Pride & Humility: Lent 2022

At top: the personification of Pride, riding a lion, Book of Hours, in Latin, France, Poitiers, ca. 1475, Illuminated by Robinet Testard. MS now at the Morgan Library.

Some of the vices you will know are not a real temptation for you, or some of the virtues come without too much pain. That’s not the case today. For today, I introduce the traditional Queen of the Vices, Pride—though for each and every one of us, it’s not really an introduction, because we are all deeply familiar with the Queen even if we call her by different names. I also delve down to the foundation of the life of virtue, the salt of the virtues themselves, that keeps every other virtue and gift from corrupting into a source of division or self-righteousness, humility. 

The day this episode airs is Ash Wednesday, which makes today a wonderfully appropriate day to talk about our first virtue and vice pairing, humility and pride. For pride denies that we are mortal, that our bodies return to ash and dust; while humility affirms our dependence and need and general dustiness. 

Ok, wow. That’s a lot of pressure. Let’s slow down and approach them one at a time. In this series, we will look at the vice first, then, in traditional fashion, its “remedy,” the virtue. And a repeated warning: this is for you and me. This is not to identify your friends and enemies, unless they ask for your help in doing so. 

Pride is the desire for excellence in excess of right reason, teaches Thomas Aquinas. Augustine, in City of God, writes that “pride imitates God inordinately: for it hath equality of fellowship under him, and wishes to usurp his dominion over our fellow-creatures” (Augustine, Civitate Dei xiv, 13, xix, 12). We are meant to imitate God, to follow Christ. Pride comes when we attempt to imitate God in his authority, when we forget who we are as created, limited creatures. And pride was considered the queen of the virtues, because most sins arise from pride, that self-deception about one’s place, power, and importance.

All this sounds bad, but how does that translate into our daily lives? This is where our medieval friends can help us. First: pride refuses to subject itself to anything. It denies that it serves anything or anyone but itself. This is a problem because we are all, in fact, subject to God as his children. Thomas Aquinas writes in the Summa Theologiae: “the root of pride is found to consist in man not being, in some way, subject to God and his rule” ( If you’re an American, like myself, you’re likely cringing at this repeated word subject. It’s too… monarchical. Ugh. But this is the truth: When we do not acknowledge that we are subject to anything or anyone, we are incapable of learning or any kind of transformation. Pride is the opposite of learning. How so? To learn, you must first acknowledge that someone else, a teacher, book, trainer, friend, partner, child—possesses some kind of knowledge or craft that you do not, and that you cannot hope to acquire without help. So you submit or subject yourself to that person or text; you pay attention to what they say, and you emulate them. 

Pride also makes someone esteem themselves as greater than they are in actuality, and use whatever means they can to place themselves in the best possible light. A much later teacher in the virtues, our good friend Jane Austen, writes, “how quick come the reasons for approving what we like!” (Persuasion). Similarly, Aquinas writes, “A man is ready to believe what he desires very much” (ST Pride is a kind of twisted self-love, and entails an uncanny ability to mold interpretations of events, facts, and feelings to fit the desire to understand yourself as in charge, as better than someone else, or as really good at something you’re really not. Medieval penitential texts called this presumption. The medieval manual Jacob’s Well describes presumption:

“looking after reverence, to sit above, to speak first, to have the words out of another man’s mouth, to take worship of the world, passing all other; deeming thyself stronger, wiser, hardier, worthier, than another; in believing thyself better than thou art; in not giving others credit or taking credit to thyself that really belongs to another. The grace of fortune, of goodness, of prosperity, of virtues, that thou hast of God, thou thinkest that thou hast them of God for thy good works, and that thou hast well deserved them. Or else the love, worship, or riches, which thou hast of God, thou thinkest that thou hast them of thy good governance and wits, and not God…Proud of your might and your service, proud of your bearing and your working, proud of your honesty and your generosity and your good conditions, of your dress, your wit and eloquence, your intelligence and understanding.”

Whenever you have a great gift, which quite honestly is each of us in the surpassing beauty of our createdness, there is great risk of pride, whether that gift is something interior or exterior to yourself. You start to believe that what you have, you generated yourself, or that what you have, you received from God due to your own merits. 

Are we never then, to take pride in a job well-done, in hard work, in our appearance when we look nice, in a thought hard-fought-for on a page of writing? There is such a thing as good pride, as we know through experience and through these writers. Again, medieval folks help us here to discern bad pride from good pride. Thomas Aquinas helps us here: bad pride in our achievements or belongings overpasses the rule of reason. We overrate our excellence, or treasure it more than another person’s similar excellence. Good pride in accomplishments can become bad pride when it includes ingratitude or unawareness about the help you’ve received.

Another hint is that you don’t merely value the hard work well-done, you treasure your singularity in it. There’s an element of comparison present that goes beyond appreciation for the good, beautiful, and worthy. There’s sometimes scorn or anger or ostentatiousness, an eye towards the responses of others. The philosopher Rebecca Konyndyk DeYoung notes “which audience we seek approval and applause from yields telltale clues about our motives” (Glittering Vices, 51). This outward looking desire for approval and appreciation was traditionally called vainglory, a word that I don’t know if I’ve ever heard used without irony. All of these have roots in originally good impulses, to celebrate the good we do and see and are given. But we wield it as confirmation of our worth, even our superiority. DeYoung writes, “Vainglory provides a cheap substitute for true fulfillment of the human desire to be profoundly known by another person—to be known by name, for who we truly are—and to be loved just that way” (59).

Vainglory is closely related to arrogance because they both thrive upon comparison. While vainglory relies on praise from others that makes one feel above everyone, arrogance twists available evidence to the same end: one’s own perceived superiority in methods, in knowledge, in character. Craig Boyd writes, “Conceit does not measure its own value by the opinions of others because it sees their opinions as worthless. Rather, we compare ourselves to others in ways that inevitably favor ourselves over them…others become the means to our own value not because they have valuable opinions but because they themselves are less valuable than we are” (Boyd, Virtues & Their Vices, 252). 

Do you feel like you’re just getting beat while you’re down? I do writing this. It’s hard to say these things aloud, to feel that level of extreme cringe recognizing yourself in some of this. Perhaps you’re even feeling some contempt for yourself. So let’s go now to Pride’s remedy, humility, in this ancient tradition. We are locked in a war of overvaluing and undervaluing overselves, between pride and self-contempt. Both are wrong. And humility is the middle way, though it has been deeply misunderstood throughout the years. 

Bernard of Clairvaux wrote the most popular account of humility in The Steps of Humility and Pride. Geoffrey Chaucer translates Bernard’s definition into his English in The Parson’s Tale, the final work of The Canterbury Tales: “humility, or meekness…is a virtue through which a man hath truthful knowledge of himself, and holdeth of himself no price nor dainty, as in regard of what he deserves, considering ever his frailty” (lines 475-476).

Humility is appropriate self-esteem, accurate self-judgment, true self-knowledge. Humility lives in the tension that we are God’s beloved children, wonderfully made, richly endowed with gifts and beauty—and that we are mortal, created from the dust, limited in our powers of intellect and strength, failing, needy in every regard. Practicing humility does not consist of hypocritical groveling, or hiding your gifts. It aligns with honesty. The reason why humility often sounds harsher than it really is, is that in reality, it is so much harder for us to acknowledge our failures and limitations than our strengths and victories. We are always drawn to imagine ourselves as more gifted, powerful, and deserving—or at least more righteous and justified in our behavior—than we are in reality. If pride is that little voice which excuses all your behavior as justified, humility is the voice which persistently seeks to learn—am I really? Is that truthful? 

The word “humility” is used confusingly in our society. We watch professional athletes say things like “I’m so humbled” when we saw them taunt their opponents earlier; or politicians speak proudly of their “humble origins” and turn around the next minute and sell out to corporate or party interests. It’s no wonder we often associate the word with false humility, with hypocrisy. This is because we often confuse humility with outward action or circumstance. But more accurately, humility is a kind of cognitive and affective habit that influences every part of our actions and way of being in the word. In other words, it consists of both a heart-attitude and a mind-attitude that reflexively seeks to remember one’s own spiritual, moral, and physical dependence on God, on other people, even on circumstance. No one is self-made. 

How do we cultivate humility? What does that even look like? Many of the penitential manuals offer us something that seems awful and medieval in the worst way: they try to tell us about the gift of fear. Ew. No thanks. Such a doctrine has been poorly applied over the centuries. Think the Puritan cleric Jonathan Edwards’ famous sermon, Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God, used to frighten college freshmen in rhetoric composition classes for time immemorial. Think Jacob’s Well with its oozy pits, which says “think! But thou amend thee, he shall damn thee in endless pain!” Or: “thou art a sack of dung”! I think—I hope—one of the gifts of our culture is that we as a church are getting better at not hating the bodies that God created good, and also trusting that Jesus loves us and does not actually think we are a sack of dung.

