What’s yours is mine: a tale of greed at the closure of a monastery

There once were a set of sisters at Talheim bei Mössingen. They lived and prayed and made a life together. And then the Reformation came.

They were beloved of their neighbors, even though, for more than a generation, they stayed on as the Catholic holdovers in a mostly Protestant town. Why do we think so? They served as Godmothers – multiple times – in the local Protestant church register. Religious differences were evidently less important than social connection and pious behavior in the eyes of the broader community.

Such connectedness, however, did not actually help them much when it did come time for the convent to shutter its doors. During these closing years, the convent had been secularized, but the sisters were – in theory – permitted to reside there until death. Theory and practice, however, do not always align.

And this is where our lively cast of characters comes in. Let’s meet them in social-hierarchy order:

• DUKES: Protestant Duke Ludwig of Württemberg, and his successor Duke Friedrich, generally well-intentioned but not always on top of the details. They know a thing or two about authority, though!
• ASSISTANCE PROVIDED BY: the Catholic Count of Fürstenberg, where the sisters held properties. He supports them, but sometimes that support takes strange shapes!
• EVIL-DOING LOCAL NOBLE: Caspar von Karpffen, holder of a quarter of the town of Talheim and always eager for more. See also his daughter Sabina, and Sabina’s husband Christoph von Karpffen: The von Karpffen family demands all the sisters' things – and Caspar holds two sisters hostage until they deed away their property. Then it really gets ugly.
• FUERSTENBERG BAILIFF from Trochtelfingen: to help with the tussle, he too abducts a sister. “To protect her.” With friends like these, who needs enemies? This act draws the ire of the Württemberg dukes, and then absolutely everyone (except the sisters) engages in a big game of "No, no, no, MY authority."

The story itself goes like this.

In 1593, Caspar von Karpffen imprisoned two sisters in Talheim Castle, supposedly because of offenses they had committed. What offenses? Theodor Schön, whose 1890 account supplies this story, does not explain. Nor is it a one-week lockup situation: he keeps them imprisoned for two years. He finally releases them in 1595, after they sign an agreement to give him all their property. He “generously” promises them an allowance. Insert maniacal laughter clip here.

Because, yeah, the amount he pays them is so small, they couldn’t afford their bread on a daily basis. I guess eating is optional? Anyway, that’s von Karpffen in a nutshell: a nasty piece of work.

Nor was this simply a matter of taking over their fields while leaving the sisters comfortably housed (as the legal agreements stipulated). Oh, no. Silverware, church ornaments, bedding, livestock: their movable possessions went to the von Karpffen household too. And he wasn’t done: after stripping away the means of supporting themselves and the little luxuries like blankets and eating utensils, Karpffen continued to demand that they pay taxes, including the extensive Turkish levy, along with further burdens and exactions. Not even begging could make up this deficit.

And sometimes the help that you get is… complicated. The Count of Fürstenberg intervened, but for reasons that remain obscure to me, his bailiff forcibly removed a sister. “For her protection” is kind of vague. Here, let me abduct you to keep you safe. Ummmm, not sure that’s a win.

Nor was it deemed politically proper. Von Karpffen – in whose territory the sisters still live, be it remembered – complained to Duke Ludwig. In his version of the story, Fürstenberg support was a vile intrusion into Württemberg’s jurisdiction for no reason at all. Instead of asking what was going on (the dukes, not always ones for asking for fussy details like “and what did the victim say”), the duke had the bailiff arrested – and also had him fined 200 guilders. When doing your job actually costs you money; the bailiff wasn’t having a very good day.

So there we are. The first two sisters had been released, but into abject poverty. Another sister has been carried off, and the official response becomes a dispute over whose official was entitled to do what, and where. The women’s predicament had become an occasion for men to defend their rights of government. Neener-neener.

Yet those competing claims also gave the sisters somewhere to turn. Duke Ludwig initially accepted Karpffen’s account, but he wasn’t bad at heart. He actually intervened on the sisters’ behalf once he learned more. Crucially, Schön reports that Ludwig considered the punishment of the sisters beyond Karpffen’s authority. That two-year arrest had been out of bounds.

It was going well for the sisters, but then Duke Ludwig died before he could bring the matter to a satisfactory conclusion. Sigh. His successor, Friedrich, however, continued to work on the intervention, trying to sort through competing claims, and tending to the needs of his subjects, ALL of his subjects.

So what happened? Duke Friedrich reprimanded von Karpffen, and then summoned the parties before the ducal chancellery. But it feels just like a present-day story: the judge commands, but Karpffen failed to appear. Officials went to him. He supplied excuses, poor excuses. Plus, he refused to return the property.

Eventually, under renewed pressure, von Karpffen yielded—but with a reservation, of course. The sisters could have their property back, but after their deaths, he claimed, it should come to him.

The Württemberg officials had other things to do. So they accepted the transfer without actually settling whether that future claim had any validity. For the moment, the women could resume possession, have their land cultivated, gather the harvest, and collect outstanding rents. Most of their property was recovered.

You might think this would be the point at which von Karpffen admitted defeat. You would be wrong.

In July 1601, he had his local official remove the sisters’ hay from their meadows. Hay. They have a showdown over a field of hay.

But hay gets your livestock through the winter. It is an asset: stored nourishment, future milk, the means of keeping your valuable animals alive. How would you like it if the local noble decided to help himself to your vacation fund—and to your winter’s food budget? And then sent you the tax bill on top of that?

Taking the hay was actually an attack on the sisters’ ability to make use of the property they had just recovered. Possession on paper was one thing. Getting the harvest safely home was another. You can tell me what to do, but you can’t make me do it.

