George ArcherJonathan RayTheology 705.01 Religious Pluralism: Medieval IberiaApril 7, 2011

“How They Translated Him from Jerusalem to Galicia:”The Lives of St. James, with a Warning Towards Religious Pluralism

“The Moors call upon Muḥammad. The Christians call upon Santiago.”- The Poem of the Cid

“A stupendous metamorphosis was performed in the ninth century when from a peaceful fisherman of the Lake of Gennesaret, the apostle James, was transformed into a valorous knight, who charged at the head of the Spanish chivalry in battles against the Moors.”

- Edward Gibbon

Besides the dating which Gibbon grants for St. James’ transformation into a holy warrior,

the extremity of his sentiment is true. The two figures, Iákōbos gios tou Zebedaíou, a fisherman

who hovers in the margins of early Christian literature, and Santiago Matamoros, the patron of

Spanish Reconquest whose gleaming white mount crushes the enemies of the Church, have

nothing to do with each other.

But they have everything to do with each other. When pluralists wish to present their

cases, we should not be surprised that one of these images makes for a hard sell. The God of a

lower-class Jewish spiritualist movement under the Roman boot is more than welcome to the

table of post-enlightenment religion; the God of (re)conquest is not. The project of pluralism

amongst worldviews, in attempting to be taken seriously, often tends to become a scholarly

tyranny of the pluralists. Religious pluralists forget that most religious people, in most places, at

most times, are not pluralists. But this blinding bit of mental editing is natural, of course. People

project. The shortest route to pluralism, religious or otherwise, is just forget to mention the

complex, uncomfortable guts of tradition.1 Historical (and often more or less canonical) violence

tends to be the first issue to mysteriously vanish under the rug. We want the parting of the Red

Sea, but not the killing of the first born. The Beatitudes, but not Revelation. Muḥammad the

prophetic-sage, but not Muḥammad the tribal-warrior. If our aim is to discuss the potentiality and

reality of pluralism, whatever that may be, we must deal with the simple, sobering fact that we

pluralists or would-be pluralists are - in the vast yawn of recorded history - a serious minority. It

should not be a surprise then that the discussion of religious pluralism has the habit to over-

estimate the powers of the present age and push away the past. The pluralist project is always in

danger of focusing only on the living because it is not quite sure how to handle the dead. All we

have of the past are artifacts, and as Plato says in the Phaedrus, texts, even seemingly wise ones,

do not change their minds (275d). The fanatics of history are infinitely stubborn. They will never

give up their bigotries. If one’s religious heritage contains the odious - and they all do, even the

anti-religious traditions - we cannot just agree to disagree, nor can we condemn them from the

anachronistic and condescending vantages of a poorly-defined humanism.

So instead of curious historical omissions, let us extract the entrails of the matter. If we

want to save the religious tradition of which St. James is a part, but we prefer the peasant over

the barbarian, we will have to address them both head on. Si vis pacem para bellum.

***

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1 Outside of scholarly circles, the deplorable is evaded by pluralists using almost universally a petitio principii such as an informal “no true Scotsman” fallacy (Anthony Flew, Thinking About Thinking: Do I Sincerely Want to be Right? 1975). For example, “Buddhists are non-violent.” “But Zen practice played a very heavy role in Japanese atrocities in World War II.” “Well, those weren’t real Buddhists.” (See Brian Daizen Victoria’s 1997 book Zen at War). Examples from all religious traditions abound. Similar flawed reasoning can also be found amongst non-religious/anti-religious circles (See neo-atheist Sam Harris’ essay “Killing the Buddha,” Shambala Sun, March 2006)

Looking in the New Testament for signs of the figure that James was to become tosses up

little that could be considered informative. He is present throughout the ministry of Jesus, but

like most of the apostles, he rarely seems to play a pivotal role beyond being a witness or a

interlocutor. James, that is Iákōbos, is called to follow Jesus while fishing with his brother, who

are together identified as the sons of Zebedee (Zebedaíon, Matthew 4:21, Mark 1:19, Luke 5:10).

Along with Peter and John, James is a witness to the Transfiguration of Jesus on the mountaintop

(Matthew 17:1, Luke 9:28). He is present at the healing of Peter’s mother-in-law (Mark 1:29).

He, along with John, asks if they can sit beside Jesus on his left and right (Mark 10:37). He was

present on the Mount of Olives when Jesus foretold the fall of the Temple (Mark 13:3), and

while Jesus was praying his sorrowful lament in the garden of Gethsemane, James fell asleep

(Mark 14:32). He was present in the Upper Room, hiding with the apostles after Jesus’ death.