But I also stigmatize fear; I am afraid of my own fear. Julian of Norwich helps me to more reflectively consider the gift of fear and its use as weapon against pride. She notices four kinds of “dread.” And while these dreads may serve some limited purpose, they are not truly gifts, nor are they ultimately holy. The only dread that truly pleases God, she writes, is “reverent dread.” She describes it as “soft” and paradoxically, the more you have it, the less you feel hampered by it. This dread we may better understand as awe or deep respect. Julian sees it as what one naturally feels and owes to the Lord of Creation, the majestic Father of Lights. It’s probably like the feeling one would have around a blue whale, or an active volcano. Careful, careful, we say in adoration, rejoicing in the giant power we witness, suddenly aware of our smallness and our fragility. And our awareness of that smallness and fragility leads us to embrace our Father Protector. Julian understands this reverent dread as a path towards the habitual practice of humility. She writes:

All dreads other than reverent dread that are proferred to us, though they come under color of holiness, they are not so true…That dread that maketh us hastily to flee from all that is not good and fall into our lord’s breast, as the child into the mother’s bosom, with all our intent and all our mind—knowing our feebleness and our great need, knowing his everlasting goodness and his blissful love, only seeking him for salvation, cleaving to him with secure trust—that dread that bringeth us into this working, it is kind and gracious and good and true. (73.27-34)

Remember, you are God’s children, weak, limited, frail, and beloved by this indescribable, ultimate Holy Presence. Such reverent dread does not prevent us from approaching the Presence, but helps us to seek God and reminds us with knowledge of who we are and who God is. 

Medieval people understood children as the ultimate exemplar of humility. For children, unlike the prideful, are eager to learn, eager to soak in knowledge, unafraid of their ignorance but persisting in discovery and submitting to their teachers. Children also show us holy pride, a pride without comparing or denigrating others, true delight in their handiwork. My preschooler, in great delight, shows me his name that he has worked so, so hard to write. Clumsy letters march down the side of the page, and he is proud that he has labored so hard and produced this work. I, his mother, am so proud of him. The work goes up on the fridge, to rejoice over. And the next minute he asks for help working on his ABCs or unfortunately for me, perhaps wiping his bottom. Because he has written his name, he does not take it for mastery of the world, or rest on his laurels, or that he’s a superior four-year-old. 

This, too, is why humility is understood as the root, alongside charity, of all the other virtues. Thomas Aquinas writes that if the life of virtue were a building, humility would be the foundation, sunk into the ground and providing stability for each other virtue (ST II-II 2). All other virtues are built upon acknowledgment that you, by yourself, are not the master of the universe, that you are not perfect but are needy, limited, and loved. For without this acknowledgment, anything good you do can easily become a source of superiority over others. Who hasn’t seen this happen in real time, either in yourself or in a close friend or family member? 

Humility can also be misunderstood or misapplied because it has, in the past, been a virtue abused by those in power, commanded by those in charge to those beneath them, laying like a heavy burden on women, on people of color, on actual children. But surprisingly, medieval people can help us here as well. For they understood that our lot in life partially determines what kinds of vices are challenges for us, and what kind of virtues are especially difficult. Pride, as the queen of the vices, is a struggle for everyone. But someone in a position of power or wealth is going to be more easily led into the snares of pride, because it’s easier for that person to forget their dependence, their littleness, their true need. Medieval literature, like Dante’s Inferno or Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales have countless examples of lords, cardinals, and bishops as models of corrupt pride. So while historically, humility has been heavily demanded of women, or people of color, in reality the far greater risk of pride was to the white men at the pinnacle of the patriarchal society. History certainly speaks clearly in retrospect. 

We might cast this risk for pride into these terms: if I’m considered successful in my field, or in authority over people at my job, or reasonably comfortable in regards to money, or if historically my ancestors have been in a position that rules over other people, I should consider myself at particular risk of pride and in need of extra awareness and practice of humility. This list includes many Americans. It’s almost as if you discovered that your family carries a gene that makes you prone to cancer. You would certainly go to the doctor on a more regular basis, ask more questions, wear sunscreen, and so on. You would live with a different awareness of risk and healthy choices. You would stop some habits, and start others.

The worst part of medieval humility is its insistence on the disgusting, filthy nature of humanity. Many medieval authors call upon you to despise yourself, to recognize the foul seed from whence you came. It’s not that we are not often horrible. Look no further than the annals of history or how you last handled yourself arguing with your spouse or a friend. But overemphasizing this aspect of ourselves can lead to great damage. We must hold together our failures with our beloved createdness to truly know ourselves. And what they’ve got right is that we cannot live in illusion about our capacity for misuse of power and gift. We are creatures of the symphony, of the gothic cathedrals, of brain surgery, and creatures that bomb other countries and abandon children and let the poor starve. Everyone likes to think they would have been the person to hide Jewish people under the floorboards during the Holocaust, or would have recognized the true evil of slavery in the Antebellum South. Humility knows better; it recognizes there’s no guarantees we would have done the right thing.

What are practices that help us to learn how to be humble? Asking is the first thing. Our desires must be transformed, because no one particularly wants to be humble, to really know oneself and be known in all the nitty-gritty of life. As in all the virtues, we need teachers. We soak our minds in Jesus, the most humble one, and his life and death. We also have Mary to teach us humility. 

Julian of Norwich instructs us to know in your bones, and repeat to yourself over and over, that you are God’s beloved child, irrespective of what you’ve done in your life.

The medieval penitential manuals wisely advise readers to practice silence and restraint in your speech, (and I would add—particularly online). This advice is clearly situational, and does not mean to be permanently silent, or that keeping one’s thoughts to oneself is a virtue. But it means carefully considering ideas, events, and actions before commenting or arguing about them. The medieval writers often quote Proverbs 18: “he that answers before he hears shows himself to be a fool and worthy of confusion.” And unfortunately, especially online, speed and aggression in speech is valued over slow, measured response. Humility calls us to resist our own hot takes.

I’m working on saying thank you for all the little things as well as the big. To echo St. Paul, humility asks us, with both seriousness and joy, what do you have that you have not received? Rejoice in your victories, while acknowledging the help you have been given.

Another tip that the medievals advise is to practice confession. If you follow a tradition of Christianity that has sacramental confession, do that. If you do not, practice confession to trusted friends, spouses, or mentors. To confess some of your ugliest thoughts frees you from their power. 

Admitting where we have been wrong, whether in confession or in personal apology, is a big deal and very good for cultivating humility.

Genuinely praise other people, without guile or angling to get your own compliment back or to be better liked. Recognize excellence in others. This practice habituates us into seeing the goodness of God’s creation.

Next week we will think about love and envy. If you’d like to see more of what I’m up to, sign up for my free substack newsletter, Medievalish with Grace Hamman.

The Seven Capital Vices and Their Remedies, A Series for Lent

The incredible personified Seven Vices are from the British Library, Yates Thompson MS. 21, f. 165

Today starts the beginning of the Old Books With Grace podcast Lent series, on the virtues and vices. Yes, yes, I know it’s not Lent yet, but to fit everything I needed to fit, we had to start a week early. Consider this your bonus week.

Imagine yourself as a fourteenth-century English villager during Lent. Whether you live in a sleepy agricultural village, a busy little market town, or the hubbub of London itself, you are preparing your heart for the great Paschal feast, for Easter and its season of celebration. In this period in history, unless you were an especially devout individual, you would have taken the Eucharist once a year, on Good Friday. To take Christ’s body once a year meant there was a lot of pressure on being ready. With the assistance of your local priest, you would prepare yourself for the presence of Jesus through the sacrament of penance. First, you reflected on your sins with regret, called contrition. Then, you confessed your sins to the priest. Then, if you needed to do penance through prayer or pilgrimage or public apology or something else, you did that. Then, you could take communion with a clear conscience that you were not disrespecting Jesus. But all kinds of practical matters intervene, worried medieval folk—what if you forgot a vice? Or what if you knew you struggled with something, but didn’t know the best way to combat it? Remember this was before therapy and broadcast media!

In the Middle Ages, in response to this issue, a very popular genre of writing sprang up: penitential manuals, meant to help priests aid their parishioners in examining their conscience, or for laypeople themselves to explore the moral quandaries of the soul and body. These handbooks described the sacraments as well as the vices that people were likely to succumb to, or the virtues that would help them become more like Christ. Some of these wonderfully bizarre, at times very colorful and at times very dull books survive to this day, and these are what I read for this series.

We don’t want to cultivate the anxiety of don’t miss a sin for fear of offending the Lord! Such crushing pressure takes its own tolls. But we do, like our medieval friends, want to know ourselves. We want to become more like Jesus, to prepare our hearts for Resurrection. And these manuals, with their lists of virtues and vices and human behaviors, give us an unusual, provocative, and sometimes very helpful window into human nature and gifts. 

There are many ways of telling the story of how the catalogues and schemata of vices and virtues developed, but roughly two paths in the Christian tradition that cross, converge, and diverge throughout the years. One begins with Plato, Aristotle, and the ancient Greek philosophers, roughly four hundred years before the birth of Christ. Aristotle in particular developed a robust theory of virtue, oriented towards the good of the polis, the city. So we meet the beginnings of the idea of common good. He codifies the four cardinal virtues of prudence, justice, temperance, and fortitude. The Romans, too, liked these ideas. Yet the life of virtue was reserved exclusively for men and citizens—women and enslaved people could not really practice the virtues, said Aristotle. Ok, so moving on.