So the sisters did what they had to do: they filed another complaint. This time, Friedrich ordered his officials to uphold their restored possession. And on July 27, the Württemberg Schultheiß, a local governing magistrate, arrived at the meadow. Nor did he come alone. Tempers were getting short, and von Karpffen needed a lesson. So the Württemberg magistrate showed up with approximately thirty peasants armed with spears and pitchforks. (Insert visual mob scene from any historic film you’ve ever seen, with raging peasants and a sense of urgency.) They drove away Karpffen’s rival official – and then they hauled off the hay.

Thirty peasants. Spears. Pitchforks. Two competing officials. The hay now had an armed escort.

After which, naturally, came the lawyers.

On April 3, 1602, the two sisters, Veronica Waldträffin and Apollonia Spindlerin, appointed Sebastian Wolf to represent them. I particularly like this detail. These women mostly appear passive in the account; they serve as prisoners, dependents, and objects of protection. Here, on the other hand, we see them taking direct action: securing legal representation to defend their interests. I guess the time had come!

Von Karpffen, meanwhile, obtained a mandate from the Imperial Chamber Court awarding him the disputed hay – or its value if it was no longer available – with a substantial penalty attached to noncompliance. Schön attributes this result to “false representations,” and I’ll take his word on the point, having not read the court records myself. So von Karpffen’s not just a scheming meany; he’s a lying scheming meany. Got it.

Imagine being the sisters. You’ve recovered your property through ducal intervention. Someone takes your harvest. The duke’s men recover it. And now an imperial court says the man who took it is actually owed the hay.

The duke submitted objections. But it’s a legal case; long-lived and complicated. The dispute outlived Caspar von Karpffen, who died in 1603. It also outlived Duke Friedrich, who died in 1608.

Eventually, it outlived the sisters.

And this is where the family connections matter. Caspar had already assigned his claim to the convent to his son-in-law, Christoph, as a marriage portion for his daughter Sabina. Property that still supported living religious women had now been promised as somebody else’s marriage settlement.

Brazen thievery apparently works. After the last sister’s death, Christoph von Karpffen took possession. And, as Schön’s account shows, the convent and its estates subsequently passed through further family marriage arrangements.

What’s yours is mine. And then it’s my daughter’s dowry. And her daughter’s beyond that. And so on, and so on, and so on.

There is one final complication. Schön tells this story with considerable indignation, but his concluding concern is that property intended for religious purposes ended up in private hands. He praises the Württemberg dukes for preserving former Catholic church wealth for Protestant ecclesiastical uses. His preferred outcome was that Württemberg should acquire the estate and devote at least part of it to church purposes.

That makes the dukes’ role worth examining carefully. Their interventions materially helped the sisters. Their interests also extended to what would happen after the women were gone.

For the sisters, meanwhile, the urgent questions were rather more immediate. Could they get their property back? Collect their rents? Keep their bedding? Feed their animals through another winter? Did they ever get their knives, forks, and spoons back?

They had neighbors who named them godmothers, officials who intervened, a lawyer to represent them, and a duke willing to send thirty armed peasants into a meadow.

And still they had to fight for the hay.

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WORKS CITED

Gerhard Kittelberger, “Franziskanerinnenkloster Talheim”, Klöster in Baden-Württemberg, http://www.kloester-bw.de/?nr=538. Kittelberger’s entry alerted me to the story. 

Beschreibung des Oberamts Rottenburg, second edition, vol. II (Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer, 1900), p. 353-4. Includes a summary of the sisters’ Statutes of 1401 and contextual details.

Theodor Schön, “Die letzten Schicksale des Beguinenklosters zu Thalheim im Oberamt Rottenburg,” Blätter für württembergische Kirchengeschichte 5 (1890): 82–84. Best German-language rendition of the story. 

And yes, I enjoyed this tale well enough to pursue it bibliographically even though it WASN'T on my list of things to do! 

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When the Gestapo Came for the Sisters: A much later chapter in the history of forced convent closures, drawn from testimony preserved in the Nuremberg Trial records. The consequences reached beyond cloister walls into schools, charitable work, and the communities the sisters served.

Listening in on the Nuns’ Rebellion at Kloster Goldenstein: What happens when sisters refuse to accept that someone else has finished deciding where they belong? Three elderly nuns of the present-day reclaim their convent, and their familiar sounds of prayer and daily life become an assertion of their right to remain.

Elvis, Neumes, and Ethiopian Manuscripts: Music on Display at HMML

One of the gifts of my particular time at HMML has been the installation of a music exhibit in the various display cases. What a happy alignment of interests! Since I wander past the exhibit every day, and have had occasion to lunch with Sarah, the intern who contributed to its existence, I thought I’d post a few of the tidbits here.

First, because I am a wee bit homesick, and because my husband Tom would LOVE this, is the “random physical object in a music-adjacent world”: the five-dollar bill signed by Elvis Presley. You know, I’ve thought about the collecting of artists’ signatures, and I’ve thought about music and money, but I’ve never actually thought of those categories as a Venn diagram!

What this says about music and fan culture and the provision of ready paper, of course, could be a narrative all its own. I’m here for the pop of pleasure that the unexpected brings, and will not talk about whether or not our own Velvet Elvis – another kind of artistic adjacency -- might or might not have ornamented the bathroom in our early years. Ahem.

On the more serious front, there’s the binding scrap, with its oh-so-visible adjustments (read: manuscript cutouts) to accommodate its post-musical role as book-binding material:

The physicality of the loss, with its five strips removed -- presumably so that the page would lie flat around the binding cords that would have tied a bulky front or back cover to the spine of the book – speaks to the parchment’s afterlife.

But equally important to my eye (and ear) is the representation of how the music sounded across the page. Above, we get the more ornate, multi-note neumes of the opening of the introit antiphon. You can just see the bowl of the “P” since the line of the letter has been trimmed off to the left. Underlining shows what’s survived: Protector noster, aspice Deus, et respice in faciem Christi tui…  — “Look upon us, O God our protector, and look upon the face of your anointed…” Then, in contrast, the simplicity of its accompanying psalm tone: Quam dilecta tabernacula tua, Domine virtutum  — “How lovely are your dwelling places, O Lord of hosts.” Note note note note note note.

