Rewriting the Marian Narrative: Bridget of Sweden’s Gospel

Abstract

This article is structured in two parts. The first presents an overview of late-medieval female Marian devotion and spirituality, outlining the principal interpretative approaches developed in recent scholarship. The second examines Book VII of the Revelationes of Bridget of Sweden, which is constructed as a true “Gospel of Mary.” Through the visionary reconstruction of Christ’s life and Passion, narrated in the first person by the Virgin, Bridget reshapes the apocryphal tradition and transfers authority from apostolic memory to contemporary revelation. The narrative transforms the pilgrimage to the Holy Land into a Eucharistic and prophetic space, develops an innovative and politically charged Mariology, and presents Mary as both witness of the Incarnation and guardian of a Church in crisis. By integrating theology, narrative, and embodied visionary experience, the article argues that Bridget’s Marian Gospel represents one of the most daring and enduring expressions of female spiritual authority in the transmission of Christian truth.

1. Introduction

In this article, I examine the role of the Virgin Mary within the imaginative horizon and devotional practices of late-medieval women mystics, before focusing more specifically on the writings of Saint Bridget of Sweden, whose work constitutes a significant turning point in the history of Marian doctrine and devotion. Critical scholarship—from Simone Roisin’s classic studies on Cistercian hagiography in the diocese of Liège (Roisin 1947)1 (“I do not understand the remark. I have clarified it in a note) to the most recent contributions—has frequently argued that the religiosae mulieres were fundamentally Christocentric, directing their spiritual attention primarily toward the Son rather than the Mother. According to this line of interpretation, Marian devotion was largely constructed by male authors in response to their own intellectual and affective needs, while the figure of the Virgin was chiefly the object of a clerical and masculine discourse addressed to women—one that they did not genuinely interiorize nor integrate into their self-understanding or spiritual experience. In Saints and Society, Weinstein and Bell, drawing on a broad prosopographical base, observe that the Virgin Mary is not especially prominent in women’s visionary accounts, and that female saints and devotees tend instead to cultivate a direct relationship with Christ—perceived as closer and more accessible than an idealized and distant Marian figure (Weinstein and Bell 1982, pp. 123–37). From a different yet convergent perspective—anthropological and symbolic rather than a prosopographical one—Caroline Walker Bynum has shown that female spirituality is rooted above all in Eucharistic devotion, and thus in the body, in the physical reality, and in a compassion oriented toward the suffering Christ (Walker Bynum 1987).

Analyzing female spirituality within the broader context of inquisitorial culture and clerical mechanisms of control, Dyan Elliott pushes this interpretive framework even further. She argues that between the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, the figure of the Virgin was frequently presented through male preaching to women as a model of obedience, humility, virginity, and spiritual maternity. In this perspective, Marian devotion becomes an instrument for regulating and disciplining the female body. In clerical discourse, the Virgin functions less as a figure with whom women mystics might genuinely identify themselves than as a normative paradigm and a criterion of orthodoxy (Elliott 2004). More nuanced and complex is the position of Amy Hollywood, who contends that the Marian figure is often less visible in the sources, because it is absorbed into a broader symbolic constellation centered on Christ: in fact, it remains implicit rather than marginal (Hollywood 1995). Taken together, these readings outline a complex framework in which the relationship between women and Mary is marked by ambivalence, emerging as a field of tension between idealized models, devotional practices and dynamics of power.

Indeed, numerous testimonies could be adduced to support women’s “disaffection” or “lack of interest” toward the Virgin. In Angela of Foligno (†1309), the total and exclusive love she bears for her “passionate” Christ seems to admit neither intrusion nor mediation. When Christ invites her to contemplate Mary’s heavenly glory, Angela replies that “such meditation is far too little for her. She cares nothing for the saints, nor even for His Mother, because she delights in Him alone and concerns herself with nothing else” (Angela of Foligno 2015, IV, 125–29, p. 58).2

The theme of the lactatio Virginis is, for example, a male topos. While Bernard of Clairvaux and Henry Suso are nourished at the breast of Mary, women mystics tend instead to feed themselves with the blood flowing from Christ’s pierced side.3 In a dialogue between the soul and the senses, Mechthild of Magdeburg (†1282/1294) explains the reasons for this preference, establishing a veritable mystical hierarchy of nourishment that opposes a Christology of blood to a Mariology of milk. When the senses invite her to rest at Mary’s feet and contemplate the angels who drink her milk, Mechthild firmly refuses it and asks instead for the blood of the Son: for her this is a higher form of nourishment (Mechtild of Magdeburg 1869, II, 26, pp. 104–6). Aldobrandesca of Siena (†1309), a devout widow associated with the Humiliati milieu (Bartolomei Romagnoli 2014), commissioned a painting which, inverting the customary iconography of the nursing Virgin, depicts Mary herself feeding from the wound in Christ’s side as she holds him in her arms (Aldobrandesca of Siena 1675, II, 21, p. 470).