Another story of the virtues and vices begins in the desert of Egypt, with the birth of Christian monasticism. About three hundred years or so after the death of Christ, people like St. Antony began to withdraw to the desert, to build communities based on a life of ascetism and vows of poverty. In that process, people like Evagrius, John Cassian, and Amma Theodora began to compile pastoral aids for resisting the temptations of the desert. For the Desert Fathers and Mothers knew the desert leaves you nowhere to hide: when one retreats from society, from the ever-changing company and views and products and foods, one is left with her own thoughts for company. You are faced with the temptations deep inside of you that you have managed to hide from yourself, or hide from others. They began to list these temptations and their characteristics, in the format that we sometimes call the Seven Deadly Sins: pride or vainglory, envy, wrath, sloth, lust, gluttony, and greed or avarice. Rebecca Konyndyk DeYoung, author of The Glittering Vices (which I can’t recommend enough if you’re interested in the vice and virtue traditions) writes that a better, more historically accurate name for them are the Seven Capital Vices. Why capital? Capital comes from the Latin word for head (caput), as in fountainhead or beginning (think of a capital letter at the beginning of a sentence!). It’s not that these list in exhaustive detail every possible vice, but that these are the roots, the sources, of all the vicious actions we can think of. 

Unlike Aristotle’s list of virtues, this list of vices emerges from pastoral care—that is, from the leaders of spiritual communities learning how to care for and spiritually direct the men and women under their guidance—not from theory. So it focuses on people’s actions, on obstacles held in common that face us as we learn to follow Christ, and ways to combat those temptations and actions. It also means that it’s sometimes unhelpfully vague and fascinatingly flexible! The Seven Capital Vices was picked up as useful and pertinent, especially in lives of community, by some of the great pastoral thinkers of the early Middle Ages, like Pope Gregory the Great or St. Benedict. By the late Middle Ages, it was ubiquitous as a pastoral tool, used in the way I describe at the beginning of this episode. These penitential materials listed these Seven Capital Vices in great detail, often with wonderfully weird and sometimes terrifying examples. Alongside those Seven Capital Sins, by this point, writers had paired Remedies, virtues from scriptural sources, particularly the Beatitudes, to go with them and combat the vices themselves: humility, love, patience or meekness, perseverance or strength, generosity, abstinence, and chastity. 

On the theoretical level, brilliant medieval theologians like St. Thomas Aquinas began to take these pastoral tools of thinking about vice, virtue, habits, and human behavior, and juxtapose them with some of the more theoretical ideas about the life of human happiness postulated by Aristotle and his Arabic commentators back in the day (A lot of Aristotle’s writing only comes to us through Arabic preservation! That’s another hugely fascinating story!). By the fourteenth century in England, scholars, priests, poets, contemplatives, and ordinary laypeople were all wrestling with these ideas in their daily lives, using them to think about their own behavior, what they owed to one another as brothers and sisters in Christ, and how their lives might become transformed.

But at this point you might be asking yourself a few questions. As we know, not everything from the past is worth preserving. What’s this ancient way of thinking about human behavior worth to us today, when we have so much new and wonderful information on human behavior in general? What even is a vice or a virtue, strictly speaking? 

Both virtues and vices are habits, something we do over and over until they become part of our character. They are unnatural or exterior to us at first, and then the more we do them, the more they become part of who we are. Habits can be practiced and cultivated, or disrupted and destroyed over time and repetition, as anyone knows who has tried to follow an exercise regimen or who has learned to read. A child at first can only read for a short period of time, with a Bob Book or Dr. Seuss, and as they practice and practice, they progress to reading chapter books, and further, until they can pick up and enjoy, say, something as complex as Dostoyevsky. Or running—if I tried to run right now, I would make it a very dreadful five minutes before calling it. But some people train up to doing ultramarathons. Running has become a habit for them, loved for its own sake. The repetition of a habit increases ease and skill. And we humans are creatures of habit, in every sense. Even something that initially seems like it wouldn’t be a habit, like spontaneity, can be a habit, as we see in folks who regularly seek out novelty or thrills or new hobbies for enjoyment.

A virtue is a habit that makes us more human, more conforming to the image of God that we truly are. A vice, in contrast, corrupts our humanity. It is a practice that corrodes and obscures that image. Vices and virtues are distinguished by their ends.One is directed towards love of God and neighbor and characterized by right reason. The other is directed towards love of self alone. Both become parts of our character as people, which makes sense. We have all met individuals uniquely brave, bitterly angry, remarkably loyal, or eaten up by envy. We recognize it because that characterizes their typical response to challenging situations. These people aren’t loyal once, brave once, or wrathful or envious once. 

Such a way of living, being habituated in virtue, requires teachers and mentors. We begin to recognize courage by looking at the lives, choices, and words of people like Martin Luther King Jr., or Dietrich Bonhoeffer. We can learn humility at the feet of St. Francis of Assisi or Julian of Norwich. And less famous people as well—we learn from parents, teachers, priests or pastors, siblings, even our own children. The famous moral philosopher, Alasdair MacIntyre, compares learning the virtues to a child learning chess. The adult teaching the child chess will explain moves, play with him, and reward him for trying and for well-done moves. These rewards could be candy or affirmation. The child at first plays for these rewards, because chess itself is challenging and tricky and not necessarily enjoyable. But as the child masters the game, the reward becomes the game itself. The child learns to love chess for its own sake; through practicing virtue, we learn to love virtuous action not for the rewards it gains us, but for the virtue itself. 

Because virtue is a habit, individual acts can be virtuous, without the people themselves being actually virtuous. Take the classic example of courage. A soldier in World War I may go over the top of his trench in warfare, an act of undoubted bravery. But he himself may not be a courageous person, or practicing true courage. He could be just following orders because he does not want to get shot for desertion. He may be chasing a thrill of adrenaline, or pridefully looking to boost his reputation among his fellow soldiers. Or he may just want to slaughter Germans. So the virtues are not always easy to discern from observation alone, and virtuous people and actions do not all look the same. People who have weak or even rotten characters can still perform a good act, as we all know. People who have characters of kindness will still on occasion be cruel. 


People have objected to the idea of the virtues and vices throughout history. There’s not space here to address them all in full, but here’s a greatest hits version, with greatest hits answers:

1. Are you saying I can will my way into goodness? In part—but not fully. As with anything, when we practice something, we get better at it. I can practice patience while driving in rush hour. My lack of yelling or honking or cursing might not be a virtue just yet, because I’m still doing it with a begrudging irritation. Eventually, hopefully, I lose the instinct to curse and yell at other drivers because I’m just not practicing that impulse. I endure the traffic; I’m practicing patient behavior. Yet is it part of my character yet? Patience is not the absence of sorrow, irritation, or anger. Augustine writes that to be patient is to bear evils inflicted upon oneself without inflicting them on others, and one is not patient if one is simply waiting for their own opportunity to inflict evil. How can I not will evil to my enemies? How do I practice that?? Patience is a full, complete thing of its own, and it comes by the grace of God and our practice in an act of cooperation. It reminds me of tending a garden. We pick a good location, cultivate the soil, water our seedlings, and clear the space of weeds. But we cannot will the tomatoes onto the plants. The virtues, like our sanctification, like gardening, are a joint project between us and God, a beautiful place where we participate in learning how to live well, but we are not the final word. We attempt to imitate Jesus, usually begrudgingly and halfheartedly, but he transforms our desires. And he loves us first and foremost—no matter how virtuous or vicious we are. Our virtues do not earn Christ’s love; his love gives us the freedom to participate in our own process of becoming.

2. The virtues seem inequitable. It’s a lot easier for some people to practice the virtues. Someone might argue, anyone could be good if they had been well-fed, well-educated, and well-loved as a child. I have no answers for the varying difficulties of our lives, and why some things are easy for some people and harder for others. So it’s really important for us to realize that virtues and vices look different in everyone’s life. Think of it this way: everyone, regardless of their abilities, needs exercise to take care of their bodies. I do not have the gifts and training of Lebron James or Katie Ledecky. But it’s crucial for a well-lived life that I learn how to take care of my body through exercise and proper nutrition. Similarly, the virtues are not one-size-fits-all. They are not a rule, or a set of governing laws for behavior. The virtues contract and expand to fit individual lives and points in history. A six-year-old wouldn’t go over the top of a trench, but I’ve known some courageous six-year-olds nevertheless. And we can learn from them. Importantly, we also know that wealth and getting everything you ever wanted is no safeguard for the good life. Billie Eilish sings, “I had a dream / I got everything I wanted” and then admits that it might’ve been a nightmare. Some of the most viciously unhappy people in history have been rich and achieved their dreams. 

3. In this series, I will talk about concepts like wrath, meekness, envy, perseverance, abstinence, gluttony, and mercy, among others. Sometimes, the very words feel unhelpfully old-fashioned. Some of them set your teeth on edge, and not just the vices. What are we supposed to do with a so-called virtue like meekness? Or with a tricky vice like gluttony? These words have occasionally been coopted and wielded like weapons to enforce culturally good behavior at different points in history. What woman today hears meekness without a little shudder at the shadow of patriarchal abuse? What person wrestling with body image hears gluttony without dread and fear? I’ll let you into a secret—very often, these words have not historically meant what we mean when we use them today. I will be returning to some ancient and medieval friends to excavate meaning out of these difficult words, as well as brainstorming together how they might apply to us today in nuanced but truthful ways. Many of these are worth reclaiming and adding back more robustly into our moral vocabulary.