(Acts 1). And after Jesus’ Ascension, James becomes the first of the apostles to be martyred -

Herod I Agrippa (d. 44) had him put to death “by a sword” (machaírēi, Acts 12:2).

James the figure within the gospel accounts never speaks alone, although he does on two

occasions speak in one voice with his brother John (Mark 10:37 above, Luke 9:54 below) If

James is at all a memorable amongst the early disciples, it is that he, (although again, along with

his brother,) is given an unusual nickname by Jesus. James and John are re-dubbed Boanērgés,

which the text itself defines as “the sons of the thunder.” (huioì brontēs, Mark 3:17). The name is

notoriously mysterious, and theories behind its meaning abound; none are particularly

convincing or telling for our ends here. The only data from early Christian literature about this

title - only via possible thematic, but not linguistic relationship - is the other line the brothers

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speak together, in Luke 9:54, is “Lord, do you want us to call fire down from heaven to destroy

them?”

A second role James plays in the Christian canon, theologically but not historically more

significant, is as the possible author of an epistle. Although the letter bears the name James, there

is no reason to suppose it is James, son of Zebedee, as there is nothing autobiographical

contained therein. But even when it is attributed to him and not one of the other early Christians

named James, it does not even hint of the warrior-saint of the Middle Ages. The letter of James

contains nothing that either refers to Spain, nor seems particularly applicable to antique or

medieval Spanish Christianity. Instead, the letter simply asks an unspecified group of early

Christians to avoid infighting, slander, boasting, and pride. By all of the available historical

evidence, this particular first century Galilean peasant had nothing to do with the distant western

province of Hispania. Put simply, “[n]o contemporary and none of the church Fathers mention

his role in the peninsula, nor is he mentioned in any special way in the Mozarabic liturgy native

to Spain; his martyrdom in Jerusalem makes it highly unlikely that he visited Spain or spent

much time there.” (O’ Callaghan 1975, 32)

It would be a slow and tangled process (most of which we can only speculate about) to

bring James to Spain and transmutate him into “the Moor-slayer.” The history is particularly

complicated because there seems to be at least three different elements of James’ folkloric

hagiography which did not develop in a single manner. The three strands of legend clearly each

evolved by building on the scant biblical references, and then only slowly fused onto each other,

and also onto post-biblical and even non-Christian stories, to create a full narrative - approaching

their rough final form in the twelfth century. Using the divisions of Erin Kathleen Rowe for

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simplification (Rowe 2011, 22): First, there is the account that the living saint played a role in the

evangelization of Spain. That is, following the descent of the Spirit at Pentecost, James’ mission

was designated to the conversion of pagan Iberia. This is the oldest fragment of the larger story

of the saint and it appears to grow parallel with similar accounts of the other apostles traveling to

other places.

The second facet of the story is James’ translatio - the “carrying over,” or more poetically

the “translation” of his relics - from Jerusalem to Galicia. This chronologically, as well as within

the later hagiographic narrative, follows after the claims that the historical James came to Spain.

The scriptural account is unambiguous about his death at the order of Herod in Jerusalem.

However, by all medieval accounts written by Christians, his remains are present in the

Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela. The translatio of James refers to his relics’ arrival there or

thereabouts. Not only does this buttress the first story of James as an evangelist, it plants his

special patronage there permanently beyond the limits of his earthly mission. Also, along with

this strain of the legend we must include sub-narratives of his relics’ discovery in the eighth

century, each of which are dependent on some version of the translatio.

Third, the chronologically last and historically latest piece of the puzzle is in the

numerous accounts of James’ intervening apparitions. Like all of the major Christian saints,

James is attributed with numerous supernatural actions. In the case of James in Spain, we are

here exclusively referring to appearances of James as a mounted knight of Christ (miles christi)

fighting before or amongst a Christian army, along with sentiments which accompany such

appearances. However, we must note that many of his miracles both within and beyond Iberia do

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not follow this format.2 Although attributed to events starting in the year 844, there are necessary

components of this sort of vision of St. James the warrior that bear clear dependence on Eastern

Christian and Frankish crusader spiritualities from the eleventh and twelfth centuries.

The first fragment of the James’ hagiography regards his earthly ministry in Western

Europe. Like other early members of Jesus’ little band, James is said to have traveled to Spain to

spread the gospel, as Peter and Paul did to Rome, Thomas did to India, Mary Magdalene did to

Gaul, Joseph of Arimathea did to Britain, and so on. At the earliest possible dating this notion

belongs to late antiquity, with the first solid connection of James to Spain appearing in the early

seventh century. Jerome (d. 420) is the principle reference to a belief of unclear origins that

someone amongst the apostles - exactly who is not said - visited Spain. This mere anecdote was

repeated by other authors following him in the forth and fifth centuries. (Kendrick 1960, 28)

When the first certain statements of James’ presence in the distant West do appear with Isidore of

Seville (d. 636), they are not elaborated as particularly consequential.