In a curious vision, Blessed Margaret of Ypres (†1237), a young penitent under the guidance of the Dominican friars, receives a visit from the Virgin, who reproaches her for having forgotten her and exhorts her: “Today, pray and meditate on me; tomorrow I shall return you my Son” (Margaret of Ypres 1948, 31, p. 121).4

In a previous study, I sought to clarify the reasons for a relationship that appears not particularly affective, and seemingly distant (Bartolomei Romagnoli 2012). I noted that, within the female imaginary, the Virgin Mary represents primarily a symbol rather than a woman endowed with concrete psychological individuality; even the features of her face resist being grasped with iconic clarity. At different times, the Virgin is the ark, the tabernacle, the pure and translucent vessel through which the spiritual gaze of the mystics may contemplate the mystery of the Trinity.

Gertrude of Helfta (†1302) receives a vision of the Virgin reminiscent of the Vierges ouvrantes, the wooden statuettes beloved in German piety, where the body of the Virgin opens to reveal the Trinity within. In a similar manner, Gertrude sees the immaculate womb of the glorious Mother as clear as crystal and bright like a mirror, and through it she contemplates the Incarnate Word, who drinks eagerly from his most pure Mother (Gertrude of Helfta 1968, III, 18, p. 214).5

Even when present, Mary nevertheless remains hidden, almost invisible: her mystery lies precisely in her transparency. If, therefore, on the level of spiritual experience, the imitatio Christi reflects the mystery of kenosis—of the divine self-emptying and self-humiliation—the Marian dimension of faith represents, from the standpoint of the creature and its finitude, the disposition to boundless receptivity, the soul’s “capacity” for the divine. No metaphor other than that of the receptacle, the vacuum, can adequately express this total openness of the being. The Word himself must be born within the emptiness that awaits him: this is the theology of the Rhenish mystics, that of Meister Eckhart, when he explains to the German Dominican nuns that what makes us virgins is the complete detachment from the imaginal constructs (Abgeschiedenheit). A virgin and pure soul (Jungfrau) freed and released from its own personal will becomes fruitful in several and precious ways; it generates God himself (Eckhart 1958, I, pp. 41–46).

As Heinrich of Nördlingen writes to Margaret Ebner (†1351): “Mary had the privilege of being the first to behold the radiant splendor of the eternal Word, as near and powerful as had ever occurred to any pure creature.” Yet, in truth, every woman is granted “the ability to generate his divine image, now and always,” and to hear within her own soul “the sweet sound of his eternal word” (M. Ebner 2001, IX, p. 233).

The lofty speculations of the great mystics of the essence were not accessible to all devout women, yet there are several testimonies of more affective and sentimental spirituality. It is important to emphasize—more than has generally been done—that late-medieval Marian devotion was neither fixed nor static. Over time, from vision to vision, the figure of the Virgin gradually acquires new meanings and functions, and her image is reshaped in literary and iconographic representations.

In this contribution, I want to show that between the thirteenth and fifteenth centuries, a subtle yet significant shift takes place: while the Virgin does not lose her symbolic density, she progressively assumes more concrete and human traits, becoming an interlocutor, a mother, a woman close to the daily experience of the devout. In late-medieval spirituality, several themes already established during the Marian “springtime” of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries are taken up again, yet the relationship with the Virgin is also deepened and enriched on a more human level. From a figure of pure theological transparency, Mary becomes a living presence—affective, emotionally resonant, and psychologically individuated.

In the fifteenth century, in the visions of Margery Kempe (†1438), she is no longer only the Queen of Heaven adorned with jewels and precious stones; she is also a woman with whom the English mystic identifies, one who has faced dangers and difficulties, who is herself in need of help and assistance, a mother to be tended and served (Kempe 1996, 6, pp. 150–52).6

It is this transition—from Mary as symbol to Mary as person—that enables women to recognize in the Mother of God not only an archetype of spiritual receptivity, but also a figure with whom they can enter into relationship, one capable of accompanying and shaping their interior experience.

2. Marian Imaginaries in the Late Middle Ages

In women’s visionary accounts, the Virgin appears above all as the Mediatrix, the one who presents and offers the Son—an incomparable grace for women to whom biological motherhood is not granted. In the fourteenth century, the German monasteries of Töss, Engelthal, and Unterlinden, heirs to the Cistercian foundations of Flanders and the Rhineland, are transformed almost into nurseries, where the Dominican nuns are tirelessly busy with washing, swaddling, attending the heavenly Child. These pious nurses often even find themselves in competition with the Mother when she attempts to reclaim her own child, as had already occurred in the case of Gertrude of Helfta (Gertrude of Helfta 1968, II, 3, pp. 118–19).7 This “competition” between “mothers” recurs frequently in women’s writings, yet it always remains a joyful skirmish—a ludus amoris, as Suso calls it—because the Virgin’s severity is always tempered by the sweetness of mercy.