4. Finally, I’ve met some folks who don’t like them because they feel like the virtues are an extra-biblical imposition, something made up by people to get people to act the way they think is good. There’s no mention in the Bible of the Seven Capital Vices, or the Seven Christian Virtues, or whatever schema you want to use. This is true in one sense. But on the other hand, the Bible is chockful of saints and sinners, of beauty and evil, of failure and learning from those falls. It speaks of transformation and growth, of the fruits of the Holy Spirit and the life of love. The vices and virtues are another way to help us conceptualize those ideas. And Jesus himself embodies each and every one of the virtues. 

Why should we power through the discomfort or confusion? Because learning about the vices and virtues helps us in our ongoing pilgrimage for sanctification, for becoming more like Jesus. The beauty of virtuous people is astounding. I want to be like them, and I want to learn how to become more that way. I also think of Philippians 4:8: “Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.” Recognizing virtues will not “fix” us—or even make us more virtuous—but it expands our Christian imagination in our journey to loving God, ourselves, and our neighbor more fully and creatively.

The vices are a different beast. Why would we want to think about them? My tendency—and I suspect yours as well—is to continually justify my own actions, craft them into the most reasonable, the most understandable thoughts and actions possible, even when I know it wasn’t great, what I did. We begin to know ourselves better, our motivations, our failures, our temptations. Understanding the vices helps us to move past the project of self-justification and into our true, already existing justification, and our ongoing sanctification in Christ.

I have chosen for this series to work through the Seven Capital Vices and their Remedies, rather than the traditional Seven Virtues, because it’s Lent now. Next week I begin with the traditional Queen of the Vices, the originator, the roots of the tree of vice: Pride. And I also begin with the foundation of the virtues, the beginning and end of self-knowledge, Humility. We follow in the footsteps of our medieval forebears by exploring these pairings, and asking ourselves where we have fallen, and how we can think and act after our fall, and confessing them to ourselves and to one another during the season of Lent leading up to Good Friday. It’s the ultimate Lenten project, to excavate our motives out of the darkness in which we bury our actions, and to confess them. We begin to know ourselves as weak and in need of mercy and help, and to celebrate that we are so loved, so treasured, so valuable even in that weakness.

I want to end with a few thoughts before we start to look at actual virtues and vices next week. The first—I am not speaking from my superior soapbox. I am not a perfect practitioner of the virtues, and I am quite accomplished at most of the vices. The second: I do not want to preach at you or make you feel guilty. I’m not your priest or pastor, or your spiritual director, or a trained theologian. I’m a medievalist who works on literature and theology, and these ideas have been helpful to me in my journey of becoming more human. The third: the greatest problem with the vices and virtues is that they have been wielded like weapons against the people that the church does not like. But they are meant to be tools for inner work above all; they are helpful for tracing ideas and influences of the past, too; then the inner work and historical work can help dismantle the systemic problems—like poverty or racism.

I also want to say that this is not meant to be normative or even exhortative. Some of this may ring very true to you—some of it not so much. My goal for this series is to present these words from the past, translating them into some contemporary contexts, and also just think through the weird and the wonderful, the uncomfortable and the challenging. It expands our Christian imagination and spiritual vocabulary for good and evil. It’s not to provoke an unthinking return to the past. The weird and wonderful medieval calls us to think, to examine, to probe our own hearts and minds and commitments and actions, and that’s what I’m hoping for in this Lenten project.

So listen and discern, have conversations with friends and mentors, and to paraphrase Augustine at the end of Confessions, “what human can empower another human to understand these things”—that is, the depths of human action and transformation? He concludes that we must keep asking, seeking, knocking at Christ’s door, and only then will we receive, find, and walk in.

Contemplative Reading & Thomas Merton with Sophfronia Scott

On this episode of Old Books With Grace, I welcome Sophfronia Scott, author of one of my favorite books I read in 2021, The Seeker and the Monk. I loved our conversation about reading contemplatively and creating dialogue with the writers of the past as one reads. Enjoy!

Sophfronia Scott

Sophfronia Scott is a Harvard-educated novelist, essayist, and leading contemplative thinker whose work has appeared in numerous publications and received a 2020 Artist Fellowship Grant from the Connecticut Office of the Arts as well as the 2021 Thomas Merton Award from the International Thomas Merton Society for her book The Seeker and the Monk. She is the founding director of Alma College’s MFA in Creative Writing, a low-residency graduate program based in Alma, Michigan. Sophfronia lives in Sandy Hook, Connecticut where she continues to fight a losing battle against the weeds in her flower beds. Her website is

Listen to this episode on Apple Podcasts.

Holiness and 20th Century Literature with Jessica Hooten Wilson

This week, I welcome Jessica Hooten Wilson to Old Books With Grace. We chat about her new book, The Scandal of Holiness: Renewing Your Imagination in the Company of Literary Saints, and the power of literature to reveal the subtleties of the good life. Sometimes holiness can be alarming, bizarre, and fascinating… and novels and their novelists, like Flannery O’Connor, C.S. Lewis, and Fyodor Dostoyevsky, can help us to conceptualize the holy life in all its difficulty and otherworldliness.

Dr. Wilson is the Louise Cowan Scholar in Residence at the University of Dallas. She is the author of three books: Giving the Devil his Due: Flannery O’Connor and The Brothers Karamazov, which received a 2018 Christianity Today book of the year in arts and culture award. In 2019 she received the Hiett Prize for Humanities from the Dallas Institute of Humanities and Culture. She is co-editor of the volume Solzhenitsyn and American Culture: The Russian Soul in the West, a collection of essays on the legacy of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. In 2022, she will publish The Scandal of Holiness: Renewing Your Imagination in the Company of Literary Saints (Brazos Press) and Learning the Good Life: From the Great Hearts and Minds that Came Before (Zondervan).

If you have not yet, don’t forget to sign up for my monthly newsletter, Medievalish with Grace Hamman. Each month I write and compile a meditative essay on something medieval, a prayer from the past, and recommendations on what I’ve been reading. Sign up here.

Prayers & Liturgies with Kayla Craig

On today’s podcast episode, Grace welcomes Kayla Craig, author of To Light Their Way, a collection of prayers and liturgies for parents, and the creator of the wonderfully helpful @liturgiesforparents Instagram account. We talk prayer books, the definition of liturgy, how written prayers help us find words, and the wonderful, ecumenical prayer sources and books that Kayla has found helpful and recommends. 

Kayla Craig

A former journalist, Kayla Craig is adamant about paying attention and embracing curiosity in her work as a writer and podcast producer. She writes nuanced, nurturing prayers at Liturgies for Parents on Instagram and cofounded the Upside Down Podcast, a place for ecumenical conversations on faith and justice. Professionally, she writes, produces, and edits prayers and podcasts for Christian spiritual formation. Kayla and her pastor-husband, Jonny, live in Iowa, where they’re raising four young kids who joined their family via birth and adoption. When she’s not playing LEGOs with her sons or advocating for her daughter with disabilities, Kayla can be found sipping strong coffee. You can connect with Kayla at and on Instagram @kayla_craig and @liturgiesforparents.

If you haven’t already, you may enjoy signing up for my new monthly newsletter, where you’ll get all the details on what I’ve been reading and writing lately, a reflection on medieval and other literary things for the month, and a prayer from the past.

The Second Half of Season Two of Old Books With Grace starts today!

Before we get into the substance of the podcast, I started a substack newsletter, Medievalish with Grace Hamman. Subscribe for monthly emails, content about interesting literary things, and what I’ve been reading, writing, and podcasting lately.

This week I welcome Dr. Karen Swallow Prior to Old Books With Grace. Our conversation about virtue, fiction, the importance of narrative in learning to think about morality, and our favorite books flew by. Her book On Reading Well is a wonderful introduction to the discipline of reading and cultivating a flourishing life of virtue. Each chapter pairs a virtue with a well-known novel. It’s a delight!

Karen Swallow Prior

Karen Swallow Prior, Ph. D., is Research Professor of English and Christianity and Culture at
Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary. She is the author of Booked: Literature in the Soul of Me (T.S. Poetry Press, 2012), Fierce Convictions: The Extraordinary Life of Hannah More—Poet, Reformer, Abolitionist (Thomas Nelson, 2014), and On Reading Well: Finding the Good Life through Great Books (Brazos 2018). She is co-editor of Cultural Engagement: A Crash Course in Contemporary Issues (Zondervan 2019) and has contributed to numerous other books. Her writing has appeared at Christianity Today, The Atlantic, The Washington Post, First Things, Vox, Relevant, Think Christian, The Gospel Coalition, Religion News Service, Books and Culture and other places. She is a founding member of The Pelican Project, a Senior Fellow at the Trinity Forum, a Senior Fellow at the International Alliance for Christian Education, a Senior Fellow at the L. Russ Bush Center for Faith and Culture, and is a former member of the Faith Advisory Council of the Humane Society of the United States. She and her husband live on a 100-year old homestead in central Virginia with sundry horses, dogs, and chickens. And lots of books.

This episode is available anywhere you get your podcasts. I hope you enjoy it.

O Come All Ye Faithful: An Advent Meditation

Today we are celebrating the last week of Advent with O Come All Ye Faithful. Yet again, I have a decided favorite version of this carol, by the true king of Christmas music, Nat “King” Cole. His voice is wonderfully smooth and soothing, yet powerful and stirring. I’d hope you all have heard that version, but if you haven’t, please listen and soak it in.

