jubilation

Jubilation Through the Seventeenth Century

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Jubilation, the wordless prayer of ordinary worshipers in the “age of faith,” occupied an even greater place in the prayer lives of mystics during that period and the centuries that followed. The writers speak of jubilation and spiritual inebriation in referring to the entire spectrum of spontaneous bodily and vocal prayer which might include glossolalia, inspired songs, dancing, and intense bodily movement. Until the seventeenth century, this kind of prayer was mentioned by the majority of religious writers and was experienced by most of the well-known mystics.

Many people misunderstand the term mystic as it is applied to Christian experience. A mystic is a person who is given to deep spirituality and seeking after God. Although some mystics practice silence and solitude, most do not. According to original sources, mystics of earlier centuries were warmly involved in intimate human contact. More often than not they possessed an extraordinary sense of humor, and some—like St. John Gosco, St. Philip Neri and St. Francis of Assisi—elevated the art of clowning to a prayer form.

Until the siege mentality developed in the Catholic church after the sixteenth century, mystics were a vital part of the life of the church. Their hunger for God and their evident freedom, tenderness, and joy were startling signs of God’s kingdom being lived out among his people.

Mystic Jubilation

Because mystics were persons who focused their entire beings on the heart of God they were often in the process of radical transformation. Their lives produced great joy and hope, and lent a sense of purpose to the whole Christian church. A mystic’s growth toward union with God and with fellow human beings was usually marked by excruciating cleansing and purging, as well as times of incomparable wonder. It is not surprising that jubilation, the prayer of many ordinary Christians in the “age of faith,” should have played an even more important role in the prayer lives of mystics then and during the following centuries.

The works of several nineteenth-century scholars present an overview of the part jubilation played in the lives of these holy men. Albert Farges gives this description: There are even more violent transports, such as those so often observed in St. Francis of Assisi, St. Philip Neri, St. Joseph of Cupertino, St. Mary Magdalene de Pazzi, and many other holy mystics, whose jubilation or spiritual inebriation showed itself outwardly in actions which astonished and even scandalized the weak and ignorant. Such were their sighs, cries, ardent and broken exclamations, abundant tears, and even laughter, songs, improvised hymns, tremors agitating every limb, leapings, impetuous movements, the violent outward expression of enthusiasm and love. (Albert Farges, Mystical Phenomena [1926], 155)

One of the more thorough studies made on the subject is Die christliche Mystik by John Joseph Gorres. Written in the early nineteenth century, the book’s purpose is to defend the Catholic faith and Catholic mysticism against rationalism. A part of Gorres’s defense is to explain and describe mystical phenomena. He compiled numerous examples from several sources and used science and philosophy to help explain them.

A problem with Gorres’s research is that he was not sufficiently critical and was too prone to accept the authenticity of some of the more bizarre accounts of mystical phenomena. Nevertheless, Gorres rendered the church an important service in describing and attempting to explain mystical jubilation. One chapter is devoted to describing the effects of spiritual experience on the vocal apparatus. Spiritual experience, he asserts, affects the voice by enabling it to sing heavenly melodies in a person’s own language, or even in a language unknown to the one praying; the same process produces prophetic words. Gorres writes: The forces which contribute to the formation of [ordinary speech] can also submit to a transformation in ecstasy, and the sounds produced in this state carry a character which is much different from ordinary sounds.… The spirit itself is articulated in these sounds, words which the spirit of man had not thought. The voice then produces sounds which seem to belong to someone else. Or if this is really the voice of the one speaking, it is like elevated or winged thoughts which are spoken. (John Joseph Gorres, La Mystique [French translation of Die christliche Mystik, 1854], vol. 2, p. 149)

The effect of spiritual experience on the voice could enable a person to speak a foreign language. Gorres gives the example of St. Mary Magdalene de Pazzi, who was able to speak Latin, a language she had never learned. He adds that predictive prophecy is another effect of religious experience on the voice. Gorres tells a story about St. Humiliane, who was known to sing by the inspiration of the Holy Spirit. The other sisters in her convent would hear her singing musical glossolalia, “a beautiful song with a voice so delicate that when they did not have their ears right up to her mouth, they heard the song but were unable to distinguish words” (La Mystique, 150–158).

Christine the Admirable also sang in the Spirit, according to Gorres. He writes that Christine would “turn around like a doll agitated by several children.” Then from her lips would issue a marvelous song which nobody was able to understand or imitate in spite of all efforts. There was in this song a very fluid element … and the succession of these sounds. But the words of these melodies, if one wants to call them words, were sometimes incomprehensible.

After her spiritual song Christine was overcome by spiritual drunkenness. Gorres’s account reads, “Little by little she appeared to be drunk—she was drunk in effect, but with a holy and divine drunkenness.” She then led the other sisters in the singing of the Te Deum.

The jubilation of Christine was so entrancing, writes Gorres, that “it seemed to be the voice of an angel rather than the song of a mortal. It was so beautiful to hear that it surpassed not only the sounds of the most beautiful instruments but even the most pleasant human voice.” Christine was also able to sing in Latin, a language she did not understand and had never learned, as well as to pray with glossolalia. Gorres says, “This was the jubilation of her soul which came out in unarticulated sounds” (La Mystique, 14, 158–159).

Invisible choirs were sometimes heard accompanying those who sang. This is Gorres’s account of that phenomenon: Often during the divine service—especially Mass—one often heard invisible choirs making sounds around one of the holy people singing the Sanctus or some other chants. The examples are … frequent …

Jubilation: An Entrance into Deeper Spiritual Life

The gift of tongues is often looked upon in charismatic renewal as an entrance to a deeper spiritual life. The same appears to be true in the spiritual experience of the mystics. Evelyn Underhill makes this point in her biography of Jacopone da Todi. She calls jubilation “the characteristic phenomenon of the beginner in the supersensual life,” and adds: These acute emotional reactions, often accompanied by eccentric outward behavior, are a normal episode in the early development of many mystics, upon whom the beauty and wonder of the new world of spirit now perceived by them, and the Presence that fills it, have often an almost intoxicating effect (Jacopone da Todi, 76, 78).

This suggestion of Underhill is borne out in the writings of many of the mystics. John Ruysbroeck calls jubilation the “first and lowest mode whereby God inwardly declares himself in the contemplative life” (The Book of the Twelve Bequines, chapter 10, as quoted in Underhill, Jacopone da Todi, 78). Richard Rolle received the gift of heavenly song early in the development of his spiritual life as a definite experience.

The same is true of the English mystic Gordic. On a pilgrimage to the Holy Land he spent whole nights praying on the mountains and visiting the Holy Sepulcher. Afterward he had an experience which his biographer describes as follows: In his heart there was a gentleness greater than anything else, in his mouth a sweetness sweeter than honey on the honeycomb, and his ears were filled with the melody of a great jubilation. (Eric Colledge, The Medieval Mystics of England [1961], 39)

It appears, then, that for many contemplatives, entering into the wonder of God with one’s voice and body was a natural part of moving into a deeper spiritual life. There is a strong similarity between this form of initiation and tongues as a form of initiation among charismatics in the present-day charismatic renewal.

Jacopone da Todi

One of the more exciting mystics in the history of the church was Jacopone da Todi (1228–1306), a Franciscan friar. Before his conversion Jacopone enjoyed a happy life as a jurist and as the husband of a pretty, young wife whom he passionately loved. At a wedding celebration he and his wife were attending the floor suddenly collapsed during a dance, and Jacopone’s wife was killed. When her party dress was removed, a hair shirt was found on her body, a sign that she was a woman of prayer who had been praying for the conversion of her husband. Jacopone, profoundly shaken, sold all of his possessions and eventually joined the Franciscans (Karl Vossier, Medieval Culture [1929], vol. 2, pp. 83–84). After many years of soul searching and purging, he entered into a period of overflowing spiritual joy. He describes his mystic journey in a number of songs and poems.

An entire period of his development is related to jubilation, as brought out by Evelyn Underhill in her biography of Jacopone. She records that during this time he “babbled of love with ‘tears and laughter, sorrow and delight,’ and with gestures that seemed foolishness to other men” (Jacopone da Todi, p. 76). In his poem “La Bontade se lamenta,” Jacopone paints a vivid picture of the state of a soul in the joyous abandon of jubilation:

Now a new language doth she speak,
“Love, Love,” is all her tongue can say.
She weeps, and laughs; rejoices, mourns,
In spite of fears, is safe and gay;
And though her wits seem all astray,
So wild, so strange, her outward mien
Her soul within her is serene;
And heeds not how her acts appear.

Another of Jacopone’s poems describes the experience of singing in the Spirit:

Abundance cannot hide herself apart;
And jubilation, from out her nest within the heart,
Breaks forth in song, and in sibilant sound [sibilare]
Even as did Elias long ago.

In the following poem Jacopone personifies and addresses the jubilus directly. This is the most significant of his jubilation poems; in it he describes the power of the jubilus to overwhelm a person’s being with love songs and joy, even when he carries profound sorrow in his heart, so that observers think he has lost his senses:

Of the Jubilus of the Heart
That Breaks Forth in the Voice:
Thou, Jubilus, the heart dost move;
And madest us sing for very love.
The Jubilus in fire awakes,
And straight the man must sing and pray,
His tongue in childish stammering shakes,
Nor knows he what his lips may say;
He cannot quench nor hide away
That Sweetness pure and infinite.
The Jubilus in flame is lit,
And straight the man must shout and sing;
So close to Love his heart is knit,
He scarce can bear the honeyed sting;
His clamour and his cries must ring,
And shame for ever take to flight.
The Jubilus enslaves man’s heart
And see! his neighbours stand apart,
And mock the senseless chatterer;
They deem his speech a foolish blur,
A shadow of his spirit’s light.
Yea, when thou enterest the mind,
O Jubilus, thou rapture fair,
The heart of man new skill doth find
Love’s own disguise to grasp and wear,
The suffering of Love to bear,
With song and clamour of delight!
And thus the uninitiated
Will deem that thou art crazed indeed;
They see thy strange and fervered state,
But have not wit thy heart to read;
Within, deep-pierced, that heart may bleed,
Hidden from curious mortal sight. (Underhill, Jacopone da Todi, 279–281)

Words such as “stammering” and “chatterer,” which Jacopone uses to describe his experience of jubilus, bear a remarkable resemblance to the descriptions of present-day Pentecostal glossolalia.