Besides presenting the Child, the Virgin is also the one who nourishes. All women, in fact, depend on her for their sustenance. They know that Mary is the heavenly miller, but also the warm oven that provides them with the bread of life (Hamburger 1990, pp. 62–70), capable of feeding them and quenching their hunger and thirst when the priest denies them the host (Bartolomei Romagnoli 2015). A surprising and theologically rich visionary current thus emerges in late-medieval female mysticism where the Virgin appears with traits proper to priestly ministry and performs actions of the liturgical sphere—even administering communion. From Christina of Stommeln to Margaret of Oingt, from Mechthild of Hackeborn to Margaret of Cortona, and in the Nonnenbücher of Cistercian and Dominican convents, several episodes depict Mary, clothed in splendid liturgical vestments, generating the Word and offering him as the priest does at the altar (Hollywood 1995, pp. 102–8; Walker Bynum 1987, pp. 221–24; Elliott 2004, pp. 147–50). These scenes are not mere devotional variations; they translate into powerful images a theology that assigns to Mary a symbolic liturgical role: priestess of the Word, living tabernacle, altar from which Christ is given. They also respond to women’s desire for the Virgin’s mediation in the sacrament reception, especially where their insatiable Eucharistic hunger is not satisfied by the ecclesiastical institutions. In this imaginative world, the Virgin is not only a model of purity or a compassionate mother, but a leading figure in worship, capable of bridging the space between mystics and Eucharist with a presence that is both maternal and priestly (Newman 1995, pp. 128–31).

Nonetheless, it may happen that Lucardis of Oberweimar (†1309) is nourished directly at the Virgin’s breast (Lucardis of Oberweimar 1899, XVI, pp. 318–19).8 Equally noteworthy is a striking vision of Lydwine of Schiedam (†1433) where this unfortunate young woman—hit by a devastating illness—identifies herself so completely with Mary that she becomes a source of nourishment for others. The breasts of the virgin Lydwina thus pour forth streams of heavenly milk, just like those of our Lady (Lydwine of Schiedam 1905, II, 4, pp. 377–79).9

Beyond being a nourisher, Mary is also a healer—one who cures body illnesses and, even more, gives ailments to the soul. No sin is so great that it cannot be repaired and forgiven by her. As Christina of Kornburg declares in the Little Book of Engelthal, “All those who claim that our beloved Lady has rejected their petitions are liars. She has never refused anything to those who have addressed her with rectitude and loyalty” (C. Ebner 1871, pp. 54–56).10 I do not understand the remark.

Mary relieves afflictions and tribulations; she consoles the sorrowful. The love that Yvette of Huy feels for her is so great that she even fears neglecting the Son. Then she understands that it is impossible to truly love the Mother without the Son, or the Son without the Mother, and thus she rejoices in the presence and the conversation of both (Yvette of Huy 1643, 65–66, p. 876).11

In the fourteenth century, Marian prayers also flourish, and female devotion significantly contributes to the formation of the Rosary (Winston-Allen 1997). The chapelet does not exist yet; therefore, in the meantime, Margaret of Cortona devises her own method: she keeps a small basket of beans so that she can count them and thus be certain of fulfilling her daily exercise, which requires hundreds of Paternoster and Ave. The rosary thus finds its humble avatar in a poor little basket of legumes (Margaret of Cortona 1997, VI, 13, p. 296).

Elsbeth Stagel (†1360?), the learned disciple and biographer of Henry Suso and a Dominican nun of Töss, composes beautiful and edifying prayers in honor of the Virgin, whom she serves with ardent love. Yet for her as well, the angelic salutation remains the prayer par excellence, and she brings the number of Ave Maria to extraordinary heights. Still using the shortened form fixed at the end of the twelfth century by Odo of Sully, Elsbet joyfully recites one thousand Ave Maria—with an equal number of veniae—for every feast dedicated to the Virgin, and in twelve months she recites 34.000 of them, in honor of the years that our Lord spent on earth.12

Prayer, but also song: Christine Ebner (†1356), a nun at Engelthal, recounts in the Büchlein von der Genaden Überlast (Little Book of the Burden of Grace) the wondrous favors granted to forty-seven deceased sisters. When the nuns intone the Salve Mater Salvatoris, Elisabeth of Ortliebin sees them rise heavenward, gathered beneath the mantle of the Virgin. At the verse Salve mater pietatis, a dazzling light envelops our Lady—a sign that she is clothed in divinity (C. Ebner 1871, p. 173).13 At the end of life, with this same precious veil, the guardian of the thresholds drives the demons away from the deathbed of Sophie of Neitstein: a violet veil, sign of royal majesty, protection, and also participation in the sufferings of the dying woman. Awaiting the moment of death, when the gentle Lady will come to take the nuns with her cortege of Virgins, the Salve Regina is the chant of the Engelthal sisters before their last breath fades from their lips (C. Ebner 1871, pp. 92–94).14

The political and social dimension of Marian devotion should not be overlooked—it is instead an aspect of great importance. This is true, for example, in the communal Italy of the Middle Ages: there the Mother of God is the true unifying reference for cities torn apart by factional conflict; she acts as advocate, protector, and symbol of reconciliation and peace, either in Rome, Siena, Florence or elsewhere. This political role of Mary is also clearly present in the visions of the mystics.