There are all these fantastical origin theses about O Come All Ye Faithful, first known as Adeste Fideles. It appeared on the European carol-singing stage seemingly out of nowhere in the late 18th century, gaining popularity rapidly. People thought it might be kind of like O Come O Come Emmanuel—a song from the monks of the distant past, recently brought up from the depths of time through a discovered manuscript. But it was not. 

It was written, first in Latin, by an English Roman Catholic persecuted for his religion in the 18th century, John Francis Wade. Wade had fled to France, where he participated in the time’s newfound interest in using the plainchant of the past in church services again. He wrote the song, and it rocketed in popularity in France among the wealthy, who often used it in their private chapels. In England, it also become very popular, when it was performed in the Portuguese embassy’s chapel for a concert of “ancient religious music.” That chapel is still there today, no longer connected to the embassy, but functioning as a Catholic chapel in London. You can go there if you like and imagine the song being played and reaching fame. The tune appears to also have appeared in a comic opera of the time, which seems rather incongruous! But maybe that’s why we still feel the joyous hilarity surging up from the chorus, which I always kind of want to sing faster and faster: O come let us adore him!

It was translated into English many times, but one of the earliest was at Oxford in the 19th century, for the use of the Margaret Chapel at Christ Church. I laughed when I read this, because the beginning line used to be: “Ye faithful, approach ye.” Sing that out loud to yourself. “Approach ye” is just not very catchy. The author of this translation was eventually forced out of Oxford for becoming a follower of Cardinal John Henry Newman and converting to Roman Catholicism. Thus,  this carol is particularly and fascinatingly linked to English Roman Catholics. And the song endured, even became more and more popular, despite the ill treatment of its writers and translators, and eventually reached the form we know and love today.

Let’s listen together, not to “Ye faithful approach ye,” thank goodness, but to our stirring, beloved version:

 O come, all ye faithful,
joyful and triumphant!
O come ye, O come ye to Bethlehem!
Come and behold him,
born the King of angels.

O come, let us adore him,
O come, let us adore him,
O come, let us adore him,
Christ the Lord!

2 God from true God, and
Light from Light eternal,
born of a virgin, to earth he comes!
Only-begotten Son of God the Father: [Refrain]

Sing, choirs of angels,
sing in exultation,
sing, all ye citizens of heav’n above!
Glory to God, all glory in the highest: [Refrain]

Yea, Lord, we greet thee, 
born this happy morning;
Jesus, to thee be all glory giv’n!
Word of the Father, now in flesh appearing: [Refrain]

Another wonderful theological poem set to song, thick in meaning and ready for meditation. But let’s focus on the chorus, which in the wonderful comic opera tune, speeds up our hearts with its urging. What does it mean to adore Jesus, especially Jesus the baby whom we greet, born this happy morning? 

I am reminded of a beautiful Christmas sermon by the medieval theologian and monk, St. Bernard of Clairvaux. He pictures us as Adam and Eve in Genesis chapter three, fearfully hiding in the garden from God. We know God is coming, we hear him moving towards us and we hide in terror, because we know we have done wrong. We’re hiding from that magnificent king, the one in utter glory, whom we know we have wronged with our lack of love and our fierce desires for rule. 

But to our shock, he isn’t coming with strong weapons or with a booming voice of wrath. Bernard writes, 

And in case you are even now saying, “I heard your voice, and I hid myself”, look, he is a baby, and he has no voice. The sound of his crying inspires compassion more than trembling…

He became a little child. The virgin mother wraps his tender limbs in swaddling clothes—and do you still tremble with fear? Or will you realize from this that he has not come to destroy but to save you, not to bind but to set you free? 

Bernard of Clairvaux, Sermons for the Advent and Christmas Seasons

Bernard sees the infant Jesus as the ultimate coming in peace—he has given up his voice, he has bound himself to unbind you. His humility in his rejection of ultimate power speaks eloquently about his character of love, not fear. I relate to this—I cringe in anticipation of punishment, only to receive—tender love and the final banishing of fear.

No sacrificial love or radical humility comes close to the omnipotent, omniscient Creator God of the universe becoming a newborn human, unable to command his own bowel movements or his fragile baby neck. In another sermon Bernard of Clairvaux remarked, “only the virtue of humility is a restorative for wounded love.” He was referring to the Incarnation as a profoundly humble response to human creatures who had forgotten how to love. God’s humility in coming to us as a baby transforms and heals our wounded love. 

Bernard is right. Our love is wounded. We are bad at adoration, mostly because we have been hurt or embarrassed in the past by how we have shown our love. Love makes you vulnerable. C.S. Lewis famously writes in The Four Loves:

To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket – safe, dark, motionless, airless – it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation. The only place outside Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell.

I believe that the most lawless and inordinate loves are less contrary to God’s will than a self-invited and self-protective lovelessness. It is like hiding the talent in a napkin and for much the same reason ‘I knew thee that thou wert a hard man.’  Christ did not teach and suffer that we might become, even in the natural loves, more careful of our own happiness. If a man is not uncalculating towards the earthly beloveds whom he has seen, he is none the more likely to be so towards God whom he has not. We shall draw nearer to God, not by trying to avoid the sufferings inherent in all loves, but by accepting them and offering them to Him; throwing away all defensive armour. If our hearts need to be broken, and if He chooses this as the way in which they should break, so be it.

C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

What more fittingly, what more clearly could help you to throw your defensive armor and scaly dragon skin away than the baby Jesus, wrapped in swaddling clothes in Mary’s arms? The God who made us and knows us best played his cards perfectly to help us learn how to love again. Very few people have the ability that a speechless, inert baby does to initiate a surprisingly strong but vulnerable love. Anyone who has had a beloved baby family member, either your own child or a friend’s or family member’s, and let themselves become open to that infant, recognizes this fact. Not that we were perfect, or even did a good job, but love comes easily, and with it, a discarding of protective armor, even practical protective armor. We suddenly become willing to put up with changing another human’s dirty diaper, with waking at odd hours of the night, because our love has makes it possible even when we are utterly sleep-deprived, filled with hormonal feelings, or just not that into children in general. 

This week our Advent activity is to practice, to exercise our wounded love and adoration aided by the baby Jesus. It can be very difficult to love the people around us. But sometimes as you love easier things, it becomes easier to love hard things. Love is not just a feeling; it is also a habit. 

What do I mean when I say that love is a habit? A habit means that faking it til you make it is ok, even part of the process. The moral philosopher Alasdair MacIntyre uses the example of chess to explain learning a habit of virtue. At first, when you’re bad at the game, your teacher may use candy or words of affirmation to motivate you to learn how to play well, and learn the right moves to make, and the rules of how it all works. You don’t love chess for its own sake, you love it for the rewards of it. Eventually, you learn to just love the game of chess, to relish the beauty and complexity of it in its own right. Habits like virtues—temperance, prudence, fortitude, all those old-fashioned words—work the same way. Love is truly a gift from God. It’s impossible for us to love well on our own. But practicing, like chess, and making love a habit in your life, looking at someone and mentally saying “I love you” if not aloud—this helps us to move towards the gift of love even more fully. Think of it this way: someone may have received a natural gift of creativity, intelligence, or athleticism. But practicing that gift strengthens it, gives it flexibility and power. So it is with love.

What easily fills your heart up with love? What moves your soul? This could be anything—pictures of your children when they were infants, your pet on your lap, a hike, a particular song or episode of a TV show or movie, a book that moves you to tears, a really good meal. Once I was watching Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood with my kids and just the theme song had me weeping with love for humanity for that one minute. I was pregnant, so on hair-trigger levels of emotion, and likely enraged about something the next second, but the point is don’t feel ashamed about whatever causes that response of love. Your advent practice this week is to seek that love-response. No one is going to judge you if it comes from Mr. Rogers or Lord of the Rings instead of Handel’s Messiah or Shakespeare. It doesn’t even matter if it’s “Christian” or not, just seek out the things that move your soul to love this week, deliberately. If you can, do so several times. Feel that overwhelming love response. Savor it. Praise God for the gift of that wonderful thing being in the world. 

Then, follow the call of O Come All Ye Faithful and direct that welling-up love towards the baby in the manger, or to those around you who are Christ’s body here. Even if it’s fragile or only in the words you practice saying, exercise your adoration.

As with any of these activities, only do this if it feels helpful. If you’re in a place of grief or weariness where you are utterly exhausted and adoration feels far away, take a blessed nap instead. I like to consider napping an act of adoration, because it is an imitation of the baby Jesus asleep in the manger. 

If you’d like to make this adoration exercise a little more concrete, or if the feelings are hard but you can do something intentional with your body (there have been times in my life where I’ve been grateful for a bodily action because the mental was too hard for me), carry around a baby Jesus from a nativity set with you this week, in your pocket or purse. Remember when you were a small child, and you saw something really cute, like a baby chick or kitten, and you could hardly contain yourself from squeezing it to death? Well, since that baby Jesus is just from the nativity, you can squeeze him in your fist as tight as you’d like and fulfill those childhood desires. Merry Christmas, friends. O come let us adore him! Venite adoremus!

