Medieval W. Christendom
Reconceptualizing Jewish Disbelief in the Twelfth Century
The twelfth century ushered the civilization of medieval Latin Christendom into maturity. The continuing Christian reconquest of Spain, the Crusades, and the ongoing conversion of central and northern Europe all contributed to its geographical expansion. Far-reaching economic development revitalized its commerce, reawakened its urban markets, and promoted a qualitative shift in its conceptualization of wealth–to one emphasizing the accumulation of financial profit over the mere ownership of land. Growth and consolidation characterized its ecclesiastical and political institutions. In the wake of Gregorian reform, popes, prelates, theologians, and canon lawyers expounded the theoretical and practical ramifications of a Catholic vision for an ideally ordered Christian society with unprecedented determination; at the same time, kings and emperors struggled to articulate and apply well-grounded justifications for their own authority, defending it against subordination to the church, on one hand, and the encroachment of their feudal barons, on the other. Such inclination to change, expansion, and development found expression in the cultural and intellectual life of the period, in the acclaimed “renaissance” of the twelfth century. Urban schools broke the old monastic monopoly on literacy and learning. Access to hitherto inaccessible books and ideas evoked new modes of reading, contemplating, and interpreting traditional texts–transformations in epistemology and hermeneutics that sought to blend recognition of the Western world’s changing visage with a compelling [148] defense of established Christian doctrine. Respect swelled for the classics, for the sciences, for the arts, prompting experimentation and innovation in clerical and lay culture alike, from multifaceted reverence for the “goddess” Natura among churchmen to the veneration of courtly love among troubadours and their princely patrons.
New territories, markets, urban centers, schools, institutions of governance, libraries, varieties of cultural expression, and alternative patterns of Christian self-definition all fostered untold, unprecedented mobility in the society of the Latin West. In a word, the various components of that society scrambled to capitalize on the wealth of new opportunity. And yet, given the conservative nature of their mentality, which distrusted innovation as quintessentially sinful, the ideological spokesmen for high medieval Christianity found the spirit of their age discomfiting. For all that diversity increased, and for all that they themselves gave expression to it, they never abandoned the ideal of Christian unity or their program for fostering it in their society. Their commitment resulted in markedly increased sensitivity to the conformity–or nonconformity–of individuals and ideas to the orthodox formulations of the Catholic establishment.1 And they gave rise to what one modern scholar has termed “a language of exclusion” and “a discourse of otherness” in twelfth-century Christendom, which, seeking to promulgate newly clarified norms of Christian identity, reacted to change and dissidence on a variety of levels.2 At least three of these contributed directly to our story.
First, as they strove to expound and to realize their vision of Christian unity, churchmen displayed a penchant for classification in the face of sociocultural novelties- Where, precisely, did particular ideas, individuals, and practices “fit” into a Christian scheme of things?3 Struggling to determine “how the authority of revelation within the church was related to other ways of knowing,”4 scholars thus embarked upon a systematic reappraisal of the relationship between revealed [149] knowledge and scientific learning, along with their respective truths and methodologies. Or, as Caroline Bynum has demonstrated, individuals of the twelfth century typically sought to translate religious self-discovery into a process of affiliation and self-classification within a corporate, communal structure.5 Second, as territorial expansion widened the geographical frontiers of Christendom and multiplied contacts between Christians and other religious communities, theologians felt impelled to analyze competing belief systems and to articulate arguments for confuting them. Inside and outside established institutions of learning, the twelfth century witnessed the development of missionary theology, hitherto an uncultivated field in the medieval Latin West. Third, heightened awareness of others outside the fold went hand in hand with growing sensitivity to difference, disagreement, and deviation from within. Having appeared but little in early medieval Europe, heresy first became a significant religious and social problem in the twelfth century, and historians have long pondered why. With interesting results, recent research has often focused on the orthodox adversaries of heresy more than on the heretics themselves, attributing the appearance of medieval heresy to processes endemic to Catholic Christendom- The discourse of Gregorian reform generated anti-ecclesiastical criticism among its most zealous advocates as well as its opponents. Movement and conflict proliferated in the ranks of medieval society, and these in turn provoked the more rigorous definition of social boundaries and the stigmatization of those whose tendencies threatened the establishment. The clerical establishment projected its own doubts and insecurities concerning traditional Christian doctrine onto an inverted, demonic, imagined other, who came to personify beliefs and practices catalogued by patristic heresiologists of many centuries earlier.6 As one anthropologist has astutely observed, it is chiefly [150] “in its attempt to extend and secure its authority that the Church comes to define and deal with heresy as a danger to Truth. The beliefs and practices of an incompletely Christianized population are not in themselves the subject of Church anxiety.”7
How did these developments bear upon perceptions of Jews and Judaism? The impassioned pronouncements of Agobard did not circulate widely among churchmen of the following centuries, and Christian attitudes generally reverted to the more tolerant formulations of Augustine and Gregory the Great, which continued–though not without exception–to prevail throughout most of the eleventh century.8 Yet even before the First Crusade and the anti-Jewish violence that accompanied it, portents of change loomed on the horizon. Apocalyptic generated by the turn of the millennium,9 the rhetoric of papal reform, and the Investiture Controversy generated a polarized view of society, allowing the proponents of reform more readily to identify the allies and foes of the ideal Christian respublica. As the only religious minority officially present in Christendom, the Jews provided the most accessible examples of who or what such enemies might be like; from the first decade of the eleventh century, popular violence struck at Europe’s Jews in conjunction with other dissidents, and, as early as 1062, Pope Alexander II found it necessary to intervene to prevent the slaughter of Jews in the holy war of the Spanish Reconquista.10 The very idea of holy war against the enemies of Christ, to the extent that it had matured before the First Crusade, certainly endangered any positive role that the Jews had been preserved to fulfill in Christendom, as the [151] slaughter of German Jews by crusaders in 1096 established. The calculation that the twelfth-century Jewish chronicler accurately attributed to these crusaders seems logical indeed- “Why should we concern ourselves with going to war against the Ishmaelites dwelling about Jerusalem when in our midst is a people who disrespect our God–indeed, their ancestors are those who crucified him. Why should we let them live and tolerate their dwelling among us? Let us use our swords against them first and then proceed upon our ‘stray’ path.”11 In certain Christian circles, Pope Alexander’s admonitions that “it is impious to wish to annihilate those who are protected by the mercy of God” and that “the situation of the Jews is surely different from that of the Saracens”12 had evidently fallen on deaf ears.