A particularly emblematic episode is that of Lutgardis of Aywières (†1246): the Virgin, who guides her life, commands her to undertake a rigorous seven-year fast in order to obtain the conversion of heretics and wayward Christians (Lutgardis of Aywières 1701, II, 1, pp. 243–44).15 In such visions, Mary is not only the mother of mercy but also a sovereign authority who mobilizes the mystic, transforming a personal asceticism into a political act for the common good. Lutgarde’s sacrifice thus becomes a service rendered to the Church and to society, a form of spiritual pressure exerted upon the powerful and the sinful. The Virgin emerges as judge of clerical corruption and of rulers’ faults, guarantor of justice and peace, intervening directly into history through the body and prayer of her devoted women.

At the close of the Middle Ages, in a climate marked by wars and by a profound crisis of ecclesiastical structures, the Marian devotion no longer confines itself to the private sphere of piety but becomes a space of political mediation and reform. In the visions of holy women, the Virgin appears fully involved in ecclesial and civic affairs.

An exemplary case is a revelation granted to Marie Robine of Avignon in April 1398, during the tragic years of the Great Schism. Enclosed within the cemetery of the city, Robine la boiteuse sees a wheel of fire suspended above the earth and implores the Judge seated upon the throne to spare the world and revoke his sentence of condemnation, offering herself as a reparatory victim for the sins of the humankind. When Christ seems to reject her supplication, the Virgin intervenes and, kneeling, begs for mercy. Only then does the Lord—moved by the prayer of his Mother, to whom he can refuse nothing—decide to suspend the execution of his justice (Marie Robine 1988, Visio 2, p. 250).16

Robine’s vision is significant as an archetype of a distinct penitential and prophetic current, which goes from Vincent Ferrer (vision of Alcañiz)17 to Frances of Rome (†1440). Her vision, which opens the book of revelations, is dated July 1430, during the dramatic transition from the pontificate of Martin V to that of Eugene IV. Frances sees Rome threatened by demonic forces, but she then receives the announcement that the divine punishment looming over the city has been suspended thanks to the intercession of the Virgin together with the intervention of Rome’s patron saints, John the Baptist, Peter, and Paul (Frances of Rome 1994, Visiones, I, pp. 403–4).18

Despite the sins of humankind, the merciful Virgin—through the cooperation of the prayer and sacrifice of her devoted women—holds back the fulfillment of wrath, the ira Dei, the coming of the Apocalypse. Robine’s vision thus stands as the archetype of a tradition where Mary appears as the one who, moved by compassion, intercedes to delay the divine judgment. In this lineage, the Virgin is not merely the mother of mercy but an active agent in the salvation history, the one who—through the bodies, prayers, and ascetic offerings of her female devotees—intervenes to avert a catastrophe. Her mediation transforms the mystical experience into a force that acts upon the world, restraining the divine wrath and postponing the eschatological consummation.

In the late Middle Ages, therefore, the figure of Mary is not merely object of affective devotion or a spiritual model: in women’s revelations she often assumes active roles, oriented toward the reform of the Church, the correction of the powerful and the protection of the Christian community. Marian apparitions become a space where a genuine mystical politics takes shape, with the Virgin acting as a sovereign authority, judge, counselor and guarantor of the divine order.

Within women’s experience, the medieval image of the God of wrath and vengeance—who will manifest his power to punish human sins—remains present, yet equally alive and operative is the conviction that the mercy of God overcomes even the moment of justice. Thus the anguish provoked by the inexorability of the end is calmed by the image of the Virgin kneeling before her Son, pleading for humanity and obtaining for them the time necessary for conversion and penance.

Mary is therefore mediatrix, nourisher and healer. She is the recipient of all prayers and supplications: whoever turns to her is restored in the wounds of body and soul. She offers compensation for the deficiencies that the clerical institution fails to remedy, even substituting herself for the priest when necessary. The Virgin is also the one who accompanies the faithful through the final, difficult moments of life: she comes to receive them, protects them from the evil assaults, and makes the passage easier.

By the end of the Middle Ages, the role of the Mother of God also acquires a political, public and social dimension: a stern Virgin exhorts to conversion and reform, denounces the faults of the rulers and the failings of the Church. Yet, in the end, it is always she who bows before Christ to intercede and plead for mercy on behalf of the sinners.

These, then, are the great themes which, from vision to vision, are tirelessly taken up again in countless variations. They are narratives that reveal a dense plot of shared practices woven in the shadow of monasteries and beguinages. Through these accounts, Marian devotions—carried anonymously through the silent depths of the centuries in the daily life of women—remain caught in the mesh of historical memory.

