel og den gamle blinde fikk synet igjen, tok ikke slutt. Mange begynte å be til Kong Olav om hjelp, og ble bønnhørt. Det syntes klart at Olav også etter døden var blant folket og tok vennlig vare på det. Dette var bakgrunnen for at Biskop Grimkjell, på Norges vegne, bad den danske hersker, Svein, om lov til å grave Olav opp. Han ville stede ham til ro verdigere. Folk flest var nok nysgjerrige på hva slags tilstand kongens kropp var i, for var det slik at Olav var i live om så han var død, måtte det vel synes? Den pragmatiske Alfiva håpet å bevise, én gang for alle, at her lå et lik lik andre lik, for endelig å få fred for fromt lurifakseri. Sånn gikk det ikke. 12 måneder og fem netter etter Olavs død, mandag 3. august 1031, ble Olav gravd opp av jorden bare et par stenkast herfra. Kisten så nyhøvlet ut. Olav så han ut som om han sov. Rød i kinnene var han (det var hans kjennemerke alltid); hårene og neglene hans hadde vokst. Her fantes forunderligvis liv i døden. Rasjonalister som vi er, vi sønner og døtre av det opplyste 21. århundre, tenker vi kanskje at, jo, dette var vel skrøner fjols kunne tro på i hine dager, propagandistiske uttrykk for kirkelig kultusvesen. Før vi går for langt med hypotesen, skal vi merke oss at stort sett hele Nidaros’ befolkning — et halvt tusentall, kanskje, et følge som godt kunne samles på ett sted — fulgte med da oppgravingen skjedde. Trondhjemmere lot seg neppe bedre pille på nesen dengang enn nå. Med så mange øyenvitner, kunne ikke Snorre ha tillatt seg, senere, å hevde noe alle visste var usant. Dertil har vi tidsvitner. Alt i Glælognskviða (et dikt skrevet til hyllest for Kong Svein et år eller to etter ekshumeringen) nagles det fast i dikterisk form at Olav lå “med sin lekam uskadd, hår og negler på han veks som om han var i live”. Det er uvitenskapelig, rett og slett, å ikke ta slikt vitnesbyrd på alvor. Bevismaterialet fra 1000-tallet bekreftes ellers fortreffelig av en senere kilde. Like før Reformasjonen strengt ble innført i Norge og Olavsfromhet ble erklært ugudelig, ja, straffbar, ble skrinet kongen hadde hvilt i, skrinet Nidarosdomen ble bygget for å huse, besiktiget av Olav Engelbrektsson, vår siste erkebiskop. Han beretter at kongens kropp var “heel med hwuld och hwd och bein Saa ath inthet ledeemaat var skildt iffra thet anned”. Ansiktet var “aldeles heilt med kött och hwd”. Det eneste som kunne utsettes var at “haaren paa ögnebraarne syntes granneligæ”. Det bemerkes at “ein good lufft gek ther aff och war ther inggen vederstyggelse med”. Notate bene: denne tilstandsrapport ble bevart i norsk statsarkiver, i en leir som misbilliget all den fromme oppmerksomhet Olavs relikvier var blitt gjenstand for siden 3. august 1031. Hva som siden skjedde med Olavs kropp, vet vi ikke i detalj; men at et skinneben ble adskilt etterhvert, og at en av del av benet nå huses her, i vår domkirke, har troverdig tradisjonen overbragt. Biologisk analyse har fastslått at benet tilhørte en drøyt tredveårig, høyvokst mann som levde først på 1000-tallet. Vi har all grunn til å omgi vår Olavs-relikvie med største ærbødighet. Og jo, den er bærer av helbredende nåde fra Gud, nå som for 996 år siden. Kong Svein Knutsson rådde for Norge i noen år. Han var, skriver Snorre, “et barn både i alder og forstand”. Det var Alfiva som helst hadde styringen. Men nordmenn fikk nok av dem begge. Da Olavs intakte legeme ble funnet, syntes det åpenbart: Her er den levende presens som er kilden til landets enhet og suverenitet, “Norges evige konge”, forbildet for all norsk kongsmakt. Det er knapt overdrevet å si at det var det frydefulle funn 3. august 1031 som førte til riksdannelse, og ga retning til kristningsverket her til lands. Synet av Olavs røde kinn ett år og fem dager etter at han falt på Stiklestad ble et bilde på det faktum at Guds nåde i Kristus, når den mottas med fri vilje, sunt vett og åpent sinn, går et menneske i kroppen. Det kristne håp er ikke svevende og abstrakt, men håndfast og konkret, med kraft til å opplyse selve den kristne nasjons gestalt. Det er hva vi minnes takknemlig på dagens høytid, til Vesleolsok. Det er vårt ansvar å peke standhaftig mot betydningen av dette kommende tusenårsminne, for trosverdien av det, selvsagt, men også simpelthen for historisk redelighets skyld.