Albeit, perhaps, indirectly, the massacres of 1096 initiated a century of developments that would prove critical in the subsequent history of medieval European Jewry and in the development of the Christian idea of the Jew. One surely ought not to behold in the crusaders’ anti-Jewish violence a conscious repudiation of the Augustinian doctrine of Jewish witness or a reversal in medieval Jewish policy that marked the “beginning of the end” for the Jews of the Middle Ages. In virtually every respect (demographic, economic, social, and cultural), the medieval civilization of western European Jews followed the lead of the majority, Christian experience, and it reached the peak of its achievement only during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.13 Nevertheless, attacks upon Jews during the Crusades, although not within the official mandate of the crusaders, undoubtedly awakened Christian society to the anomaly of the Jews’ position- enemies/killers of Christ whose lives and errant religion God had protected for the greater good of Christendom. Against the background of the multifarious changes undergone by [152] Christian civilization in the twelfth century, the new “discourse of otherness” understandably wrestled with the Jews and Judaism, scrutinizing and classifying them along with everything else in the Christian experience. The crusaders’ disorderly departure from the norm of “Slay them not” only fueled the urgency to define the proper place of the Jews in the new Christian order of things. The age-old and “ineluctable demand that the church make sense of Judaism and clarify its relation to the ancient people of God”14 assumed new importance during the twelfth century, as R. I. Moore has argued forcefully-
Most obviously, the entire movement for the reinvigoration of the Church, the revival of learning, and the reassertion of royal authority, which goes under the amorphous but universal heading of “reform,” was founded on the conviction that the laws, customs, and standards of antiquity must be restored, both in religious and in secular matters. Without implying special hostility or malice on the part of any group or individual, such a programme was bound to heighten awareness of the patristic account of the position of Jews in Christian society, to be preserved securely but miserably as a reminder to Christians of the death of their Saviour. No less ineluctably it entailed the recollection, and suggested the enforcement, of the long list of social and legal disadvantages and prohibitions imposed upon the Jews by the Codex juris civilis, mainly with the object of ensuring that they should never be in a position to exercise power over Christians.15
Not at all surprisingly, then, recent historical research has investigated various dimensions of the twelfth century’s key, transitional significance in the history of Jewish-Christian relations. Some scholars have focused above all on the policies of the papacy and the burgeoning literature of canon law, assessing the impact of new styles of papal government, Gratian’s Decretum and its glossators, and papal and conciliar legislation on the Jewish question.16 Moore himself has highlighted the rise to power of a new urban ecclesiastical bureaucracy, which buttressed the social basis for its authority and prestige in the [153] demonization and exclusion of numerous marginal groups, including lepers, heretics, and, most notably, Jews.17 Still other historians have discerned the roots of medieval antisemitism in twelfth-century Christendom’s guilt, fears, and doubts concerning the materialistic and irrational within itself and its resulting use of the Jew as scapegoat, now perceived as embodying all of Christendom’s own sinful inadequacies.18 Recently, Robert Chazan has explored the worsening popular perceptions of Jews in northern Europe of the twelfth century and the ominous antisemitic stereotypes to which they gave rise.19 Most germane for our present inquiry are studies of the complex role of the Jews in the intellectual history of the period. On one hand, Jews contributed to the Christian renaissance of the twelfth century. Testifying, one might argue, to a certain degree of convivencia in the interaction of Christian and Jewish (and even Muslim) communities in Spain, Jews distinguished themselves as translators of scientific and philosophical works from Arabic into Latin, sometimes via Hebrew.20 Moreover, the Jew and his tradition nourished the newly reinvigorated Christian study of the Old Testament; the Hebrew Bible contained the hebraica veritas, ostensibly the most ancient, most accurate text of Scripture, and rabbinic scholarship and religious practice offered invaluable insight into its ancient, presumably literal meaning. Many a Christian scholar, Beryl Smalley observed, assumed that in talking to a medieval rabbi “he was telephoning to the Old Testament.”21 For their part, not only [154] did twelfth-century Jews participate, eagerly or otherwise, in such intellectual exchange, but they also emulated various expressions of the Christian “renaissance” of their age in their own, distinctly Jewish media of cultural expression.22 On the other hand, increased cultural contacts, including interreligious debate, intensified Christian sensitivity to contemporary Jews and Judaism, aggravating the perception of them as a threat to the integrity of Christendom. This century, as Jaroslav Pelikan has noted, produced more extant works of Christian anti-Jewish polemic than all previous centuries combined,23 and numerous scholars have therefore studied the representation of Jews and Judaism in these and other theological texts of the period. To what extent do they continue in or depart from previous works in the tradition of Adversus Iudaeos? Do they employ new varieties of argumentation, drawing on new types of evidence? Do they persist in addressing a primarily Christian audience, or do they begin to dispute more directly with contemporary Jews, perhaps with an interest in proselytizing among them? Although genuine efforts to missionize appear to have been lacking in Christendom before the thirteenth century, Amos Funkenstein and Anna Sapir Abulafia have shown how the rationalism of the twelfth-century renaissance in fact added to the virulence of interreligious polemic. Some Christian writers may now have portrayed the Jew as subject to conversion on rational grounds, and others soon came to interpret his persistent refusal to convert first as a treacherous betrayal of reason, then as glaring proof of an utterly inhuman irrationality. Here, Funkenstein and Abulafia have argued, lay the source of [155] the thought process that ultimately deprived the Jew of the valuable, testificatory role in Christian society that Augustine had allotted him.24 Neither will this book undertake a comprehensive review of these various investigations of Jewish-Christian interaction in the twelfth century, nor will it argue that any one factor in changing Christian attitudes toward Jews and Judaism outweighed all others in importance. At work here was clearly an intricate, enigmatic process, one that defies any simple, one-dimensional explanation. Rather, noting how many of the explanatory strategies cited above converge in attributing the new Christian outlook on the Jews to Christians’ changing perceptions of themselves, we consider how selected twelfth-century Christian thinkers reconceptualized the hermeneutically crafted Jew- What happened to Augustine’s doctrine of Jewish witness and its legacy? What new medieval issues and concerns, different in substance and character from the considerations of exegesis, philosophy of history, and anthropology undergirding the Augustinian doctrine, began to weigh heavily on European constructions of the Jew? How did the hermeneutical Jew and his function in Christendom change, and why? Again avoiding neat, all-purpose solutions, I do not merely rehash past [156] arguments for the critical importance of the thirteenth century as opposed to the twelfth in accounting for the exclusion of the Jews from late medieval Christian society. The remainder of this book will evaluate the evidence for the gradual dismantling of the Augustinian position on the Jews during both the twelfth and the thirteenth centuries. Seeking to add more nuanced perspective to our understanding of this history, I reflect more extensively concerning twelfth-century Christian authors whom I have treated only briefly in the past. In so doing, I modify some of the positions advanced in my earlier study of The Friars and the Jews, at the same time as I hold fast to others.