In the relevant texts, now known to us only in copies of the tenth to fourteenth centuries, we find that somebody, perhaps about 600, wrote in the abbreviated lists of the apostles’ mission-fields that St. James evangelized Hispaniam (Spain) in place of the customary Hierusalem or Hierosolyman (Jerusalem) [...] St. Isidore of Seville twice copied the brief statement that St. James brought Christianity to Spain, in both cases without the slightest sign of interest [...] otherwise, in all his learned and encyclopedic writings, he said nothing at all about his country’s special indebtedness to St. James.” (Kendrick 1960, 29) It would take further centuries still before a fully-formed and generally standard account of the

saint’s workings and movements appeared in the twelfth century manuscript in the Cathedral of

Santiago de Compostela, the so-called Codex Calixtinus.

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2 His other miracles include all of the typical saintly fare: healings, rescuing the imprisoned, rescuing from violent forces of nature, rescuing slaves, and foretelling the future. Only a handful of military apparitions are within the scope of our inquiry here. See Coffey et. al The Miracles of Saint James.

The precursor of that gothic cathedral at Compostela was an older shrine that was built

during the rule of Alfonso III (d. 910). According to the more or less contemporary Sampiro

Chronicle, the king ordered a new church to be built for St. James. (Van Herwaarden 2003, 313)

Whether there was a particular reason that this church was to be constructed in James’ honor is

uncertain. It is possible that James already had some undefined connection to the defense of

certain Christian land from non-Christians. It is also possible that James was merely a local

patron, or the personal saint of Alfonso or some other influential individual. Or, there may have

been some other reason, now completely unpredictable to us, as to why James was significant

there and then.

Somewhat earlier and, we can only guess, drawing upon the same sentiment that built

that structure, the hymn O Dei verbum patris ore proditum (“O Word of God Revealed Through

the Mouth of the Father”) was written. The apostolic brothers James and John are both named

directly. Their two most individualistic scriptural references (to their second patronymics as the

“sons of thunder,” and to their desired seating positions to Jesus’ left and right) are combined and

given geographic overtones. Now, not only is James present in Iberia, he is a particular genius

who was assigned to have dominion over it and to repel its harms. From the hymn:

[...]There remains the Sons of Thunder, in the prayers of his renowned mother, Rightly granted the highest honor, John to govern throughout Asia Minor, And his brother to take Spain. The Master shields his innocent chest: the right one has a peaceful death, But twice-chosen of the kingdom: the left one poised for martyrdom, Mitred to further Heaven’s glory. A prize is for the glorious one: the other, who is James, Zebedee’s son, As a martyr in Christ’s chosen plot, and fulfill the apostolic lot, To win the the crown of martyrdom [...] O most holy apostle praise, the glowing golden head of Spain, Our patron and our land’s defense, in Heaven from the pestilence, and from all ills, harms, and evils. (O Dei verbum... : 5-7, 10, translation mine)

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O Dei verbum patris ore proditum was written in praise of Mauregatus, king of Asturia

(d. 788). In two different regards Mauregatus is known as a champion of Iberian orthodox

Christianity. He was a noted opponent of a local heretical school of Adoptionism, which seems to

have ridden in from the East on the Islamic tide.3 Also, he was the victor in a minor Berber

assault, which may be the primary reference to the troubles alluded to in the hymn. St. James was

his preferred icon for any number of theoretical reasons. “St. James the Great, as tutor and

‘helpful patron’ (patronus vernulus), is associated with him in this struggle. It is notable that the

battle against the unbeliever forms an essential element in the later James legend: Jacobus

Matamoros.” (Van Herwaarden 2003, 330)

Now let us consider the second key element of the James story - his translatio, the

coming of the saint’s body to Iberia which would underline his concern for and presence in that

place in perpetuity. At an uncertain point in the early ninth century - the date 813 is commonly

given - the relics attributed to St. James appear in Galicia;4 unearthed at the location later named

in their honor, “Compostela.”5 The story has several versions, but the significant bits involve the

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3 See Justin K. Stearns’ Infectious Ideas on “The Heresies of Iberia: Beato of Liebana and Elipando of Toledo.”

4 With the saint’s development through the ninth century our road more severely forks. Two events crucial to the story of St. James are attributed to the years 813 and 844; his relics’ appearance in the former and his first intervention in battle in the latter. The accounts of both are of questionable origins and only appear in markedly later documents. I want to offer this caveat because although my effort here involves a short history and these events carry all the signs of later creations, my final goals are prescriptive and theological. What people would have believed to have been so in the twelfth century must be considered as much the determining factor as what someone in the eighth or twenty-first century may believe.