And then, wow, the Alleluia (with the red bar for a squiggly ornate “A”) and the soloistic falderol of the tumbling untexted neumes before the start of the verse. What a contrast! Even when we can’t reconstruct the specifics of the pitch from the musical source itself (since these are unheighted neumes; we get the musical gesture but not the musical notes), we can tell that variety was at the heart of the service, and can see visibly (wow, that Alleluia) what relish a musician of the day might have felt in working through the combination of obligatory text and the musical variety that comes with it.

For my third example, I have lingered by the least familiar items, the Ethiopian examples, since I know relatively little about them, and HMML has been so active in the preservation of those materials. Ethiopia was HMML’s first significant project with Eastern Christian manuscripts – one that resulted in a collection of 9K microfilms, the Ethiopian Manuscript Microfilm Library (EMML). It’s a real research boon. Plus, I was able to sit in on a lunch-and-learn about repatriating some … inappropriately sourced … manuscripts that had turned up in the West and needed to be sent back to their true home. There should be a HMML news story soon; the trip resulted in some impressive international press!

Anyway, among the music materials on display, there is this lovely combination book of Marian praises and liturgical items – the Me'eraf, which is a book for the Divine Office:

You’ll notice that this 18th-century book has had what we describe in my world as “extensive wear.” It’s not pristine-clean; the large visible stain at the bottom is joined by what I would guess are the oils and fingerprints that discolor the bottom right margin where the page would be touched to turn it. You can still see the pricking marks along the edges that guided the shaping of the page. Though its ornate upper border still is present, the darkening of the page suppresses its once-vivid colors. And you can see there on the bottom left that someone wrote in the once-blank spaces. This is a book that was used.

It is also a book that includes interlineal (between the lines) musical details. In that way, it’s much like the books with which I am familiar. Whether in Austria or Ethiopia, church scribes found ways to represent a complicated art. There are words, there are sounds, there are pauses and contrasting musical gestures. To copy such a thing is a time-consuming act. To copy such a thing is a labor of love. To copy such a thing is a gift to humanity – a spiritual legacy that is still visible to us in the present day. That’s a thread of human connection right there, and one that brings my book-loving heart a moment of deep and satisfying pleasure.

To have a display is always a joy; there are more things in the world than one researcher can ever, ever see. The display cases give the scholar-in-residence a chance to wander around looking at the things that caught another person’s eye, and the threads that tie those disparate objects together.

A display like this activates an internal ear, giving me space to imagine contexts and sounds in new ways. I’ve spent an uncomfortable amount of time “reading” the scores in my head as I do a few necessary stretches. Toes, heels, toes, heels, to the accompaniment of a mental reconstruction of some quite experimental works.

As I’ve dwelt with the display—and, as the finishing touches appeared, with its explanatory labels—I’ve realized how much these encounters feed the focused work inside my carrel. How does music manifest outside performance itself? What do our own musical shorthands suggest about how a historical person might have understood such a reference? What does alluding to music do in a particular context? And might the strange-to-me, known-to-thee quality of some of these items—that mix of recognition and bewilderment—help me think about how people with different kinds of musical knowledge encountered the same object? Such questions follow me back to my research. In its own way, the musical display will have influenced the shape of the discussion that emerges from my own project research.

All because a person needs to get up and stretch every couple of hours. 

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Fiery Fingers and Working Hands: Prayer at the Grevenconvent

If you were a Sister in 15th century Grevencloster in Cologne, you would already have made a decision to devote your life to prayer. And to other duties, of course – Tertiary sisters as a whole were known for their contributions to the social good. And it’s nice to sleep, occasionally. Or so I’m told.

So our hypothetical Grevencloster sister is sitting in her convent, thinking to herself: golly, I should pray. But some days, prayer is just inspiring, and other days, well, keeping your mind on your spiritual practices can be a challenge.

There’s a self-help book for that.

The sisters of the Grevenconvent owned a substantial manuscript, now Köln HAStK 7010 155: 310 leaves, or 620 pages, copied in two columns. It contains a dialect-inflected vernacular version of the Vitaspatrum, a collection of lives, sayings, and stories about the early Christian desert fathers. Its advice is provided through a series of encounters: someone asks a question, an elder or other authority answers, and each small story gives the reader something to think about.

The twelfth book – chapter, in modern parlance – is devoted to prayer. Across thirteen sayings and stories, it offers examples of extraordinary devotion alongside advice for getting through a regular plain old day. And it begins with a reassuring admission: concentration is hard. We all need to keep practicing:

1. Abbot Agathon: the labor of prayer: The brothers once asked Abbot Agathon which virtue required the greatest labor in the community. He replied: “Brothers, I think there is no greater labor than praying to God. For whenever a person prays to his God, immediately the devil seeks to disrupt his prayer, because they know that nothing hinders them so greatly as prayer. In every other labor within the community, a person has some rest; prayer, however, requires a good struggle until the end.”

Prayer, our reader learns, is hard, but worthwhile. Even the desert fathers, with lives that were exemplary enough to be collected and copied centuries later, recognized the difficulty of sustaining prayer. Agathon gives that difficulty a spiritual explanation: the devil is a disruptor, and prayer interferes with his business. Expect resistance, but keep on keeping on.

But how does one keep praying while also doing everything else? Abbot Lucius has an answer—and a pointed question for people who claim to have solved that problem already.

4. Abbot Lucius: praying without ceasing: Once some monks called “the Prayers” (Anbedere) came to Abbot Lucius at Ennatho. The abbot asked them what manual work they did. They said: “We undertake no manual work. Rather, as the Apostle says, we pray without ceasing.”

The elder said: “Do you not eat or sleep?” They answered: “Yes.” He said: “Then who prays for you?” They did not know how to answer him.