ComedyThis summer, as every summer, a theatre company made up of idealists is putting on an open-air production of a classical work in Trondheim’s Bakklandet. This year’s offering is the Comedy of Errors masterfully rendered into the local dialect of Sparbu. I went last night. It rained, and rained. By the end of the performance we were all, audience and actors, soaking wet. But what happiness reigned! The production was excellent, the actors great. Above all we have Shakespeare to thank. There is such fun in his plot, his dialogues. There is ribaldry, some vulgarity, but never to the point of excess. The laughter is not directed against a group or type or named individuals. Rather, the cast colourfully represent Everyman, the absurdity our own lives can assume. In the end, we laugh heartily at ourselves, and come away feeling buoyed up and renewed. When comedy is non-violent and free, it can be cathartic. We need it in tense times. Trevor Nunn’s legendary production for the RSC is fifty years old, but still works its magic.
Auden in IcelandNotes from Auden’s Letters from Iceland written in concert with Louis MacNeice, an immortal travel book. On the locals: ‘They are genuinely proud of their country and its history, but without the least trace of hysterical nationalism.’ On vegetarians: ‘It won’t be long before we find there is/A Society of Everybody’s Aunts/For the Prevention of Cruelty to Plants.’ On proof-reading: ‘I can occupy odd moments by trying to put in logical punctuation, which is something I don’t understand.’ On cuisine: ‘He made us try two Icelandic specialties, old shark and whale pickled in sour milk, eccentric but not absolutely inedible.’ On the fauna: ‘I went and looked at a fine bull, which looked absurdly like a film director I know.’ On symbolist painting: ‘You know – Time pulling off the boots of Eternity with one hand while keeping the wolf from the door with the other.’ On existentialism: ‘Life is not known to give away her presents.’ On schools: ‘Greek and manual labour seem to me the best kind of education.’ On the development of culture: ‘I can’t imagine what the Duke of Wellington/Would say about the music of Duke Ellington.’
OlsokWisdom 10.10-14: Wisdom unmasked the lie. James 1.2-12: May your steadfastness come to fruition. Matthew 16.24-28: He must take up his cross and follow me. The words given us in the Gospel — telling to take up our cross, asking what it profits a man to gain the world if he forfeits his life — were uttered after Jesus had declared to the Twelve that he would go up to Jerusalem to suffer much and be killed. It doesn’t work, then, to interpret them in a merely symbolic way — regrettably, we might say, for the standard they set is tremendous. But this is how it is: the concrete exigence of Christianity is inevitable. Faith cannot be reduced to vaguely referenced ‘values’ or to a cultural relic. Christians are women and men who live according to Jesus’s commandments and example, grafting their existence into his. And the saints? They are people who, in their specificity, reflect the truth of Jesus clearly enough for their history to nurture Christian insight and the resolution of Christians to follow their Lord to the end. This is how the story of St Olav was read, recited, and sung in this land for centuries. It left its mark on art, on our landscape, on unifying rituals. We don’t have that sort of thing anymore. There’s hardly a single story, now, that everybody knows, that can be told by multiple voices around a camp fire as we savour the singular pleasure of hearing told, in canonised form, a tale we know by heart. In so far as we gather at all round camp fires, we all wear earplugs in order to listen undisturbed to our personalised list of podcasts. The story of Olav was to medieval Norway what the Odyssey was to people of the ancient world. Homer’s epic lived in shared remembrance. Whether you found yourself in Athens, Rome, Alexandria or Carthage (or were ploughing the wine-dark sea), you could cite the Sirens’ song or Penelope’s loom and people around you understood. They understood not chiefly because they had sweated over Homeric vocab, but because the Odyssey had become a hermeneutic key to their own lives. The Sirens stood for temptations that appear irresistible though we know they will lead to destruction, temptations