5 The name “Compostela” itself is a back-reading onto an already established cultic presence. Traditionally, the story involves someone seeing a star which by some means indicates the place of the saint’s relics, hence the location was named “field of stars” (campo de las estrellas or campus stellae). More recent etymological work have all but proved this meaning linguistically impossible. (Coffey et al. xxv) A much more likely history, which helps address the comparatively late use of the name “Compostela,” is that the origin is “burial” (componere) or “cemetery,” or “burial place” (compositum or compostum) meaning the place was named for having bodies buried there. (Kendrick 1960, 19) The reference to a star or stars seems to have come later.

body of the newly martyred James being placed on a boat in the port of Joppa. In some accounts

miraculously, the boat comes to rest in Galicia in the kingdom of a local ruler named Queen

Lupa. She eventually converts to Christianity, has the holy body buried, and eventually both she

and the saint are forgotten. Eight hundred or so years later, there is a sighting of a star (or stars)

over a particular wild Galician plain about thirty miles from the Atlantic coast. (Lewis 2008,

315) The starlight, à la the infancy narrative of Jesus in Matthew 2, leads someone (shepherds, a

hermit, etc.) to the burial place of some ancient bodies, and a local bishop identifies one of the

bodies there as James the Apostle. Regardless of the historicity of this type of account, textual

evidence from 834 and then from 858 references the site of the shrine (Van Herwaarden 2003,

337). However, these two references are not yet aware of the elements of the story that explain

how the relics of St. James came to reside there, thousands of miles from the biblically affirmed

location of his martyrdom in Jerusalem.

The final third of the James hagiography is his appearance as a glorious knight on the

battlefield. The first and most famous of these apparitions and interventions is said to have taken

place at the Battle of Clavijo in 844. Like the relics’ discovery story, this tale too is recorded only

later, leaving historical concerns in abundance. However, as it is traditionally recounted, the

outnumbered Ramiro I of Castile (d. 850) entered into battle against the armies of the amīr of

Cordóba. The night before, St. James appeared to Ramiro in a dream. (Dreams or visions of

James the night before battle later become common in his battlefield apparitions.) James told

Ramiro that “eternal rest is already prepared for many of your people, for they are about to

receive the crown of martyrdom... you and the Saracens will see me on a great white horse...

with a great white banner” (O’Callaghan 2003, 194). The day of the battle the saint appears as

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foretold and slays the Muslim invaders by the tens of thousands. It is a blatantly apocalyptic

account - compare Revelation 19:11: “Then I saw heaven opened and behold: a white horse. The

rider of it is called faithful and true, and in he judges rightly and makes war.”

It is tempting to boldly say that this is the definitive arrival of James’ incarnation as “the

Moor-slayer” (Matamoros) in history. Obviously they are related, but the specific role of James

as the saint who kills Muslims did not appear distinctly until long after the historical Battle of

Clavijo occurred - three centuries later in fact. I wish to draw a line between James the patron of

Iberian Catholic lords, and James as the Moor-slayer, who is defined by his opposed relationship

to Muslims. It is a somewhat fuzzy division, but I do not think that the source texts allow us to so

swiftly blend the history of the ninth century with the religiosity of the eleventh and twelfth.

Even if there were such visions of a supernatural warrior around the year 844, we cannot jump

ahead to a mentality that precedes and follows the First Crusade. Besides, supernatural figures

literally entering into battle to fight for their own causes is common enough in the Mediterranean

religious milieu: from the gods fighting in the Trojan War (i.e. Aeneid II), to the vision of God as

a warrior (for instance, Isaiah 42:13), to the decisive Battle of Badr in 624, when the angels

fought beside the first Muslims. The reinvention of Santiago as a uniquely anti-Muslim icon,

Matamoros, which was to be attached specifically to his cult for many centuries, was later. There

is no reason yet to think of James as that future merger of “Spanish Catholicism, military

expansion, and the first stirrings of a dynamic nationalism,” (Myers et al. 1991, 10) that he was

eventually to become.

