Lewd, Feeble, and Frail: Subverting Sexist Tropes to Gain Authority

I recently waded through a 700+ page volume on philosophical theology that seriously under-represents the historical contributions of women (and POC, and LBGT+ folx, and…). So at first, I thought I might write this post on why it’s bad to present the views of a tiny swath of extra-privileged humanity as universal truths of human experience. But you know what? There are so many excellent pieces out there that already detail the goods of including diverse perspectives and the harms of ignoring them that it’s—wait for it—it’s almost as if the people churning out these tone-deaf volumes aren’t even reading them.

That’s no reason to stop writing pieces arguing for more inclusive philosophy, of course. Far from it: Solidarity! Speak truth to power! It takes a thousand million drips to wear down the stone! But it’s been a really long pandemic, we’re all exhausted, and you know what (very loosely-related) topic hasn’t already been covered extensively in philosophical blog posts? The need to stop reading medieval European Christian women’s use of the ‘humility formula’ trope literally, as expressions of self-loathing and/or internalized misogyny. Yup. I think it’s safe to say that this is a neglected area of discussion in the philoso-sphere. Yet our modern discomfort at what sure looks like self-loathing and internalized misogyny poses a significant obstacle to our engaging medieval women’s works for their philosophical insights. In this post, I want to remove that obstacle by explaining what the humility formula trope is, how it generally functions, and then how medieval Christian women consistently use it to establish themselves as authorities within existing discourses.

Here’s the tl;dr version, for those of you too worn out by the semester to want the details: When medieval authors call themselves worthless, feeble, or unlettered, do not read this as a straightforward proclamation of self-loathing or lack of education. Instead, look at the immediate context in which this statement appears, and you will usually find two things: 1) an explanation of the text’s larger purpose, and 2) a defense of the author’s claim to write it—and, in the case of women authors, an explicit defense (often in God’s own words) of why it’s appropriate for a woman to write about this topic.

In its most basic form, the humility formula is a trope used to acknowledge the speaker’s audience (both human and divine) and to position the speaker humbly and respectfully in relation to that audience. Versions of this trope appear in a wide variety of literature, but its use is particularly prominent in what are often labeled ‘contemplative’ philosophical and theology traditions—traditions aimed at introspection, moral and spiritual development, and connection with the divine. So, for example, we find Socrates opening the Apology with the claim that he is not a polished orator and thus needs to present his defense in his usual “rough” manner; Langri Tangpa writing in his Eight Verses for Training the Mind: “Whenever I’m in the company of others, I will regard myself as the lowest among all”; and Hildegard of Bingen writing in her Scivias that she is “timid in speaking, and simple in expounding, and untaught in writing.” (And if you just read Socrates’s claim as ironic or disingenuous and took Tangpa’s verse as aspirationally high-minded, but would usually have been inclined to take Hildegard’s claim at face value, that’s what this post is for.)   

Humility is a common theme in contemplative literature, but it—and the corresponding use of humility formulae—gains special emphasis in medieval Europe, partly in protest to the increasing gap in power and wealth between the laity and the higher orders of the Church in the 12^th-16^th centuries. At the same time, endless feudal warfare, Crusades, and waves of plague decimated local populations and created a sort of ‘Rosie the Riveter’ situation, where women of necessity filled a wide range of social roles. Women governed realms both large and small; women occupied places in almost every trade organization and developing guild; and women who were unmarried or widowed and wanted to devote their lives to God via teaching, healing, and ministry formed living communities called ‘beguinages’ with like-minded women (called ‘beguines’). In the early 14^th century, it’s estimated that there were as many as eighty beguinages in Strasburg alone; one of the reasons so many of Meister Eckhart’s German sermons survive is that nuns and beguines wrote them down to share with their communities. (You can still find beguinages in most cities in Belgium; many have been converted now to community housing for the elderly and/or poor.)

In fact, although most of us were taught that women in the Middle Ages were systematically denied education, in later medieval art and architecture women are often represented as owning books, reading books, and even teaching others how to read. (There’s a lovely tradition, for instance, showing Mary being taught to read by her mother, Anne, as below.)

There was also a high demand for ‘pocket Bibles’ and Books of Hours in this period for personal devotional use by wealthy women. And in stained glass windows and sculptures throughout Europe’s cathedrals, women are often deliberately portrayed in poses parallel to their male counterparts: holding books and occupying positions of authority.