I dare say we have all known? Penelope stood for determined hope in all-encompassing inner darkness, again a pan-human predicament. By going deep into Homer, one could encounter new depths in oneself and a path to human fellowship. In a like manner the skaldic poetry and sagas that spoke of Olav were objects of careful scrutiny. In his baptism, people saw an image of their own part in the new and eternal covenant; his sea voyage represented loyalty to a vocation, the battle of Stiklestad free abandonment in death. One might recognise oneself not only in Olav’s victories, but also in his battles and occasional defeats. The picture of him trampling underfoot a cunning serpent carrying his own facial features shows that Olav’s constant conflict with his own pride was a source of consolation. If Olav had to fight in this way, surely I can fight my own battle, trusting that my poisonous pride can be vanquished if only I entrust myself, again and again, to the mercy and meekness of Christ Jesus. The saints do not represent a world of pretence, but a world in which the real can be faced as it is, not least when it hurts. An historian I know recently told me something that, in this regard, gave me food for thought. She had been working in the archives of C.S. Lewis. We associate Lewis with Aslan, Narnia, and Christian apologetics. We risk forgetting that he was by profession a medieval scholar, with massive competence in the field. My acquaintance had had occasion to study Lewis’s personal copy of Heimskringla. His annotations are mainly of a technical nature, with one notable exception. It concerns the scene from Stiklestad in which Tormod Kolbrunarskald, badly wounded, must withdraw from combat. In a shed nearby he finds a number of Olav’s other allies mutilated. The sight is terrible, the sound of it fierce. A tough fellow tells Tormod: ‘All this howling and screaming is bad; it is a great shame that brisk young men cannot bear their wounds: the king’s men have done bravely today, but they bear their wounds ill.’ In the margin Lewis had noted ‘A C.C.S.’. Is it a reference to a learned treatise on war wounds in the eleventh century? No. Remember, Lewis had been a soldier in the First World War. In April 1918, aged nineteen, he received a piece of shrapnel in his chest. He carried it for 26 years, until it was removed by surgery in 1944, having moved too near to his heart. As for the soul-wound, Lewis carried it with him to the grave. In the jargon of warfare, a ‘C.C.S’ is a Casualty Clearing Station, a tent rigged near the battlefield where a surgeon designates those among the wounded who stand a chance of survival, so merit the risk of transport, and those for whom nothing can be done except to place a comforting hand on their forehead. The fear, stench, and racket of such places are known to us from the war poetry of Wilfrid Owen and Gerrit Engelke. It is moving to imagine Lewis, sitting peacefully in Oxford with his pipe, a gas fire, and a teapot within reach, perceiving an echo of this ancient trauma in Snorre’s description of the Battle of Stiklestad. The saga enabled him to face again, and possibly better to understand, the limits of courage, the impact of wounds sustained, lasting vulnerability. In the skalds’ poems, the Battle of Stiklestad is linked with light, the way Homer’s account of the fall of Troy is described as ‘glorious’. The terrible costs war incurs, the weeping and wailing, are not abstracted; but we are shown that even awfulness can acquire a beautiful aspect retrospectively, when it effects something good. Our Lord’s passion on Calvary was, in realistic terms, revolting; yet Giotto did depict it truly when he painted it as taking place in peaceful symmetry, surrounded by choreographed angels. God, who, on the first day of creation, called light out of darkness and bade chaos recede, can to this day order our missteps, forgive our sins, cure our diseases, and consecrate our lives, if only we commit ourselves to him utterly. The Cross he summons up to take up may seem materially overwhelming. But if we bear it enlightened by his Paschal sacrifice it will be luminous, light, and eucharistic. That is what the saints evidence, what St Olav teaches us. His story rightly understood is the story of what we ourselves are and can become. In Christ’s name! Amen.