Then he said: “Brothers, you do not do what you say. But I will show you that I work with my hands and nevertheless pray without ceasing. With God’s help, I sit making mats from palm leaves, and meanwhile I say, Miserere mei, Deus—‘Have mercy on me, O God.’ Is that not prayer?” They said: “Yes.”

The elder continued: “When I have worked and prayed like this throughout the day, I earn sixteen pennies, more or less. Of these I give two to the poor at the door, and they pray for me while I eat and sleep. Thus in me is fulfilled what is written: ‘Pray without ceasing.’”

Clever story, eh? Reinforces the idea that prayer is in the intention, and that keeping the intention in focus while also accomplishing the more plebian “work of the world” – here, mat-making; in the convent, perhaps spinning or stitching or polishing the silver – turns work-time into prayer time. And then, too, a person can give alms to add other’s prayers to his or her own, and that will allow for a ceaseless chorus of prayers to rise up to the heavens.

For a sister with work to do, this offers an appealing possibility. A repeated prayer can accompany the familiar movements of repetitive tasks. Plus, the community of prayer can extend beyond the person doing the praying. Nor is this a distraction, as she read about before, but an effective use of all available time to accomplish multiple ends, here a combination of physical labor and the spiritual task of prayer. It doesn’t have to be one or the other.

Still, the sister may feel that as far as prayer goes, she’s walking through the motions. She already prays the hours (as the rule commands). But a prayer life can still leave plenty of room for spiritual ambition. Lot, who has established his own routine, wants to know what comes next.

3. Abbot Lot and Abbot Joseph: becoming fire: Abbot Lot came to Abbot Joseph and said to him: “According to my ability, I fulfil my little rule: I observe a little fasting, prayer, meditation, and stillness, and I strive as best I can to purify my thoughts. What more should I do?”

Then the elder stood up and raised his hands toward heaven, and his fingers shone like fire. He said: “If you wish to become entirely like fire, do not stop at what you have already attained.”

That is quite an answer to “What more should I do?” Lot gives us a modest inventory of his practices. Sounds like a good monastic existence. Joseph makes us realize that prayer can go beyond the ordinary: fiery fingers here are echoed in the story of Abbot Sisoes, who achieves rapture while at prayer – as long as he strikes the right attitude

11. Abbot Sisoes: rapture during shared prayers: It was said of Abbot Sisoes that whenever he stood in prayer, unless he quickly lowered his hands, he was immediately caught up in rapture (ghetucket). When another brother happened to pray with him, he quickly lowered his hands so that he would not be caught up in rapture and cause any delay.

But back to the Lot example: I’m particularly taken with its final directive: if you are seeking fiery levels of inspiration, “do not stop at what you have already attained.” The Latin version of this story ends with the invitation to become entirely like fire. The Grevenconvent manuscript gives its reader an additional push. Lot’s “little” observances have brought him to a point from which he can now go further; he gets an implicit exhortation to intensity. The combination of these two “fiery prayer” stories reminds us that spirituality can be exciting, transformative, unearthly. It has the capacity for a “wow” of a spiritual moment.

But not every moment trends toward the extraordinary. The smaller in-the-moment prayers matter too. When people ask Macarius how to pray, for instance, he doesn’t require a lot of text:

13. Abbot Macarius: how to pray: Some people asked Abbot Macarius how they should pray. He said: “There is no need to say much. Rather, continually stretch out your hands and say: ‘Lord, as you will and as you know best, have mercy on me.’ But if a temptation enters the mind, we should say: ‘Lord, help me.’ For he knows well what is beneficial for us, and deals mercifully with us here.”

At times of temptation, short and sweet is the best solution: “Lord, help me.” It’s almost akin to a mantra, and can cut into that jumble of thoughts to turn the devotee back toward her duty. It is also a text that can be said while your hands are occupied. The Macarius exemplum gives the reader both words to use when the need arises, and the assurance that God already understands what is needed. Eloquence isn’t required.

He also gives her something to do: stretch out the hands, and do so continually. This reminds us that prayer is embodied. Joseph raises his hands toward heaven; elsewhere in the chapter, Bessarion stands praying with his hands raised, and an elder raises his hands to ask for rain. Prayer takes bodily form as well as spoken form; it is something you do, not just something you say.

Taken together, these stories offer several avenues into prayer. There is struggle for focus, repetition and practice, prayer to accompany work. Three’s generosity, appropriate bodily gesture, and the possibility of becoming like fire. There are even a few words for that moment when eloquence fails you.

And tucked among the longer encounters is a very short saying:

12. The old fathers: prayer orders the thoughts: The elders said: “Continual prayer sets the thoughts in order.”

That sense of order and alignment with what is good in the world is a reward in its own right. As they read, then, the sisters could find both encouragement for the prayer they already practiced alongside an invitation to imagine what more it might become. For our Grevenconvent reader, the next prayer might involve struggle, a steadier mind, or something extraordinary; this spiritual how-to manual gave her reasons to keep going.

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For anyone who would like to explore the whole chapter, here is an outline of its thirteen sayings and stories, in manuscript order. The titles and numbers are supplied by me.