3. Virgin Mary in Spiritual Theology

In the Middle Ages, the contribution of women is significant not only in the realm of practices and devotions but also in the history of thought. One must consider that reflection on Mary was not carried out solely within the scholastic theology; it also finds a place in spiritual writings—texts less structured and less scientifically precise, yet capable of exerting a profound influence on the very evolution of the Marian doctrine.

If one accepts the hypothesis of a specifically feminine mode of thought as a form of alternative theology, then within this rich spiritual literature it becomes possible to identify two major currents, each following distinct paths and strategies.

The first current is that of the motherhood of God (Walker Bynum 1982), which develops from the twelfth century onwards, although this theology retrieves and deepens some intuitions already present in the thought of the Church Fathers. Medieval women mystics, in particular, interiorize the idea that the non-divine part of Christ is feminine, since—having had no human father—Jesus took his flesh from the body of his Mother (generatio non ex semine, sed caro ex carne).

The concept is expressed by Hildegard of Bingen (†1179) in the Liber divinorum operum: “Man truly signifies the divinity of the Son of God, and woman his humanity” (Masculinum ad divinitatem pertinet, femininum vero ad humanitatem Filii Dei). And again: “The divinity is strong, but the flesh of the Son of God is weak, and through it the world was restored to its first life” (Divinitas fortis est, caro autem Filii Dei infirma, per quam mundus ad primam vitam reductus est). She immediately links this caro infirma to the virginity of Mary, stating that it came forth from an untouched virginal womb (de intacto virginali utero processit) (Hildegard of Bingen 1996, I, 4, pp. 62–78).

Elisabeth of Schönau (†1164), Hildegard’s closest friend, recounts an extraordinary vision in which Jesus appears to her in the form of a beautiful young maiden, crowned with gold and with her hair flowing over her shoulders. Saint John the Evangelist explains to her that the maiden she has seen is the sacred humanity of the Lord Jesus. The sun upon which she is seated represents her/his divinity, which makes the whole humanity of the Savior shine. The dark cloud that at times obscures the sun is the iniquity that reigns in the world. When the visionary asks why Christ has appeared to her in a female form, the answer is that he reflects himself in his Mother, and that in his face—like an image in a mirror—Mary’s face may be seen (Elisabeth of Schönau 1884, III, 4, pp. 60–62).19

At the beginning of the fourteenth century, the learned Carthusian nun Margaret of Oingt (†1310) speaks of Mary as the tunica humanitatis, the garment of humanity worn by Christ.20 It is therefore the flesh of Mary that saves the world. Catherine of Siena (†1380) likewise employs feminine metaphors to speak of Christ, whom she depicts as physician and warrior, but also as nursing mother, while at the same time emphasizing the perfect interpenetration between his flesh and that of his Mother. She suffers beneath the cross as he does on it: “The Son was struck in the body, and the Mother likewise; for that flesh was hers. It was reasonable that, as something belonging to her, she should grieve, since he had taken from her that immaculate flesh” (Catherine of Siena 1987, p. 1061).

A few decades later, Julian of Norwich (†1416) goes beyond this theology, affirming that Christ is our Mother not only in his humanity but as the second person of the Holy Trinity (Saetveit Miles 2020). With the Redeemer, a second creation is accomplished—the true birth of humankind—and for the English recluse the maternal relationship becomes the very language of the Trinitarian love. Overcoming the medieval tension between justice and mercy, which had troubled even Catherine, Julian’s God is a God who is only love, a God who is all goodness, all maternity: “For alle oure life is in thre: in the furst we have oure being, and in the seconde we have oure encresing, and in the thirde we have oure fulfilling. The furst is kinde, the seconde is mercy, the thirde is grace. For the furst: I saw and understode that the high might of the trinite is oure fader, and the depe wisdom of the trinite is oure moder, and the grete love of the trinite is oure lorde. And alle these have we in kinde and in oure substantial making. And fertheremore I saw that the seconde person, which is oure moder substantially, the same derewurthy person is now become oure moder sensual. For we be doubel of Gods making: that is to sey, substantial and sensual. Oure substance is the hyer perty, which we have in oure fader God almighty. And the seconde person of the trinite is oure moder in kind in oure substantial making, in whom we be grounded and roted, and he is oure moder of mercy in oure sensualite taking” (Julian of Norwich 2006, 58, p. 308).

Yet this message will have little immediate resonance. Both Protestant and Catholic theologies will follow different paths, the Reformers radicalizing the doctrine of sin and divine wrath and the Catholics employing a pastoral strategy of fear while promoting the mysticism of reparatory self-offering. Julian’s words will be retrieved only much later—by the gentler and more merciful currents of contemporary theology, and also by feminist thought, which sees in her writings a break with the androcentric language of the divine.

According to us, however, it is important to note that Julian, even admitting the essential role of Mary in the economy of salvation, ultimately relativizes the importance of the Virgin and her mediation: in the end, it is Christ who is our truest Mother.