To the future legions of the Reconquista, his many reappearances in the heat of close-run battles (accompanied by the cries of “Santiago! Santiago!” as at Valencia in 1094, Alarcos in 1195) were to be received not as apparitions but as the flesh-and-blood of unique providence - “given by God to Spain,” said Cervante’s Don Quixote, “for its

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patron and protection.” To ‘Abd al-Rahman and his ministers, Clavijo was nothing more than another unmemorable clash...” (Lewis 2008, 316)

Indeed, there might be reason to believe that the figure of St. James as the celestial knight

might have more to do with long-term exposure to Islam, rather than particular military episodes

where the opposing forces happen to primarily consist of two different religious groups. The next

phase of James’ transformation, from a local, perhaps sometimes military, patron to ultimate

intercessory anti-Muslim knight, appears to be as much a theological response to the presence of

Muslims themselves, as it is a response to Muslim military movements. Américo Castro even

goes so far as to declare the cult of St. James a deliberate attempt to craft an “anti-Muḥammad, a

Christian patron and protector who could counter and overcome the power of the prophet and his

followers.” Citing this passage from Córdoban historian Ibn Ḥayyān al-Qurṭubī (d.1075),6 Joseph

F. O’Callaghan backs up Castro’s claim (O’Callaghan 1975, 105):

Shānt Yākuh (Santiago) is a city in the most remote part of Galicia, and one of the sanctuaries most frequented, not only by the Christians of Andalus, but by the inhabitants of the neighboring continent, who regard its church with veneration equal to that which the Muslims entertain for the Ka’bah at Mecca. For their ka’bah is a colossal idol which they have in the center of the church. They swear by it, and repair to it in pilgrimage from the most distant parts, from Rome as well as from other countries beyond, pretending that the tomb, which is to be seen within the church, is that of Yākob (James), one of the twelve apostles, and the most beloved by ‘Isa (Jesus). May the blessing of God and salutations be on him and on our Prophet! [...] They say that [James] was bishop in Jerusalem and that he wandered the earth preaching the religion [...] until he came to that remote corner of Andalus; that he then returned to Syria where he died at the age of one hundred and twenty solar years [...] They pretend likewise that after the death of James his disciples carried his body and buried it in that church. (al-Makkarī, 2:193)

We can note that the cult of St. James is at this point (c. 1075) large enough to come to

the attention of an Islamic historian on the opposite side of the peninsula. It is large enough even

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6 The original translated citation used by O’Callaghan has been modified to include some material which he did not use but is significant here.

that Ibn Ḥayyān is aware that the pilgrims are coming from the northern lands, within the

European continent. Also, Ibn Ḥayyān is verifying the renown of the saint’s translatio to Iberia,

of which he is obviously skeptical. His doubt leads, I believe, to the conclusion that there is some

conscious considerations “on the ground” as to how St. James came to Iberia. Because the story

is not yet just a part of local history - and not all versions of it are utterly miraculous - we can

guess it is still peripheral to the saint’s overall story. As of this point, I would guess, it is possible

to believe that the saint was in Iberia in the past, but not necessarily know that he was buried

there now. That is to say that even though Ibn Ḥayyān thinks that both James’ Iberian

evangelization mission and translatio are false, he thinks of them as false separately from each

other; meaning that he understands them as two related but different stories. Further, but much

more hypothetically, whether or not people truly believe in it, the mere existence of multiple

translatio accounts means that people are completely aware that something is being imported

from somewhere else. That there is the need for a translatio is like an unwitting offering that the

James of the Bible and the cult of Compostela do not fit together particularly well.

And, back to Castro’s argument about St. James as an anti-Muḥammad: there is at least

some limited contemporary thought to be found in Ibn Ḥayyān in that direction. There is

something Ḥajj-like in the pilgrimage to Compostela and ka’bah-like about his shrine. Although

Ibn Ḥayyān sees some parallels between the road to Compostela and the Ḥajj, and he is aware of

St. James himself with some detail, he sees the figure as mirroring Islam and not distinctly anti-

Islam. At least as far as Ibn Ḥayyān tells us, as of 1075, St. James is noteworthy more for his

pilgrimage. His specific bloodlust is not even present.

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Something else missing from Ibn Ḥayyān’s description is James’ martyrdom, of which

the author is somehow completely misinformed while being otherwise quite accurate. It may be

at this point that James’ death “by a sword” is not yet a significant detail in the life of his cult.7

Even if it is mentioned in O Dei verbum patris ore proditum, we have no reason to be sure that

manner of James’ death was central to the pilgrimage or the shrine. I believe this is actually to be

expected. In the earliest artistic depictions of James in the post-Hellenic East during the first

Christian centuries, he and the other apostles are rendered exactly identical. Their individual

characters and characteristics are inconsequential given their proximity to Christ. Eventually they

gained particular physical traits and iconographic flourishes. “As of the sixth century, the

disciples are depicted with individual characteristics and symbols of their martyrdom and/or

miracles.” Then, under the reign of Alfonso X of Castile (d.1284) the Estoria de España (or the

Primera Crónica general) provides one of the more lasting descriptions of James, including the

explanation that the sword that the holy warrior wields is in reference to his own beheading by a

sword (Habegger 2004, 65).