A small end-of-year (though not end of season!) note: If you’d ever like to support Old Books With Grace and help keep the podcast going by aiding with upkeep costs and books, you can do so here:

Hark! The Herald Angels Sing: An Advent Meditation

Yes, I know this is technically not an Advent song. But I’m going to discuss it anyway!

art by Gayla Irwin,

Today’s Christmas song is, as the youth say, a banger (in stark contrast to the Coventry Carol last week). It’s the wonderful “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” and again unlike the previous other two carols, it has a distinct writer, Charles Wesley. It also has a distinct best version, that on Amy Grant’s classic 1983 Christmas album, A Christmas Album. It’s on the Spotify playlist. And yes, fight me on that, I am willing to die on that Christmas carol hill. 

As it turns out, and as I did not know until this series, Charles Wesley is not the same person as John Wesley, founder of Methodism (clearly I am not a Methodist). They were brothers! And Charles Wesley wrote about 9000 hymns, some of which include our most beloved besides “Hark”: “Christ the Lord is Risen Today,” “And Can It Be,” “O For A Thousand Tongues To Sing,” and many more. Hymn-writing was how Charles Wesley processed just about everything in his life, from the deaths of friends and family members, to holidays, to historical events like the Jacobite uprising. 

What cracks me up a little bit about this song is that Wesley originally wrote it to have a slow, solemn melody behind the lyrics. He really wanted that regal, majestic feel. But no one really liked that version, and eventually some folks instinctively put the wonderful lyrics to a far better tune by the great Austrian Jewish composer Felix Mendelssohn. 

Here it is, in all its glory. Listen to it, or sing if you’re able:

Hark! The herald angels sing
“Glory to the newborn King”
Peace on earth and mercy mild
God and sinners reconciled

Joyful all ye nations rise
Join the triumph of the skies
With angelic host proclaim
Christ is born in Bethlehem
With angelic host proclaim
Christ is born in Bethlehem

Mild He lays His glory by
Born that man no more may die
Born to raise the sons of Earth
Born to give them second birth

Veiled in flesh the Godhead see
Hail the incarnate deity
Pleased as man with men to dwell
Jesus, our Emmanuel
Pleased as man with men to dwell
Jesus, our Emmanuel

Hail the Heaven-born Prince of Peace
Hail the Sun of Righteousness
Light and life to all He brings
Risen with healing in His wings

Christ, the highest heaven adore
Christ, the everlasting Lord
Come, Desire of Nations, come
Fix in us Thy humble home
Come, Desire of Nations, come
Fix in us Thy humble home.

The very best hymns have both good sound and sound doctrine. This is a robustly theological song. The three verses (there are more, but I chose to focus on these) each set us to think in a particular way about the Incarnation, much like the New Testament itself. The first verse places us in Bethlehem, in the historical moment. It is like the gospel of Luke, with its vivid account of the nativity. Listen to the angels singing to the shepherds. The second verse draws back a little, like the gospel of John, for the bigger picture. The Word became flesh, and dwelt among us, Emmanuel. In the third verse, we look forward to Christ’s eternal kingship, to the righting of the universe, to his dwelling in our hearts and his gift of abundant life, as in Paul’s letters and Revelation.

My favorite of these verses is the second. “Mild He lays His glory by / Born that man no more may die”: that first line brings into my mind a vivid picture. A great king strips off his heavy, glorious robes and gleaming crown, laying down his scepter and great seal, the trappings of total power, to reveal a fragile and very human body, what we all share. “Hark” holds the tensions of God’s great power and great humility, of Jesus’s lordship and manhood together. 

It reminds me of the famous fourth-century bishop and theologian, St. Augustine of Hippo, who almost compulsively could not stop exploring that overwhelming tension of the Incarnation, and what it means for us as embodied creatures. His pseudo-biography, Confessions, depicts how as a young man, Augustine tried out religion after religion, philosophy after philosophy, seeking satisfaction and finding none. Though born to a Christian mother, Monica, he rejected her Christianity as provincial and embarrassing due to the bodily nature of the Incarnation and of miracles. The hip religions and philosophies of the day were more invested in transcending the crude limitations of the body in order to reach the purity of Spirit (this sounds an awful lot like some of the philosophies of our day too, not least the worship of technology). The incarnation, God becoming human, intentionally limiting himself, seemed positively stupid. In a world where things seem so wrong, where we need the power to right them, why would God make himself smaller?

Augustine narrates how he stumbled out of one religion into the next, as he tries to reach God through his own willpower and prodigious mind. He writes to God, later in his life:

Accordingly I looked for a way to gain the strength I needed to enjoy you, but I did not until I embraced the mediator between God and humankind, the man Christ Jesus, who is also God, supreme over all things and blessed for ever… for the Word became flesh so that your Wisdom, through whom you created all things, might become for us the milk adapted to our infancy. Not yet was I humble enough to grasp the humble Jesus as my God, nor did I know what his weakness had to teach. Your word, the eternal Truth who towers above the higher spheres of your creation, raises up to himself those creatures who bow before him; but in these lower regions he has built himself a humble dwelling from our clay, and used it to cast down from their pretentious selves those who do not bow before him, and make a bridge to bring them to himself. He heals their swollen pride and nourishes their love, that they may not wander even farther away through self-confidence, but rather weaken as they see before their feet the Godhead grown weak by sharing our garments of skin, and wearily fling themselves down upon him, so that he may arise and lift them up. 

Confessions VII.18, 24

Augustine plays with the idea of weakness in this passage. What if what he considered weak, babyish, embarrassing—his mother’s belief that God became a man and embraced the needy human body to share life with them—was actually the source of profound, communal strength? What if what he had always considered powerful—philosophical prowess, popularity, intellectual capability, rejection of the body’s limitations—was actually weak in its stubborn refusal of human need, Augustine’s own neediness for God’s humility? As Augustine recognizes that his own insistence on knowledge and power keeps him from truth, he also discovers that the ability to confess need and ask for help is at the root of all kinds of learning. A combination of desire and confession of need fuels spiritual transformation. To admit human need in the face of God’s humanity is, for Augustine, to paradoxically weaken and strengthen as you are lifted up by sharing the flesh with God. 

To return to the song: God’s act of “laying his glory by” is mild, gentle, humble, the opposite of wrath or irritation or frustration with how we’ve bungled things here. The brilliance of Wesley’s words, married to the equal preaching power of Mendelssohn’s melody, leads us to sing “Veiled in flesh!” and “Hail the Incarnate” loudly and triumphantly while “Godhead” and “deity” slide, surprisingly, into the quieter part of the verse. Augustine preaches to us what this second verse is all about.

Despite God’s infinite bigness, infinite power, infinite goodness and beauty, he did not force us through that power, through that hugeness, even through that goodness and beauty, to receive him, which is basically what hugeness does, even huge goodness. You can’t ignore it. You can’t sideline it because it dominates the entire skyline. Godzilla, each skyscraper in a downtown, even something massively beautiful, they all assault your eye with their immensity.

In the incarnation, God instead became smaller to meet us, as an adult stoops down to meet a child’s eyes instead of running them over or shouting over them. He hid himself to become findable. 

And yet we still implicitly believe that by making ourselves bigger, and others smaller, we can reach God, happiness, wealth, whatever it is that we want. Culturally, we inhale an overwhelming amount of messaging daily from advertisers, so-called Christian leaders, political figures, all of whom tell us that we are not enough. If we had more power, more strength, more money, more beauty, more whatever, we would be better, be able to handle it all, be able to fix things. But the immanent, infinite Word became weak, frail flesh. Augustine discovers that embracing his own weakness leads, paradoxically, to more fully comprehending God’s strength to heal in Jesus’s weak, mortal body. Jesus has healing in his wings, and shockingly he invites us into that healing process with all our weakness, if we can face it with him. 

If I have one message that I hammer home in nearly everything I write, annoyingly, over and over, it’s this one. Once I wrote on this very passage from Augustine in graduate school, and someone commented that they didn’t really like the word “weakness.” Couldn’t you use something else? It’s too vague. But that’s what I like about considering weakness. It can encompass so many things: my weak mortal body’s need for glorious tea in the morning; the humiliation of when I yell at my children because I’m tired; the sin of my pride, which is the weak rejection of my weakness; the divine gift of human weakness and need for others that impels me to seek out friendship, one of God’s greatest gifts. 

Stop for a minute to consider the radical nature of this idea. It was the part of Christianity that blew apart the classical ancient world. Other doctrines—virgin birth, even God transforming into a human, coming to save the world, all these were old hat. Aristotle writes that the most virtuous man has no weakness, that he saves his friends from giving their energy to himself. When he is in trouble, he is strong enough to stand alone. I also use “he” very purposely, because Aristotle figured a woman, or an enslaved person, could never fit that category. The Incarnate God shows us in contrast that true friendship, true fellowship comes to perfection in the sharing of intimate weakness.

I’m giving you a hard set of questions for your Advent practice this week. What does God’s weakness have to teach you? What does your weakness have to teach you? And don’t shirk the question by being overly general or by doing the “interview” answer (oh, I’m too nice to people, etc.). That may be true; but do the harder, sometimes agonizing work of looking into yourself to fully identify and embrace your weakness. Where are you most weak in your life—in your body, in your spiritual practice, in your relationships, mentally? What can that teach you about yourself, about Jesus’s embracing of weakness? Where is it a gift to you? Again, let’s listen together to this song about Christ’s strange intermingling of weakness and power.