If, in that book, I took issue with regard to Funkenstein’s assessment of the twelfth-century developments in Christian anti-Judaism, here I return to his seminal research on a more assenting note. In his article on “Changes in Christian Anti-Jewish Polemics in the Twelfth Century,” first published in Hebrew thirty years ago, Funkenstein argued that two new elements proved critical in the developing Christian attack on the Jews- the introduction of rational-philosophical argumentation into the literature of religious polemic, and increasing Christian familiarity with postbiblical Jewish literature.25 Recognizing the unquestionable importance of these two developments, I propose the addition of a third–not because it overshadowed either or both of those on Funkenstein’s list but because it accompanied them, complemented them, and, ultimately, served as a catalyst in facilitating their impact. During the twelfth century, as Christian writers struggled to classify the diverse components of the enlarging world around them, the array of those who did not belong to the community of the truly faithful–that is, those who did not adhere to the norms of Christian orthodoxy–expanded considerably. As a result of this “widening of the field” of those who refused to accept Christianity, the Jew ceased to function in Christian thought as the sole or even predominant “other.”26 Instead of the sole active, readily visible non-Christians in Christian experience, the Jews now became a subset of a larger class of unbelievers, and this eventually upset their position in Christian thought.
[157] Such change came to manifest itself in a number of ways. Although Christianity’s unceasing debate with Judaism may well have provided a basis for disputing other groups outside the fold, the generic nature of Christianity’s opponents now demanded a more logically systematic and scientific defense of the faith. No longer could one rely on the assertion of Christianity primarily through the negation of Jewish belief. Considerations of ratio and dialectic began to govern the presentation of arguments based on biblical auctoritas- Neither biblical testament could successfully counter the objections of infidels who denied the divinely revealed character of Scripture altogether; even against those who did respect biblical authority, one could no longer assume that “a stereotyped enumeration of proofs taken from the Bible for the proof of Christianity,”27 especially when adduced in the order of appearance in Scripture, would continue to suffice. No less important, and notwithstanding the old adage about “safety in numbers,” the need for the Jew to share the brunt of Christian religious polemic with additional “others” paradoxically contributed to his gradual removal from a unique, privileged status in Christendom, marginalizing him and demoting him still further in the Christian mentality. If the terminology and orientation of the Adversus Iudaeos tradition formerly highlighted that which rendered the Jew unique in Christendom, twelfth-century clerical writers began to focus on that which he shared with other marginal types. This common ground included the postbiblical traditions of the Jews, which Christian polemicists now began to attack in the same vein as they impugned other infidels and dissidents for espousing absurd, noncanonical doctrines. Thus, as Moore has shown, leper, heretic, and Jew became virtually interchangeable designations in twelfth-century Christian taxonomies of society, exemplifying mar-ginality and an impurity that threatened the essential fabric of Christian existence.28 At the end of the century, one encountered in Alan of Lille’s. De fide catholica contra haereticos a new genre of polemical treatise, which debated systematically and in turn against heretics, Saracens, [158] and Jews.29 Not long thereafter, the Dominican canonist Raymond of Penyafort followed the lead of Gratian and other twelfth-century masters by grouping together all “those who dishonor God by worshipping him vilely, namely Jews, Saracens, and heretics.”30
Yet a further result of the classification of Jews within the same genus as other nonconformists was the attribution of one’s group’s qualities, whether real or imagined, to members of the others. Even as Jews continued to personify that which Christian society deemed imperfect in itself, it could now be assumed that what they shared with Muslims and heretics was not limited to the fact of their opposition to Catholic Christianity. Inasmuch as Muslims and Jews shared ethnic, linguistic, and, presumably, religious characteristics, one could logically conclude that they harbored similar hostility toward Christendom, the former from without, the latter from within. If the types, practices, and beliefs of the heterodox were catalogued by Catholic heresiologists, so did Honorius Augustudensis list eight “heresies” or sects in classical Judaism.31 Twelfth-century Christians’ indiscriminate use of the term “heresy” to characterize Judaism–and “heretics” when referring to Jews–will warrant attention because, never having converted to Christianity, Jews had never strayed from it. Thus did an early-thirteenth-century canonist reflect with hindsight on references to heretics and other enemies of the church in Gratian’s Decretum-
Note that the term “heretic” is used sometimes in a narrow sense, sometimes in a broad sense- in a narrow sense, meaning one who was initially within the Church and was later separated from it on account of heresy, and in this sense is in every case excommunicate . . . ; in a broad sense, meaning whoever holds differently from the Roman Church concerning the [159] articles of faith, and in this sense not every heretic is excommunicate–since, although they are heretics (inasmuch as both groups oppose the articles of faith), neither the Jews nor the Saracens could have been excommunicated, since they were never inside the Church.32
I believe that the reclassification of the Jews, together with other enemies of the church, within a broader category of infidels or heretics began during the twelfth century to disempower the hermeneutically crafted Jew of patristic theology, depriving him of that singularity which distinguished him and underlay his worth. At the same time, I hasten to stress the long, gradual nature of this process. The labeling of the Jews as heretics offers a good case in point. Some scholars have argued that such an identification signified a departure from Augustinian precedent, bespeaking the charge that contemporary medieval Judaism had forsaken its biblical heritage. One must, I agree, afford this terminological shift from infidel to heretic in some twelfth-century Christian designations of the Jews its due recognition; and yet, one ought not to overestimate its meaning. As the Decretist we have just quoted affirmed, one may brand the Jews “heretics” for contesting the essential beliefs of the church, not for abandoning–or having been banned from–any religious community, Christian or Jewish, as the technical sense of the term “heretic” implied. Eventually some churchmen perceived in medieval Judaism a heresy of this second, strictly defined sort as well, but this took time, and the distinction is profoundly important. In a similar vein, the Jews’ loss of privileged status in the Christian theological mind-set proceeded slowly and in some quarters never appears to have transpired at all. However much the Jew had to make room, as it were, for other outsiders in the Christian scheme of things, he remained the most obvious and accessible, throughout the twelfth century and even beyond. For, unlike the Jews, most Muslims resided outside Christendom, and most heretics did not voluntarily confess their dissidence to the Catholic authorities. If the Jew was now but one member of a larger category, he still typified the dangerous in the eyes of his Christian beholders–a role he had already come to play in Byzantine Christianity, among Christian writers in the [160] Muslim world, and even in Sunni Islam–dominating their attention and concern to a noteworthy extent indeed.33
