But my mind was often on the questions that animated Jutta’s unbending spirit and had taken her to the brink of self-destruction: the purpose of life, the meaning of suffering, and the route to salvation. They were terribly complicated, but I had already begun to understand that the way to make at least some sense of them was to pay attention to the signs through which God communicated His design.
Outside, the summer had turned into autumn, and my gaze often wandered to the window. On the far side of the herb garden, the trees stood in mature majesty, their tops already flaming with the gaudy splendor of the season. Even the birds nesting among the branches had lost their urgent chirruping notes, and their songs assumed mellower, reflective tones. As always, this contrast between the expansive life outside and the withdrawn, almost resentful existence of the convent oppressed me so much that sometimes, for a few heartbeats, I was unable to draw breath.
Once I gasped so loudly that Adelheid looked up from her breviary. I lowered my head apologetically, but my thoughts drifted back to my earlier preoccupations. The image of God as a severe judge who keeps a score of transgressions—prone to anger, hard to placate, and harsh in punishment—to which Jutta was so devoted did not satisfy me.
To me, God was inextricably linked to those warm afternoons bathed in the sunlight that streamed through the windows of my family’s chapel. He was the source of the viriditas that breathed life into every creature from a blade of grass to man—a loving, benevolent force. God the Creator communicated with us through His work, and that work—all of nature—showed that He was generous and kind. All we needed to live a healthy, wholesome life was to accept that gift.
As if to prove it, Jutta opened her eyes that afternoon, and for the first time in many days, they did not shine with fever.
When I returned to the infirmary, it was beginning to fill with the first cases of seasonal chills and coughs. I warmed elderberry wine, boiled fennel in water, and made a mint-based ointment to be rubbed onto the chest, where the body’s heat caused the pungent vapor to release and relieve congestion. I also made horehound lozenges, which the patients reported soothed their throats and made them cough less. Brother Wigbert left most of the herbal work to me and only cautioned me not to talk to the monks about it, so they were the only ones who did not experience the benefits of my remedies.
All through this I cared for Jutta, until one day I was able to report that she had risen from her bed to attend the service of prime.
“Father Abbot will be glad to hear that.” The infirmarian regarded me with pride. “You have done a fine job, better than any of my previous apprentices would have.”
Under any other circumstances, I would have basked in the compliment and in his reference to me as ‘an apprentice’ rather than a mere helper, but I had other things on my mind. “I have been asking myself these last few weeks whether Sister Jutta really does follow The Rule as it was laid out by our founder,” I ventured.
“What do you mean?” He looked curious, but his curiosity was tinged with the concern I had already seen. “She may be an anchoress, but she is also a Benedictine nun.”
“She is, without a doubt, but . . .” I searched for the right words. “She seems to have her own version of the monastic life. We live very differently from the monks, though we follow the same daily routine of services.” I paused, unsure if I should go on, but since I had already started I might as well finish. “The life in the enclosure is based on The Rule only very generally; it is much stricter than the Blessed Benedict demanded.” By then I had read and memorized the whole of the Regula Benedicti.
Brother Wigbert set the flask of poppy juice he had been mixing with wine aside and turned to me. “What you should understand,” he said after a momentary hesitation, “is that the women of St. Disibod are strongly attached to the doctrine formulated by St. Augustine, one of the Church Fathers.”
I had heard of that saint but did not know much about him, so he explained, “Augustine, who lived eight centuries ago, found God late in life and became converted to our Catholic faith after a dissolute youth. He believed that humanity inherited the sin of Adam, and a Christian life should be dedicated to atoning for that sin to achieve redemption. Augustine also taught that although body and soul are both essential elements that constitute a human being, they are in constant struggle with each other on account of the original sin, with the soul being morally superior to the weak and corruptible body.”
That certainly sounded like Jutta. “Did he mean, then,” I wondered, “that we are all born sinful, even before we have the mind to turn to vice?”
“Yes, in principle. And some of his followers have interpreted that as a suggestion that the only way to salvation is through perpetual penance and bodily mortification, so the soul can soar toward God pure and holy and untainted by passions.”
“That is such a bleak view!” The image of the knotted whip streaking Jutta’s back with blood at the darkest hour of the night flashed before my eyes.
Wigbert nodded like a schoolmaster acknowledging a student’s challenge. “It would appear so, but St. Augustine left a gate of hope open. If we let divine grace enter our