So how did the sword become forever attached to James’ hand? The rising sentiment

which would be first called “pilgrimage,” (Janin 87) but later called “crusade” had only just

begun in Ibn Ḥayyān’s day, and would finally reach the tipping point with Urban II’s declaration

at Clermont in 1095. When the crusades properly start there was a more constant movement of

people (overwhelmingly Franks) from the West to the Byzantine and Seljuk world than there had

been in the West previously. Along with a whole host of cultural artifacts, certain religious ideas

followed:

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7 All later accounts claim that James was beheaded, although the verse of Acts which tells of his death only says it was “by a sword.”

During the First Crusade, crusaders and theologians disseminated a new discourse of spiritual warfare throughout the Latin West that valorized certain military endeavors. In addition, the crusaders’ travels to Byzantium opened them to the influence of aspects of Byzantine cultic devotion, which included an emphasis on warrior saints that theologians in the Latin West tended to discourage. (Rowe 2011, 25)

But James was not at any point in Eastern Christian spirituality a warrior saint the likes of

George the Dragon-slayer or Michael the Archangel (O’Callaghan 2003, 194). The fighting

saints were imported from the East, yes, but they merged with James after their arrival in Iberia

and not before. Consider the following story from the Battle of Antioch in June of 1098 from the

Gesta Francorum (“The Acts of the Franks”), an anonymous eyewitness account of the First

Crusade, probably written by a southern Italian around the year 1100:

Then also appeared from the mountains a countless host of men on white horses, whose banners were all white. When our men saw this, they did not understand what was happening or who these men might be, until they realized that this was the succor sent by Christ, and that the leaders were St. George, St. Mercurius, and St. Demetrius.” (Purkis 2008, 149)

Not only does the influx of warrior-saint imagery in the twelfth century coincide with the first

sound appearances of James as Santiago Matamoros, it seems very likely that the cult of James

as the Moor-slayer was consciously mimicking not only the white-rider of the book of

Revelation, but the symbolism of these saintly figures, Sts. Michael and George specifically. “All

three bear iconographic similarities: George and Santiago, for example, were often portrayed on

white horses, trampling enemies underfoot.” (Rowe 2011, 26) Also, the cross and banner of St.

James carries striking similarities to both the red cross of George and the descriptions of the red

cross of the first crusaders. In fact, the visions of these other saints intervening in battles

continued in the Iberian stage well after the rise of the Matamoros figure, drawing on the same

imaginal reservoir. According to the Crònica de Jaume, during a siege of Palma on Majorca in

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1229, “the first to enter [the castle] on horseback was a white knight with white arms, and we

believe that he was St. George, since we find in histories that Christians and Saracens have often

seen him in other battles.” (O’ Callaghan 1975, 342) This seems to validate that James the knight

was just one of several such saints, whose patronage and iconographic associations stayed plural

for some time to come. If someone from an Iberian Catholic milieu in the eleventh, twelfth, and

thirteenth centuries needed to call down a warrior-saint with a white steed and a flashing sword

to slay Muslims, James was not the only option.

James would never fully drop his internal plurality either. The artwork within the

Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela still maintains a tripartite iconography, cleanly following

the three elements and developments of his hagiography. He is depicted first as an apostle,

bringing Christianity to Spain; as the pilgrim with the wide-brimmed hat, pack, and walking-staff

in remembrance of his own translatio and his continuing call to pilgrims. And finally he is also

the knight of Christ, as found in the stories of his apparitions. (Habegger 2004, 64)

This multiformity was apparently plain enough as to confuse at least one Greek pilgrim,

who never had heard of these second two depictions of the saint. The story of this pilgrim, named

Stephen, appears in the second book of the Codex Calixtinus in the mid-twelfth century.

Whatever its historical soundness, that the story exists at all exposed that within Spain itself

believers in James’ power understood that his manifestations were not always obviously in tune

with each other. Even if this story of a confused pilgrim is utter fiction, the author of the story,

while proclaiming the cult of the saint, understood why someone could be confused. The story is

as follows: Fernando I (d. 1065) captured the Muslim city of Coimbra in 1064 and claimed that

the triumph was thanks to James (Gerli 2003, 734). The night before the battle, Stephen the

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Greek pilgrim, who was noted to hold some pontifical post, overheard the talk of the common

Spaniards. In their prayers they invoke James as a soldier. Stephen shames them for not even

knowing that James was a fisherman and never even got on a horse. Then, later that night while

Stephen was praying, just like in the story of Ramiro before Clavijo, St. James appears in full-

armored, heavenly glory. The doors of the cathedral in which the vision occurs are open and

outside Stephen sees a horse whose radiant light fills the whole building (even heavenly horses

are not appropriate for inside a church). James gets on the horse and shows Stephen the two

keys8 that on the next day would open the gates of Coimbra. The next day on the battlefield, the

city falls exactly how and when St. James had predicted, and Stephen becomes a lifelong devotee

to him, dying as a servant of his shrine. (Coffey et al., 1996, 91) When there was an effort to

standardize the hagiographic materials about St. James in the next century (of which this account

is part), the diversity of the available material, including what even a believer might consider

contradictory, retained a vocal presence.