John Ruysbroeck

The Black Death, the rise of nationalism in the fourteenth century, and other factors began the unwinding of the medieval spiritual synthesis. Spirituality lost much of its unselfconscious innocence as religious writers became more and more introspective and speculative. Even so, mysticism continued to flourish during this time. Best-known and most revered of mystics in the Rhineland School, a tradition of mystics in the low countries of Europe, were John Ruysbroeck and Henry Suso.

Ruysbroeck mentions jubilation a number of times in his writings. His description of its physical manifestations makes most Pentecostal and charismatic worship appear tame by comparison.

Spiritual inebriation is this: That a man receives more sensible joy and sweetness than his heart can either contain or desire. Spiritual inebriation brings forth many strange gestures in men. It makes some sing and praise God because of their fullness of joy, and some weep with great tears because of their sweetness of heart. It makes one restless in all his limbs, so that he must run and jump and dance; and so excites another that he must gesticulate and clap his hands.…Other things sometimes happen to those who live in the fierce ardour of love; for often another light shines into them … and in the meeting with that light, the joy and the satisfaction are so great, that the heart cannot bear them, but breaks out with a loud voice in cries of joy. And this is called the jubilus or jubilation, that is, a joy which cannot be uttered in words. (John Ruysbroeck, The Adornement of the Spiritual Marriage, Book 2, chapters xix and xxiv, as quoted in Underhill, Jacopone da Todi, 78)

Note that Ruysbroeck repeats the classic definition of the jubilus: Joy which cannot be uttered in words. Jubilation is a means by which God makes his friends “happily foolish.” Spiritual experience seizes the believer with such power that he scarcely knows how to contain himself, and knows not how he should bear himself. For he thinks that no one has ever experienced the things that he is experiencing and from thence arise jubilee because he cannot restrain himself.… Such an impatience possesses him outwardly and inwardly with so great a vehemence, that in all his powers and members there is so joyous an experience.…God makes his friends to be happily foolish. Sometimes this ecstasy is wont to grow to so great a height that the matter becomes serious, and more frequently he is compelled to break out into shouting whilst he is being spiritually touched or pricked. (John Ruysbroeck, The Kingdom of the Lovers of God, trans. by T. Arnold Hyde [1919], 89)

For Ruysbroeck, jubilation was part of a deeply personal relationship with God. The Spirit of the Lord says to the heart: “I am yours, O man, and you are mine: I live in you and you live in me.” Such interaction with God causes “great joy and pure pleasure to occupy body and soul,” and the joy is so great that the person cannot endure it. This exultation “is called the jubilus, which no one can express in words.” Says Ruysbroeck: “Hence arises the jubilation, which is the love of the heart, and the burning flame of devotion with praise and thanksgiving and constant reverence and veneration toward God” (On the First Method of True Contemplation, in Opera Omnia Ioannis Rusbrochii, 436).

In Contemplatione Opus Praeclarum, Ruysbroeck describes jubilation as the ebb and flow of reciprocal relationship with the Lord. “This same mutual touch, whether so in turn to touch and be touched, effects the jubilus.” In this state the “free and generous emotion pours back everything unto God” (Opera Omnia, 469).

Henry Suso

Henry Suso (1300–1366) also speaks of intense intimacy with the Lord. “I had certain tender conversations with my Creator in which only my spirit talked,” he writes. “I wept and sighed; I laughed and cried” (John G. Arintero, The Mystical Evolution in the Development and Vitality of the Church [1951], vol. 2, p. 276).

In his autobiography, Henry writes a stirring account of his experience with inspired singing: One day … while the Servant [Henry’s word for himself] was still at rest he heard within himself a gracious melody by which his heart was greatly moved. And at the moment of the rising of the morning star, a deep sweet voice sang.… And this song which he heard was so spiritual that his soul was transported by it and he too began to sing joyously.… And one day—it was in carnival time—the Servant had continued his prayers until the moment when the bugle of the watch announced the dawn. And while his senses were at rest, behold! angelic spirits began to sing the fair response.… And this song was echoed with a marvelous sweetness in the depths of his soul. And when the angels had sung for some time his soul overflowed with joy; and his feeble body being unable to support such happiness, burning tears escaped from his eyes. (quoted in Evelyn Underhill, Mysticism [1911; reprinted 1962], 277)

Richard Rolle

Probably no one person has probed the richness of the gift of heavenly song more than Richard Rolle of Hampole, England. Rolle (1300–1349) was a mystic and writer whose work left an indelible impression on English literature. An educated man, Rolle studied at the University of Oxford and the Sorbonne in Paris, where doubtless he was exposed to the literature of many mystical traditions.

At the age of eighteen, after finishing his work at Oxford and prior to beginning at the Sorbonne, he became a hermit. Thousands of people visited him at his hermitage because of his sanctity and wisdom (C. C. Heseltine, Selected Works of Richard Rolle [1930], viii). Rolle’s writings have much of the warmth and tenderness of Bernard and the early Franciscans.

Jubilation was a central concept in Rolle’s understanding of spiritual experience. He used the word hundreds of times in his writings—one hundred twenty-four times in the Melody of Love (Melos Amoris) alone. He also uses such words as “song,” “chant,” and “melody” when referring to jubilation.

The gift of heavenly song, occurring four years after his conversion, was an event in the life of Richard Rolle that marked an entrance into a deeper spiritual life. Here is his description of the experience: Whilst I sat in the same chapel in the night, before supper, I sang psalms, as I might, and I heard above me the noise as it were of readers or rather singers. Whilst I took heed, praying to heaven with all desire, in what manner I know not, suddenly I received a most pleasant heavenly melody dwelling within my mind. Indeed, my thought was continuously changed into mirth of song, and I had, as it were, praises in my meditation, and in saying prayers and psalms I gave forth the same sound. (Selected Works of Richard Rolle, introduction, pp. xvi–xvii)

Rolle’s use of the psalmic phrase Beatus vir qui scit jubilationem (Ps. 89:15, English versions) indicates that he was familiar with the church’s teachings on jubilation; that phrase is often used as a starting point for discussing jubilation in the tradition. Rolle writes: To me it seems indeed that contemplation is the joyful song of the love of God taken into the mind, with the sweetness of angelic praise. This is the joy which is the end of perfect prayer, of honest devotion in this life. This is the mirth to be had in the mind for the everlasting lover, breaking out with a great voice into spiritual songs. This is the final and most perfect of all deeds in this life. The psalmist, therefore, says “Beatus vir qui scit jubilationem,” that is to say, “Blessed is the man who knows jubilation,” in the contemplation of God. (Selected Works of Richard Rolle, 144)

Rolle also wrote about spiritual inebriation in the context of jubilation as other mystical writers have done: A man is carried above himself, “panting with desire only for the Creator.” … Lifted up to the melody of song, he is inebriated with divine pleasure.

He describes jubilation as the overflowing of the life of God within the believer which unites body and soul: Then I may say that contemplation is a wonderful joy of God’s love, which joy is the praise of God that may not be told. That wonderful praise is in the soul, and for abundance of joy and sweetness it ascends into the mouth so that the heart and the tongue accord as one, and body and soul rejoice, living in God. (Selected Works of Richard Rolle, 50)

In Contra Amores Mundi, Rolle describes the same experience in this way: Wherefore, too, one who has been made a contemplative man … is perpetually raised to such great joy that he is even permitted to hear the song of the angels. Hence he sings his prayers to God, in a wonderful and indescribable way, because, just as now the heavenly sound descends his spirit, so also, ascending in a superabundance of joy to his own mouth, the same sound is heard.… Therefore jubilation is taken up brightly in his mind, and with resonant voice he sings the divine praises.… The more ardently he loves, the sweeter is his jubilation. (Contra Amores Mundi, ed. and trans. by Paul Theiner [1968], 160-161)

Jubilation, says Rolle, is a gift of God made possible by the passion of Jesus. “O good Jesus … you endured torments that I might experience the symphony of heaven (Le chant d’amour [Melos Amoris] [Sources chrétiennes, 1971] 93.5).

This intense spiritual experience is not conversion, but takes place subsequently as a result of fervent seeking after God: Moreover, although we do not receive this gift in the beginning of our conversion, if we seek continually in our love for Christ for peace of mind and body, we shall receive it presently as a gift from God. In that state I have indeed learned to sing the divine praises in exultation and to jubilate in the mellifluous fervor of singing. (Contra Amores Mundi, 71–72)

At least some of the time, Rolle sang his jubilation in the known language. Scholars report that his songs arose naturally from a life of prayer. In Amending of Life he writes: Our heart being kindled with a fervent love, our prayer also is kindled and offered from our mouth in the savour of sweetness in the sight of God, so that it is a great joy to pray. For whilst in prayer a marvelous sweetness is given to him who prays, the prayer is changed into song. (Selected Works of Richard Rolle, 130)

Repetition of the name of Jesus was important to Rolle’s prayers. The phrase “jubilation in Jesus” often occurs in his writings. He explains: I cannot pray, I cannot meditate, but in sounding the name of Jesus.… The name of Jesus has taught me to sing.… Jesus, my Dear and my Darling! My delight is to sing to thee! Jesus, my Mirth and my Melody! (Selected Works of Richard Rolle, 81, 82, 95)

Rolle’s experience of the gift of song seems to have transcended the gift of tongues. His song allowed him to penetrate heaven, to more fully enter the heart of God. Many of the wondrous, the indescribable aspects of God are known in the rhythms and movement of music and sound. Jubilation, the gift of song, was a way of knowing that deep part of God.

St. Teresa of Avila

In the sixteenth century, mysticism took a bright new turn in the lives and writings of St. Teresa of Avila and St. John of the Cross. Close friends, these Spanish mystics explored with heart and intellect the experience of union with God. These two saints did not develop their mysticism in a vacuum. They were both well educated and acutely aware of the mystical writings that had preceded them.

Both Teresa and John were influenced by Luis of Granada, a Spanish writer of the early sixteenth century. Luis was one of St. Teresa’s Dominican confessors, as well as a popular preacher whose aim was to formulate a practical spirituality for ordinary people. In his Guide for Preachers, he quotes Gregory the Great’s classic definition of jubilation: “a joy of the inner man so great that it cannot be expressed in words but is expressed in exterior actions” (Louis De Granada, Oeuvres Complètes [1894], vol. 10, p. 199). Luis writes that the joy of jubilation is so great that neither Plato the prince of the philosophers, nor Demosthenes the greatest of orators, were liften up to this good thing.… God is the author and principle of this joy that we call jubilation. (Oeuvres Complètes, vol. 10, p. 199)

St. Teresa is one of the most widely read of the mystical writers on prayer. She exuded happiness and wanted everyone around her to be happy. “I won’t have nuns who are ninnies,” she said. “Gloomy saints” were not to her liking. It is said that her joy was so infectious that when she laughed, the whole convent laughed with her. Dance, inspired song, and group jubilation were a part of the worship of the reformed Carmelite Order which Teresa founded and headed (Marcelle Auclair, St. Teresa of Avila [1953], 220).