The Coventry Carol: An Advent Meditation

Art by Gayla Irwin,

Some people, like me, love Christmas music because the sounds are so familiar and comforting. We know them like the back of our hand, and we think they are beautiful. Others, understandably, feel differently. Christmas music and its repetition each year are grating. Either attitude can sometimes obscure the meanings and feelings of the song. So, to shake you out of whichever category you fall into, I chose a song for this week that most of us aren’t singing on a regular basis, and that certainly is not playing in the mall at any point anywhere in America. It’s a song that is basically the opposite of Let It Snow or any other holly, jolly holiday song. It’s the haunting, weird, unsettling Coventry Carol. 

The song, originally from the fifteenth or sixteenth century, consists of the lullabies of the mothers whose children are about to die in the Slaughter of the Innocents, when Herod ordered the murders of the baby boys of Bethlehem. The song was written to accompany the traditional plays that depicted the life of Jesus, the mystery plays, in the town of Coventry in England.

The Mystery Plays were a longstanding tradition in medieval England, only brought to an end by the Reformation and its profound discomfort with portraying Christ onstage. The most famous, whose scripts survive today, were those that took place in York at midsummer on the feast day of Corpus Christi, the holy day that commemorated Christ’s holy body present in the Eucharist. These were plays that told the stories of the Bible, bit by bit. This how I described them in a previous podcast episode:

Guilds—the organizations of different tradespeople and artisans—performed plays depicting the Bible, from Creation to Revelation, outside, on elaborate floats and sets that moved through the streets of the towns. An especially charming feature of these plays is that the content of the play often loosely determined the guild in charge of it. For example, the “fysshers and marynars,” fishermen and sailors, put on “The Flood” at York. More soberly, the “shermen,” the folk who sheared cloth, performed “The Road to Calvary,” in an echo of the sheep sheared before slaughter. The “pynneres,” the makers of pins and nails, and the painters depicted the raising of the cross. The butchers, who certainly had access to a lot of blood, put on the mortification of Jesus on the cross and his death. Some plays were elaborate, and some were simpler. All were performed over the days commemorating Corpus Christi, the summer feast of the Body of Christ that especially honored the Eucharist…These plays brought liturgy to life; biblical history unfolded in your time and place, enacted by and through your neighbors’ bodies before your eyes. Perhaps your friend was Jesus on the cross, or your enemy was Jesus teaching in the temple…When you stop to think about it, such representations were profound, particularly on the feast of Corpus Christi. The Body of Christ in God’s broken earthly kingdom of fifteenth-century York, England reenacted the saga of Christ and his body in first-century Palestine. These plays vividly remind their viewers through their strange literality—you are Corpus Christi, and so am I. Through the miracle of the Eucharist, we are united in Jesus’s resurrected body.

Grace Hamman, “Jesus as Us,”

The song today does not come from York, but from Coventry, a smaller town whose plays no longer survive. But we do have this song, the Coventry Carol, embedded in the Nativity Play. Between Mary’s annunciation to the Holy Family’s flight to Egypt, the bereaved mothers of Bethlehem sing this song in anticipation of the death of their baby boys. It’s based on Matthew 2:16-18:

16 When Herod saw that he had been tricked by the wise men, he was infuriated, and he sent and killed all the children in and around Bethlehem who were two years old or under, according to the time that he had learned from the wise men. 17 Then was fulfilled what had been spoken through the prophet Jeremiah:

18 “A voice was heard in Ramah,
    wailing and loud lamentation,
Rachel weeping for her children;
    she refused to be consoled, because they are no more.”

 Now listen to the song, either on whatever music streaming service you like (Sufjan Stevens has a good version, and there are several choral versions out there) or on the podcast:

Lully, lulla, thou littell tine childe, 
By by lully lullay, thou littell tyne child, 
By by lully lullay! 

O sisters too, 
How may we do, 
    For to preserve this day 
This pore yongling, 
For whom we do singe 
    By by lully lullay. 

Herod the king, 
In his raging, 
    Chargid he hath this day ; 
His men of might, 
In his owne sight, 
    All yonge children to slay. 

That wo is me, 
Pore child for thee, 
    And ever morne and say ; 
For thi parting, 
Nether say nor sing, 
    By by lully lullay.” 

See: Francis Douce, Illustrations of Shakespeare and Ancient Manners. Volume Two of Two Volumes. (London: Longman, Hurst, Reeds and Orme, 1807), pp. 114-115.

You might be thinking, Grace, why would you pick this song for Advent? Advent is not a feast day, like Christmas itself. It’s part of the church’s ancient cycle of feasts and fasts, rejoicing and lamenting, laughing and weeping. If we focus too much on one or the other, we miss the full picture of what it means to follow Jesus here on earth. Historically, Advent was a time for fasting, for penance, for remembering our shared bodily limitations and the ways we have wounded one another before the marvelous, celebratory excess of Christmastide. And this song reminds us of our need for lamentation and for weeping in the Body of Christ. 

Medieval people believed in weeping for God’s love and for the world’s sorrows as a spiritual gift. They called it “the gift of tears,” and saw in it the presence of the Holy Spirit. The medieval mystical writer, Margery Kempe, wept (or as she illuminatingly called it, roared) all the time, loudly and in public, for her love of Jesus and her sorrow for the world. 

Then, of course, there’s also just ordinary tears, the tears of grief and loss and loneliness and despair. When I listen to the Coventry Carol, I consider not only the women weeping in Bethlehem, but Mary weeping at the foot of the cross. And I think of today’s mothers who mourn the unjust or cruel deaths of their children. It’s worth remembering for us that Herod was both religious and an arm of the Roman state. I remember the weeping mothers of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor and all other mothers whose children have died through state violence. I recall the mothers who have died with their children crossing the border, out in the desert near where I grew up. I think of the mothers whose children have been unjustly imprisoned. I think of the mothers whose children have been harassed, beaten, or driven to self-harm. And not to mention the countless mothers across the world who lose their children to war, famine, and disease. There are so many reasons to weep like Rachel in Ramah. 

In November 1940, the town of Coventry, the origin of this song, was heavily bombed by the Nazis. 30,000 bombs were dropped, hundreds, maybe even a thousand people killed, and 41,000 houses damaged or destroyed. On Christmas, 1940, the provost of the destroyed cathedral broadcast a short sermon on BBC radio, and as he put it, “whoever was left” of his ruined choir sang this tune. It’s a haunting thing to listen to. Here’s a small quote from Provost Howard, from the 25th of December, 1940:

Early this Christmas morning, here under these ruins, in the lovely little stone chapel built six hundred years ago, we began the day with our Christmas communion, worshipping the Christ, believe me, as joyfully as ever before. What we want to tell the world is this: that with Christ born again in our hearts today, we are trying, hard as it may be, to banish all thoughts of revenge… We are going to try to make a kinder, simpler, a more Christ Child-like sort of world in the days beyond this strife.”

Provost Howard, Christmas 1940 sermon in the ruins of Coventry Cathedral

If you keep listening, you will hear the provost, standing among the ruins of his church and town, urging his listeners, including us across the divide of years, to fight the desire to become like Herod. For that is our great temptation—we want to rule and we are tempted to destroy any threat to our supremacy as individuals, as ethnic groups, as cultural leaders, as nations. You may be scoffing right now. Of course in 1940 the Nazis were spitting images of Herod, destroying the newest generation of Jewish children. Yet the provost at Christmas 1940 wisely calls us to attend to our own desire for dominion. “How could I be a Herod?” is a fair question. Yet I know, if I am honest with myself, that the Herodian temptation acts in my soul. And it is a temptation on the lowest as well as the highest levels. It’s easy to see the Herodian impulse in the political party that you hate, or those you profoundly disagree with. It can be harder in the Herod-littered realms of history, especially if it’s the history of your own ancestors or nation. It’s hardest to see Herod in myself, in the ways I sideline voices who threaten my carefully curated world of safety, or how I attempt to control situations to ensure that what I want to happen does happen (spoiler, it doesn’t work). From the depths of WWII, at one of its lowest moments, Provost Howard urges us to reject the Herod in us, even when we have been bombed to oblivion by our enemies, and become like the tiny infant Jesus to create a kinder, gentler world. And take comfort, the medieval Corpus Christi plays remind us: he is already with you, deeper than your skin, present in the sacraments and even in the body of you and your neighbor.

When God became a little baby, he shared our embodiment. All embodied folk are no longer only his creation, they are his holy kindred, his beloved family. The image of God is in each one of us, and no longer just in our souls but in our very bodies, through the Eucharist we consume, but also through the reality and totality of his Incarnation. This was one of the messages of the Corpus Christi plays in medieval Coventry. When your neighbor that you didn’t even like played Jesus, it reminded you of how you aren’t just part of Christ’s body with the people you like or approve of. The Body is bigger than you can dream, larger than your judgment, even than your hope.

As Christians, we say we believe in the tired but true phrase of the sanctity of human life. Let us lament together this week on how we have managed to live out unbelief in the holiness of every person, have been like Herod and not Jesus. Practice waiting with hope and lament for Jesus by meditating or reaching out to a grieving friend or family member. If you’re feeling extra medieval this week, you might feel called to pray for Margery Kempe’s gift of tears as we meditate on the Coventry Carol.