In 1172, a monk visiting the library of the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela sent a

letter back to his superior explaining that he would be delayed in order to copy out part of a

certain book about St. James (Liber sancti Jacobi). This document, which still survives in

Barcelona today, the above mentioned Codex Calixtinus as it is now called, can be dated with

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8 Iconographically speaking, this is very rich, as the “two keys” are the symbol of St. Peter, not St. James, and James is speaking to the servant of the pope. There may be two slights of hand in this account. If it is read as referring to salvific authority, it is raising James (and with him Compostela) up to the level of Peter (and also, Rome). Or, if this a political allegory, which is more likely as the pilgrim is a Greek and the East-West Schism of 1054 is very recent, then the vision equates the terrestrial authority of both James and Peter, and thus both Fernando and the Pope.

some certainty between the years 1140 and 1160.9 It is an anthology of both materials and style,

with an internal subdivision into five books of varied length. The underlying theme is the

adoration of James, but otherwise the origins of the material is quite diverse.10 The opening book

is a collection of materials for the celebration of the saint in mass, including as well, early

examples of polyphonic chant notation. The second book is a collection of the saint’s miracles,

including the vision of Stephen the Greek. The third book is the story of James’ translatio

(including the first written use of the scallop in James’ iconography). The final two books would

both take on lives of their own in popular circulation: the fourth is the story of Charlemagne’s

and Roland’s adventures in Spain (Historia Karoli Magni et Rotholandi) including the

intercession of James. And finally, the fifth book of the Codex is the Iter pro peregrinis ad

Compostellam (“The Journey to Compostela for Foreigners”), a travel guide for James’ many

pilgrims. The compiler’s “main goal was to produce a text that would be a solid foundation for

the devotion of St. James the Great in Compostela, thus stimulating pilgrimages there without at

the same time encroaching on other cult centers, especially those in France” (Van Herwaarden

2003, 362). The appearance of the Codex was to be the final creative act in James’ voyage to

Spain, which sealed together the three principle strands of James’ hagiography - life, translatio,

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9 “[T]he overarching attribution of the work to Pope Calixtus II - hence Codex Calixtinus - is unquestionably spurious, as some of the passages he was supposed to have written must be dated to after his death in 1124. It therefore seems most likely that the complier (or compilers) for the Liber assumed the pseudonym ‘Calixtus’ to lend cachet to certain passages of their work [... T]he choice of Calixtus II was a logical one, especially given his family connections with the Iberian peninsula and his obvious historical associations with and favour for Santiago de Compostela.” (Purkis 2008, 141) The second book of the text refers to dates in the 1140s, years after Calixtus’ death. Linguistic and stylistic studies, although with various conclusions beyond our concerns here, tend to agree that the final compiler/editor was working from within Iberia, although possibly with educational roots in Frankish lands.

10 William J. Purkis offers a more precise collection of guesses about the dating of the Codex’s segments: “The five books of the Liber detailed the liturgy relating to the worship of St. James, a collection of miracles attributed to him (which can be dated to c.1135x45)... a book detailing the legendary exploits of Charlemagne in Spain (which can be dated to c.1130x39), and a guide for prospective pilgrims that offered practical and spiritual advice for the safety and enrichment of their journey.” (Purkis 2008, 141)

intervention - along with isolated accounts of James’ actions throughout history. Henceforth, the

many fragments of St. James, including the central elements to his manifestation as Matamoros,

would be fitted together, however haphazardly, into a whole epic transformation.

The Codex’s appearance on the scene was not itself ‘the one cause’ of James’ final push

towards the Moor-slayer, however it is certainly an indicator of that trend’s arrival.