She and her nuns enjoyed a warm sense of community and would frequently enter into exuberant praise and worship. In his biography of Teresa, Marcelle Auclair brings together original source material on this expressive worship: While they got on with their spinning, they chatted and composed coplas [little songs] which the young ones sang very charmingly. Teresa improvised poems that her nuns memorized.… One can feel the rhythm of the music.… Even at recreation, fervour would take possession of her and she was incapable of resisting the urge of the spirit. She would begin to dance, turning round and round and clapping her hands as King David danced before the ark; the nuns accompanied her “in a perfect transport of spiritual joy.” (Auclair, St. Teresa of Avila, 220–221)

After some of her nuns had gone to France to found Carmelite convents, the French nuns, to their great surprise, saw the Mother Superior more like a seraphim than a mortal creature executing a sacred dance in the choir, singing and clapping her hands in the Spanish way, but with so much dignity, sweetness and grace that, filled with holy reverence, they felt themselves wholly moved by divine grace and their hearts raised to God. (Ibid.)

It is interesting to note that the dancing was sometimes done “in choir,” that is, in a liturgical setting.

One Easter, Teresa asked one of the nuns to sing an improvised song. The nun sang:
May my eyes behold thee,
Good and sweet Jesus.…
Let him who will, delight his gaze
With jasmine and with roses.
If I were to see thee,
A thousand gardens would lie before my eyes.

Teresa was so overwhelmed with this song that she fell unconscious in ecstasy. After regaining her senses she herself sang an improvised song. From then on whenever she would go into ecstasy, her nuns would surround her and sing softly (Auclair, St. Teresa of Avila, 222–223).

Teresa makes significant references to jubilation in her writings. She devotes several pages to the subject in her mystical treatise Interior Castle. Following are some excerpts: Our Lord sometimes bestows upon the soul a jubilation and a strange kind of prayer, the nature of which it cannot ascertain. I set this down here, so that, if he grants you this favour, you may give him hearty praise and know that such a thing really happens.…The joy of the soul is so exceedingly great that it would like not to rejoice in God in solitude, but to tell its joy to all, so that they may help it to praise our Lord.… She would like to invite everybody and have great festivities.… [In such a state of transport, the soul] cannot be expected to keep silence and dissemble.… Oh, what a blessed madness, sisters! If only God would give it to us all! May it please his majesty often to bestow this prayer upon us since it brings us such security and such benefit. For as it is an entire supernatural thing, we cannot acquire it. It may last for a whole day, and the soul will then be like one who has drunk a great deal, but not like a person so far inebriated as to be deprived of his senses; nor will it be like a melancholiac, who, without being entirely out of his mind, cannot forget a thing that has been impressed upon his imagination, from which no one else can free him either. These are very unskillful comparisons to represent so precious a thing, but I am not clever enough to think out any more: the real truth is that this joy makes the soul so forgetful of itself, and of everything, that it is conscious of nothing, and able to speak of nothing, save of that which proceeds from its joy, namely, the praises of God. (St. Teresa of Avila, Interior Castle, trans. and ed. by E. Allison Peers [1961], 167-169)

In her autobiography, Teresa uses the metaphor of spiritual inebriation to describe this state of prayer: During jubilation the soul knows not whether to speak or be silent, whether to laugh or to weep. This state is a glorious folly, a heavenly madness, in which true wisdom is acquired, and a mode of fruition in which the soul finds the greatest of delight.… I often used to commit follies because of this love, and to be inebriated with it, yet I had never been able to understand its nature.… Many words are spoken, during this state, in praise of God, but, unless the Lord himself puts order into them, they have no orderly form. The understanding, at any rate, counts for nothing here; the soul would like to shout praises aloud, for it is in such a state that it cannot contain itself—a state of delectable disquiet.… O God, what must that soul be like when it is in this state! It would fain be all tongue, so that it might praise the Lord. It utters a thousand holy follies, striving ever to please him who thus possesses it. (The Autobiography of St. Teresa of Avila, trans. and ed. by E. Allison Peers [1960], pp. 163–165)

The writings of Teresa demonstrate that spontaneous and fervent praise of God are a result of a deep and living relationship with the Lord. At the same time, it is a behavior that can be encouraged and developed. For Teresa, jubilation in community was a proclamation that God was truly in the midst of his people. Congregational praise is just such a declaration today.

St. John of the Cross

John was a less practical mystic than his friend Teresa. His spirituality has a more speculative note. At the same time, in sublime and poetic ways he plumbs the height and depth of spiritual experience.

In his references to jubilation John, like Teresa, uses the analogy of festivity. He says: In this state of life so perfect, the soul always walks in festivity, inwardly and outwardly, and it frequently bears on its spiritual tongue a new song of great jubilation in God, a song always new, enfolded in a gladness and love arising from the knowledge the soul has of its happy state.… There is no need to be amazed that the soul so frequently walks amid this joy, jubilance, fruition, and praise of God. (The Collected Works of St. John of the Cross, trans. by Kieran Kavanaugh [1973], 609)

John presents a beautifully poetic description of jubilation in his Spiritual Canticle. He depicts the soul as a nightingale which sings a new and jubilant song together with God, who moves her to do this. He gives his voice to her, that, so united with him, she may give it to him.… Since the soul rejoices in and praises God with God himself in this union … it is a praise highly perfect and pleasing to God.… This voice of jubilance, thus, is sweet both to God and to the soul. (The Collected Works of St. John of the Cross, 560)

Like Crysologus and Rolle, John understood jubilation as the very voice of God with which the worshiper blends his own song in response. He also wrote a long passage in which he discusses spiritual inebriation and its effects upon the soul.

St. Philip Neri

Philip Neri, who lived in the tumultuous sixteenth century, was one of the most human mystics in the history of the church. As a layman he formed a household of laymen to help serve the many pilgrims who were flocking to his native Rome. Ordained late in his life, he was the founder of the Oratory.

Philip strove to keep those around him happy and cheerful, to teach them in his “school of merriment,” as he called it. His biographer Bacci describes this: Even when he had reached an advanced age, and his strength was nearly exhausted by his great labors, the holy man was still to be seen going about the streets of Rome with a train of young men, conversing with them on all sorts of subjects according to their different professions, making them affectionate one toward another and winning their reverence and love toward him.… Sometimes he left his prayers and went down to sport and banter with the young men and others who flocked to him, as we learn from Cardinal Crescenzi, and by his sweetness and the allurements of his conversations to keep them cheerful and win their souls. He very often took them to some open ground and there set them playing together at ball or some other game. He could have a playful style with those in his charge, going up to people, boxing their ears, and saying, “Be merry.” (Bacci, The Life of St. Philip Neri [1902], vol. 1, pp. 194–195)

Philip could also feel people’s sorrows. He had an amazing ability to enter into the feelings of those to whom he ministered. His expressive style with his fellow human beings was paralleled with expressive worship toward his Lord. With great intensity he entered into prayer. Bacci describes this: In those places Philip often was surprised by such an abundance of spiritual consolations that, unable any longer to endure so great a fire of love, he was forced to cry out, “No more, Lord, no more,” and throwing himself down he used to roll upon the ground, not having strength to endure the vehement affection which he felt in his heart.…While he prayed he felt the incentives of divine love multiply with such power within him, and kindle such a flame in his breast, that besides continually weeping and sighing, he was often obliged, in order to moderate the fire, to throw himself on the ground, to bare his breast, and use other means to relieve his spirit which was overpowered by the impetuosity of the flame.…Fabrizio de Massimi, going one morning to confession to him, found the door of his room closed and, opening it very softly, saw the saint in the act of praying, standing up with his eyes raised to heaven and his hands uplifted, making many gestures. (Bacci, The Life of St. Philip Neri, vol. 1, pp. 21, 19, 338)

The spirituality of Philip and his friends exhibited itself in an intense devotion to the name of Jesus. Bacci tells of a scene of spontaneous worship which occurred at the deathbed of a young man: Then in an outburst of joy, he began to sing the hymns which were sung at the Oratory, and particularly the one which begins, “Jesus! Jesus! Jesus! let everyone call on Jesus!” (Bacci, The Life of St. Philip Neri, vol. 1, p. 202)

Thus we see that well into the sixteenth century hymns were sung to the name of Jesus, and devotion to him was very much a part of the religious expression of the period.

Other Mystics

One finds accounts and descriptions of expressive worship, often including glossolalia-style prayer, in most of the major mystics until the end of the sixteenth century, and some significant accounts beyond this period. Let us look at some of these.

Father Hoyos, a priest, describes an intensity of prayer that cannot be expressed in language: Now one breaks forth in groans and tears; now one would wish to be in a desert place in order to cry out and to give vent to the vehement feelings in his breast. (Arintero, The Mystical Evolution in the Development and Vitality of the Church, vol. 2, p. 282)

The Spanish writer on prayer, Juan de Jesus Maria, defines jubilation in this way: Sometimes a joy is felt in the interior and it surpasses all the joys of this world, and those new to the service of God break forth into outward acts of jubilation because they cannot restrain themselves. This is usually called a spiritual intoxication or inebriation. (Arintero, The Mystical Evolution in the Development and Vitality of the Church, vol. 2, p. 263)

St. Alphonsus Liguori describes it this way: Spiritual intoxication causes the soul to break forth in, as it were, delirium, such as songs, cries, immoderate weeping, leaping et cetera. (Ηομο Αποστολιχυς, Appendix I, 15)

St. Catherine of Genoa experienced jubilation in the form of laughter. Her biographer describes it as follows: [During a serious illness] she fixed her eyes steadily on the ceiling; and for about an hour she seemed all but immovable, and spoke not, but kept laughing in a very joyous fashion.… Greater interior jubilation expressed itself in merry laughter; and on the evening of September 7 her joy appeared exteriorly in laughter which lasted, with but small interruptions, for some two hours. (Baron Von Hugel, The Mystical Element of Religion, 13)

Like Catherine of Genoa, Catherine of Siena knew laughter as a form of prayer. According to her biographer, she “was always jocund and of a happy spirit … full of laughter in the Lord, exultant and rejoicing” (Underhill, Mysticism, 438). This doctor of the church could also break into wordless sounds in her prayer: What then shall I say? I will do as one who is tongue-tied, and say: “Ah, Ah” for there is nought else I can say, since finite speech cannot express the affection of the soul which desires thee infinitely. (St. Catherine of Siena [1907], 365)

St. Mary Magdalene de Pazzi is described as another whose behavior, under mystic impulse, could appear bizarre: Then she was restless and could not be still. To pour out this fervor that she could no longer contain, she was forced to bestir herself and she was strangely impelled to move about. And so, at such times, one saw her moving quickly from place to place. She ran through the convent as if crazed with love, and cried in a loud voice: “Love, love, love!” … And she said to the sisters who followed her: “You do not know, beloved sisters, that my Jesus is nothing but love, yes, mad with love. You are mad with love, my Jesus, as I have said and as I shall always say. You are very lovely and joyous, you refresh and solace, you nourish and unite. You are both pain and slaking, toil and rest, life and death in one.” (Reinhold, The Soul Afire [1973], 342-343)

A Fuller Reality

In the jubilation of both common Christians and mystics one finds an apprehension of a wonderfully fresh and joyful reality. Jubilation was an entering into a wondrous song that came forth from the heart of God. This theme is repeated over and over. Richard Rolle described heavenly music entering his ears and his heart and coming out through his voice. Medieval legends describe monks and friars being caught up in ecstasy, hearing the wondrous sound of heaven and then singing it on earth.