Latin Christendom’s encounter with Islam provides the most instructive instance of how Christian theological discourse came to discern a qualitative parity between the Jews and other outsiders.34 As with Judaism, early medieval churchmen took little interest in Islam, although not, as some historians have assumed, for lack of accessible information or of opportunity.35 Then, just as the anti-Jewish violence of 1096 helped to awaken western Europe to the anomaly of its Jewish minority, so did events of the eleventh century–the reconquest of Spain and Sicily and, above all, the First Crusade–render the contacts between Christians and Muslims inevitable, more frequent, and increasingly intense. The existence of Islam, Richard Southern has noted, became “the most far-reaching problem in medieval Christendom; it was a problem at every level of experience.”36 Here was not merely a subjugated religious minority; the devotees of Islam endangered the Christian world above all militarily, confronting it with–as one modern Muslim scholar has put it–“a permanent divine scandal, insofar as God, in his impenetrable wisdom, had armed, trained, and assured the victory of evil and lies.”37 Interestingly, the correspondence between developing Christian attitudes toward Jews and Muslims continued well beyond the First Crusade. Just as they did for Judaism and Jews, the twelfth [161] and thirteenth centuries saw the appearance of well-informed polemics against Islam, of concerted efforts to missionize among Muslims both in Europe and overseas, of attempts to subject Muslim unbelievers to papal jurisdiction, and of a growing tendency to reclassify Muslims as heretics rather than simply as infidels.38 Beginning in the fourteenth century, one historian has recently suggested, Muslims, too, had begun to lose their claim to the status of “privileged other” in the medieval Christian worldview.39
As the only religious minority the Latin West knew and tolerated during the early Middle Ages, the Jews invariably presented Christendom with a paradigm for the evaluation and classification of the Muslim “other,” a springboard for formulating a deliberate response to him and his faith. As a result, there arose in Christendom an array of multidimensional associations between the two faiths and their followers. Like the Jews, Muslims were monotheists, who worshiped the God of the Bible, venerated sacred texts written (from right to left!) in an exotic, non-Western language, but refused to accept Christianity. Moreover, owing to their dispersion, the Jews served as natural intermediaries–merchants, diplomats, translators, and conveyors of ideas–between the two regnant medieval religious cultures, at times representing the one to the other. When circumstances demanded that Christians articulate their posture vis-à-vis Muslims and Islam, why should they not have drawn on their pronouncements concerning Jews and Judaism?
Despite the distinction between Muslims and Jews in Pope Alexander II’s directive Dispar nimirum est (ca. 1065)–Christians may legitimately wage war upon the former but may not attack the latter40–canon law habitually treated Muslim and Jew in tandem, once Christendom came to incorporate a resident Muslim population. The church fathers of late antiquity had obviously not envisioned Muslims in a [162] properly ordered Christian world; but, in practice, high medieval jurists related to them and the Jews as what James Powell has termed “coordinate communities.”41 Some found an instructive precedent in the section of Justinian’s Codex (1.9) entitled De Iudaeis et Caelicolis, comparing Saracens with the latter, because both Jews and these particular pagans “revere and worship God in a half-baked, literal fashion [semi plene] and err less grievously than other heretics.”42 Gratian’s Decretum and most subsequent compilations of medieval canon law typically legislated concerning Jews and pagans/Muslims under the same rubric.43 The Third Lateran Council of 1179 decreed that neither Jews nor Saracens might own Christian slaves or keep Christian domestic servants in their employment. The Council of Montpellier in 1195 added Saracens to the traditional ban on Jews holding public office or exercising authority over Christians. Pope Innocent III admonished King Alfonso VIII of Castile, lest he “appear to restrict the freedom of the church and to elevate the synagogue and mosque”; and, under Innocent’s leadership, the Fourth Lateran Council (1215) decreed that both Jews and Saracens under Christian rule wear distinguishing marks on their clothing, because “it sometimes happens that Christians mistakenly have sexual relations with Jewish or Saracen women, and Jews or Saracens with Christian women.”44
Innocent’s successors took further steps in the same direction. Honorius III and Gregory IX continued to issue edicts banning Jews and [163] Muslims from public office in Christendom and insisting that they compensate the church for tithes on lands once owned by Christians. Innocent IV confirmed a royal statute of James I of Aragon commanding Jews and Muslims to listen to the missionary sermons of Dominican and Franciscan friars.45 The same passage of his Decretalist commentary that justified the burning of the Talmud–during his pontificate and that of Pope Gregory IX before him–asserted the right of the Holy See to enforce natural law on Jews and Muslims, as well as the essential precepts of their religions, should their own prelates fail to do so.46 In 1263 Urban IV instructed that guilt had condemned the Saracens as well as the Jews to perpetual servitude.47 And, in the next century, the briefs of the Spanish canonist Oldradus de Ponte expanded upon such occasional associations of these two communities of infidels to elaborate strikingly similar legal theories toward them both. Oldradus adapted the apostle Paul’s typological identification of the enslaved Hagar with the Jews to include the Saracens as well; they, too, have been excluded from the community of God’s faithful (prefigured in the household of Abraham) by his free wife Sarah, who typifies the Catholic Church. Defending the legitimacy of war against the Muslims of Spain, Oldradus reasoned-
So we are to understand the Church in Abraham’s words to his wife Sarah, who was complaining about that accursed handmaiden who despised her- “Behold,” he says, “your handmaiden is in your own hand; use her as you wish”; for Sarah signifies the Holy Catholic Church, the handmaiden Hagar the accursed sect of Muhammad which took its origin from her. Therefore, the Holy Church, symbolized by Sarah, may use that accursed handmaiden as the blessed Sarah had used her, by beating her. She may use her as the Lord commands, by driving her out and depriving her children of inheritance and possession, that they not share with the free children. For since they are the offspring of a slave woman, and are therefore themselves slaves [164] (for the children follow the womb)–indeed, slaves reproved by the Lord–they are not legally competent to hold rights of jurisdiction, lordship, or honor.48