But let’s go further, as well. The action for this week of Advent is to give. I encourage you, in a time filled with the fun and weariness of purchasing gifts for our friends and family members, to also use your money to honor our Incarnate God by giving to an organization that seeks to honor bodies that may be different than your own, with lives different than your own, but no less share the beauty of Christ’s embodiment. Many of us tithe or give to churches or particular ministries, but take a moment to contribute to a place you don’t normally give. Give to organizations that support groups that have faced the wrath of powerful Herods pretty personally. Some thoughts for giving: groups that advocate for immigrants and refugees, like the Holy Family themselves, groups that advocate for prisoners and those on death row, groups that provide safe housing and help for pregnant women, groups that tell people rejected by their families and churches because of their sexuality or gender that they are still worthy of love, and groups that advocate for people of color, especially children and impoverished folks. Here are a few organizations you could look into, or find one you feel particularly drawn to:

Advent Series: Meditation on O Come O Come Emmanuel

Advent Art by Gayla Irwin. You can see more of her work at

Let’s begin with a story. My great-grandmother, Gma, had a mental decline towards the end of her life. She had forgotten almost everything and lived in an assisted-care facility. My family visited her in Truth or Consequences (yes, real name), New Mexico. I was in high school, and dreaded it. It was awkward, she certainly would not remember us, I was uncomfortable with emotion and the closeness of death. 

My mother is an idea woman. She comes up with ideas and boldly tries them, often to great success, sometimes to her detriment (but mostly success). Her idea when we visited Gma was to sing to her. She had heard that music memories are stored in a different part of the brain, and that even when language had been lost to the ravages of Alzheimer’s, sometimes singing could unlock memories of words in song. I don’t think any of us, especially the teenage contingent, wanted to sing in a random nursing home when we thought that Gma wouldn’t even respond. 

But something beautiful and strange happened that day in Truth or Consequences. In a sterile, beige-colored room set aside for visitors, my family fumblingly began to sing “How Great Thou Art” a capella. And Gma, though she hadn’t been able to speak and certainly did not know who we were, in her tiny, quavering voice, began to sing with us. It was an unforeseen, mysterious moment of communion beyond the bodily ravages of illness and time, beyond the ugliness of a rural nursing home in New Mexico, beyond language and reason, facilitated through song.

This podcast inclines toward the intellectual, towards words and stories and critical thinking about their forms and meanings. This is how I naturally operate and of course I won’t entirely abandon it (for any Enneagram nerds, I’m a five). But Advent is mysterious. Like in the liturgy itself, time unravels. Though Jesus came 2000 years ago, in Advent we wait for him again. Though we are redeemed in his precious body, we call out for the redemption of our time, of our current bodies and places and spaces and beloved friends and family. Music can help us move beyond time and intellect’s limited grasp towards something of this mystery. When you sing O Come, O Come Emmanuel, you lift your voice alongside 1200 years of Christians welcoming the Incarnate God, the tiny baby, savior of the world. I can hardly think of anything so tangible, other than the sacraments, that connects us to the great cloud of witnesses, our ancestors, as singing these songs of the past. So this Advent series focuses on Christmas and Advent carols, one at a time.

Our song for today is one of my favorites, O Come O Come Emmanuel. I love it partially because it is so ancient. Like so many of our songs, it was first crafted by monks, all the way back in the eighth century. In the liturgical order right before Christmas Eve, they chanted something called the “O Antiphons,” or the “Great O’s.” This was a list of addresses to Jesus by different names in the Old Testament, very popular in early and late medieval poetry and song:

O Sapientia (O Wisdom)

O Adonai (Hebrew name for God, the giver of the law)

O Radix Jesse (root or branch of Jesse, in the lineage of Jesus)

O Clavis David (key of David)

O Oriens (Morningstar or daystar)

O Rex Gentium (King of the Gentiles)

O Emmanuel (self-explanatory, from Isaiah’s prophecies)

There’s another thing about this list that makes me smile, because it’s such insight into the medieval character, those folks who loved puzzles and allegory and layer and layer of meaning more than almost anything. Do you remember acrostic poems? Those dreadful poems you’d write for your mom on Mother’s Day that spelled out her name with the initial letter of each line? Well, these original Latin verses of O Come O Come Emmanuel create a reverse acrostic in Latin: ero cras, which translates to “I shall be with you tomorrow.” So the song was often sung on December 23, the night before Christmas Eve, to fulfill Christ’s promise in the acrostic! It’s Jesus’s inside joke with his own nicknames!

Obviously this sounded very different than the version we sing today. How did it become the familiar tune we know and love? In the nineteenth century, the Victorians got very into all things medieval. In 1851, A man named J.M. Neale translated a thirteenth-century metrical version (i.e. poetry) into English and set it to music. From the sound of it, he was rather a disorganized man and did not tell what the source of the tune was. For a while, no one knew where this haunting, lovely melody that so fits the waiting, yearning themes of Advent—the same tune we sing today—came from. But in the twentieth century, a woman with two of the most amazing name associations discovered its origin. Mother Thomas More—birth name Dr. Mary Berry, in a fabulous martyrdom/Great British Bake-Off name collision—found its source, a fifteenth-century processional for French nuns. So when we sing this song, we sing in Victorian English, to a Renaissance melody for nuns, ancient Hebrew words with origins in the deep and distant past of the Old Testament, first strung together by Latin monks in the Dark Ages, and set to poetry by someone unknown in the Middle Ages. It’s a song that embodies the history of the Western Church. When my six-year-old sings it with Sufjan Stevens in the backseat of our car, she joins in with the unknown voices of ages. How beautiful, big, and transcendent is the body of Christ.

On the podcast, I sing O Come O Come, accompanied by my dad on the guitar, for the meditation. I suggest if you’re reading instead of listening, to sing the song to yourself, to reap the benefits of the music. I also have made a playlist, Old Books With Grace: Advent & Christmas, that you can check out on Spotify.

O come, O come, Emmanuel,
And ransom captive Israel,
That mourns in lonely exile here,
Until the Son of God appear.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, Thou Rod of Jesse, free
Thine own from Satan’s tyranny;
From depths of hell Thy people save,
And give them victory o’er the grave.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, Thou Dayspring, come and cheer,
Our spirits by thine advent here;
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night,
And death’s dark shadows put to flight.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, Thou Key of David, come
And open wide our heav’nly home;
Make safe the way that leads on high,
And close the path to misery.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, Adonai, Lord of might,
Who to Thy tribes, on Sinai’s height,
In ancient times didst give the law
In cloud and majesty and awe.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.

Which of Jesus’s titles stood out to you, upon this reading or singing?

I have recently responded most strongly to the idea of Jesus as Dayspring. Sometimes it seems like my people and nation are captive to an implacable, devouring darkness. Often it seems like hate captures imaginations more than love, or like tearing something down is easier than constructing something beautiful. Pride, fear, injustice, and refusal to acknowledge one another as full people dominates the public arena. I struggle with insomnia and anxiety, and at times it seems like the literal night will never end. But to name Jesus as the Dayspring is an act of hope that one day this present darkness will disintegrate in the light of the dawn and all motives and actions, ugly and beautiful, will be laid bare and exposed for what they are. It reminds me of the ending of C.S. Lewis’s Screwtape Letters, where the human, tempted throughout the novel, dies in an air raid during WWII and suddenly sees everything in his life illuminated like the dawn, his rights and wrongs, his good and bad loves, his lies and the ways he’s been lied to, the beauties and joys of his life.

But the other titles too all illustrate a hope for what Jesus came to set right. Emmanuel—God With Us—he redeems our bodies, and our bodies matter, they are not merely our flesh trap while we wait for eternity. Rod of Jesse—this could also be root or branch of Jesse, but to describe him as a rod reflects both rootedness and the absolute justice of God. The Rod of Jesse beats off the thief of life. The Key of David opens heaven and fully realized communion with God and his saints, while locking the misery of sin away. And finally, Adonai, the lawgiver, fulfills the law of love. All of Christ’s titles reflect an active reality, not an abstract, passive hope for the next life. They are the fulfillment of “Thy kingdom come, on earth as it is heaven,” which reminds us that this life is not just a vale of tears and oppression, but a place where we are privileged to work the love of the Incarnate God. This song marries our future promise of heaven and the real end of misery to our concrete acts of love and justice as Christ’s pierced hands and feet in the world. There’s a real tension there that defies easy boundaries and simple answers. Sometimes you will be active in the work of love and it will feel good and come easily with rejoicing, sometimes you will cry out in the pain of the laboring world and all its hatred.

O Come asks us a serious question even as it yearningly praises our savior: as we wait for the Dayspring, who are you loving this week, with words or deeds or both? Is it just those easy to love, those like you or those you already like? Where are you doing your tiny part to make way for the justice of the Kingdom? On the flip side of that coin, where have you taken burdens upon yourself that don’t belong to you, that instead rest with Adonai, the Key of David, the Rod of Jesse, Emmanuel, and require you to wait, in stillness and silence?

The Advent Action for this week is to carve out a space for yourself in expectant solitude, away from holiday busy-ness and bustle, to meditate upon these questions. Go on a walk on your lunch break, even if it’s cold. Take a bath. Play quiet music in your room while hiding from your children. Pray to each title of Jesus in O Come and see if one particularly speaks to you at the moment. If you’d like to soak in some poetry about these names of Jesus, the O Antiphons, the poet Malcolm Guite has a beautiful series with both poetry and commentary to check out. And do not be afraid: he tells us in this song, ero cras, promising his presence with us.