Dante, whose work sums up the medieval world, describes laughter and great joy in God at the heart of the Christian universe. Evelyn Underhill summarizes this view: Moreover, the most clear-sighted among the mystics declare such joy to be an implicit of reality. Thus Dante, initiated into paradise, sees the whole universe laugh with delight, as it glorifies God, and the awful countenance of Perfect Love adorned with smiles. Thus the souls of the great theologians dance to music and laughter in the heaven of the sun; the loving seraphs, in their ecstatic joy, whirl about the being of God. (Mysticism, p. 438)

Mystics were people who possessed a childlike gaiety, a perpetual gladness of heart. Deeply in touch with God, they shocked the world with a delicate playfulness that emanated from an experiential knowledge that they were children of a loving Father. A hymn from the medieval period illustrates their vision: There in heaven one hears sweet songs of birds in harmony, angels, too, sing fine melodies; Jesus leads off the dance with all the maiden host. (Anna Croh Seesholtz, Friends of God [1933], 12)

Breakdown of the Mystical Tradition

The jubilation tradition of expressive worship and glossolalia prayer continued as a vital force within western Christianity at least until the end of the sixteenth century. Yet today this tradition has been almost completely forgotten. While more research is required into the causes for the virtual demise of jubilation in the Catholic church, we can distinguish several factors which probably played a role in the diminishing of this long tradition.

End of the Medieval Synthesis. The Middle Ages at its height was a period of extraordinary faith. Beginning with the fourteenth century, however, this remarkable Christian synthesis began to unravel. The rise of nationalism, the bubonic plague which wiped out nearly half the population of Europe in a short time, and a growing superstition within the church were all factors.

In fact, much of Catholic history until Vatican II can be seen as a winding down of the medieval synthesis. The Protestant Reformation of the sixteenth century sent shock waves through the Catholic world. It challenged the church to set its house in order. This was accomplished at the Council of Trent, but the result was that the Catholic church also began a move toward ever-increasing rigidity. Additional assaults on the position of the Roman Catholic church came with the French Revolution and the end of cultural Christianity. The scientific revolution, the growth of secular philosophy, and the loss of church privilege all led to the development of a siege mentality within the Catholic church.

Though one can find examples of great holiness, new religious orders, and new inspiration during this time, a growing formalism and moralism began to arise within Catholicism. There was a tendency to reduce the faith to a set of formulas and rules. This was not a time for rich traditions to continue and flourish.

Abandonment of Mysticism. Mysticism, from the beginning, had been at the heart of the life of the church. The healing and transforming power of the love of God was central to the Catholic tradition. Even the end of the “age of faith” did not mark the end of the mystical tradition. In the midst of political and theological turmoil, wave after wave of genuine mystical movements preserved this vital stream of the church’s life.

In the seventeenth century, however, two opposite heretical traditions grew up: quietism and Jansenism. Quietism replaced mysticism with an emphasis on extraordinary phenomena and interior peace, but neglected active love and repentance. Quietism was often accompanied by immorality. In contrast, Jansenism emphasized the sinfulness and unworthiness of human beings. A priest of Jansenist orientation once boasted that there had not been one unworthy Communion in his church in a year. The reason was that he had not permitted any Communion during the year. The influence of this philosophy was not confined to those who openly espoused Jansenism, and its effects are still with the Catholic church today.

Jansenists and their fellow travelers had little use for mysticism. True mysticism was for them a rare occurrence. An emphasis on unworthiness and a sense of spiritual pride both have the effect of preventing people from moving in a mystical and spiritual direction.

It was necessary for the Catholic church to correct the false mysticism of the quietists, but in so doing it adopted a Jansenist orientation, and true mystical tradition was severely damaged in the process. Henri Daniel-Rops describes what took place: A large field of religious experience, the whole spiritual tradition of St. Bernard, of Tauler and Suso, of St. Teresa and St. John of the Cross … was suddenly abandoned. And that loss was not without harmful effects upon the vitality of the faith. (The Church in the Eighteenth Century [1964], 292)

Knowledge of the mystical tradition had diminished to the point that in the eighteenth century Father de Caussade lamented: Prejudice and an almost absolute ignorance of mystical writers, especially of the matter contained in their works, has gradually made [mysticism] and its ideas so absurd that I am at a loss to describe them.… Since these wretched prejudices have prevented men from reading the true mystics of later times, it is noticeable, even in the cloister, that there has been a decrease in the number of interior souls—souls totally detached, dead to the world and to themselves. (quoted in Pierre Pourrat, Christian Spirituality [1955], vol. 4, pp. 263–264)

Continuing Traces. The experience of jubilation and the recognition of jubilation as part of the mystical tradition did not cease all at once. There seems instead to have been a slow winding down of this style of prayer. The tradition continued in the mystical experience of the Catholic church, at least to some extent, until the nineteenth century. John Bosco, a saint of this period, is said to have experienced jubilation in his prayers.

Catholic culture has maintained traces of the expressive worship tradition. The colorful festivities on saints’ days and feasts, such as Corpus Christi in Latin countries, are remnants of these practices. A number of Catholics from Slavic backgrounds have reported that they remember older parishioners singing, making long extended sounds, and rocking back and forth while at their devotions. Leonids Linauts, Professor of Stained Glass at Rochester Institute of Technology and an expert on Latvian folklore, affirms that jubilation still existed before World War II in Latvia. He relates that it was the custom in some regions of that nation, particularly the Aswege region, for parishioners to arrive an hour or so before mass for singing and prayer. At times during this period the group would improvise wordless sounds and songs to express their devotion.

It is certainly possible that in rural areas, jubilation and other expressive styles of worship have been preserved. This is a matter for further and more precise investigation.

Jubilation in the “Age of Faith”

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The medieval world at its high point was far from a time of dry metaphysics, religious rigidity and conformity, or darkness and superstition. In actuality, it was a time of creative intellectual ferment, and of tender and warm faith. The age that produced the great cathedrals and inspired scholastic theology was also a time of spontaneous worship that produced many charismatic movements. Ordinary Christians expressed their wonder in much the same way that modern charismatics express theirs: by praying aloud without words and by singing inspired songs. This tradition continued for several hundred years after the end of the Middle Ages.

The years 1050–1350 were a springtime for the Christian church. It emerged from the long night of bloody barbarian invasions to a remarkable period of life. From the fifth century until the eleventh, Europe had been overwhelmed by successive waves of barbarian invaders. However, the church’s willingness to convert barbarian tribes and princes, its faithfulness in preserving small embryos of learning and culture in Christian communities, and the openness of a great many young children to seeking union with God in contemplative prayer brought about an era of blessing.

This three-hundred-year period produced universities and great works of scholastic theology and, to some extent, succeeded in humanizing and Christianizing an entire society. Church historian H. Daniel Rops writes: For three long centuries … society enjoyed what may be considered the richest, most fruitful, most harmonious epoch in all the history of Europe, an epoch which may be likened to spring after the barbarian winter. (Cathedral and Crusade [1957], 2)

People possessed a childlike but deeply rooted faith that allowed them to discover new dimensions of human love and charity. This faith and wonder found expression in the lofty spires of cathedrals and in remarkable works of music and art. Faith in miracles, sometimes to the point of excessive credulity, abounded. Men of the stature of St. Bernard of Clairvaux and St. Francis were produced in this fertile ground. Saints were many, and nearly every city or village could claim its share of holy persons and mystics who had lived there.

Wonder and praise also found an outlet in expressive prayer and worship. The glossolalia/jubilation tradition received from the early church continued and flourished, as did other forms of expressive prayer and worship. Although improvised jubilation was no longer a regular part of the liturgy, it remained part of the prayer experience of common people. Jubilation began to include spontaneous body movements and dance-like gestures.

In the medieval period an even closer resemblance to the tongues of the New Testament and of the Pentecostal movement becomes apparent. Evelyn Underhill, who has done what is probably the most significant work on understanding the jubilation of the medieval period, suggests a close kinship between jubilation and the tongues of the New Testament. She writes: Richard Rolle, Ruysbroeck, and others have left us vivid descriptions of the jubilus, which seems to have been in their day, like the closely related “speaking with tongues” in the early church, a fairly common expression of intense religious excitement. (Underhill, Jacopone da Todi [1919], 77-78)

Personal Devotion to Jesus

A warm devotion to a personal Jesus flourished. The movements of Francis, Bernard, and Dominic encouraged love for a very human Jesus. Bernard of Clairvaux, who lived in the twelfth century and perhaps influenced the popular devotion of the “age of faith” more than any other man, could say: Hail, Jesus, whom I love. Thou knowest how I long to be nailed with thee to the cross. Give thyself to me.… Draw me wholly to thee, and say to me: “I heal thee, I forgive thee.… ” I embrace thee in a surge of love. (quoted in Rops, Cathedral and Crusade, 48)

St. Bernard’s words tremble with tenderness as he repeats the name of Jesus. To his monks he says: “Your affection for your Lord Jesus should be both tender and intimate” (On the Song of Songs, trans. by Kilian Walsh [1971], vol. 1, p. 150). Bernard’s sermons are known to have taught healing for both body and soul in the name of Jesus. After describing the healing of the cripple by Peter and John, he continues: Write what you will, I shall not relish it unless it tells of Jesus. Talk or argue about what you will, I shall not relish it if you exclude the name of Jesus. Jesus to me is honey in the mouth, music in the ear, a song in the heart. Again, it is a medicine. Does one of us feel sad? Let the name of Jesus come into his heart, from there let it spring to his mouth, so that shining like the dawn it may dispel all darkness and make a cloudless sky. (On the Song of Songs, vol. 1, p. 110)

Many hymns were written to the name of Jesus. Such hymns as Bernard’s Jesu, Dulcis Memoria (known in English hymnals as “Jesus, the Very Thought of Thee”) were the songs sung by the average peasant and townsperson.