No.	Title (supplied)	Contents
1	Agathon: prayer as lifelong struggle	Prayer encounters continual opposition and requires struggle until the end.
2	Dulas on Bessarion: prayer and miracles	Prolonged prayer, miraculous water, and prophecy. Gesture: standing with hands raised to heaven.
3	Lot and Joseph: becoming entirely like fire	Joseph challenges Lot to go beyond his accustomed practices. Gesture: Joseph rises and raises his hands; his fingers shine like fire.
4	Lucius: praying without ceasing	Manual work, spoken prayer, and almsgiving together sustain continual prayer.
5	An elder from Mount Sinai: prayer for rain	An elder’s prayer ends a drought. Gesture: he raises his hands; the brother falls down before him, and the elder flees.
6	Isaiah: prayer rising like fire	A priest of Pelusium calls for silence because one brother’s prayer rises like fire before God.
7	Pastor: the imperfect harvest	Giving with imperfect motives is better than withholding help altogether.
8	An elder and visiting brothers: prayer beneath conversation	One brother completes 103 prayers while conversing with the others.
9	An elder: the soul as clear water	Contemplative prayer requires purification from extraneous thoughts.
10	Evagrius: the sword of tears	Tears combat intrusive thoughts during prayer.
11	Sisoes: rapture during shared prayer	Sisoes avoids being caught up in rapture and delaying his companion. Gesture: to avoid rapture, he quickly lowers his hands.
12	The old fathers: prayer orders the thoughts	A brief maxim on continual prayer and inner discipline.
13	Macarius: a few words suffice	Simple appeals for mercy and help suffice. Gesture: stretching out the hands in prayer.

All translations above -- based on my own transcription of Köln HAStK 7010 155, fols. 40r–41v -- are provisional, intended to convey the flavor and contents of the chapter; they have not yet been polished for scholarly publication. Numbers and anecdote headers were supplied for tracking purposes throughout.

For an accessible English translation based on the Latin transmission of Book V – a later part of the collection – see The Desert Fathers: Sayings of the Early Christian Monks, translated with an introduction by Benedicta Ward (London: Penguin Books, 2003).

Image: “Mathilde Standing with Hands Raised in Prayer,” from the Helmarshausen Psalter, Germany, second half of the twelfth century, Walters Art Gal+lery W.10, fol. 6v

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Riddle me this! Transcription and the Waldsee Register

Gee, what do you do all day when you’re on fellowship in a manuscript archive? Well, most days I do a LOT, but some days I just come up against a puzzle, and sit with it, and stand with it, and then sit with it some more.

And today was a puzzle day. The early prospects looked good – I was transcribing a document that the sisters of Waldsee had copied in their Register (Freiburg Universitätsbibliothek Cod. 182) so that I can talk about it later. It was pretty straightforward, or so I thought, just a copied entry recording a 1669 agreement about the sisters’ involvement with a local confraternity that they had included in the first third of the book. I had the gist of the content from my fast-pass reading yesterday, but today I wanted a polished transcription.So I did as one does, and started at the top. Some of it took some peering – that “R” in “rubric” looks nothing like an “R,” grumble grumble grumble. But most of it went quickly enough.

My practice when I think I might publish a document is to prepare two separate transcriptions and then merge them with a letter by letter verification, and this one was pretty easy. “Tipell”? No, “Capell,” of course. That thing that looks like an es-zet (ß)? Wow, that’s the capital P for “Pfleger.” And so on.

And then, oh, then, then then then, I came to the devil’s own challenge:

die Z… , die Z… uhh, die Z__g__n? Z__h__n? Die Zeig… , Die Zeug… , Die Zwig…

Yes. I looked. And I looked. And I looked up words in the Mittelhochdeutsches Wörterbuch.

And then I looked some more. Was it “ri” as in “Brieder” (the regional variant for “Bruder”)? Was that an “i” with its dot, or is it “u” with an umlaut?

Eyestrain got me nowhere, though I flailed at it for well over an hour.

The context didn’t help, either. The passage was an echo of obligations – but the early passage named only two of the three – and of course they were the two I could read:

the sisters, however, shall henceforth supply the hosts as has long been customary, work the wax free of charge, and themselves arrange to have the [UNIDENTIFIED] made.

Hostien, hosts: yup.

Wachs, wax: got it.

Z….: still stuck.

And that’s when it finally struck me: I should go look at words having to do with the confraternity! They may not have transcribed my document, but maybe, just maybe, the lists of “things needed for worship services” would give me a clue.

And yep, that’s when I found it. Bless those 19^th and early 20^th century antiquarians and their friends the local historians.

It turns out that in the Confraternity of Saint Sebastian at Waldsee, there were tokens – little metal emblems called Sebastianzeichen -- which were purchased at time of entry! They were to be brought to all the services, and they were the guarantee that you’d get your prayers said upon your death – the family surrendered the token, the administrators wrote your name in the book, and everyone offered up the appropriate prayers. (Statute summary and further bibliography in Selig p. 66ff; discussion of the Sebastianzeichen is pp. 68-70.)

The token is kind of like a predecessor to your modern-day campus ID card: it gets you into the building, lets you access confraternity services, and will serve as the necessary ID when it’s time to close out your accounts (ahem). (I do expect retirement and death to differ, so this analogy should only be taken so far!)

And so, yes, the sisters will obtain their own supply of, are you ready for this, Z – e – i – c – h – e – n – n, Zeichenn, or confraternity tokens.

Puzzle solved.

So I finished my transcription, took a celebratory walk in the beautiful sunshine, and then came back and worked up the translation.

Text and translation (and dear-to-me bibliographic citation) given below if you’re interested.

And that, friends, is what I do at the HMML archives.

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RESOURCES

Freiburg, Universitätsbibliothek Cod. 182, HMML #43114, fol. 19r.

Theodor Selig, “Bruderschaften und Bündnisse im Landkapitel (Wurzach-)Waldsee,” Diözesan-Archiv von Schwaben 23 (1905), continuation, pp. 65–79, especially p. 70.

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Edition:

Copia der Růbric so in daß Register der Lobt: Bruederschafft. S. S. Sebastian, neu gesetzt wurden.