The Jews, wrote Oldradus, have long been liable to similar treatment, particularly when they cause scandal or offense to the church. Conversely, Oldradus followed the Decretist Alanus and most thirteenth-century Decretalists in concluding that Muslims living peacefully and submissively under Christian rule should enjoy the same toleration extended to the Jews; in so doing, he effectively applied the Augustinian rationale for such a policy to the Saracens as well!49 As James Muldoon has concluded, all this amounted to “a blurring of the lines distinguishing Jews and Muslims. Christians saw them as joined by common opposition to the Christian faith and overlooked the religious and other differences between them. This blurring of distinctions between various non-Christians seems part of a general process of reducing the world to two classes of people, those within the Church and those outside it.”50 What Muldoon has termed “a blurring of distinctions between Jews and Muslims” was by no means limited to canon law. Much as with Judaism, Christian culture familiarized itself with Islam selectively, on an ideological “need-to-know” basis- It sufficed with that which was necessary for polemic; it concentrated on abusive stories about Muhammad and the carnal delights of paradise while ignoring serious theology; it distinguished between the condemnable Islamic creed and ideas and texts of value, like those of classical philosophy, worthy of importation from the Muslim world; it invented stereotypes that underscored the distance between Muslims and Christian culture; and, when Muslims departed from these norms and narrowed the gap between themselves and Western society, Christian policy grew more intolerant toward them.51 In a word, like that of the Jew, much of the [165] Christian image of the Muslim was contrived; it is hardly surprising that Christian society often accused both of the same heinous crimes against nature and humanity.52 Moreover, the Christian linkage of Jew with Muslim induced many churchmen who directed their energies against the former to turn their sights upon the latter as well–from polemicists like Peter Alfonsi and Peter the Venerable of Cluny to mendicant missionaries like Raymond Martin and from a pope like Innocent IV to his cardinal-legate Odo of Châteauroux and his royal ally King Louis IX of France.53
As the aforecited Jewish chronicler of the persecutions of 1096 attested, however, the Christian association of Muslim with Jew–just like that of heretic and Jew–worked both ways- Not only did the Muslim share in the characteristics of the Jew, but the Jew came to assume the characteristics of the Muslim and thus to lose that unique quality that had assured his exceptional function–and concomitant right to remain–in Christendom. Perhaps we can already begin to sense the significance of the categorization of Jews with other outsiders, and the “Muslim connection” especially, for our renewed appreciation of Funkenstein’s reading of changes in Christian anti-Judaism during the twelfth century.54 The new emphasis on rationalist argumentation surely befitted the need to dispute in compelling terms with a more “generic” enemy, not simply with the Jew over the interpretation of biblical prophecy. The mounting awareness of postbiblical Jewish literature went hand in hand with polemic against the religion of Muhammad, which sanctified the teachings of recent, nonbiblical texts that had no standing in Christianity. Just as they did with the Talmud, many Christian polemicists moved to dismiss such Muslim writings as absurd, while others claimed to find validation of Christianity in these texts of their enemies.55
Part 3 illustrates these impressions with a discussion of selected twelfth-century Christian authors, and part 4, with reference to selected mendicant friars of the thirteenth century. Part 3 commences with the school of Anselm of Canterbury, who advanced a new brand of [166] rationalist religious polemic against the Jews and other dissenters, a polemic appropriate to a generically reconceptualized opponent. The discussion then turns to the perceptions of Jews and Judaism expressed against the backdrop of holy war by two of the twelfth century’s leading clerics- Peter the Venerable and Bernard of Clairvaux. Finally, we shall consider the works of several unusually colorful Christian theologians of the twelfth century and their dreams of perfection in a Christendom properly ordered. Throughout one should keep the following question in mind- If Jews were losing the distinctiveness that they had once “enjoyed” in Christian thought, how did twelfth-century thinkers relate to that which had once made the Jew exceptional?
1. On the gradual–and painful–process whereby Christendom came to accommodate innovation and diversity during the High Middle Ages, see Jacques le Goff, Medieval Civilization, trans. Julia Barrow (Oxford, 1988), chap. 8, passim; and Beryl Smalley, “Ecclesiastical Attitudes to Novelty, c. 1100–c. 1250,” in Church, Society and Politics, ed. Derek Baker, SCH 12. (Oxford, 1975), 1-113-31.
2. Miri Rubin, review of The Formation of a Persecuting Society- Power and Deviance in Western Europe, 950-1250, by R. I. Moore, Speculum 65 (1990), 1026.
3. See Jacques le Goff, The Medieval Imagination, trans. Arthur Goldhammer (Chicago, 1988), pp. 181ff.
4. Jaroslav Pelikan, The Christian Tradition- A History of the Development of Doctrine (Chicago, 1971-89), 3-255.
5. Among many others, see especially Caroline Walker Bynum, Jesus as Mother- Studies in the Spirituality of the High Middle Ages (Berkeley, Calif., 1982), esp. chap. 3; and G.R. Evans, Old Arts and New Theology- The Beginnings of Theology as an Academic Discipline (Oxford, 1980).
6. Janet L. Nelson, “Society, Theodicy and the Origins of Medieval Heresy,” in Schism, Heresy and Religious Protest, ed. Derek Baker, SCH 9 (Cambridge, England, 1972), pp. 65-77; Edward Peters, The Magician, the Witch, and the Law (Philadelphia, 1978), chap. 2; R. I. Moore, The Origins of European Dissent, corr. ed. (Oxford, 1985), and The Formation of a Persecuting Society- Power and Deviance in Western Europe, 950-1250 (Oxford, 1987); Alexander Patschovsky, “Die Ketzer als Teufelsdiener,” in Papsttum, Kirche und Recht im Mittelalter- Festschrift für Horst Fuhrmann zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. H. Mordek (Tubingen, Germany, 1991), pp. 317-34; the various essays collected in Scott L. Waugh and Peter D. Diehl, eds., Christendom and Its Discontents- Exclusion, Persecution, and Rebellion, 1000-1500 (Cambridge, England, 1996); and others.
7. Talal Asad, “Medieval Heresy- An Anthropological View,” Social History II (1986), 355.
8. See the summaries in Bernhard Blumenkranz, Les Auteurs chrétiens latins du Moyen Age sur les Juifs et le Judaisme (Paris, 1963), pp. 168ff.; and Heinz Schreckenberg, Die christlichen Adversus-Judaeos-Texte und ihr literarisches und historisches Umfeld (I.-II. Jh.), Europäische Hochschulschriften 23, 172., 2d ed. (Frankfurt am Main, 1990), pp. 500ff. On the very limited circulation of Agobard’s written works, see Max Manitius, Geschichte der lateinischen Literatur des Mittelalters, Handbuch der Altertumswissenschaft 9, 2 (Munich, 1911-31), 1-389.