St. Francis of Assisi, a “friend of Jesus,” along with the brothers who followed him, sent this same kind of devotion to Jesus ringing through the cities and villages of Europe. The God-man was not simply Christ, or the Incarnation, or the “Word made flesh.” “Jesus”—his personal name—was the “one most loved.” People commonly prayed and sang little poems known as “jubilations” which included a repetition of the name of Jesus with a short descriptive phrase. A word frequently used in these descriptions was dulcis, or “sweet.”

A fourteenth-century English preacher and mystic, Richard Rolle, writes: I cannot pray, I cannot meditate, but in sounding the name of Jesus, I savor no joy that is not mingled with Jesus. Wheresoever I be, wheresoever I sit, whatsoever I do, the thought of the savor of the name of Jesus never leaves my mind.… Verily the name of Jesus is in my mind a joyous song and heavenly music in mine ear, and in my mouth a honeyed sweetness. (Selected Works of Richard Rolle, ed. by C. C. Heseltine [1930], 81)

This devotion to the name of Jesus bears remarkable similarity to the constant use of this name in charismatic renewal. Perhaps it marks a shift in emphasis from Jesus the concept to Jesus the person.

Theologians and Scholars

Jubilation was not simply the experience of peasant folk and a few saints and mystics. It was also described and probably experienced by most of the major theologians and intellectual figures of the Middle Ages. The theologians and scholars had a great sense that jubilation was a heritage received from the early church. They often quote and paraphrase the church fathers on jubilation, and at the same time they add new insight to the work of the fathers on the subject.

In 1490, at the close of the Middle Ages, an excellent description of jubilation was given in a Spanish-Latin dictionary, the Universal Vocabulario. It paraphrases Gregory on jubilation when it says that jubilation is a joy that one cannot express in words, yet a joy which cannot be contained; and it places much greater emphasis on gestures than do the patristic definitions: Jubilation is when such a great joy is conceived in the heart that it cannot be expressed in words, yet neither can it be concealed or hidden.… It manifests itself with very happy gestures.… The voice is excited to song. (Universal Vocabulario en Latin y en Romance, Reproduccion Facsimilar de la Edicion de Sevilla, 1490 [1967], vol. 1, col. ccxxvii)

One senses in both the writings of the church fathers and in those of the Middle Ages that jubilation was rarely controversial. Parts of the church’s doctrine that are controversial or disputed—such as the Trinity, the person of Christ, the Eucharist, and the Assumption—receive very precise definitions, and much has been written about them. Other practices and doctrines, not as controversial but perhaps almost as important, do not receive the same sort of definition and prominence in the theological literature of the church. One finds references to jubilation primarily in folk literature; there is a wealth of material on jubilation in the mystical writings and the medieval chronicles which describe the daily life of faith. We find no long theological definitions of this practice in the Middle Ages like those which exist on doctrines such as the Trinity. Yet we do have significant references to jubilation by the major scholars of this period in their devotional writings, sermons, and biblical commentaries. These were people of fervent faith, and in writings which discuss devotion and inspire to faith they include references to jubilation.

Thomas Aquinas. The best-known theologian of the Middle Ages was St. Thomas Aquinas, whose work has profoundly influenced the Catholic church in subsequent centuries. His devotional writings and hymns, such as Pange Lingua and Lauda, Sion present a Thomas who was deeply in love with Jesus. It is said that his sermons brought congregations to tears.

In his commentary of Psalm 32 (33 in English versions) he suggests that jubilation is the new song which Christians sing because of their renewal in grace: That man truly sings in jubilation who sings about the good things of glory.… the jubilus is an inexpressible joy which is not able to be expressed in words but even still the voice declares this vast expanse of joy.… Moreover the things which are not able to be expressed, they are the good things of glory. (In Psalterium David, Ps. 32:3 [33:3])

In his commentary on Psalm 46 (47 in English versions) Thomas writes: Jubilation is an unspeakable joy, which one cannot keep silent; yet neither can it be expressed. The reason that [this joy] cannot be expressed in words is that it is beyond comprehension.… Such is the goodness of God that it cannot be expressed, and even if it could be expressed, it could only imperfectly be expressed. (In Psalterium David, Ps. 46:1 [47:1])

Thus we are aware that St. Thomas believed that part of human knowledge of God goes beyond conceptual language and cannot be expressed in words. Yet the good things of God are so marvelous that the Christian cannot keep silent. It is for this reason that people enter into jubilation.

Bonaventure. Next to St. Thomas Aquinas, the theological works of St. Bonaventure were the most influential of the medieval period. Bonaventure’s writings reflect both the rigor of a competent theologian and the simple love of a mystic. They are filled with a sense of wonder at the mystery of God and of God’s creation. On jubilation he quotes Gregory, describing it as an “inexpressible joy of mind which is not able to be hidden nor to be expressed; nevertheless it is betrayed by certain movements.” He goes on to compare jubilation to the joyful expression of a bridegroom, “not being able to express the cheerfulness of his mind, however perceiving it about himself” (St. Bonaventure, In Psalterium 46:3 (47:3 in English versions).

Perhaps above all else Bonaventure was spiritual and a theologian of spirituality. In The Triple Way, one of his major works on the subject, he formulates a sequence for relationship with God. First the soul is cleansed through sorrow and tears, then a perfecting of the soul comes through praise, thanksgiving and jubilation. Bonaventure says: Perfecting through gratitude implies an awareness that rises to a hymn of thanksgiving for the quality of graces that are offered, a joy that rises to jubilation for the value of the gifts we have received, and a delight that culminates in an embrace because of the Giver’s bounty. (The Works of Bonaventure, trans. by Jose de Vinck [1960], 90)

Jean Gerson. Jean Gerson was rector of the University of Paris and a renowned scholar of the Middle Ages. He was also a popular preacher whose sermons were enjoyed by the masses. Gerson describes a particularly exuberant form of jubilation, contrasting it with the unruly noise of the streets and theaters: The hilarity of the devout … in a certain wonderful and unexplainable sweetness seizes the mind … so that now it does not contain itself. There happens some sort of a spasm, ecstasy, or departure.… The mind springs forth; it leaps, or dances by means of the gestures of the body, which are comely, and then it jubilates in an inexpressible way.… The praise is pleasant, the praise is comely, since the purity of the heart sings along with the voice. (Oevres Complètes, vol. 5, p. 284)

The Early Franciscans. In the early part of the thirteenth century, in the thriving town of Assisi, Italy, a young man began acting in an unaccustomed manner. Normally a likable, fun-loving playboy, he began to spend time away from friends and family. The townspeople noticed a fresh, bright glint in his eye and suspected that he was in love. “Are you going to take a wife?” they asked him. “Yes,” he answered. “I am marrying a bride more beautiful and more noble than any you have ever seen.” The young man was Francis Bernadone, and the bride he was taking, as the people would later discover, was “the kingdom of heaven,” “the life of the gospel” (Early Franciscan Classics [1962], 15).

This was St. Francis of Assisi. Many of us think only of his love for animals; to some he is just the saint who is found in birdbaths. But Francis was much more than a lover of animals. Most of all he was a “friend of Jesus.” An early biographer, Thomas of Celano, says of him: “He was always taken up with Jesus: he ever carried Jesus in his heart, Jesus on his lips, Jesus in his ears, Jesus in his eyes, Jesus in his hands, Jesus in all his members” (quoted in Early Franciscan Classics, 43–44). The simple love and joy of Francis was to change the church. Through him the Lord built a community that was to touch countless thousands before his death and millions more in the centuries to come.

Within a few years of his conversion, thousands of people had joined Francis’s order. They spread throughout the known world preaching the simple message of the gospel. These early Franciscans had a strong sense of community. God became intimately close in the presence of a brother or sister. Thomas of Celano describes their sense of love for one another: What affection for the holy companionship of their fellows flourished among them! Whenever they came together at a place, or met along the road, and exchanged the customary greeting, there rebounded between them a dart of spiritual affection, scattering over all their devotion the seed of true love. And how they showed it! Gentle tenderness … delightful converse, modest laughter, a joyous countenance, a sound eye, a humble heart, “a soothing tongue,” “a mild answer,” unity of purpose, a ready devotedness, and an unwearied hand to help. (Early Franciscan Classics, 43–44)

The source of the wonder and tenderness which they felt toward their Lord, one another and all of creation was prayer. Franciscans were constantly praying, both alone and together. They prayed on hilltops, in abandoned churches, along the streets and roads. They often struggled in prayer with sighs and tears.

For them, jubilation was apparently a very important way of praying. It is referred to in a number of writings, and in some passages is equated with contemplation. The followers of Francis practiced it both publicly and privately. Generally it was described as the speaking of wordless phrases as prayer, or the spontaneous singing of wordless phrases or inspired songs.

In a quaint legend from the Little Flowers (Fioretti), the words of a jubilus are actually written out. The description is amazingly like descriptions of present-day glossolalia within the charismatic renewal: Brother Masseo remained so filled with the grace of the desired virtue of humility and with the light of God that from then on he was in jubilation all the time. And often when he was praying … he would make a jubilus that sounded like the cooing of a gentle dove, “Ooo-Ooo-Ooo.” And with a joyful expression, he would remain in contemplation in that way.… Brother James of Fallerone asked him why he did not change the intonation in his jubilation. And [Masseo] answered very joyfully: “Because when we have found all that is good in one thing, it is not necessary to change the intonation.” (Fioretti, chapter 32)

Another Franciscan writing compared Francis’s jubilations to utterances in French: Intoxicated by love and compassion for Christ, Blessed Francis sometimes used to act like this. For the sweetest of spiritual melodies would often well up within him and found expression in French melodies, and the murmurs of God’s voice, heard by him alone, would joyfully pour forth in French-like jubilations. (Speculum, chapter 93)

Large groups of people are said to have entered into jubilation together. Thomas of Celano tells of a Christmas Eve celebration in Greccio, attended by men and women from all over the region, coming to join the friars in celebration of the birth of the Savior. Here is his amazing description of this tender and exuberantly joyful occasion: A manger has been prepared, hay has been brought, and an ox and an ass have been led up to the place.… The people arrive, and they are gladdened with wondrous delight at the great mystery. The woods resound with their voices and the rocks re-echo their jubilations. The friars sing and give due praise to the Lord, and all the night rings with jubilation. The saint of God [Francis] stands before the manger, sighing, overwhelmed with devotion and flooded with ecstatic joy. The sacrifice of the Mass is celebrated over the manger, and the priest experiences a new consolation. (Thomas of Celano, Vita Prima, Acta Sanctorum Octobris, Tomus Secundus, 706)

Perhaps the most beautiful description of expressive worship ever written is the account of the canonization of Francis, a man whose life had been like a lyric poem, touching tens of thousands with his love, strength, and tenderness before his death. When the announcement came that Pope Gregory IX was to declare him a saint, people danced in the streets.

