“Theologian. It’s the same word in English.”
“Ah, bon. Eckhart studied in Cologne with Albertus Magnus — Albert the Great—and with Thomas Aquinas, the two most brilliant men of the time. Then he taught theology in Paris. But”—she raised a finger for emphasis—“he was also a great preacher. Very much loved. The Dominicans were the best preachers. They took the message out to the people.”
“The evangelists,” I said, nodding. “So what happened? You said he had powerful enemies?”
“Yes. One is the archbishop of Cologne. He is jealous because he is not so popular like Eckhart. So. He accuses Eckhart of heresy. Ah, but Eckhart fights back. He appeals directly to the pope, Pope John Twenty-Two. And in 1327—Eckhart has sixty-six years at this time — he walks from Cologne to Avignon, eight hundred kilometers, to make a defense.”
“At age sixty-six, he walked eight hundred kilometers? That’s five hundred miles.”
“He was a strong man. But his enemies were more strong, sad to say. The man who led the case against him here was le Cardinal Blanc—the White Cardinal.”
“But…” I felt silly asking. “Weren’t all the cardinals white in those days?”
She furrowed her brow, then laughed. “Ah, non, not the skin. The robe. He always wore the white robe of the Cistercian monks. Even after he became a cardinal. Even after he became the pope.”
“Wait. The White Cardinal became the pope? Which pope was he?”
“Benedict Twelve,” she said. “Before he was pope, his name was Fournier. Jacques Fournier. He was brought here by Pope John Twenty-Two to be the police théologique.”
“You mean to punish heretics? Like the Inquisition?”
“Exactement. He adored to be the Inquisitor. He protected the back of the pope. And when John Twenty-Two died, voilà, le Cardinal Blanc became the new pope, Benedict Twelve. He was the one who built the Palais des Papes. Before, the pope was in the bishop’s house. Then he tears that down and builds the fortress.”
“But while he was a cardinal, he was Eckhart’s enemy?” She nodded gravely. “The cardinal who was the pope’s guard dog?” Another nod. “That is a powerful enemy.”
A third and final nod. “You see? Eckhart comes to Avignon in 1327 to make his defense. And he is never seen again.”
“I don’t know if this Eckhart is our guy,” I whispered, “but he’s sure an intriguing guy.”
Miranda nodded without glancing up from the screen of her laptop. We were sitting in Avignon’s library — a spectacular library, housed in a former cardinal’s palace — beneath a gilded, coffered ceiling in the main reading room, which had once been the grand audience hall. When I’d mentioned Elisabeth’s theory about Meister Eckhart, Miranda had taken the idea and run with it, straight to the library’s reference desk.
Now I was skimming an English-language book on Eckhart’s life and teachings, which a helpful young librarian, Philippe, had found on the shelves. Meanwhile Miranda was combing Web sites and archival materials about Avignon’s cemeteries and death records, looking for any references to Eckhart’s death or grave. “The date of his death is unknown,” she murmured. “So is his burial site. Like Elisabeth said, he came here — in 1327 or 1328—to defend himself against charges of heresy. Then, poof, he drops off the radar screen. No mention of him until March 1329, when John Twenty-Two issued a papal bull, a pronouncement, condemning a bunch of Eckhart’s teachings. According to the bull, Eckhart took them all back — get this—before he died.”
“Sure sounds like bull,” I said.
“Indeed. But the point is, we know he was dead by March 1329.”
I went back to my book. The more I read, the more I liked this Eckhart. I didn’t understand a lot of what he said, but he seemed smart, genuine, and passionate about what he believed. He criticized those who asked God for personal favors, or who prayed “thy will be done” but then complained if things didn’t work out the way they wanted. And he had a sense of humor — not a quality I generally associated with monks and theologians. “My Lord told me a joke,” Eckhart wrote, “and seeing Him laugh has done more for me than any scripture I will ever read.” He could even be a bit cheeky. “Listen,” I said. “He writes, ‘God is not good, or else he could do better.’ No wonder the theology police put him under surveillance — he’s giving the Big Guy a bad grade.”
Miranda looked thoughtful. “Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe he’s playing with language—good, better, best? God’s not merely good, because good’s only so-so? Maybe he means God can’t be anything but best?”
I shrugged. “Dunno. This is why I study bones, not philosophy.” The most striking thing about Eckhart, though, was how fresh, how modern, some of his insights sounded. “Get this,” I told Miranda. “He wrote, ‘If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is “thank you,” it will be enough.’ I like that. Then there’s, ‘The more we have, the less we own.’ Or how about this: ‘The price of inaction is far greater than the cost of making a mistake’?”
She flinched. “Ouch. Too bad they didn’t stress that one in lifeguard training — I might’ve gotten off my ass sooner and saved that dude from drowning.”
I kicked myself for having jabbed her sore spot. “Sorry. I take it back. Here, remember this one instead: ‘Do exactly what you would do if you felt most secure.’ Good advice, right? Be your best self? Sounds like something Dr. Phil might say.”
She snorted. “What do you know about Dr. Phil? Have you ever read or heard anything he’s said?”
She had me there. “Okay, okay. It sounds like something I imagine a New Age self-help guru might say.” I flipped a page. “So does this, in a brainier way: ‘There exists only the present instant…a Now which always and without end is itself new. There is no yesterday nor any tomorrow, but only Now, as it was a thousand years ago and as it will be a thousand years hence.’ Isn’t that a Zen-like, New Agey thing for a Catholic friar to be saying seven centuries ago?”
She smiled. “Very Zen. Very Tolle.”
“Very what?”
“Not what, who: Tolle. Eckhart Tolle, in fact — he’s another big self-help guru. His books have sold zillions of copies. And…Hmm, hang on….” Her keyboard clattered with rapid strokes. “In-ter-esting. According to this bio, Eckhart Tolle, darling of the yoga set, was originally named Ulrich Tolle. He changed his first name to Eckhart ‘as a tribute to a wise medieval philosopher and theologian.’ This wise medieval philosopher and theologian, I’m thinking. Tolle’s huge, very New Age.” She scrolled down the screen of her laptop. “His blockbuster book’s called The Power of Now, and it’s all about living in the present moment. How did your medieval monk describe it — as the eternal Now? Here’s the modern guru’s spin on that: ‘Nothing ever happened in the past,’ writes Tolle; “it happened in the Now. Nothing will ever happen in the future; it will happen in the Now.’ Same idea, slightly different words.”
“Hmm,” I said. “So how come the modern guru gets rich and famous, and the medieval monk gets hauled in on a heresy charge and then vanishes, maybe gets murdered?”