Copy of the entry which was newly entered in the register of the praiseworthy Confraternity of St. Sebastian [from Freiburg, Universitätsbibliothek Cod. 182 (HMML #43114), fol. 19r]

Alß Anno 1669. die Brieder vn Schwesteren der Lobl. Bruederschafft S. Sebastiney in ain Neůeß

Register geschriben wurden, haben die Můtter vnd schwesteren der Claůßer alhir, bey der Herrn Pfleger Mündtlich angebracht, vnd vurgeben, Alß were bey Anfangs der Bruederschaft Nachuolgender verglich mit ihnen gemacht werden daß man alle schwestern in die lobl. Bruederschafft vergebenß, Ein schreiben vnd besingen wolle die Schwysternn hin gegen die Nathwendige Hastien in die Capell vergebenß geben vnd das Waches ohne Lohn machen sollen Wellichem vorgeben die Herren Pfleger (wie billich) glauben gegeben, vnd vermög deß war gegebnen vergliches, die Můetter sambt ehren schwosteren allen vorgebens eingeschriben, vnd sollen auch vergebenß besůngen werden, aber fürthin die Hostien, wie von Alten dargeben vnd daß Wachs vorgebenß machen Wie auch die Zeichenn selber machen lassen sollen */*

When, in 1669, the brothers and sisters of the praiseworthy Confraternity of St. Sebastian were entered into a new register, the mother and sisters of the local Klause orally submitted to the stewards and stated that, at the founding of the confraternity, the following agreement had been made with them: all the sisters would be enrolled in the praiseworthy confraternity free of charge and have services sung for them; the sisters, in return, would provide the necessary hosts for the chapel free of charge and work the wax without payment. The stewards gave credence to this statement (as was fitting) and, in accordance with the [previously concluded] agreement, enrolled the mother together with all her sisters free of charge. They shall also have services sung for them free of charge; the sisters, however, shall henceforth supply the hosts as has long been customary, work the wax free of charge, and themselves arrange to have the [confraternity] tokens made.

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Margaret of Hungary Does Pilates?

I've developed a new stretching routine, and have been reading up on Pilates lately (thanks to my enthusiast sister!), as I have become newly aware that there are muscles I apparently neglected to acquire during those Covid years. Oooouch.

This has also changed the way I read medieval saints' lives.

Take Margaret of Hungary. I’ve mentioned her before  -- she’s a thirteenth-century Dominican nun whose sisters were questioned about the sanctity of her life after her death. Time and again, they remembered what Margaret did with her body when she prayed. She didn't simply say prayers. She knelt, bowed, prostrated herself, stayed in uncomfortable positions, got up, and did it again.

Reading their testimony after reading about Pilates, I suddenly recognized something: Margaret had a prayer workout!

Not literally, of course. Margaret wasn't trying to improve her core strength, and she didn’t have any of those fancy machines. But prayer involved repeated physical actions, and doing those actions day after day trained her body just as surely as it trained her attention and devotion.

Here are three exercises from the Margaret of Hungary workout.

1. The medieval genuflection squat

Margaret's anonymous Life says that whenever she passed an image of Christ or the Virgin Mary, she greeted it by bending her knees. She did this so often that her kneecaps became swollen and callused.

Think about that spatially.

Every encounter with a sacred image required something from her body. Image: bend, rise, walk. Another image: bend, rise, walk....

In Pilates terms, that's repetition. The movement becomes automatic because you've done it approximately nine gazillion times and the instructor has somehow found another set of eight.

But religiously, something else is happening. Margaret is training herself to respond physically to sacred presence. Seeing produces movement. Reverence isn't just something she thinks or feels. Her body has learned what to do.

The calluses are therefore evidence of two kinds of formation at once: a body altered through repetition and a devotional habit made physical.

2. The thousand-veniae challenge

Then Margaret turns up the reps.

Multiple sisters testified that on major vigils Margaret performed one thousand veniae. A venia was a Dominican prostration: lowering the body to the ground and rising again.

And they really do mean a thousand. They cite the number repeatedly. (And even if it is only a stand in for “a whole lot of times in a row,” once you’ve done 30 reps of *anything* you can feeeeeel the burn.)

One witness says Margaret performed a thousand veniae with a thousand Ave Marias. Another specifies veniae on Marian vigils, for Veni Sancte Spiritus at Pentecost, and at the Pater noster at Christmas.

Try imagining the physical mechanics of that.

Down. Prayer. Up.

Down. Prayer. Up.

Only 998 more times to go.

That's where my Pilates analogy becomes useful. The individual movement isn't the whole practice. Repetition is the practice. Your body changes through doing the same thing again and again.

For Margaret, the verbal and physical repetitions were joined. One prayer, one movement; another prayer, another movement. Counting structured both.

And her body retained the history of doing it. After Margaret died, her former nurse and teacher Olimpiades remembered a callus on her knee, “rock-hard and as thick as an egg” (The Oldest Legend, p. 299), which she attributed to the many veniae Margaret had performed.

Pilates instructors generally prefer that you stop somewhat earlier.

3. Hold that position

My favorite testimony, though, concerns endurance.

Sister Candida once saw Margaret praying on her knees and elbows (The Oldest Legend, p. 395). Candida gives us an extraordinary measurement of how long she remained there: as long as it took Candida to read the entire Psalter.

Then a plank fell on Margaret's head. (A literal plank. I guess the carpenter hadn’t attached things well?)

Margaret still didn't move.

This is where the Pilates comparison gets weirdly appropriate.

Anyone who has held an oh-my-gosh-I’m-exercising-now plank—or watched the clock apparently cease functioning while holding one—knows that maintaining a position is an activity. Stillness requires work.

But Margaret's stillness also communicated something religious. Remaining physically fixed in prayer demonstrated the sustained attention that devotional writers repeatedly valued. Her body wasn't merely accompanying prayer. Holding the body in prayer was part of the act of praying.

And apparently falling lumber did not constitute sufficient reason to break form.

So was prayer medieval Pilates?

Obviously not.

Margaret wasn't secretly developing a thirteenth-century fitness program. In fact, her sisters sometimes thought her physical practices were excessive. Her convent superior, Magistra Olimpiades, reportedly complained that Margaret was praying with her “nose and face in the ground like a pig” and destroying herself (The Oldest Legend, pp. 371-373, 397).

