In 2004 because of John Kerry’s support for abortion rights, some American bishops publicly stated that they would deny him communion. Although the Democratic candidate continued to commune (as we see here in the slide), the mere threat of denying him the Eucharist was enough to damage his campaign. In the opinion of one analyst of this case, had Kerry been able to secure the Catholic vote, he might have won the election against George W. Bush. Whatever your politics are, or whatever your interpretation of this episode, it strikingly highlights the significance of the Eucharist and its political ramifications when it is received by public figures. No less did this situation obtain in the Middle Ages.

 

If this is true in the so-called Secular Age of today, it is easy to imagine how much more significant it was during the Middle Ages, when religion and politics overlapped much more. John Bossy reminded us of the multi-faceted civil significance of the Mass for medieval and early modern European society in his inspirational essay The Mass as Social Institution. He intentionally omitted the impact of this central act of Christian worship on political culture, and it is surprising to observe that research into the social function of the liturgy has not yet been brought fully to bear on the political implications of the Mass. 

 

The following paper, which is a part of larger project, will strive to make up for this neglect. Here I will limit my analysis to the ritual of receiving communion by medieval rulers during coronations and before battles with pagans. A survey of select examples offers compelling and evident proof for the transpersonal significance of religious acts performed by medieval rulers. Although receiving communion was by its physical nature a highly individual act, royal religious practices had a public character and therefore could have been interpreted as surpassing the individualized scope of pious practices. On the one hand, the ruler, insofar as he was a member of the Church, was obliged to receive the body of Christ. Laypersons did the same. Therefore I will not focus on the sources that treat royal communion as a conventional sign of a ruler’s devotion or as a standard practice for the sake of personal salvation. We find ready examples for Robert the Pious in Helgaud of Fleury, for Otto III in Brun of Querfurt and for Otto I in Thietmar. Instead I will deal with sources in which the king’s communion could have been interpreted as a sign of his special sacral character, or as an act whose significance surpassed the individual benefit of the communicant’s personal salvation. In short, when they had transpersonal significance. Therefore, those sources will especially interest us in which the ruler went beyond the norms of communion practice envisaged for the laity.

 

But what did the practice of communion for the laity look like? In Early Christianity almost every week, if not more often, the faithful received the Body and Blood of Christ. After the Transformation of the Roman Empire various groups strived to preserve the ancient custom of frequent communion under both species. Despite these efforts, the practice weakened and became reserved for especially devout and holy people. As is well known, the Carolingian period is marked by various liturgical reforms. The first tendency sought to revive the ancient custom of frequent communion. The second was rather to discourage people from frequently receiving the Eucharist (but not fewer than three times a year).

 

The Carolingian period also brought other changes in the practice of receiving communion. Unleavened bread replaced ordinary leavened bread, and it was baked in a form of a coin. The species of bread was henceforth placed by the priest in the mouth, no longer upon the hands of the recipient, as they were regarded as unclear. These changes concerning the consecrated bread were matched by changes regarding the wine. The fistula (the reed or tube) appeared in the Carolingian Empire in order to avoid spilling the precious drops of Christ’s Blood, as might have happened through directly drinking from the cup. The second innovation, which served this same aim, was intinction, that is to say dipping the host into the chalice of wine. 

 

In the Ottonian and Salian period, the tendency toward infrequent communion by the laity succeeded. If someone received the Eucharist more than three times a year, it was seen as an extraordinary practice. The custom of intinction, although criticized by various figures, also became more and more common. The crucial moment for change in communion practice was, however, the twelfth century, when communion under one species of bread started to be the almost exclusive way of receiving the body of Christ. At the same time, the frequency of the ritual dropped. As a consequence the Fourth Lateran Council decided for the minimum of one communion per year for the laity. In the thirteenth century frequent communion and communion under both species were not advised, neither commonly practiced outside the clerical order.

 

Having described the general background of early and high medieval communion practice, I would like to analyze the first case of receiving the Eucharist by rulers during their coronation ceremonies. The earliest example in the Latin West occurred during the coronation of Charles the Bald on the 9th of September 869. This day of the month was not special in the ninth century, and it is quite striking that the king received communion on that day. If it were Sunday, one of the main feasts or commemorations of an important saint, it would make more sense for him to commune. Moreover, we have no proof that earlier rulers received the Eucharist during their coronations. Thus it seems that Charles the Bald introduced this new ritual into his coronation in 869. The reason for such a decision could have been to stress his position in the Church as higher than that of layman. Moreover, he endowed himself with a quasi-sacerdotal character, which confirms the other innovations brought by the West Frankish ruler during his coronation in 869. 