So what does all this have to do with humility formulae? In short, understanding the broader context in which these formulae were being written and read allows us to appreciate how medieval women used them both to situate themselves as authorities in ongoing discussions and to explicitly respond to the objection that women have no business speaking on religious topics.

Consider this passage in which Mechthild of Magdeburg (c.1207-1282) expresses worry that no one will appreciate the brilliance of her book (The Flowing Light of the Godhead) because it’s written by a woman:

Here Mechthild purposefully contrasts her status as a laywoman with that of a university-educated man. At the same time, notice that she refers to her book as not just a “unique great miracle” but also a “golden house” inhabited by Christ and the heavenly hosts. And now look at the response she receives, in which her concerns are countered by God’s assurance that what she has to say will actually benefit those men, who are often not as wise as they believe:

Or take the case of Marguerite d’Oingt, a Carthusian nun who, although little known today, was widely read and respected in her own time and beyond. Marguerite opens her Page of Meditations in 1286 with what look like a flurry of justifications and self-effacing anxiety:

Now look again. First off, Marguerite, who is proficient in several languages, is writing these words in Latin—the language of scholarship. Second, the Carthusian order took strict vows of silence and had as one of their central spiritual metaphors the image of God inscribing words directly into their hearts. Thus, Marguerite’s claim that God ordered these thoughts ‘into her heart’ is extremely significant. Finally, Marguerite attributes her ability to write this meditation to nothing less than God’s own grace moving within her. In this context, her humble protestations of having ‘no sense or learning’ take on quite a different flavor. Taken as a whole, this statement positions what Marguerite is about to say as an important contribution to the teachings of her religious order.

There are so many examples of this sort that it’s hard to choose among them. But let me close with a passage from the Short Text of Julian of Norwich’s Showings (written toward the end of the 14^th century). Julian begins with a classic use of the humility formula:                                                                                                                 

Julian manages here to pack in the common tropes of humility formulae (disavowal of knowledge and worth) with the tropes more specific to women (frailty and weakness) into one pithy sentence. And then she goes on use those features to address objections to her writing and explain that her authority in that writing comes directly from God:

But because I am a woman, ought I therefore to believe that I should not tell you of the goodness of God, when I saw at the same time that it is his will that it be known? You will see this clearly in what follows, for it will be well and truly accepted. Then you will soon forget me who am a wretch…and you will contemplate Jesus, who is everyone’s teacher.                                             

Chapter 6

I love Julian of Norwich, and this passage is one of the many reasons why. Her comment about being a wretch at the end there? It functions primarily to draw attention to how we are all wretches when compared to God. Guess who’s the ONLY REAL TEACHER, people? It’s GOD. Guess how much it matters for the sharing of God’s truths whether you’re noble or common-born, rich or poor, male or female? IT DOESN’T.

It still might strike you as worrying that these women are deferring to God for their authority as opposed to claiming it for themselves, and I don’t want to make it sound as if medieval women didn’t face significant obstacles to being heard within their patriarchal social/political/religious worlds. That said, the simple fact that so many of these women’s texts survive today means that those women were taken quite seriously as authoritative sources. In the medieval contemplative tradition, anyone claiming authority on their own power would be dismissed out of hand, which is why we see men in this period also consistently using humility formulae to defer to God.

In conclusion, viewing medieval women’s self-effacing protestations through the lens of ‘humility-formula-as-literary-trope’ allows us to appreciate the skill with which those women ‘flip’ their inferior social status to position their works as important contributions to existing debates. Now, please enjoy these images of medieval women enjoying some quiet reading time.

The Women in Philosophy series publishes posts on women in the history of philosophy, posts on issues of concern to women in the field of philosophy, and posts that put philosophy to work to address issues of concern to women in the wider world. If you are interested in writing for the series, please contact the Series Editor Adriel M. Trott or Associate Editor Julinna Oxley.

Christina Van Dyke

Christina Van Dyke is emerita professor of philosophy at Calvin College, specializing in medieval philosophy and the philosophy of gender. Her recent research combines those two areas and challenges the idea that women didn't do philosophy in the Middle Ages. She spent the 2020-2021 academic year working with the Center for New Narratives in Philosophy at Columbia University as Director of Digital Resources and Co-Director of Medieval Projects.