9. See Daniel F. Callahan, “Ademar of Chabannes, Millennial Fears and the Development of Western Anti-Judaism,” Journal of Ecclesiastical History 46 (1995), 19-35; and Richard Landes, Relics, Apocalypse, and the Deceits of History- Ademar of Chabannes, 989-1034 (Cambridge, Mass., 1995), pp. 40-46, and “The Massacres of 1010- On the Origins of Popular Anti-Jewish Violence in Western Europe,” in FWW, pp. 79-112.
10. Shlomo Simonsohn, ASJD, 492-1404, Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies- Studies and Texts 94 (Toronto, 1988), pp. 35-36.
11. A. Neubauer and M. Stern, eds., Hebräische Berichte über die Judenverfolgungen während der Kreuzzüge, Quellen der Geschichte der Juden in Deutschland 2 (Berlin, 1892), p. 4; trans. in Shlomo Eidelberg, ed., The Jews and the Crusaders- The Hebrew Chronicles of the First and Second Crusades (Madison, Wis., 1977), p. 26. For the confirmation of this description in Christian sources, see below, chapter 6, nn. 83, 85.
12. Above, n. 10; trans, in Robert Chazan, ed., Church, State, and Jew in the Middle Ages (New York, 1980), p. 100.
13. See the discussions in Robert Chazan, European Jewry and the First Crusade (Berkeley, Calif., 1987), pp. 197-210; Simon Schwarzfuchs, “The Place of the Crusades in Jewish History” [Hebrew], in Culture and Society in Medieval Jewry- Studies Dedicated to the Memory of Haim Hillel Ben-Sasson, ed. Menachem Ben-Sasson et al. (Jerusalem, 1989), pp. 251-69; and Jeremy Cohen, “Recent Historiography on the Medieval Church and the Decline of European Jewry,” in Popes, Teachers, and Canon Law in the Middle Ages- Essays in Honor of Brian Tierney, ed. James Ross Sweeney and Stanley Chodorow (Ithaca, N.Y., 1989), pp. 251-62.
14. Pelikan, Christian Tradition, 3-34.
15. R. I. Moore, “Anti-Semitism and the Birth of Europe,” in Christianity and Judaism, ed. Diana Wood, SCH 29 (Oxford, 1992), p. 37.
16. Walter Pakter, Medieval Canon Law and the Jews, Münchener Universitätsschriften–Juristiche Fakultät–Abhandlungen zur Rechtswissenschaftlichen Grundlagenforschung 68 (Ebelsbach, Germany, 1988); Shlomo Simonsohn, The Apostolic See and the Jews- History, Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies- Studies and Texts 109 (Toronto, 1991); and Kenneth R. Stow, The “1007 Anonymous” and Papal Sovereignty- Jewish Perceptions of the Papacy and Papal Policy in the High Middle Ages, Hebrew Union College Annual Supplements 4 (Cincinnati, Ohio, 1984).
17. Moore, Formation, esp. pp. 27-45.
18. Gavin I. Langmuir, History, Religion, and Antisemitism (Berkeley, Calif., 1990), esp. chap. 14, and Toward a Definition of Antisemitism (Berkeley, Calif., 1990), passim; Lester K. Little, “The Function of the Jews in the Commercial Revolution,” in Povertà e richezza nella spiritualità dei secoli xi e xii, Convegni del Centro di studi sulla spiritualità medievale 8 (Todi, Italy, 1969), pp. 271-87, and Religious Poverty and the Profit Economy in Medieval Europe (Ithaca, N.Y., 1978), pp. 42-57.
19. Robert Chazan, Medieval Stereotypes and Modern Antisemitism (Berkeley, Calif., 1997).
20. See Marie-Thérèse d’Alverny, “Translations and Translators,” in Renaissance and Renewal in the Twelfth Century, ed. Robert L. Benson and Giles Constable (Cambridge, Mass., 1982), pp. 421-62 (with extensive notes and bibliography); David Romano, “Los hispanojudíos en el mundo científico y en la transmisión del saber,” in Luces y sombras de la judería europea (siglos xi-xvii) (Navarre, Spain, 1996), pp. 17-57, along with his additional studies cited therein; I owe this latter reference to Eleazar Gutwirth. Though dated, Moritz Steinschneider, Die hebräischen Übersetzungen des Mittelalters und die Juden als Dolmetscher (1893; reprint, Graz, Austria., 1956), has not lost its value in this regard.
21. Beryl Smalley, Hebrew Scholarship among Christians in XIIIth Century England as Illustrated by Some Hebrew-Latin Psalters, Lectiones in Veteri Testamento et in rebus judaicis 6 (London, 1939), p. 1. On the Judaic enrichment of twelfth-century Christian biblical exegesis, see also, among others, Herman Hailperin, Rashi and the Christian Scholars (Pittsburgh, Pa., 1963), esp. pt. 3; Aryeh Graboïs, “The Hebraica veritas and Jewish-Christian Intellectual Relations in the Twelfth Century,” Speculum 50 (1975), 613-34; Beryl Smalley, The Study of the Bible in the Middle Ages, 3d ed. (Oxford, 1983), chaps. 3-5; and Gilbert Dahan, Les Intellectuels chrétiens et les Juifs au Moyen Age (Paris, 1990), pt. 3.
22. For example, see Avraham Grossman, “The Jewish-Christian Polemic and Jewish Biblical Exegesis in Twelfth Century France (On the Attitude of R. Joseph Qara to Polemic)” [Hebrew], Zion, n.s. 51 (1985), 29-60; Ephraim E. Urbach, The Tosaphists- Their History, Writings and Methods [Hebrew], 4th ed. (Jerusalem, 1980), esp. 2-744ff.; Jeremy Cohen, “A 1096 Complex? Constructing the First Crusade in Jewish Historical Memory, Medieval and Modern,” in In the Shadow of the Millennium- Jews and Christians in Twelfth-Century Europe, ed. Michael A. Signer and John H. van Engen (Notre Dame, Ind., 1999); and Ivan G. Marcus, “The Dynamics of Jewish Renaissance and Renewal in the Twelfth Century,” in In the Shadow of the Millennium- Jews and Christians in Twelfth-Century Europe, ed. Michael A. Signer and John H. van Engen (Notre Dame, Ind., 1999).