4. Bridgettine Mariology

Bridget, by contrast, adopts a trajectory aimed at divinizing the feminine through the figure of Mary—and this will prove to be the winning strategy. The Swedish prophetess is the only medieval mystic to have constructed a genuine Mariological system, one that mirrors Christology with striking precision. It rests on the principle that the Son could refuse nothing to the Mother, by virtue of the singular love he bears her. Consequently, all the privileges of Christ are conferred upon her: as Børresen has noted, the Virgin is rendered “Christotypical” (Børresen 1993, pp. 147–203).

The Swedish mystic is perhaps the first major witness to that Marian “hyperdulia” which will come to characterize Catholic piety. And despite her controversial legacy—the debate over the orthodoxy of her revelations erupted immediately after a fiercely contested canonization (Vauchez 2000)—and the failure of her ecclesiological solutions and political proposals, her cultural afterlife would prove immense, extending far beyond the medieval period.

In the Prologue to the Revelations, the structure that makes the entire discourse possible is clearly delineated. The production of the text is placed under the sign of a command—an order that governs both the woman’s act of speaking and the man’s act of writing.21 A double constraint enables the passage from voice to written formulation, from a possessed body to knowledge, from experience to doctrine.

The relationship is dual and explicitly evokes the Marian model: two subjects are required for the new language to be born. Bridget is the sponsa Christi—indeed, the sponsa Dei—just like the Virgin, and from this union many spiritual children will be born, the new friends of God. It is the very model of the Incarnation: the mysterious and powerful fecundity of the Mother corresponds to a discourse that receives from its original source the fullness of its words.

In contrast to the celibate and patrilinear hierarchy of theological language, a prophetic mode of speaking takes shape—one marked by sexual difference and by the receptive capacity of mothers. The scribe, for his part, occupies the difficult position of having to articulate a discourse grounded solely in the experience of the locutrix. His writing is not legitimized a priori by a magisterial office, nor is it secured by authoritative statements for which he merely provides a gloss, as in clerical learning. Its value derives exclusively from the fact that it is produced at the very point where the Locutor speaks. It stages a present act of utterance, an event of the word, just as it was for the biblical prophets.

Here it is the Virgin who speaks, consecrating Bridget and making her her own messenger—indeed, perhaps something more, for the Mother commands her to continue her work. And this is a mission in the fullest sense. The apostolate of the Swedish mystic is threefold, for in the Revelations, acting on the mandate of the Virgin, she assumes the roles of teacher, evangelist and prophet.

On a Christmas night—perhaps in 1344—Bridget is portrayed as undergoing an episode of mystical pregnancy. She reports having felt within her body the movements of a living child. The event fills her with immense joy but also with profound anxiety, prompting her to seek the counsel of her spiritual counsellors. They can only acknowledge the authenticity of the prodigy, while it is the Virgin herself, in a subsequent vision, who explains the meaning of the experience undergone by Bridget. Calling her “daughter-in-law,” the Mother of God announces that Bridget is the new bride of Christ and that the Incarnate Word has entered into her. She has been chosen to proclaim God’s will to the world (Bridget of Sweden 1991, Rev. VI, 88, 1–8).22

Bridget proves to be remarkably well informed about the theological debates unfolding in the schools, and she intervenes directly in the two dogmas at the center of contemporary controversy, grounding her claims in an oracular and charismatic authority. She does, however, display certain hesitations regarding the Immaculate Conception, and her narrative on the matter is not entirely coherent. In one passage of the Revelations, she declares that Mary was a most pure creature because her parents brought her into the world without libido, since no form of sexual desire was present in them (Bridget of Sweden 1991, Rev. VI, 49, 1–4).23 Since Mary’s birth had been announced to Joachim and Anne by an angel and her conception occurred without concupiscence, she remained free from original sin (Bridget of Sweden 1991, Rev. VI, 55, 1–2).24

Yet in another passage she specifies that Mary was sanctified in utero matris at the moment of her animation—i.e., at the infusion of the rational soul. According to medieval anthropology, this occurs thirty days after conception for males and ninety for females—whose embryos were believed to develop more slowly (Bridget of Sweden 1987, Rev. I, 9, 3–4).25 Bridget therefore does not appear to be an Immaculist in the Scotist sense (Wolter 2018; Cross 2019), but remains closer to the more cautious Thomistic doctrine, which speaks of a preventive purification (Garrigou-Lagrange 2023; Hauke 2009).