When the Pope arrived in Assisi, the city was “filled with gladness.” The crowd of people marked the occasion “with great jubilation, and the brightness of the day was made brighter by the torches they brought. The Pope lifted up his hands to heaven and proclaimed Francis enrolled among the saints” (Early Franciscan Classics, 127). Thomas of Celano describes the scene thus: At these words the reverend cardinals, together with the Lord Pope, began to sing the Te Deum in a loud voice. Then there was raised a clamor among the many people praising God: the earth resounded with their mighty voices, the air was filled with their jubilations, and the ground was moistened with their tears. New songs were sung, and the servants of God jubilated in melody of the Spirit. Sweet-sounding organs were heard there and spiritual hymns were sung with well-modulated voices. There a very sweet odor was breathed, and a most joyous melody that stirred the emotions resounded there. (Vita Prima, 718)

This story contains amazing similarities to group singing in the Spirit, as practiced in the present-day charismatic renewal. Those familiar with medieval literature know that this was not an isolated incident; during times of religious exultation whole cities and towns could enter into this type of praise.

Renewals and Revivals

The “age of faith” was a time of many renewals and revivals. Jubilation and exuberant praise were frequently a vital part of those revivals. Wandering preachers went through the countryside admonishing people to turn to God. This sometimes resulted in entire towns laying aside their implements of war and joining orders such as the Franciscans and the Dominicans. One of these revivals, which took place in northern Italy in 1233, was known as the “Alleluia.” This is how the Franciscan chronicler Sambilene describes what happened: This Alleluia, which lasted for a certain length of time, was a period of peace and quiet, in part because the weapons of war had been laid aside. It was a time of merriment and gladness, of joy and exultation, of praise and jubilation. During this time men of all sorts sang songs of praise to God—gentle and simple people, townspeople and farmers, young men and young women. Old people and young people were of one mind. This turning to God was experienced in all the cities of Italy, and they came from the villages to the town with banners, a great multitude of people, men and women, boys and girls together, to hear the preaching and to [gather together] to praise God. The songs that they sang were of God, not of man, and all walked in the way of salvation. And they carried branches of trees and lighted torches. Sermons were preached in the evening, in the morning and at noon.… Also, men took their places in churches and outdoors and lifted up their hands to God, to praise and bless him for ever and ever. They [wished] that they would never have to stop from praising God, they were so drunk with his love. How happy was the man who could do the most to praise God. (Monumenta Germaniae, vol. 23, Scriptores, 70)

The style of many of the wandering preachers was amazingly similar to preaching styles among modern Pentecostals. Some of the preachers, such as Benedict of Parma, did not belong to orders. Others were Dominicans and Franciscans. John of Parma often carried a trumpet as he went about “preaching and praising God in the church and the open places.” Sambilene describes John’s preaching thus: I myself have often seen him preaching and praising God. He often did this standing upon the wall of the bishop’s palace which was at that time in the process of being built. He began his praises by saying in the vulgar tongue, “Praised and blessed and glorified be the Father.” Then the children would repeat the same words. A second time he would repeat the phrase, adding “be the Son,” and the children would repeat the same and sing the same words. For the third time he would repeat the phrase, adding “be the Holy Ghost,” and then “Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!” Afterward he would blow his trumpet. Then he would preach, adding a few words in praise of God. (Monumenta Germaniae, vol. 23, Scriptores, 70)

The spontaneous song of these thirteenth-century Christians, their great love of praising God, and their use of banners and torches is remarkably similar to the large processions at charismatic conferences which often include the use of banners, candles, and inspired songs.

Charismatic Prayer and Cathedrals

One of the best examples of religious renewal in the Middle Ages was the building of cathedrals. These magnificent edifices were often constructed as the result of a wave of religious zeal that would grip whole towns, cities, and regions. Much of the work was done by volunteers in an atmosphere of group charismatic prayer. It has been suggested that if all we knew of the Middle Ages were the churches and the cathedrals that have been passed down to us, we would know practically all that we need to know about the faith of the people. Richly carved altars, statues, and windows illuminated with light filtering through stained glass moved worshipers to a deep experience of God.

The queen of cathedrals was Chartres. Its many windows beautifully depicted the place of Jesus in redemption. Scenes of his infancy, his life, and his crucifixion give a pictorial testimony to the deep devotion to their Lord that filled the people of that time. The first part of the cathedral at Chartres, begun in 1145, was built as a result of a revival that swept Normandy. Contemporary accounts indicate that the awakening began in Chartres and spread to Dives and then throughout the whole country. Abbot Haimon of St. Pierre-sur-Dives in Normandy vividly describes this revival in a letter, and the accuracy of his story is attested by other sources from that period (see G. G. Coulton, Life in the Middle Ages [1930] vol. 3, p. 18). Charismatic worship, healing services, and a greater call to conversion were all a part of this revival.

The renewal which led to the building of the cathedral was viewed as an act of God’s grace. Because people had become “estranged from God” and “sick with sin,” “the loving Lord looked from heaven … and then he drew to himself those who had moved away from him, and recalled the wandering.” In so doing, God showed the populace at Chartres “a new manner of seeking him.” A great amount of the work on the cathedral was done by volunteers who numbered in the thousands, an astounding figure when one remembers that the entire population of Chartres was only ten thousand at the time.

Conversion was a major element of the revival; Haimon says that in order to join the voluntary association of those who were building the cathedral, both men and women were required to go to confession, put away grudges and be reconciled with their enemies. During the actual building, priests exhorted the crowds to greater conversion of heart. Members of the nobility worked side by side with common serfs as equals, doing the manual labor so important to the sacred building project. Haimon’s words leap across the centuries as he describes the spirit of love and conversion that permeated the work on the cathedral:

For who ever beheld, who ever heard, in all the ages past that kings, princes, the powerful men of this world, proud of their birth and their wealth, used to a life of ease, harness themselves to a wagon and haul a load of stone, lime, wood or some other building material. The load was so heavy that sometimes more than a thousand people were required to pull the wagon.… When they stopped to rest nothing was heard but confession of sins and pure prayer to God.… The priests encouraged the group to be of one mind; hatreds ceased, grudges disappeared … and men’s hearts were united.

Charismatic prayer and prayer for healing were important during this renewal. Trumpets and banners accompanied the work of moving stone to the cathedral. Haimon speaks of “blasts of trumpets and waving of banners … too marvelous to tell of.” When the priests encouraged the people to repent and seek mercy, they would “lift up their sobs and sighs from the inmost recesses of their hearts with the voice of confession and praise.” Many would be so overcome with God’s presence that they would “fall to the ground, then lie there with outstretched arms and kiss the earth again and again.”

According to Haimon, innumerable healings accompanied the prayer and the work: “If I would tell all that I have been allowed to see, even in a single night, my memory and my tongue would utterly fail me,” he writes. In the process of moving the stone the wagons would be stopped and the sick prayed for. “You may see the dumb open their mouths to praise God. Those troubled by demons come to sounder mind.… The sick and those troubled by various diseases get up healed from the wagons on which they have been laid.”

Night was a time for rest and for spontaneous prayer and healing services. The wagons pulled up around the building site. Torches and lights of all sorts were ignited on the wagons. The sick were set apart in groups while the people sang “psalms and hymns” and implored the Lord to heal them. If some were not healed immediately the crowd became even more exuberant in its praying. Cries and tears rose to heaven. People were seen to throw themselves on the ground and crawl toward the high altar. Many were moved to a deep penance. Haimon describes the results of these prayer meetings thus:

Soon all the sick leap forth healed from wagon after wagon. The crippled throw away the crutches on which they had leaned their crippled limbs, hurrying to give thanks at the altar. Blind men see and move about with ease.

After each healing there was a procession to the high altar and bells were rung. Throughout the night “nothing is heard but hymns, praises and thanks!” (Coulton, Life in the Middle Ages, vol. 3, p. 18–22).

Abbot Haimon’s remarkable letter reveals that charismatic prayer and worship were a part of the renewal that produced what is perhaps the best Christian art and architecture in the history of the church. The letter also attests to the connection between fervent expressive prayer and healing. The resolution of the crowd to continue praying until all were healed is similar to “saturation prayer” in the current charismatic renewal, during which people are prayed over for healing at length. The atmosphere created by this kind of expectancy generates faith in those who participate.

Jubilation in the Patristic Era

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The time from the conversion of Constantine until the dawning of the second millennium was the formative period of the church, the era of the church fathers. It was a time of lively faith but also a time of controversy. During this period the expressive worship tradition of the church was shaped and formed and given the roots it needed to grow in richness in the following centuries. An important aspect of this worship tradition was a form of wordless prayer known as jubilation, which the church fathers understood as a natural human response to the mystery of God.

The period of the fathers was a time of a rich variety of styles of expressive prayer and worship. Congregations could be quite spontaneous in calling out phrases of praise and thanksgiving. Sighs, tears, and laughter played an important role in worship. Perhaps the most significant form of spontaneous prayer during the formative period was prayer without words, or jubilation, which closely resembles the “tongues” of present-day charismatic renewal. Jubilation was a way of singing and praying aloud without using words. Although the last hundred years have seen even the memory of wordless prayer ebb from the Catholic church’s consciousness, it played a vital role in the formation of the liturgy until the ninth century and was important in private prayer until the late Middle Ages. Traces of it can be found in the mystical tradition as late as the nineteenth century.