23. Pelikan, Christian Tradition, 3-246.
24. Amos Funkenstein, Perceptions of Jewish History (Berkeley, Calif., 1993), pp. 172-201; Anna Sapir Abulafia, “Jewish-Christian Disputations and the Twelfth-Century Renaissance,” JMH 15 (1989), 105-25, “Christian Imagery of Jews in the Twelfth Century- A Look at Odo of Cambrai and Guibert of Nogent,” Theoretische Geschiedenis 16 (1989), 383-91, “Jewish Carnality in Twelfth-Century Renaissance Thought,” in Christianity and Judaism, ed. Diana Wood, SCH 29 (Oxford, 1992), pp. 59-75, “Twelfth-Century Humanism and the Jews,” in Contra Iudaeos- Ancient and Medieval Polemics between Christians and Jews, ed. Ora Limor and Guy G. Stroumsa (Tübingen, Germany, 1996), pp. 161-75, “Twelfth-Century Renaissance Theology and the Jews,” in FWW, pp. 125-39, and Christians and Jews in the Twelfth-Century Renaissance (London, 1995). See also Kurt Schubert, “Das christlich-jüdische Religionsgespräch im 12 und 13. Jahrhundert,” Kairos n.s. 19 (1977), 161-86; Marianne Awerbuch, Christlich-jüdische Begegnung im Zeitalter der Frühscholastik, Abhandlungen zum christlich-jüdischen Dialog 8 (Munich, 1980); Jeremy Cohen, “Scholarship and Intolerance in the Medieval Academy- The Study and Evaluation of Judaism in European Christendom,” AHR 91 (1986), 592-613; and Dahan, Les Intellectuels, esp. pt. 4. On the lack of twelfth-century Christian interest in missionizing among the Jews, see David Berger, “Mission to the Jews and Jewish-Christian Cultural Contacts in the Polemical Literature of the High Middle Ages,” AHR 91 (1986), pp. 576-91; and Robert Chazan, Daggers of Faith- Thirteenth-Century Christian Missionizing and Jewish Response (Berkeley, Calif., 1989), chap. 1. The most recent studies of high medieval polemics between Christians and Jews also include Simon Schwarzfuchs, “Religion populaire et polémique savante- Le Tournant de la polémique judéo-chrétienne au 12e siècle,” in Medieval Studies in Honour of Avrom Saltman, ed. Bat-Sheva Albert et al., Bar-Ilan Studies in History 4 (Ramat Gan, Israel, 1995), pp. 189-206; and Daniel J. Lasker, “Jewish-Christian Polemics at the Turning Point- Jewish Evidence from the Twelfth Century,” HTR 89 (1996), 161-73.
25. Funkenstein, Perceptions, pp. 172-201; the essay originally appeared as “Changes in the Patterns of Christian Anti-Jewish Polemic in the Twelfth Century” [Hebrew], Zion, n.s. 33 (1968), 125-44. An abridged, slightly reoriented version of this essay subsequently appeared in English as “Basic Types of Christian Anti-Jewish Polemics in the Later Middle Ages,” Viator 2 (1971), 373-82.
26. Cf. Pelikan, Christian Tradition, 3-215-67.
27. Funkenstein, “Basic Types,” p. 374.
28. Moore, Formation; see also Alexander Patschovsky, “Feindbilder der Kirche- Juden und Ketzer im Vergleich (11.-13. Jh.),” in Juden und Christen zur Zeit der Kreuzzüge, ed. Alfred Haverkamp, Vorträge und Forschungen des Konstanzer Arbeitskreises fur mittelalterliche Geschichte (Sigmaringen, Germany, 1999); Sara Lipton, “Jews, Heretics, and the Sign of the Cat in the Bible moralisée,” Word and Image 8 (1992), 362-77; and Elizabeth Carson Pastan, “Tam haereticus quam Judaeos- Shifting Symbols in the Glazing of Troyes Cathedral,” Word and Image 10 (1994), 66-83. Cf. the reservations expressed by Chazan, Medieval Stereotypes, p. 91f.
29. PL 210-305-430; see also the partial edition and introduction of Marie-Thérèse d’Alverny, “Alain de Lille et l’Islam- Le ‘Contra Paganos,’” in ICM, pp. 301-50. For similar tendencies in other contemporary polemical works, see Gilbert Dalian’s edition of William of Bourges, Livre des guerres du Seigneur et deux homélies, SC 288 (Paris, 1981); and Marie-Humbert Vicaire, “’Contra Judaeos’ meridionaux au debut du xiiie siècle- Alain de Lille, Evrard de Béthune, Guillaume de Bourges,” in Juifs et judaïsme de Languedoc, Cahiers de Fanjeaux 12 (Toulouse, France, 1977), pp. 269-93. On the frequent and natural linkage between Judaism and Islam–and heretics–see also the comments of Norman Daniel, Islam and the West- The Making of an Image, rev. ed. (Oxford, 1993), pp. 213-18.
30. Raymond of Penyafort, Summa de paenitentia 1.4 init., ed. Xaverio Ochoa and Aloisio Diez, Universa bibliotheca iuris 1A (Rome, 1976), p. 308; trans, in Chazan, Church, State, and Jew, p. 38. In Gratian’s Decretum, see, for instance, C. 2 q. 7 c. 24-26, C 28 q. 1, D.1 c. 67 de cons.
31. Honorius Augustudensis, Liber de haeresibus, PL 172-233.
32. Laurentius, Glossa palatina ad C. 24 q. 3 c. 26 (Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, ms. Pal. lat. 658, fol. 72rb), cited in Othmar Hageneder, “Der Häresiebegriff bei den Juristen des 12. und 13. Jahrhunderts,” in The Concept of Heresy in the Middle Ages (11th-13th C.), ed. W. Lourdaux and D. Verhelst, Mediaevalia lovaniensia 1, 4 (Louvain, Belgium, 1976), p. 50 n. 28.
33. Cf. the fascinating studies of Kathleen Corrigan, Visual Polemics in the Ninth-Century Byzantine Psalters (Cambridge, England, 1992), esp. chaps. 3, 5; David M. Olster, Roman Defeat, Christian Response, and the Literary Construction of the Jew (Philadelphia, 1994); Sidney H. Griffith, “Jews and Muslims in Christian Syriac and Arabic Texts of the Ninth Century,” Jewish History 3 (1988), esp. 84ff.; and Steven M. Wasserstrom, Between Muslim and Jew- The Problem of Symbiosis under Early Islam (Princeton, N.J., 1995).
34. I do not subscribe to the theory–or the arguments in its behalf–advanced by Allan and Ellen Cutler, who have claimed that “medieval anti-Semitism . . . was primarily a function of medieval anti-Muslimism”; see their The Jew as the Ally of the Muslim (Notre Dame, Ind., 1986), and my review in Judaism 37 (1988), 240-42.