Contemporaneously with the Codex’s discovery, the military Order of the Knights of St. James

(Militia Sancti Iacobi) was established by Fernando II of León and Castile (d. 1188). It was

clearly and deliberately built on the crusader models, particularly of the Knights Hospitaller, in

that its first order was to protect pilgrims (and by extension, the economic boon they brought

with them). (Blanco 1971, 4) In the centuries to come Santiago’s crusading ethos continued its

progress. In time he came to fight religions besides Islam in the New World (Habegger 2004,

64). “For the native people of the Americas, Santiago Matamoros appeared as the harsh patron

saint of the white conquerors. Indeed, he was given a new name in the New World: Mata-Indios,

the Indian killer.” (Van Herwaarden 2003, 488) And his image as the Matamoros would return in

other European venues as well. He would be a major patron in struggles with the Ottoman Turks,

and even against Protestantism. “Thus it is hardly surprising the Charles V [(d. 1558)] Lord of

the Low Countries, King of Spain, Emperor of Germany and a good deal else besides, had

himself portrayed as the scourge of the infidel and heretics, as Matamoros.” (ibid.)

***

In 1999, Firas al-Atraqchi, a professor of journalism at the American University of Cairo,

listened to a recording by some would-be jihadists from Arab countries who wanted to go to

Bosnia-Herzegovina and kill Serbs. In the recording, a young Arab man tells a story in which

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other jihadists captured some Serbians. They were clearly afraid, but said to their Arab captors,

“We are not afraid of you, but of the robed and bearded men flying from the sky attacking us

with Kalashnikovs.” (al-Atraqchi 2010, “The Propaganda of ‘Holy Warriors’”) An account such

as this, which blends anger and despair with self-mythologization, functions as both a balm for

real or perceived victimhood (“God hears our prayers”), and as an instrument of truth affirmation

and recruitment (“Even the enemy knows that God hears our prayers, why don’t you?”).

Apparently such tapes were once quite common during the invasion of Afghanistan by the Soviet

Union as well. The same could be argued of the numerous stories of defeated crusaders who are

helped by randomly manifesting relics like the Spear of Longinus; or sixteenth and seventeen

century stories of rabbis making golems to protect their communities from attack. The earliest

stories which imagine James as a knight, I argue, also fulfill this sort of role.

Finding their own local religious beliefs lacking a clear, established system of dealing

with long-term physical, spiritual, and political marginalization, they turned to their local saints,

as medieval Catholics are wont to do. We have the O Dei verbum patris ore proditum as a echo

of this. If Castro’s theory that James is an anti-Muḥammad is correct, and James’ cult was a

shadow religion of the culture next door, it would be easy enough to see how James the local

patron could become James the destroyer. In the rise of the crusading mythos in the late eleventh

century, and with it, the relevance of martyrdom, the blank slate of the biblical James could be

willingly translated into whatever he needed to become; the more monstrous Muḥammad was

perceived to be, the more violent James had to be imaged. In time, it was not even realistic to

imagine that any Christian army could have conquered their enemies alone. The inventors of the

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Matamoros must have considered Islam an unimaginable threat of such magnitude that no mere

human agent could possibly help them.

Matamoros is particularly strong however, because eventually Spanish Catholicism won

the day. To all intents and purposes, the cult of the Moor-slayer worked. Thus, unlike golems,

supernatural spearpoints, or angels with AK-47s, the Matamoros imagery could grow and

develop over very long periods of time, long after the conditions which required his creation had

vanished. There was no reason for Matamoros to recede back into ‘mere folklore,’ as he was still

paying off. The Reconquest was in time a success and Spain was on the road to empire. Santiago

Matamoros is notable not because people need an outlet by which to fight despair, but because

the trend continued after the victim became the oppressor. The sword of James’ martyrdom

turned into his own instrument of attack.

To psychologize the development of James from fisher to crusader we can find a well

defined arc of trauma which plays out over centuries: victimization, despair, response, self-

victimizing trigger, aggression. Whether or not a fear is well-grounded, a survivor of trauma can

call upon their own victimhood in order to provide personal identity or public community.

However, because the icon of that identity is now a trigger of past trauma, it becomes self-

perpetuating. The emblem of your escape from misfortune has your misfortune built into it. As

the trauma of Northern Iberian Christians existed in a large population of people for a long time,

the community had to create a public forum for identity as both oppressed and powerful. The

pilgrimage would serve as both a symptom and a sustainer of the effect. It would be very easy

from this to see Matamoros as a Durkheimian model of a sacred communal mascot who must

occasionally be thrown into contrast (with Islam) in order to reaffirm the social order.

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Systematic religious violence (both in productive/defensive and destructive/aggressive

forms) draws on personal suffering that finds a public voice. But religiosities which create such

violence are as much shaped by their opponents and neighbors as they are by their own religious

heritage. This borrowing - a translatio indeed - moves the borrowed concept into the worldview

of the borrower. Today, this means that no one tradition can fully claim to have its hands clean of

such violence, even if they themselves are not the perpetrators of it. Religious pluralism as a

cultural adventure cannot and must not fool itself into thinking that such religious violence can

be disowned and left out of its own narrative.

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