Origin of the Term Jubilation

The word jubilation (or jubilus) comes from the classical Latin word jubilatio which means “loud shouting, whooping.” In classical usage, a jubilation was the pastoral call of a farmer or shepherd. It has been the age-old custom of country people to call to one another or to animals by using special calls or yodels. St. Hilary of Poitiers (d. 368) referred to the peasant origins of the term jubilation:

And according to the custom of our language, we name the call of the peasant and agricultural worker a jubilus, when in solitary places, either answering or calling, the jubilation of the voice is heard through the emphasis on the long drawn out and expressive rendering. (Ennarationes in Psalmos 65, as quoted in George Chambers, Folksong-Plainsong [1956], 23-24)

This jubilation of the peasant was probably much like a yodel. In fact, the word yodel comes from the medieval usage of the word jubilation (Die Musik in Geschichte und Gegenwart [1958] vol. 7, p. 74). Alpine shepherds still employ the yodel to call to one another. Western ranch hands of North America herd cattle with a form of yodel. There seems to be a natural human trait, which was much more pronounced in preindustrial societies, to improvise wordless calls and songs. When human muscle power exerted in concert was still a vital source of energy, men regulated the rhythm of their lifting and moving together through the use of wordless calls.

Christians of the late Roman Empire and Middle Ages were well acquainted with a variety of wordless expressions. They saw their wordless prayers as the same type of activity that farmers and shepherds engaged in. They recognized the singing and speaking of wordless phrases as a natural human activity, much more than people of the twentieth century would.

If they saw a great identity between their jubilation and the natural jubilation of the secular world, they also saw profound differences. For them, Christian jubilation was a natural human activity given over to profoundly Christian and spiritual use. Augustine could call Christian jubilation miraculous (J. P. Migne, Patrologia Latina, vol. 40, p. 680). Contrasting secular jubilation with its Christian counterpart, he wrote: “They jubilate out of confusion, … we [Christians] out of confession” (Ennarationes in Psalmos 99).

Thus, jubilation was viewed as a natural human expression that was given profound spiritual and mystical significance. George Chambers writes of this change of use: “[Jubilation] is the expression of the soul in a higher sense; it ceases to be merely a subconscious utterance and becomes part of the spirit’s yearning for the inner things of God” (Chambers, Folksong-Plainsong, 5).

Types of Jubilation

The term jubilation has a wide range of meanings. Essentially it was understood as the spontaneous outward expression of inner spiritual experience. Such expression might come through wordless songs or sounds, but could also be manifested by bodily expressions such as gestures and laughter. As we survey what the church fathers have to say about it, we note references to three major types of jubilation. First, musical jubilation was a form of spontaneous, wordless singing. Second, congregational jubilation was musical jubilation in a liturgical setting. It was the custom of congregations to sing an alleluia before the reading of the gospel and to extend the last “a” of the alleluia into a long, spontaneous, wordless song. Third, mystical jubilation was the flow of wordless sounds, musical or nonmusical, along with laughter and gestures, which accompany intense spiritual experience. The following is a more complete discussion of these three types of jubilation.

Musical Jubilation. Musical jubilation is singing aloud on vowel sounds as an expression of joy or yearning for God. One of the best definitions of this practice has been provided by music historian Albert Seay, who writes that it is “an overpowering expression of the ecstasy of the spirit, a joy that could not be restricted to words.… It occupied a peculiar place in the liturgy, for it carried implications of catharsis, a cleansing of the soul” (Music in the Medieval World [1965], 38). In a major work dealing with the jubilus, Théodore Gérold emphasizes its improvisation: “One notes the more or less spontaneous impulse.… In [jubilations] [the people] exhaled joy to some extent without control” (Les pères de l’église et la musique (Études d’histoire et de philosophie Réligieuse, XXV, 1931], 122).

Most major thinkers of the Christian church in the late Roman Empire and early Middle Ages mention the practice of jubilation. We will examine some of their statements.

St. Augustine of Hippo, whose writings were a major influence on Western thought for nearly one thousand years after his death, mentions jubilation several times. In his Expositions of the Psalms, Augustine writes: Where speech does not suffice … they break into singing on vowel sounds, that through this means the feeling of the soul may be expressed, words failing to explain the heart’s conceptions. Therefore, if they jubilate from earthly exhilaration, should we not sing the jubilation out of heavenly joy, what words cannot express?”

He urges his people to jubilate, saying: You already know what it is to jubilate. Rejoice and speak. If you cannot express your joy, jubilate: jubilation expresses your joy, if you cannot speak; it cannot be a silent joy; if the heart is not silent to its God, it shall not be silent to his reward. (Ennarationes in Psalmos 97, in Patrologia Latina, vol. 37, pp. 1254–1255)

Augustine speaks of the highly spontaneous and wordless character of jubilation: He who sings a jubilus … pronounces a wordless sound of joy; the voice of his soul pours forth happiness as intensely as possible, expressing what he feels without reflecting on any particular meaning.… He simply lets his joy burst forth without words. (Ennarationes in Psalmos 99:4, in Patrologia Latina, vol. 37, p. 1272)

St. Jerome, who translated the Bible into Latin, says: By the term jubilus we understand that which neither in words nor syllables nor letters nor speech is it possible to express or comprehend how much man ought to praise God. (Patrologia Latina, vol. 26, p. 970)

In his translation of the Psalms, Jerome translates the Greek word alalgma, which means “shout of joy,” as jubilus. In this use of the term he probably refers to the experience of wordless singing which was common in his day (Chambers, Folksong-Plainsong, 8).

St. John Chrysostom (c. 347–407), the bishop of Constantinople, encouraged his people to sing without words. He says, “It is permitted to sing psalms without words, so long as the mind resounds within” (Eis ton Psalmon 41:2, in Patrologiae Graecae et Latinae, vol. 55, p. 159; Prothe ria eis tous Psalmous, in PGL, vol. 55, p. 538).

M. Aurelius Cassiodorus (450–583) wrote a massive commentary on the Psalms in which he mentions jubilation several times. It is not clear from his references whether he is speaking of musical or nonmusical jubilation. He writes: The jubilation is called an exultation of the heart, which, because it is such an infinite joy, cannot be explained in words. (Complexiones in Psalmos 65:1 [66:1 in English versions], in Patrologia Latina, vol. 70, p. 451)

He further writes, “Jubilation is the joy expressed with fervor of mind and shout of indistinct voice.” Cassiodorus describes jubilation as a response to the incarnation of Jesus through the “new song” referred to in Psalm 33:3. He believed that the entire universe has been filled “with saving exultation” because of that event (Complexiones in Psalmos 32:3 [33:3 in English versions], in Patrologia Latina, vol. 70, p. 226). Again, Cassiodorus asserted that jubilation can teach praise. It is a “helping,” a “delighting,” “For those for whom the exultation of words was not able to be sufficient, so they might leap forth into the most overflowing and unexplainable joy, … teaching rejoicing souls that they ought to give thanks to the Lord, not to sing confused by some anxiety. (Complexiones in Psalmos 80:1 [81:1 in English versions], in Patrologia Latina, vol. 70, p. 586)

St. Isidore of Seville (d. 636) passed on much of the wisdom of the Latin fathers to later generations. Concerning jubilation, he writes: Language cannot explain, … words cannot explain.… It is an effusion of the soul.… When the joy of exultation erupts by means of the voice, this is known as jubilation. (Opera Omnia, vol. 5, p. 43)

Jubilation was a common form of prayer for believers in the medieval period. Sometimes wordless singing was an extension of vowel sounds after the singing of an alleluia; sometimes the jubilation was sung without the alleluia. Jerome mentions farmers in the field and even little children praying in this way. Others mention Christian sailors and boatmen on the Loire praying the jubilation. The practice was so widespread that the historian of music Marie Pierik has stated, “This ejaculation, modulated on all forms, became the refrain of gladness which accompanied the daily occupations of the peaceful population converted to the new faith” (Marie Pierik, Song of the Church).

Congregational Jubilation. Congregational jubilation is musical jubilation in the context of worship. Most of the descriptions of musical jubilation in general in the writings of the church fathers and music historians also apply to jubilation in congregations. Improvised prayer singing was practiced in a period when church worship incorporated a high degree of spontaneity. In addition to the jubilation, psalm-singing and hymns could be improvised. Congregations might react spontaneously with laughter, tears, and sighs and by shouting phrases such as, “Glory to God!”

It appears that most of the music in the patristic era, and at least some until the time of the ninth-century liturgical scholar Amalarius of Metz, was of an improvisational nature. L’encyclopédie de la musique includes this comment: From these sources (i.e., the church fathers) one senses clearly that the music of the Christian era was originally improvised. The first Christians expressed their religious ecstasy in a purely emotional and spontaneous fashion by means of music. According to the terminology of Tertullian all the members of an assembly were invited to participate in the praise of God by words from Scripture or by “songs of their own invention.” The first Christian authors, Hilary of Poitiers (315–366), Jerome (340–420), and Augustine (354–430), until Amalarius (ninth century), describe the rich, exuberant coloraturas sung without a text and the alleluia songs as overwhelming melody of joy and gratitude sung upon the inspiration of the moment. A large number of the melodies that have come down to us still have traces of improvisation. (article, “Improvisation,” in L’encyclopédie de la musique)

St. John Chrysostom suggests that it is the work of the Holy Spirit that makes improvised singing in churches possible. He states, “Though men and women, young and old, are different, when they sing hymns, their voices are influenced by the Holy Spirit in such a way that the melody sounds as if sung by one voice.” Chrysostom refers to the cantor as the “prophet” and to music as “prophecy.” Of the singing at the Church of Holy Peace in Constantinople, Chrysostom writes: “The prophet speaks and we all respond to him. All of us make echo to him. Together we form one choir. In this, earth imitates heaven. This is the nobility of the Church” (quoted in L’encyclopédie des musiques sacres [1968–1970], vol. 2, p. 15).

Improvised body movements could accompany congregational singing. Theodoret (c. 386–457) has left a report of “hymns being accompanied by clapping of hands and dance movements” (J. P. Migne, Patrologia Graeca, vol. 83, p. 426).

Congregational jubilation was a part of the total picture of improvised music. The jubilation came after the singing of the alleluia, just before the gospel during mass. As the congregation and choir sang the last alleluia, the people moved into exuberant wordless singing on vowel sounds, which could last for up to five minutes. In a real sense it was a preparation for the hearing of the gospel. It could also occur in melismatic portions of the graduals and offertories. Cassiodorus writes: The tongue of singers rejoices in it; joyfully the community repeats it. It is an ornament of the tongue of singers … like something good of which one can never have enough. It is innovated in ever-varying jubilations. (Complexiones in Psalmos 104, quoted in Chambers, Folksong-Plainsong, 7)

It was during the ninth century that improvisation of the jubilus ceased to be an expected part of the liturgy. From the period of Pope Gregory I (“the Great”) in the sixth century until the eleventh century, the church was in the process of absorbing new nations and barbarian tribes, often converting them en masse. While these were real conversions, it could take generations for a vital Christianity to filter down to the ordinary people. This situation inhibited the practice of improvisation, which relied to some extent on the spiritual sensitivity of congregations. Church music began to be performed more and more by trained choirs; this resulted in the writing of church music in notation, causing it to lose much of its improvised character.