But the comparison has made me notice something I might otherwise have read straight past.

We tend to encounter historical prayer as text. The sources preserve words, so we study the words: Ave Maria. Pater noster. Veni Sancte Spiritus.

The testimony about Margaret reminds us that prayer also had a body.

And as I’ve discussed elsewhere (Cyrus, Praying), bodies bent. They knelt. They lowered themselves to the floor and got up again. They held positions. They acquired calluses. Repeated gestures trained physical habits at the same time that repeated prayers trained devotional ones.

And that's why I love evidence like this.

A witness mentioning someone's swollen knees can suddenly recover something that the surviving prayer text cannot: what praying actually required a body to do.

Which is pretty cool.

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REFERENCES

Cynthia J. Cyrus, “Praying Before the Image of Mary: Nuns’ Prayerbooks and the Mapping of Sacred Space,” Religions 16, no. 10 (2025): 1277. https://doi.org/10.3390/rel16101277.

Legenda vetus, Acta processus canonizationis; et, Miracula Sanctae Margaritae de Hungaria = The oldest legend; Acts of the canonization process; and, Miracles of Saint Margaret of Hungary, edited by Ildikó Csepregi, Gábor Klaniczay and Bence Péterfi, translated by Ildikó Csepregi, Clifford Flanigan and Louis Perraud (Budapest, Hungary; New York, NY: Central European University Press, 2018).

Images: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Arpadhazi_szent_margit.jpg and  www.freevector.com

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Fire, Work, and Remembrance: The Johanna Kiln at Saint John’s

“They’re firing up the big kiln while you’re on campus,” Jenn (Carnell, a regular co-author and friend) told me. “You should go!”

I’m so glad I did. The firing of the kiln is a regular formal ceremonial practice here at St John’s. The kiln itself is gigantic – built so that loading forks can drive into either end! – and it runs for ten days and ten nights at temperatures that could have converted that badly singed “Smelly Book” I mentioned in a previous post from book all the way to ash in mere moments. (I looked it up; temperatures inside the kiln will reach up to 2,500°F!)

It’s the largest wood-fired kiln in North America, and is called the “Johanna Kiln” after Sister Johanna Becker, OSB, whose work profoundly influenced the potters here on campus. And, by its size, the kiln certainly has the “wow” factor:

Kiln door

The work of loading the kiln, we were told, had taken 6 weeks, and the work of keeping the kiln lit goes to two groups of volunteers, one of whom keeps the wood stoked and ensures that the process is running smoothly, and another group to support the first group by preparing food. The collective group laughed about the excellent food, so much excellent food, and about the work day and night to ensure the fire’s regular feeding. We toasted the volunteer team with ceramic cups of Sake.

In all, several hundred people turned out for the kiln firing. There were people from as far away as Japan (!) – someone who’d been in residence at St John’s and came back for the ceremony – and from California. Not to mention Tennessee. (That would be me.) This photo shows about half the crowd in attendance – it’s from after the ceremony was over, and you can still see how many people had joined in!

About half the crowd...

As with many such events, there was opening chitchat, and a talk about the kiln’s founding in 1994/5 and its historical firings. There was recognition of those who’ve been in attendance – for 28 years, for 30 years, at every firing that has happened since they entered high school in 19xx. This is an event that has tradition at its back.

But it also has the spiritual ceremonial elements. It was not just the living who were recognized; the losses to the local art community were also recognized – and in two different ways. First, we heard their stories of connection to the campus, the abbey, and the kiln. (Hearkening back to all the mentions of preaching from the pulpit in the memoria endowments that I’ve been writing about-- recognition of the dead at a moment of importance to the community is a looooong-standing practice!)

And second, there were spirit boats created for each of the three of them, hosted on a table adjacent to the kiln wall, with incense and salt, flowers and fir cuttings and images. We remember people through the things we say, but we also remember them through the things we do. As the speaker said, the spirit ships mark the last time they will sail on the lake behind the kiln – a marker of their farewells to these surroundings and the people they loved. They plan to use a hot ceramic piece on October 25^th to ignite a candle, and then light candles in the boats honoring the three dedicatees. They’ll be carried by canoe to the center of the lake, and released as a final goodbye.

Spirit boats with salt, incense, photo, flowers, and fir offerings

The firing ceremony had two songs, an unaccompanied song newly created for the event, and another, with guitar, that is evidently a regular recurring part of the ceremony. The lyrics put us in the right frame of mind for the unfolding of events; I wish I’d recorded them somehow because the wording had slipped my mind by the time I got back to my dorm.

There was also a prayer, asking for blessings to come for the items in the kiln, the people who made them and tended them, and those of us who had gathered here in community to witness the start of the work.

And then it was time for the lighting itself. Only about the front three rows could see exactly what happened at the moment of ignition, but the firing – assisted by family members of those being remembered this year – includes a short prayer, a purification of the kiln area with rice, salt, and sake which took about two minutes and follows Japanese tradition, and ends with ignition of the two starting fires with a handmade torch. I at the back only had a chance to go into the kiln shed once the fire was lit, and even then, the sunlight was streaming HARD into my eyes (and the camera lens):

Within a few minutes of lighting

They’ll be stoking the fire for ten days; the wood stacks run floor to ceiling inside the kiln shed, and there are additional 4-foot poles stashed outside the shed and covered with tarps. Before the ceremony, someone was joking about all the tarps – “time to think about an additional structure just to keep the wood dry” was the sentiment, which got agreement and laughter from standers-by! You can see a wee portion of the VERY abundant wood in my photo here:

soooo muuuuuch firewood

And when I came back after my walk (and the sun had settled toward the horizon), I got to hear more about the work involved. They have to be careful to keep the downdrafts of cold air from flowing into the kiln, so you always move the sticks a bit before placing the new wood to ensure the fire’s heat is even. 

tending the fire evidently includes telling stories about it!

