All Shall Be Well: Julian of Norwich and the Holy Work of Hope
A window into a medieval life
“The world is on fire again.”
“Sure would be great if we could get back to some of those good ol’ precedented times.”
“There are moments when hope feels delusional.”
Have you heard these things? Have you said them? Yeah—me too.
I had amazing history teachers in sixth grade (hello to Mrs. Carren and Mrs. Mengler, should you ever stumble into this corner of the internet) who encouraged us to imagine what it would feel like to live through the times we were learning about: the fall of Rome, the rise of Hitler, the French Revolution. I used to picture myself as the hero. Now I think: the fall of the Roman Empire probably felt like doing your laundry, paying your property taxes, and hoping the Germanic tribes didn’t cross too deep into your town this week.
So let me introduce you to Julian of Norwich—a mystic who lived through plague, political upheaval, and church fracture and still whispered a refrain that has lasted 600 years:
“All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”
Julian was born in 1342 and lived in Norwich, England, a city repeatedly ravaged by the Black Death. She saw half her town die. She witnessed the Peasants’ Revolt of 1381, the slow collapse of feudalism, the Hundred Years’ War, and the Great Schism, when two rival popes tore the Church in two.
Amid all that, she wrote about love.
At age 31, during a plague outbreak, Julian fell seriously ill and received last rites. But instead of dying, she experienced a series of mystical visions—or “showings”—that would become her life’s work: Revelations of Divine Love, the first known book in English by a woman.
After recovering, Julian chose to become an anchoress, sealed into a small cell attached to St. Julian’s Church. (We derive her name from the church, as her true name is unknown, not the other way around.) The room had three windows: one to the church, one to the street, and one to a servant’s room. She spent the rest of her life in that cell, praying, writing, and offering spiritual counsel to visitors at her window. (For some reason, I always picture her as Lucy from Peanuts, offering advice for five cents.)
And yet, from that place of physical limitation and spiritual expansiveness, she wrote some of the most profound words of assurance we have:
“All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”
As Ellyn Sanna translates from the same revelation:
“Who showed you these visions? Love. What were you shown? Love. Why were you shown these visions? For love.”
Sometimes I don’t believe her words. I certainly don’t live them out. I worry about whether the doctoral programs I want to engage in will still take students by the time I get there. I wonder whether my daughter’s IEP funding will exist next year. I worry if my mom’s health will be okay. If we can manage the way everything is hiking in cost with no seeming end. I worry if I’m doing enough.
I just need the Germanic tribes to stay away long enough to get to next week, next year, or some mystical space when it is calm.
However, if I sit at Julian’s window for just a little while, my mind does start to turn toward new questions.
Is wellness something deeper than circumstance?
What if it’s not that everything becomes easy—but that everything becomes held?
What if “well” means belovedness, not comfort?
Julian didn’t say things wouldn’t hurt. She said they wouldn’t be wasted. That brokenness and suffering left room for the joy of mending and compassion. She reminds that God isn’t above but alongside.
The medieval response to suffering often wasn’t avoidance—it was pursuit. They sought it to understand the pain of others, and the suffering of Christ. Anchoritic life was one such method: to limit oneself in order to focus, to deny the self to be in solidarity with those who do not have. I can’t say that I can recommend the lifestyle, but the mental posture? Suffering as connection to the Divine and to the poor? It is both foreign and admirable.
It was their answer to “Why do we suffer?”
The medieval answer is: to learn.
Julian’s answer was: to learn to love.
Julian’s writings were saved by the women in her community and not published until 200 years after her death. They were kept alive in secret in these small pockets of communal womanly living—those words “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well,” resonating to them for centuries, and resonating to us today.
Maybe you don’t believe it yet, either. That’s okay. Just sit by the window a little longer. Julian’s still whispering.
For anyone looking to read Julian, a great starting point is the modern-day translation by Ellyn Sanna. Found here.
(For my normal subscribers who are like, What is this abundance of riches Shay is pouring out on her Substack? 1.) I’m starting to get my brain back for extra writing time! Watch out! and 2.) This is part 3 of a 4-part final for my Church History class (Hi, Dr. Richmann!) and while my deepest intent was to spread these out a bit more, life happened, and we are chucking these in the cat door at the last minute, and I hope that they might bless you anyway. Thank you for letting me clutter your inbox just a bit more than usual this week. - S)