Eventually the jubilation was largely replaced by the sequence. In the year 860, Norsemen sacked the cloister of Jumièges in Normandy, and a monk carried with him the written musical notation for the mass to the safety of the monastery at St. Gall. There a young monk named Notker noticed that words had been written in place of the jubilations after the final alleluia. Adopting this suggestion, Notker composed other words to replace jubilations. At first this was a device to help singers remember melodies, but soon it replaced the jubilation entirely (Henry Osborn Taylor, The Medieval Mind [1911], vol. 2, p. 201).

Although jubilation ceased to be an expected part of the liturgy, large groups of ordinary people improvised expressive jubilations well into the Middle Ages, and mystically oriented small groups did so into the seventeenth century and perhaps later.

Mystical Jubilation. Mystics are men and women who feel the pull of eternity in a special way. Their lives are marked by a hunger for God and a close union with him. As a result of the constant quest for a bold experience of God, their lives are often characterized by dark tunnels and moments of indescribable ecstasy, resulting in a radical transformation of their existence. Examples are the ascetics of the desert, who often emerged from long years of prayer as men of great tenderness whose very presence brought healing to disturbed souls.

Part of the prayer experience of these mystics was the outward physical expression of the deep inward moving of the Spirit, sometimes involving jubilation. Traces of the practice can be seen in the patristic era. Later in the medieval period, mystical jubilation becomes much more common. Pope Gregory the Great, in his commentary on Job, describes it as an immense interior joy that is manifested outwardly by the voice, physical gestures, and laughter. He says:

What we mean by the term jubilation is when we conceive such a great joy in the heart that we cannot express it in words; yet despite this the heart vents what it is feeling by means of the voice what it cannot express by discursive speech. (Expositio in Librum Iob, 8, 88)

Gregory writes that jubilation can also be expressed in bodily gestures: “What we call jubilation is an unspeakable joy which can neither be concealed nor expressed in words. It betrays itself, however, by certain gestures, though it is not expressed in any suitable words” (Expositio in Librum Iob, 24, 10). He pictures the heavenlies as a place of jubilation: “The mouth is rightly said to be filled with laughter, the lips with jubilation, since in that eternal land, when the mind of the righteous is borne away in transport, the tongue is lifted up in praise” (Expositio in Librum Iob, 8, 89).

John Cassian, the early fifth-century monk, helped to interpret the experience of the desert holy men for the Western church. He refers to monks waking with “a sacrifice of jubilations.” Sometimes the delight of this experience is so great that the monk breaks out into shouts. Cassian describes this experience:

For often through some inexpressible delight and keenness of spirit, the fruit of a most salutary conviction arises so that it actually breaks forth into shouts owing to the greatness of its uncontrollable joy; and the delight of the heart and the greatness of exultation make themselves heard even in the cell of the neighbor.

Sometimes this experience of God is felt in profound quiet; sometimes it is expressed by “a flood of tears.” Prayer without words, whether shouts, quiet or tears, has great value, according to Cassian: “That is not a perfect prayer … wherein the monk understands himself and the words which he prayed” (“Praying in a Transport of Mind,” unidentified quote in Reinhold, The Soul Afire [1973], 362-363).

Other Styles of Expressive Prayer and Worship

The picture one gets from reading the literature of the early church is that people could be quite expressive both in private and public worship. St. Augustine, pastor and bishop of the Christian church in Hippo during the early fifth century, has left us many interesting accounts of the spontaneity of his congregation. One Augustinian scholar has noted that “Augustine’s congregation was in the habit of reacting to whatever was read or preached with all the liveliness of their temperament. They shouted comments, sighed, and laughed, like children at a cinema” (F. Van Der Meer, Augustine the Bishop [1961], 339).

Another account of expressive worship comes from Egeria, the Diary of a Pilgrimage, the story of a woman from Gaul who made a pilgrimage to Christian Palestine in the early fifth century. She writes that the people of Jerusalem were quite devout and that the houses of the city were emptied on Sundays because people flocked to church. They loved ceremony and candlelight processions.

One of their customs was to gather in the church well before daybreak on Sunday to hear a special reading of the account of Jesus’ resurrection. Egeria says, “During the reading of the passage [about the arrest of the Lord] there is such moaning and groaning with weeping from all the people that their moaning can be heard practically as far as the city” (Egeria, The Diary of a Pilgrimage, trans. George E. Gingras [1970], 109).

The type of experience described by Egeria appears to be a kindred response to jubilation. Both the “moans” and “groans” of Egeria and the joyful wordless sounds of jubilation are in a real sense glossolalia prayer: wordless, spontaneous prayer that is spoken aloud.

“How sweet,” Augustine said in his commentary on the Psalms, “are the sighs and tears of prayer” (Ennarationes in Psalmos 125). It was common for members of his congregation to employ such gestures as outstretched hands, prostrations, kneeling, loud beating of the breast, and a person’s throwing himself on the floor in contrition.

The Spiritual Significance of Jubilation for the Church Fathers

The church fathers believed that praying with both body and voice was normal and natural for Christians. They knew that much in God is mysterious; therefore, our encounters with him are also filled with mystery. One way in which believers could respond to God’s mystery was through singing and praying without words. The fathers conceived of a rhythm in the heart of God, a beautiful and mysterious song into which Christians can enter by means of jubilation.

In our own day, we have witnessed a rebirth of voiced, wordless prayer, most often referred to as “speaking in tongues,” or glossolalia. Under the inspiration of the Spirit, the person prays or sings aloud without words, expressing things that cannot be spoken in words. The importance for charismatics is not that it is a language or “unknown tongue,” but that it is a means whereby the Holy Spirit prays through the believer, expressing things that are beyond conceptual language. George Montague, a leading theologian of the charismatic renewal, views glossolalia not as a language but as preconceptual prayer (The Spirit and His Gifts [1974], 18-29).

Most Bible scholars consider New Testament tongues to be ecstatic speech, wordless sounds rather than actual spoken language. Significantly, modern culture has recently rediscovered what preindustrial societies knew instinctively, that communication and expression are much broader than the vocabulary and syntax of language. Examples of phrases that indicate this understanding are “body language,” “good vibes,” and “bad vibes.” Thus one can conceive of glossolalia as real communication, even if it does not use syntax and vocabulary.

If both glossolalia and jubilation can be classified as preconceptual prayer, perhaps jubilation qualifies as a form of glossolalia. Indeed, the definition of glossolalia in a major study by Morton T. Kelsey sounds much like the definitions of jubilation given by the church fathers. Kelsey calls glossolalia “a spontaneous utterance of uncomprehended and seemingly random speech sounds” (Tongue Speaking [1968], 1).

A major difference between the church fathers’ understanding of glossolalia and the understanding prevalent in Pentecostal and charismatic circles is that the fathers saw it as a natural human activity. There is a tendency among Pentecostals to understand tongues as somehow separate from normal human experience. Analogies are rarely drawn with similar human activities such as yodeling, humming in the shower, and the like. In fact, one wonders if the reaction of misunderstanding and occasional fear on the part of some Christians to glossolalia does not come from this dichotomy.

Although the church fathers conceived of jubilation as a natural human activity, they also saw it as a form of prayer with profound spiritual significance. As such it was a natural human activity given over to Christian use. An analogy can be made with the Eucharist. Sitting down to a meal is one of the most ordinary of human activities. The Eucharist is also a meal; it is also ordinary and human. The difference between the Eucharist and a family meal is that the Eucharist is a meal given over to a real and profound encounter with Christ.

The same can be said of glossolalia as an ordinary human activity, that of giving over one’s voice to a flow of sounds from the subconscious. The fathers viewed it as an experience similar to battle cries, yodels, and humming. Yet among Christians, this ordinary activity is given over to the deep movement of the Spirit within the person—a physical, vocal giving of oneself to the movement of the Spirit.

Part of the spiritual significance of jubilation for the church fathers was the understanding that jubilation is essentially God praying through the believer. Augustine clearly delineates this view in his commentary on Psalm 32 (33 in English versions), where he asserts that human beings do not know how to pray or sing to God properly. God himself intervenes through jubilation, even helping to form the tune. Augustine writes, “Lo and behold, he sets the tune for you himself, so to say; do not look for words, as if you could put into words the things that please God. Sing in jubilation: singing well to God means, in fact, just this: singing in jubilation.” In an apparent paraphrase of Paul’s statement in Romans 8:26, Augustine continues: “The jubilus is a melody which conveys that the heart is in travail over something it cannot bring forth in words. [When you cannot say what you want to say] what else can you do but jubilate?” (On the Psalms [1961 edition], 111-112).

This same sentiment is expressed in beautiful, imaginative imagery by St. Peter Chrysologus. He hears the jubilation as God’s own song and relates it to the call of the Good Shepherd. In his commentary on Psalm 94 (95 in English versions) St. Peter Chrysologus writes thus: The Shepherd with sweet jubilus, with varied melody, leads the flock to pasture, keeps the tired flock at rest under shaded grove. This jubilus urges the flock to climb lofty mountains, there to graze on healthful grasses. Also it calls them to descend to the low valleys slowly and without hurry. How happy are those sheep that join their voices to the voice of the Shepherd, that follow when he calls to feed and gather. They truly jubilate to their Shepherd.… In [singing] psalms let us jubilate. (Sermo VI in Psalmos 94)

Christians of this period considered jubilation to be an entering into the music of the angels. “Heaven,” said St. Isidore, “functions under the rhythm of jubilation” (Chambers, Folksong-Plainsong, 8). This was also suggested by Pope Gregory the Great when he described jubilation as the praise of the blessed in heaven.

Augustine viewed jubilation as a confession, Cassiodorus as a “declaration.” It was an acknowledgment that much of God is beyond us, and a witness that he prays through his people and unites their voices. Even today the traces of jubilation that remain in Gregorian chant and plainsong eloquently describe that mystery.

Although jubilation was often described as a spontaneous expression of joy, it was also to be engaged in regardless of one’s feelings. Augustine, Chrysologus, and others used the imperative form when they admonished the people to jubilate; in short, they commanded the congregation to do so. Improvised jubilation was a regular part of the liturgical life of the people. They engaged in it regardless of circumstance, both in times of dryness and of spiritual blessing. This act of obedience opened up a channel through which God could work and pray through them. They thought of jubilation as entering into the praise of heaven.