35. Benjamin Z. Kedar, Crusade and Mission- European Approaches toward the Muslim (Princeton, N.J., 1984), chap. 1.
36. Richard W. Southern, Western Views of Islam in the Middle Ages (Cambridge, Mass., 1962), p. 3.
37. Hichem Djaït, Europe and Islam, trans. Peter Heinegg (Berkeley, Calif., 1985), p. 13. See also Rosalind Hill, “The Christian View of the Muslim at the Time of the First Crusade,” in The European Mediterranean Lands in the Period of the Crusaders, ed. P. M. Holt (Westminster, England, 1977), pp. 1-8; and Penny J. Cole, “’O God, the Heathen Have Come into Your Inheritance’ (Ps. 78.1)- The Theme of Religious Pollution in Crusade Documents, 1095-1188,” in Crusaders and Muslims in Twelfth-Century Syria, ed. Maya Shatzmiller, The Medieval Mediterranean- Peoples, Economies and Cultures 1 (Leiden, Netherlands, 1993), pp. 84-111.
38. Kedar, Crusade and Mission, chaps. 2-4. John Tolan, “Anti-Hagiography- Embrico of Mainz’s Vita Mahumeti,” JMH 22 (1996), 25-41, demonstrates that the evaluation of Islam–like that of Judaism–as heresy derived more from Christendom’s contemporary concern with heretics than from any systematic evaluation of Muslim doctrine as truly heretical. On the progression of this tendency into the thirteenth century, see also Kurt Villads Jensen, “War against Muslims According to Benedict of Alignano, O.F.M.,” Archivum franciscanum historicum 89 (1996), esp. 186ff.
39. Michel-Marie Dufeil, “Vision d’Islam depuis l’Europe au debut du xive siècle,” in ICM, pp. 235-58.
40. Gratian, Decretum, C. 23 q. 8 c. n; see above, nn. 10, 12. Cf. also the discussion of Henri Gilles, “Législation et doctrine canoniques sur les Sarrasins,” in ICM, pp. 195-213.
41. James M. Powell, “The Papacy and the Muslim Frontier,” in Muslims under Latin Rule, 1100-1300, ed. James M. Powell (Princeton, N.J., 1990), p. 186. See also James Muldoon, Popes, Lawyers, and Infidels- The Church and the Non-Christian World, 1250-1550 (Philadelphia, 1979), esp. chaps. 1-3; and Kedar, Crusade and Mission, chap. 5.
42. Azo, Summa 1.9.3, quoted by Gilles, “Legislation et doctrine canoniques,” p. 196. On Azo’s equation of Justinian’s pagans with present-day Saracens, see also David Abulafia, “Monarchs and Minorities in the Christian Western Mediterranean around 1300- Lucera and Its Analogues,” in Christendom and Its Discontents- Exclusion, Persecution, and Rebellion, 1000-1500, ed. Scott L. Waugh and Peter D. Diehl (Cambridge, England, 1996), p. 260 n. 118.
43. Peter Herde, “Christians and Saracens at the Time of the Crusades- Some Comments of Contemporary Canonists,” Studia gratiana 12 (1967), 359-76; Gilles, “Legislation et doctrine canoniques”; and Benjamin Z. Kedar, “De Iudeis et Sarracenis- On the Categorization of Muslims in Medieval Canon Law,” in Studia in honorem eminen-tissimi cardinalis Aplhonsi M. Stickler, ed. Rosalio Joseph Castillo Lara, Pontificia studiorum universitas salesiana- Studia et textus historiae iuris canonici 7 (Rome, 1992), pp. 207-13. See also above, n. 41.
44. Solomon Grayzel, CJ, rev. ed. (New York, 1966), pp. 112-13 (Simonsohn, ASJD, 492-1404, pp. 85-86), 296-99, 308-9 (with slight variation from Grayzel’s translation).
45. Simonsohn, ASJD, 492-1404, pp. 120, 130-32, 136-40, 147-49, 183-85; and Grayzel, CJ, pp. 172-73, 184-87, 192-95, 208-9, 254-57.
46. The correct reading of Innocent’s Apparatus super quinque libros Decretalium ad X.3.34.8 has been established by Benjamin Z. Kedar, “Canon Law and the Burning of the Talmud,” Bulletin of Medieval Canon Law, n.s. 9 (1979), 79-82. Instructive discussions of Innocent’s position and its lasting impact appear in Muldoon, Popes, chaps. 2-3; and Kedar, Crusade and Mission, chap. 5.
47. Simonsohn, ASJD, 492-1404, p. 221- “non est conveniens vel honestum, ut eisdem Iudaeis et Saracenis, quos propria culpa submisit perpetuae servituti, exercendi vim potestatis in Christianis.” Emperor Fredrick II also referred to Muslims as servi camerae nostrae, exactly what he had dubbed the Jews; see Abulafia, “Monarchs and Minorities,” p. 237.
48. Norman Zacour, Jews and Saracens in the Consilia of Oldradus de Ponte, Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies- Studies and Texts 100 (Toronto, 1990), pp. 52 (trans.), 82.
49. Ibid., pp. 54-58, 83-84. For a summary of earlier opinions, see Herde, “Christians and Saracens,” pp. 364ff.; cf. also Frederick H. Russell, The Just War in the Middle Ages (Cambridge, England, 1975), pp. 113-22, 196-210.
50. Muldoon, Popes, p. 52.
51. Daniel, Islam and the West, esp. chap. 8; cf. Norman Daniel, The Arabs and Medieval Europe (London, 1975), chaps. 1-5; Southern, Western Views, chaps. 1-2; Jennifer Bray, “The Mohammetan and Idolatry,” in Persecution and Toleration, ed. W. J. Sheils, SCH 21 (Oxford, 1984), pp. 89-98; and Jean Flori, “La Caricature de l’Islam dans l’Occident médiévale- Origine et signification de quelques stereotypes concernant l’Islam,” Aevum 66 (1992), 245-56.
52. See, for instance, Malcolm Barber, “Lepers, Jews and Moslems- The Plot to Overthrow Christendom in 1321,” History 66 (1981), 1-17.
53. On Odo and Louis, see Kedar, Crusade and Mission, pp. 149ff., 161ff.
54. Cf. the preliminary discussion in Jeremy Cohen, “The Muslim Connection- On the Changing Role of the Jew in High Medieval Theology,” In FWW, pp. 141-62.
55. See Thomas E. Burman, Religious Polemic and the Intellectual History of the Mozarabs, c. 1050-1200, Brill’s Studies in Intellectual History 52 (Leiden, Netherlands, 1994).