 

In the Sacramentary of Metz, meant for this very celebration, Charles the Bald was the first ruler in history to add the royal title “king” to the Roman Canon of the Mass, precisely to the section Te igitur which begins the Eucharistic prayer. This slight change, however, had an immense impact on medieval political theology. The king was to be mentioned directly alongside the pope and local bishop. Moreover, the idea of the prayer implied that the eucharistic sacrifice was offered not only together with the ordained shepherds of the people, but also together with the king. According to the new prayer, the orthodoxy of the Church was thus guarded not only by the Roman pontiff and local bishop, but also by the secular ruler. In this way, the king reached a position reserved hitherto only for ecclesial hierarchy. A crucial change in political theology was thus effected. 

 

The attempts of Charles the Bald to gain a sacral position found yet another expression during the coronation of the year 869. Again in the very same Sacramentary of Metz, a miniature depicting the king between two archbishops is embedded. All figures are honored with a golden halo. The monarch is crowned by the hand of God and is the largest figure in the illumination. Two clerics are on the sides of the ruler who stands in the center. Just as the royal prayer for the ruler in the same manuscript reveals that the anointed monarch is a member of the ecclesialstical hierarchy, so the royal image seems to articulate a notion of the king’s sacral position. The ritual of receiving communion as represented by the West Frankish ruler for his coronation stands in accord with the tendency toward sacralization of political power undertaken by other means.

 

The fact that receiving communion by rulers during early medieval coronations was not an obvious and compulsory liturgical action confirms the fact that communion for the king was not foreseen in every ordo coronandi (that is, the text with instructions about how to perform a royal coronation). From the eleventh century, however, it became more and more popular and turned into the norm from the twelfth century onwards. This tendency was parallel to another change in communion practice that I have already mentioned: namely, the decrease in frequency of receiving the Eucharist by non-clerical members of the Church. In contrast, the kings received the privilege to commune during each of their royal coronations.

 

Alongside this tendency to establish royal communion as a standard ritual during each coronation, another change appeared in France during the thirteenth century. Namely, the French kings were able to receive communion under both species, which, as we know, was not in accordance with common practice for the laity in the thirteenth century. The ruler’s communion under both species in the tenth century, as it is prescribed in the Ratold Ordo, was not extraordinary, whereas this same act two or three hundreds years later would become a clear sign to contemporaries that the anointed monarch surpassed the limitations placed on the lay order. Although the ritual itself did not change, general practice was radically altered, and this alteration provided a new meaning for the religious act. In the new circumstances, one could say that French kings participated somehow in sacerdotal dignity. 

 

It is interesting that the series of texts connected with receiving communion under both species during coronations are related to the reign of Louis IX, a ruler granted not only the fame of holiness but also the sacral character of his kingship. In each of the three ordines that were preserved from his reign, the king is instructed to commune under both species. As in the case of Charles the Bald, this was not the only innovation introduced by the texts composed during the reign of Louis IX. 

 

Let me quote J. Le Goff who perfectly summarizes the changes introduced by these three ordines [slide]: These new texts separated the royal French coronation from the common European custom. They placed the liturgy of the Holy Ampulla at the center of the consecration ceremony and thus proclaimed the king of France’s superiority over all other Christian kings because he alone was anointed with the miraculous oil contained in a relic: he was “rex christianissimus”. This better allowed him to legitimate his thaumaturgical power of touching the scrofulous, which he was undoubtedly the first king to have exercised in a regular and institutional way. The introduction of communion under both species, which was not practiced anymore by lay people, was also a visible sign of the new conception of royalty, imbued with ideas of sacral kingship and its quasi-sacerdotal character.

 

Let me now move to the second context that enables us to analyze the transpersonal significance of royal religious acts, namely, in battles against pagans. I would like to focus on the narratives written after the battle on the river Lech which occurred in 955, when hordes of pagan Magyars were stopped by the army of King Otto I. This battle was crucial for the Ottonian dynasty, and it is not surprising that many authors described Otto’s glorious victory. The account of Thietmar of Merseburg is especially worth considering. Let me quote his description:

The next day, that is on the feast of the martyr of Christ, Lawrence, the king alone prostrated himself before the others and confessed his sin to God, tearfully swearing the following oath: if on that day, through the intercession of such a great advocate, Christ would deign to grant him victory and life, he would establish a bishopric in the city of Merseburg in honour of the victor over the fire and turn his newly begun palace there into a church. After raising himself from the ground and after his confessor, Ulrich, had celebrated the mass and had given to Otto the holy communion [post misse celebracionem sacramque communionem ab egregio porrectam Othelrico confessore suo=Sanctus Othelricus episcopus regem communicat.(R. Holtzmann)], the king took up his shield and the holy lance and led his warriors against the enemy forces, annihilating and pursuing them till evening when they fled. 