In the case of the Assumption, however, all hesitations vanish, and Bridget becomes an ardent promoter of this Marian privilege. The belief was already widespread in female religious circles, though traditionally dealt with with prudent reserve. If Elisabeth of Schönau in the twelfth century had asked for—and received—confirmation of Mary’s elevation into heaven in body and soul, she had also been commanded to keep this revelation secret (Elisabeth of Schönau 1884, Rev. II, 31–32, pp. 53–55).26 Bridget of Sweden, by contrast, now openly challenges those who deny the Assumption (Bridget of Sweden 1987, Rev. I, 9, 4–5).27 In contrast to the ancient Byzantine Transitus narratives and to traditional beliefs that attributed the extraordinary privilege also to the prophet Elijah and the evangelist John, Bridget specifies that it is a uniquely Marian prerogative—an exclusive gift inspired by Christ’s special love for his Mother, whom he wished to have beside him, even at the Trinitarian level, super choros angelorum (Bridget of Sweden 1987, Rev. I, 51, 6).28

Bridget is well aware that one of the principal objections to the dogma was the silence of the Gospels and, more generally, the absence of solid scriptural foundations for Marian privileges. She interprets this reticence in light of a divine pedagogy that unfolds gradually through a progressive revelation of the mysteries of faith. This may account for the silence of the Gospels. The Virgin herself declares that her Assumption was not made known to all, nor preached openly, by the will of her Son, who wished that faith in his own Resurrection—received with skepticism by the majority—should first take root in the hearts of believers (Bridget of Sweden 1991, Rev. VI, 61, 6–7).29

It is the task of the spirituals to unveil to the world the secrets concealed within the opacity of the scriptural text. They are the messengers through whom God chooses to speak when he judges that the time has come to address humanity openly.

5. Saint Bridget’s Apocryphal Gospel

Perhaps the most original and significant contribution of the vast Bridgettine corpus lies in the weaving of a real Marian novel, which—mediated through the Legenda aurea—is firmly anchored into the apocrypha while introducing entirely new elements. Book VII is devoted to the pilgrimage Bridget undertook in 1372, the year before her death (Bartolomei Romagnoli 2020). As with the prophet Moses on Mount Nebo, she is granted, as a reward for her fidelity to her mission, the ultimate and definitive revelation: the possibility of retracing all the events of the lives of Jesus and Mary.

Within this Book, we can discern a profound evolution in the very conception of pilgrimage as a ritual practice—a semantic reconfiguration that reshapes the notions of time and memory. In an older tradition, the relationship with the places where Christ’s earthly experience had unfolded, served to bridge the rupture introduced by time between the believer and the unique, unrepeatable event—the kairós embodied in the historical body of Jesus. The break was thus diachronic in nature, in accordance with Augustinian theology. The purpose of the journey was to re-establish continuity with the past, and Scripture—an exact copy of the primordial original—served as its guide.

In Bridget’s experience, this ritual pilgrimage assumes a Eucharistic structure: it functions according to the model of the miraculum. It does not possess a merely memorial value, for it establishes a space in which to await irruptions of the Word—true theophanies. In the logic of the mystic and of the prophet, the hermeneutics of the Book is not that of a commentary, for it concerns sites of enunciation and knowledge, not meanings to be produced or justified. It is Moses’ burning bush: “you will hear my voice within your soul; you will see what Peter, Mary Magdalene, and the others saw” (Bridget of Sweden 2001, Rev., II, 10, 38–40).

The author of the Revelations has the same authority as the first apostles and may even take their place, for here time does not create hierarchies. Unlike theological or historical discourse, the mystic no longer attributes essential value to the past. Thus, if Helena had used the Bible as a map for her journey to Jerusalem, seeking the traces of Jesus’ presence effaced by the injuries of history, and if medieval pilgrims had carried it with them as a guide for meditation and prayer, Bridget—new apostle and evangelist—“sees and hears” and is therefore able to rewrite the founding myth.

Two episodes stand out as fundamental, with Mary as their absolute protagonist. The vision of the Nativity is the most famous and most extensively studied one, particularly for its immense impact on the iconography of Western sacred art (Bacci 2019; Pomarici 2024). Here I will limit myself to noting Bridget’s extraordinary ability to interweave the earthly and the supernatural planes. She evokes the utter ordinariness of an event that unites Mary with all women—the swaddling cloths, the bands, the preparation of the bedding—though set her apart from them, for she experiences no pain (sine gravamine): just as her womb remains intact, so too she is preserved from suffering (Bridget of Sweden 1967, Rev. VII, 21, 1–22). It is a natural, physiological birth, as required by the real humanity of Christ, yet one enclosed within the mystery of an instant enveloped in a consuming light.

I will focus instead on the cycle of Passion visions that Bridget experiences in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. Carla Bino has reconstructed the evolution of Passion narratives in late medieval writings, highlighting the shift from contemplatio pietatis to historia pietatis—in other words, from an iconic to a narrative mode (Bino 2008). This paradigm applies equally to the female spiritual literature: in their visions, the great sorrowing women of the late thirteenth century offered extraordinarily powerful images of the Christus patiens (Bartolomei Romagnoli 2024). In Bridget, though, the isolated tableaux are now arranged in sequence, forming a script that integrates and completes the sparse Gospel account.

