Stepping under the 13th-century painted ceiling from the chancel of the church in Ål housed in Oslo’s Historical Museum is a breathtaking experience for a medievalist. The space is small, probably only 15 feet by 30 feet. The community that worshipped in this space was also small: while it is difficult to figure out exact population numbers, the entire population of Norway at the time was only a few hundred thousand people. Ål was not a major metropolitan center and was far from rich or prestigious centers of power in the Middle Ages, with likely only a few hundred people in the region. As stunning as their stavkirke (stave church) is to us now, there were between 1000 and 1500 churches like it throughout Norway in the Middle Ages, although perhaps not as richly decorated. The parishioners of Ål had put some time and money into making their church look more like the ornate churches of larger cities: they shaped the wood ceiling like the vaults in a stone church and hired a professional painter from a major town to complete their 13th century renovations, complete with their own Last Supper, painted at almost the same time as da Vinci’s famous version and reflexive of their theology as well as their culture.
I spent longer than almost any other visitor to Oslo’s History Museum standing in this chancel from Ål, in their exhibit titled “Transformation”– I think the museum guards were starting to wonder what I was up to! But I found the space to be not only beautiful, but also a rich source of understanding for medieval faith in Norway. The biblical narratives all throughout the space, carefully chosen stories from the Old and New Testaments, create a sort of public theology that lets us better understand what doctrines or beliefs these rural medieval believers prioritized. The people depicted in the art look very Scandinavian, letting us get a glimpse of how Norwegian believers might have imagined themselves as part of the biblical narrative– a common medieval practice. (A favorite scene of mine is the one pictured here, of Mary at the nativity– the bed, cradle, and curious dogs are clearly medieval, and clearly represent some experience with how dogs respond to babies!)
The balance of men and women in the artwork is also fascinating, with as many women as men appearing in the scenes. And it’s not just Mary: the women at the resurrection and at the crucifixion play a visually large role, taking up almost half of the bottom of one of the sides of the church. In this way, there are parallels between this Nordic church and Chora Church in Istanbul, with its mosaics produced around the same time period, that feature not just Mary, but also the woman at the well and other women who are usually left out of modern church art.
Theology in Image
The depiction of the creation sequence, though, is one that I found especially gripping, especially for the lesson it teaches us about theology in context. The creation appears in a series of five images, inset in circles along the highest point of the vaulted ceiling, down the center. In the first, the artists depict the very beginning: the spirit of God hovering over nothingness, depicted here as a dove over blank space. Interestingly, the dove is directly above the seated Christ in the Last Supper, directly connecting the presence of the spirit of God to the elements of communion. The second image portrays the creation of day and night and the sun and the moon- here, a very Scandinavian and young-looking God mirrors what parishioners might expect in pose from their priests or bishops, blessing them during a service. The third image (with a now bearded divine figure, looking aged by the work of creation) depicts the creation of living things, here a bird. Again the familiar posture of blessing- but the cross staff carried in the first image is gone. It’s worth noting here that just in these first three images, we have recognizable points towards the trinity in the dove, the cross, and the bearded figure who might call to mind a Father. The next two panels turn towards the creation of Adam and Eve and their time in the Garden of Eden. The bearded God figure (again with the cross staff) speaks with kneeling and prayerful humans, who then enjoy their time in the garden under a tree playing a board game. In an ominous foreshadowing of the cost of returning to this carefree state after the fall, directly next to this image of Adam and Eve is a giant depiction of Christ on the cross.
So far, there’s lots that could be said about the visual theology being done here- but this final image, that of the board games in the garden, is what really caught my attention.
Part of this might be because this idea of games has been coming up in my research on medieval York, where the idea of heavenly game frequently comes up in cycle plays or sermons to articulate the idea of a right relationship with God. Given trade connections between the British Isles and Scandinavia, this idea of games as an Edenic state (something that I haven’t seen referenced as frequently in other sermon literature from southern England or from France) seems to perhaps be one that reflects regional values. But where did those values come from?
Theology through Culture
This is where things in the museum got really interesting- a possible source for this “games in heaven” iconography jumped out in another exhibit on Viking beliefs, “Miðgarðr.” A casual aside in a plaque about some board game pieces found in archaeological work in Iron Age burials mentioned that in Norse mythology, after the catastrophic events and deaths of Ragnarök, the picking back up of board game pieces by the surviving gods meant the beginning of new life. Norse gods played board games to help determine the fates of humanity. In short, there was a clear connection between board games and divine spaces and new life in pre-Christian Scandinavia. This gives the image of Adam and Eve playing a board game an entirely new level of possible meaning for medieval audiences, likely still familiar with the pre-Christian mythology of their region. Board games in heaven might indeed be a sign of new life– and the return of those board games in the end of days a sign of a new start.
So what do we do with this? You now know more about a single church ceiling in Norway than you probably ever thought you would. But what’s the bigger picture? I think the juxtaposition of the two museum exhibits is really important in what it tells us about studying both theology and history. Without knowledge of Trinitarian theology or of soteriology, we’d miss the intentionality of the ceiling of the church in Ål, which is clearly communicating not just a series of biblical stories, but also the theology that medieval believers thought that they taught. Without knowledge of pre-Christian Scandinavian beliefs, we would miss the significance of using games as a way to talk about the Garden of Eden or heavenly bliss. In short, historians and theologians need each other in order to do their work well. And I’d argue that anyone wanting to be a thoughtful Christian engaging their world and culture well needs history and theology. Without history and theology, we’re likely to miss the similar messaging embedded in the art, song, literature, and framings in our own culture, making us poorer readers and poorer witnesses.
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