 

The narrative of Thietmar is full of religious acts which consist of what would we call a liturgy of war. In fact, it is the rituals that are decisive for the victory. We can enumerate them: the prostration of the king, his confession of sins before God, his participation in the Mass and receiving communion, attack with the holy lance in his hand, and––the most important for Thietmar –– the oath of foundation of the bishopric in Merseburg dedicated to Saint Lawrence. It was thus the liturgical feast of this patron, when Otto crossed swords with pagan Magyars. It was the mediation of Saint Lawrence that convinced God to grant victory to Otto. 

 

The narrative of Thietmar is highly individualized. The author was the bishop of Merseburg, and Saint Lawrence was the patron of his diocese. In general the main thesis presented in the Chronicle of Thietmar is as follows: the health of the Empire depends on the health of the bishopric in Merseburg. Therefore the victory in the battle on the River Lech is recounted according to the ritual acts, among them an oath to create a new diocese in Merseburg. 

 

Thietmar was writing his narrative almost seventy years after the battle happened. He must have taken information from earlier sources, such as the Deeds of the Saxons written by Widukind of Corvey in the 960s and The Life of Ulrich composed by Gerhard in the 990s. Each of these texts is similarly individualized in regard to the description of events from the year 955. Widukind’s narrative, written just after the imperial coronation of Otto I was dedicated to the emperor’s daughter, the abbess Matilda. This narrative stresses facts that contribute to the imperial ideology of the Ottonians. Thus the victorious king was greeted after battle by the army as father of the land (pater patriae) and as emperor (imperator). The liturgy of war in Widukind’s narrative is, in contrast, very limited. The warriors fasted and the king led the attack with the holy lance in his hand. The liturgy of the war in The Life of Ulrich is, in contrast, much more developed, as it serves to argue for the sainthood of the bishop Ulrich. The narrative tells the story of the courageous bishop who, without arms, defended his see. He organized a system of prayer, prayed throughout the night before battle, and celebrated Mass and gave communion to all warriors. In the view of Gerhard the victory over the pagans was due directly to the actions taken by Ulrich.

 

All three narratives serve their particular interests and describe the liturgy of war. In the most reliable sources, the Life of Ulrich and the Deeds composed by Widukind, the whole army participates in the religious rituals, whereas in Thietmar’s Chronicle the liturgy of war is reserved for the king only. Also the evidence drawn from other sources that describe the rituals performed before battles against pagans (like selected examples shown on the slide) suggest that the liturgy of war was not reserved solely for the ruler. Therefore we can draw the following conclusion: in Thietmar’s narrative it is exclusively the royal rituals, receiving communion among them, that convinces God to grant victory to Otto. It appears that the king’s participation in the Eucharist––his own taking of the Body of Christ––benefits all participants in the fight. The communion of the king thus brings salvation to the whole kingdom.

 

This interpretation of Thietmar raises the entire issue of the body of king that is somehow reminiscent of the political body of the kingdom, which was seminally described more than half a century ago by Ernst Kantorowicz. It seems thus that rituals performed individually by a ruler could have benefited his whole people. This assumes that the ruler possessed a special intermediary position between God and his people, similar to that possessed by others who were granted sacred status: holy men or the ecclesiastical hierarchy. Therefore, the sacral character of rulers was represented by various means, among them by their special way of receiving communion that went beyond the common practice of the laity. Receiving communion as a means of sacralizing political power literally rested always in the hands of the clergy, and that is why it always required reaching a consensus between spiritual authority and royal power. The balance needed to create the transpersonal significance of receiving communion was a guarantee that both powers had to be satisfied. The rulers obtained sacral legitimization and an aura of transcendence, whereas the ecclesiastical hierarchy received confirmation of their privileges, support and care. Such a system of political power might have been corrupted, but at least there were no hints of absolutism. Such a balance halted the authoritarian demands that might have been raised by both sides. Therefore, the transpersonal significance of receiving communion never posed a similar threat as the idea of the transpersonal political body of king. The sacral character of the Church’s institutional body had tragic consequences when it was transferred conceptually to the institutional body of the state. Such political theology paved the way for absolutist and then totalitarian forms of government which claimed the superiority of the state over the individual needs and dignity of person.