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I was listening to an old sermon from my pastor today and at
the same time contemplating the exam I’m giving my British Literature Survey
class over medieval literature. My pastor was preaching on Christ’s “emptying
himself,” as described in Philippians 2, and how Christ, in doing so, chose to
give up his powerful, exalted position in Heaven in order to assume a fleshly
form and live a life of poverty. As an example of just how humbled Christ was
in the Incarnation, my pastor referenced Matthew’s account of Jesus, who,
unlike the foxes with dens and birds with nests, had no place to lay his head.
In this way, Jesus in his earthly life was humbled even below these animals.
What struck me was that these are the same two passages I
had referenced last week in teaching Geoffrey Chaucer’s Wife of Bath’s Tale. Further, that Jesus chose to give up his exalted place and humble himself in the
Incarnation is what Chaucer’s tale emphasizes as well, and now I think I
understand better how the example of Jesus’ choice not only functions within
the tale, but serves as a spiritual lesson for the tale’s readers (past and
present).
Here’s the passage from Phil. 2:
Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus:
Who, being in very nature God,
did not consider equality with God
something to be grasped,
but made himself nothing,
taking the very nature of a servant,
being made in human likeness.
And being found in appearance as a man,
he humbled himself
and became obedient to death—
even death on a cross! (5-8)
The context is that of selfishness and disunity in the
church: “in humility consider others better than yourselves,” writes Paul (3).
This is the lesson that the knight in Chaucer’s Wife of Bath’s Tale needs to learn. He
has been married off to an old woman as a punishment of sorts and now objects
to her being poor and of a low class. Hiding behind his aristocratic origins,
the knight refuses to be in a union with this woman who is so obviously (in his
and society’s minds) beneath him. In answer to his objections to her, the ugly
old woman cites the example of Jesus:
The hye God, on whom that we bileve,
In willful povert chees to live his lyf.
And certes evry man, mayden, or wyf,
May understonde that Jesus, hevene king,
Ne wolde nat chese a vicious living.
If God the Son, Heaven’s King, chose (the woman uses this
word twice) to give up his high position in order to live a life of poverty,
states the woman, than to be poor must not be a bad thing. If it was good
enough for Jesus, then it should be good enough for this knight that his new
wife comes from a poor, low-class background. Furthermore, the implication is
that the knight, who is of the highest class in medieval society, should take
the example of Jesus and humble himself, letting go of his selfishness and his
class prejudices, to consider this ugly, old woman above himself.
The lesson is just as applicable for us as for Chaucer’s
readers or Paul’s readers. Why is it so hard to humble ourselves for
the sake of others as the high God did for us? And, yet, it is as hard for us
often times as it is for the knight before the low-class woman in Chaucer’s
tale (which has a happy ending, by the way—it’s amazing what mutual yielding
and a bit of fairy dust can do).
But what does this have to do with George Herbert, you’ve
been wondering? Well, because every time I think of Christ’s kenosis in Philippians 2, I think of
imagery from Herbert’s poem “The Bag,” in which Christ’s descending from Heaven
to Earth in the Incarnation is depicted as a disrobing of the “God of power”
(stanza 2). He begins riding through the heavens, clothed in “His majestic
robes of glory,” but “one day / He did descend, undressing all the way” (stanza
2). In the next stanza he continues descending, disrobing as he goes:
The stars His ‘tire of light and rings obtained,
The
cloud his bow, the fire His spear,
The
sky His azure mantle gained;
And
when they asked what He would wear,
He
smiled, and said as He did go,
He had new clothes a-making here below (stanza 3).
The Lord throws his weapons of war and his finery onto the
stars and other inhabitants of the heavens as one would toss trousers and shirt
onto an obliging chair. I’m reminded once again of Chaucer’s knight in The Wife of Bath’s Tale, who stands in
the bedroom without his shining armor, coat of arms, and clothing made of fine
fabrics as he is confronted by his ugly wife. After all, bedtime is a leveler
of classes: peasant and prince both look the same in a humble nightgown.
But back to Christ’s much greater humbling: the “God of
power” having shed his attire continues to descend:
When He was come, as travelers are wont,
He
did repair unto an inn.
Both
then, and after, many a brunt
He
did endure to cancel sin;
And
having given the rest before,
Here He gave up His life to pay our score (stanza 4).
From riding majestically in the heavens, God the Son
descends to a humble inn, and, having given up his glory, he gives up what
remains, his life, for our sake.
What else is there to say?