Also, wearing good gloves is important – one volunteer got $175 brand new elk-hide gloves and was extremely proud of them. But on his first time stoking the fire, he reached in with them on, and by the time he pulled his arm out, the gloves were on fire. (Heat will do that!) So they buy cheap gloves – though what was cheap last time is rather more costly this time, what will all the tarriffs. (Wow, the crowd nodded at that! We ALL know about inflation these days!).

In all, it was a very moving ceremony. I was strongly reminded of the way in which the ordinary becomes extraordinary when the proper attitude is brought to bear. On the one hand, the idea of kiln-firing and the preparations and act of treating pottery is simply a part of the artistic process – a necessary step in the act of creation, but not one that signals “I’m a spiritual moment” on its own. It’s work, and rather hard work, what with the chopping of wood, the tending of fire, the need to ensure even heating, and so forth.

But this ceremony reminds us that work too can function as an offering up of our daily tasks as good that we do on behalf of the spirit. The act of firing here creates community; it’s a team effort; it reflects the connectedness even of the artistic work as part of broader human enterprise. The purification and dedications that were folded into the ceremony also connect that community to its chronological ancestry – through ritual, we make an unspoken argument about the continuity of human activity, both what has come before, and what promises to lie ahead of us. Will you be back in two years? The ceremony suggests that the answer is “yes,” whether you come in person or in the memories of others who attend. And it creates a ritual moment of centeredness, where the act of doing becomes a prayerful activity.

In the Benedictine mindset of “Ora et labora” – of prayer and labor – this is a moment that reminds us that the two are inextricably intertwined.

May it be so.

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A Day In the Life of a Carpenter Fellow at HMML

Post amended 10/17/26 to add the Johanna kiln firing of 10/16/26. 

The Hill Museum and Manuscript Library (HMML) is a treasure-trove of medieval materials – much of which is on microfilm, part of their long-term mission to preserve our written past. It is, for nerds like me, a fabulous place to do research. In a single day I can compare things from Italy, France, Germany, and Austria without getting on an airplane or having to worry about figuring out how to manage dinner after a full day’s work. I’m lucky to be here in Collegeville, Minnesota as a Carpenter Fellow, with housing, meals, and research support that let me concentrate on a project that draws on HMML’s collections.

HMML is not just European, of course – a couple of days ago I got a whiff of the “Smelly Book,” an Ethiopian Psalter from the 17th century which has had some haaaaard history, blackened as it is by fire– and HMML is consciously working in various places where the written record is under threat. Syriac, Armenian, Lao: there is an abundance – literally hundreds of thousands – of things in languages I don’t speak or read.

But, as I indicated, I’m here because HMML lets me put manuscripts from different places into conversation as I work on my book about Franciscan sisters. I’m currently looking at the rules that shaped their daily lives – and getting happily sidetracked by the words women spoke when they made their vows, their “profession formulae.” After all, these women were Franciscan Tertiaries, whose religious life could take several forms. There’s a tension between “we’re not nuns” reality of their Tertiary status and “we live in community following rules” that’s an interesting space for my book project to live.

For example, here’s one difference that caught my attention (and ate my mid-week): a profession formula from Solothurn, published by Brigitte Degler, explicitly makes room for a woman who might later feel called to a more rigorous monastic life. The Freiburg versions I’m working on instead have her promise “for all the days of my life.” That sounds like a minor difference, but it opens up a big question: how did these women understand the commitment they were making, and what possibilities did they imagine beyond it?

This is the kind of question that gets me to my (standing) desk in the morning. And HMML makes a Latin Editing Before Lunch kind of lifestyle possible, letting a scholar dive deep into a project while leaving the dishes and laundry back home.

So here’s a bit of what a day here at HMML looks like for a scholar in residence, the pictorial version:

walking with a book in the Emmaus residence basement, with coffee and tea, and more coffee

 

small but comfortable housing; 3 meals a day in the refectory

beautiful campus – with a glimpse of the lake on the way to work

The most visually arresting campus image: the abbey church

“My cell”: microfilm reader, computer, notebook, coffee -- all the fun stuff!

Working on bibliography in the Alcuin library

 

walking campus trails: lake-side, arboretum; last week’s step-count was 106,529 steps, or 50.4 miles!

(Okay, okay, regarding step-count: I did go backpacking over the weekend – here’s a couple of pictures of bears, all three, including mama bear playing peekaboo. Those were from off campus, though – up at the Paul Bunyan State Forest on the North Country trail...)

For the adventurous: Walking to St Joe’s via the Lake Wobegon trail. (One could bike, if one biked. It’s 6 miles, each way, so plan enough time. Weekends can be well-spent!) I recommend Flour & Flower for the baked goods.

Late-breaking addition -- I attended the Johanna Kiln firing on Oct 16th

Progress!

So, what does progress mean to me? Well, at this point, it's:

• 23 tabs open across three browsers. 
• 19 footnotes on a working edition that will be the basis for discussion of “lived life” in Chapter Zero, the book’s introduction.
• 88 files of notes, bibliography, and outlines for the middle section of Chapter One.
• 28 pages of handwritten notes.
• An outline of the book’s opening gesture – often the hardest part to figure out. Yay, I have a hook! (It’s still a secret, but I’m having such fun with it! And I figured it out while walking at lunchtime looking at the leaves change color.) 

The way I treat HMML is as an almost frenetic immersion in my material. The goal here isn’t to produce prose, it’s to produce the knowledge that will inform my prose when it comes time to write. There’s a great deal to be said for having the time to follow a question past the “here’s a footnote” stage until it actually becomes interesting – and then keep following it. Here, I can do that, take a walk by the lake, and arrive at dinner without having had to plan it. For this Carpenter Fellow, that’s a very good day.

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