All Shall Be Well
The yearnings of a medieval woman grant us hope in our present malaise.
On May 13, 1373, a young Englishwoman in the cathedral city of Norwich, likely named Julian, lay on her bed dying. Her body was overcome with one of the many contagious diseases that afflicted people in those days. Hour after hour, she lay in agony, undergoing the purgation of her flesh. She sensed that her appointed hour drew near.
Being a medieval Christian, Julian naturally saw her own sufferings as a joining with those of Christ. She longed to have a “shewing” – that is, a vision from God. For what she desired most was to have a “more true mind in the Passion of Christ.”1 She sought to understand this moment of tremendous personal suffering in light of spiritual realities.
And so, Julian wrote after the fact, God gave her visions: revelations of divine love. Jesus Christ himself appeared to her, showed her his wounds, showered her with his grace, assured her of his love. It is the kind of experience we modern types are bound to discount, but for Julian, it was the very substance of reality.
When Julian recovered from her illness, she recorded this incredible experience for all to read. In so doing, Julian of Norwich became the earliest known woman whose words have been preserved in the English language.
Yet, what is most remembered from Julian’s book is not her reflections upon Christ’s Passion or even the extraordinary passage in which she speaks of God as her mother. No, its most famous lines come when she questions why God would allow sin and suffering. Why should he permit the fall of man when it has led to so many evils?
Christ does not grant her an explanation for why evil is allowed, but he does provide a message of comfort that invites her to trust him. “It is behoved that there should be sin; but all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”2 Later on, he again says, “It is sooth that sin is the cause of all this pain; but all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”3
Sitting in the year 2024, it is just as difficult for me to believe that “all shall be well” as it was for those in the fourteenth century, a terrible period in which the Black Death killed 30-50% of the European population. I look at all that is happening in the world – authoritarian rulers on the rampage, peace broken at every turn, grinding poverty, ravaging disease, environmental disasters – and I ask myself, “How can anything be well on earth?”
To live is to suffer. Equally, to be in fear. Yes, to have your very being in fear. By no accident did St. Paul command his followers to “work out your salvation in fear and trembling.” (Philippians 2:12) We walk in fear and trembling all our days, and only the dead are free from it.
During a spiritual crisis a few years ago in which I was utterly petrified, I longed to know a deep peace: an ending of fear. I yearned for that perfect love which brings an end to our trembling.
Only by faith can we confess that “all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.” For there is little in nature that would convince us of such, and less still in the hearts of human beings. But by faith, we see the breaking light – the deliverance at hand. It will be a thing not of our making and far beyond our comprehension.
I know I will always be filled with fear – that it is a central part of my existence in a fallen world. But I must not walk in fear. I must not be afraid.
I am no equal to the saints of old. Did they fear and tremble as I do? They must have, and yet they seem far more sanctified, for God worked a work in them: they persevered, and in doing so, they caused us to forget their trembling.
I do not pretend to those heights of character, but I do find myself growing slightly, enduring, persevering. Not by my own strength. Heavens, no! It is a peace beyond understanding: a peace that co-exists with deepest grief. Mysterious, and one might almost say, divine.
At the end of last year, I found myself desperate, dreading the year to come. I suspected our best days had already passed, and now the darkness was growing: a darkness that would cloud our whole existence.
I could not bear it. I feared and trembled! And I prayed to God, “Free me from this fear. Release me! I cannot live like this.” By no means have my fears entirely departed since that moment. The threat of war sends a chill through my bones. Our son continues to struggle developmentally, and our family life suffers. My hope is a thing as fragile as the dew of summer sent to flight by the rising heat.
And yet, I live. And yet, I have peace.
I believe that all shall be well not because I can see it. I know not from which corner our deliverance might arise. But I have seen the breaking light, and I believe that somewhere beyond the horizon, the sun is standing in wait, ready to shine upon the dark places of this world. The hidden places, the dread caverns. Their gates will be thrown open. Light itself will flood the deep.
It is evening, the time for bathing. I watch my son play in the water, rejoicing in its touch, mesmerized by its possibilities. I look upon him in love, and I know it is a sacred moment: an eternal moment. For love is what remains of us when the fire has done its work. We will be brought through this purgation. Love lives on.
I place my hand on the damp hair of his head and say, “The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make his face to shine upon you and be gracious to you. The Lord lift up his countenance on you and give you peace.” And in that I have peace. I bestow my blessing on him, a tiny fragment of that which has fallen on me from above.
For love is the ending of fear, the fulfillment of the promise. And in this moment I know that all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.
BEHOLD, PODCASTS!
I have recently been on two podcasts to discuss the history of the Reformation and my forthcoming novel, Broken Bonds, which releases on November 12 this year. Pre-order is not yet available, but in the meantime, you can here what I have to say in these discussions.
Ministry Minded: “On the nuances of Reformation history and theology with Amy Mantravadi”
Mythic Mind Fellowship: “June 9 Fellowship Chat”
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Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love, trans. Grace Warrack (London: Aeterna Press, 2020), 3.
Julian, 40.
Julian, 41.