Vigil of OlsokApocalypse 1.4-8: Jesus Christ, the true witness, first-born from the dead. John 5.24-32: As I hear, I judge; and my judgment is just. It was here at Stiklestad that Olav Haraldsson almost a thousand years ago, after dreaming his wondrous dream about a heavenly ladder, faced his foes in battle. He was lordly and bold: from Sigvat Skald we know that no opponent could endure his eagle’s gaze. That, I fancy, is why Thorstein Knarrarsmid first struck Olav at the knee: that way he did not have to look the king in the eye. Thorstein’s was the first of three wounds that caused Olav’s death. Having received it, the king ‘leant on a rock, cast his sword away, and commended himself to God’. That happened at three in the afternoon on a normally bright summer’s day; yet darkness lay over this plain like the one that had choked Jerusalem almost a thousand years before while Christ our Lord expired on the Cross under whose banner Olav’s army marched. Thorer Hund thrust a sword into the weaponless king’s belly; Kalv next struck him on the neck, and Olav fell. It was here at Stiklestad, likewise, that Olav’s reputation for holiness began. It happened that same day, in the same commotion, surrounded by the same agents. The first witness, precisely, is Thorer Hund, one of his killers. When Thorer, who did after all respect the king for what he had been, went to spread a blanket over his corpse, he saw that Olav’s cheeks ‘were red as if he were asleep, his face was brighter than when he had lived’. An ugly wound on Thorer’s hand touched Olav’s blood; it healed before night descended. Thus Thorer was the first, we read in Snorre, to declare the king a saint. Thorer bears a certain resemblance to Longinus, the Roman soldier who pierced Jesus’s side, then came to faith and exclaimed: ‘Truly he was the Son of God’. Longinus left the army and became a hermit. It is said of Thorer that he set off on a penitential pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Before we reject that story as humbug, we might note that Thorer, a victor in the battle, certainly never returned home to his mansion in Troms. Something had happened. From Stiklestad he slips out of the chronicle into an interior process. The fact that Thorer was such an improbable witness does not make him less credible, but more. A testimony going against opinions you have had or your general attitude calls for character. It takes courage to say: “I was wrong.” We do not often hear politicians say such a thing. Even spectacular failures tend to be accompanied nowadays by self-righteous litanies with the refrain: ‘I did what I thought to be right’. It is thought too embarrassing to admit in a worldly context: ‘I am guilty, and I repent.’ In a Christian optic matters look different. We see repentance as a mark of nobility. Indeed, what is a Christian if not someone who can witness to wrongs that have been righted, who at last has let go of the illusion of his or her immaculateness, who knows what it is like to start a new life founded on forgiveness and grace? The holiness Thorer saw in Olav did not imply a sudden idealisation of the king’s whole life. That would have been false. What Thorer realised in the evening after the battle was that Olav stood for more than ideology. His life’s struggle was about more than territorial conflict. Olav had been confirmed in a new understanding of what life is about, about the goal and purpose of existence. The cross drawn on Olav’s banner was no formality. It was a confession. He had in a way bid the world farewell: that is what the vision of the heavenly ladder tells us. Not that Olav despised the world — he remained concrete and sensual. But he had ascertained that time is the bearer of eternity and that palpable realities point beyond themselves. Thus a greater desire was conceived in him, like the love Scripture speaks of, stronger than death. Thorer must have sensed this death-defying power when he saw the lifelikeness of Olav’s dead body. That way his own life took a new, healing turn. To become a saint is not to be turned into someone else. No, a saint is someone who has become himself entirely, not according to a private recipe, but in response to God’s call; after all, he, the Potter, knows better than we, who are clay, what form we are meant to assume. That is something a secular mentality struggles to grasp. A newspaper editor flew into a rage recently, when it had been announced that a process is introduced for the possible beatification of Sigrid Undset. The editor wrote angrily: ‘No modern Norwegian author should suffer the indignity of religious veneration’, as if that would be in breach of the statutes of the Writers’ Guild. Undset, he went on, was ‘stubborn and antagonistic, […] a human being like other human beings’. That remark was probably intended to indicate uncanonisability. But no — what we love and admire in Undset is not some boring AI-generated model that may instantiate perfect form but stays disincarnate; we honour her for the passionate nature she fought with, which led her to create and to become an integral person whom the Potter’s hand could perfect and beautify. ‘No one except God is good’, says the priest Sira Eiliv on the final page of Kristin Lavransdatter, when the novel’s protagonist has just left this world, ‘and we can do no good without him’. Undset wrote from experience. But she knew, too, that with God nothing is impossible; with God even our contradictions can be reconciled into a fruitful, original, lovely whole, into something surprisingly Christlike. That is the sort of vision Thorer Hund must have had here at Stiklestad on 29 July 1030. In retrospect, nurtured by tradition, we see it with greater clarity; still it remains paradoxical. Olav, like Sigrid Undset, is an unlikely saint. That is how God’s strength is evidenced, giving us guts to start untying knots that condition and constrain our own lives. God can bring holiness out of these also; that is his will. On 29 July 1897 Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson declared in a famous speech: ‘Olav Haraldsson and St Olav are two different people’. He was wrong. Olav’s holiness did not cancel his humanity; it accomplished it and revealed the sense of it. That is the path you and I, too, are called to follow. Initial from the 14th-century Flatøyboka, showing how Olav was killed. Wikimedia.
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