Compared with other influential contemporary texts, such as the Meditationes of Pseudo-Bonaventure (Bartolomei Romagnoli 2025), in the Liber peregrinationis the narrative voice is that of the Virgin herself, whose authority, as an eyewitness, guarantees the authenticity of the account. This autobiographical character clearly shapes both the narrative program and the selection of episodes—those in which Mary was actually present. Thus, the Last Supper, Gethsemane, and the trial are not described, but the public events of the flagellation and the mockeries, the crucifixion, and the burial are. What emerges, then, is not merely an expansion of the apocryphal narrative but the introduction of a precise and distinctive glance: it is the gaze of the Mother, her memory, and the narration is always in the first person.

As in other Passion narratives of the period, Bridget’s Gospel is marked by a stark realism, a violent pathos which—following the aesthetics of the “dolorous Gothic”—spares no cruel detail: “His lovely and beautiful eyes seemed half dead; his mouth was open and blood-stained; his face was pale, covered and entirely bruised and soaked in blood. His body, too, was almost livid, pallid and languid because of the continuous flow of blood. The skin and virginal flesh of his most holy body were so delicate and tender that even a small blow caused a bruise to appear on the surface. From time to time, because of the bitterness and the intense, sharp agony he felt, he tried to stretch himself upon the cross. Infact, the pain from the pierced limbs and veins rose to his heart and tortured it cruelly with intense martyrdom, so that death was prolonged and delayed, causing him grave torment and profound bitterness” (Bridget of Sweden 1967, Rev. VII, 15, 18–21).30

This is the Passion as witnessed by the Mother: unfiltered, corporeal, and narrated with the authority of one who stood beneath the cross. Bridget’s text thus radicalizes the late medieval movement from iconic contemplation to narrative immersion, transforming the devotional gaze into a visceral experience of suffering.

In Mary’s account, however, several peculiarities emerge, beginning with the drastic reduction in the characters usually present at the spectacle of Calvary—typically numerous in Passion narratives. Here the enemies remain in the background; the holy women appear only in the gesture of supporting Mary in her agony; even Mary Magdalene disappears, though in medieval narratives and iconography she is almost invariably present at the foot of the cross. John, the adopted son, remains, yet the entire focus converges on the figure of the Mother, alone and joined to the Son sharing the same suffering—a union that is not merely affective or emotional, but almost carnal. Both, in fact, share the very same heart, to the point that the Mother’s one is enclosed in the tomb together with that of the Son.

Yet the Virgin does not die. She reveals to Bridget that the Lord did not wish to call her to himself immediately; he left her on earth because her mission had to go on. She lived for a long time after Christ’s Resurrection, suffering and pilgrimaging in order to sustain the work of the apostles and the beginnings of the early Church. Even now she acts to avert the approximatio ruinae Ecclesiae, making use of Bridget to announce the dangers threatening christianitas.

Like the old daughters of Zion, the Mother—clothed in mourning—bends down to weep over the ruin of Rome, victim of its many sins. Nor does she hesitate to take position on concrete and specific issues, such as the validity of sacraments administered by unworthy priests. She denounces the error of the Franciscan Spirituals, explicitly defending the standings of Pope John XXII on the question of poverty. She condemns clerical corruption, yet at the same time upholds the irrevocability of celibacy as a non-negotiable matter and a pillar of the sacred order.

The image of Mary bending before her Son to avert the Father’s wrath from a sinful world—an image shaped by the Bridgettine Revelations—marks a turning point in Mariology and starts a profoundly political cult of the Virgin, one that would enjoy a centuries-long tradition, because of its adaptability to diverse contexts and historical moments (Oen 2019). With Bridget, this perfect and inviolate Mother becomes the norm of what the Church ought to be and at the same time the vigilant guardian of orthodoxy and of the purity of the Catholic faith.

6. Conclusions

In the Revelations, Bridget of Sweden offers not merely a set of Marian visions but the architecture of an entirely new Marian Gospel. Through the voice of the Virgin—teacher, witness, and prophet—Bridget reshapes the apocryphal tradition, changes the narrative of Christ’s life and redefines the place of the Mother within the economy of salvation. Her text does not simply expand earlier accounts: it relocates authority, shifting it from the apostolic past to the prophetic present, from the male exegete to the female visionary, from the canonical silence to the revealed word.

By granting Mary the role of first-person narrator of the Passion and by presenting her as the vigilant guardian of the Church in crisis, Bridget inaugurates a profoundly political Mariology. The Virgin becomes both the model of the Church and the voice that denounces its failures, both the memory of the Incarnation and the prophetic conscience of christianitas. This plural function—maternal, ecclesial and eschatological—marks a turning point in the history of Marian devotion and opens a tradition that would endure for centuries because of its capacity to speak to different contexts and historical urgencies.

What emerges from Bridget’s work is thus a Marian Gospel that is not apocryphal in the sense of marginal or derivative, but in the original meaning of revelation: a text that unveils what had remained hidden, that restores the Mother to the center of the Christian narrative, and that reclaims for female visionary authority a place within the transmission of doctrine. In this sense, Bridget’s Gospel of Mary is not only a literary and theological construction: it is a claim to voice, to legitimacy and to presence. It stands as one of the most daring and enduring contributions of medieval female spirituality to the shaping of Christian imaginary.