Have you ever been swept up in writing and caught yourself wondering, “Wait, can I say that? Is that too edgy?” The line of “edgy” is a perilous one to walk, especially in Christian circles. What we choose to write or not write about speaks volumes about what we believe of God, so we tend to be very cautious—and quite rightly. So where is the place for darkness and evil in the art we create?
For a unique take on the question, we turn to a medieval play titled, The Second Shepherd’s Play. Although technically a one act play, the action of the work seems divided into two sections. The majority of the play follows the scheming of a man named Mak, who steals a sheep from three shepherds and disguises it as a baby. The shepherds reclaim their sheep right before an angel appears to them proclaiming the birth of Christ, and from there on, the plot loosely follows the scriptural account of Jesus’s birth.
From the beginning of the play, the characters reveal themselves as roughened men who speak vernacularly. Their speech is colored by their lack of education, and they use informal terms for the objects and people that inhabit their world. There is a disgruntled lowness to the shepherds’ dialogue as they speak of the farming situation, their unhappy marital states, and the inclement weather. Especially in their marital discourses, there is an apparent vulgarity in the rough-handed way they treat it, saying “Woe is him that is bun,”[1] or married.
Their coarseness comes out in other aspects of their dialogue as well, namely in their religious references. As with marriage, these shepherds refer to Christianity and its icons cavalierly and sometimes irreverently. They use the phrase “by the rood” as an exclamation and misquote Scripture frequently. Mak says, to “Thy hands I commend to Pontus Pilate,” instead of “Into thy hands I commit my spirit,” as found in Luke 23:46.[2] Other characters make many similar fumbles and misquotes of Scripture and liturgy.
This destructive, unlearned relationship with religion is contrasted by the second part of the play. The couple disguising a sheep as their child differs greatly from the family dynamic surrounding the Christ child. The first words out of Mary’s mouth reference “the Father of heaven.” Already, the writer sets up a strong distinction between the two “lambs.” Though both are, in a sense, “illegitimate,” being raised by surrogate parents, the similarity ends there. Mary speaks of God as Creator, “That set all on seven,” as opposed to the general disrespect shown by the other characters.
With the contrast of the two “infants,” the play sets up an inherent contrast between the parents of said babes. The first section of the play focuses in on Mak, his wife Gill, and their stolen sheep “child.” Mak and Gill portray a tense relationship. They operate as a team, disguising the sheep, feigning the pregnancy, striving to maintain the illusion and retain the stolen animal. Yet a harshness underlies their dynamic. Mak speaks very ill of his wife when interacting with Coll, Gib, and Daw. According to him, she “Lies waltering . . . She drinks well, too:/Ill speed other good/That she will do!” She also “Eats as fast as she can” and is “a foul douce.”
As the story progresses, the amount of time spent on the shepherd’s conflict seems almost absurd. Surely the birth of Christ should have more of the focus, right? English professor and scholar of Middle English literature Albert C. Baugh points out this fact: “The length of the Mak episode is hopelessly out of proportion to the proper matter of the play.”[3] There is an extensive amount of space spent on the shepherds’ interactions, as well as the conniving plans of Mak and Gill. By comparison, the angel’s appearance, the subsequent trip to “Bedlam,” the presentation of gifts to the child, and the departure to spread the news all occur within a surprising small section of the play.
But embedded in this unbalanced story, the author of The Second Shepherd’s Play has hit on a key point of the incarnation—one echoed frequently through the writings of John and Paul: the images of light and darkness. In Romans 5, Paul explains that God gave the Law so that Israel would see their own sin. Until Israel understood their depravity, they could not understand their need for a savior.
Scholar of medieval dramatic literature Susan Nakley points out that the “Second Shepherds’ Play meditates just as deeply on more mundane pains, such as those associated with poverty, cold, and childbirth, departing from this meditation only in its anomalous concluding scene.”[4] Nakely makes a good observation. What is the point of spending so much time on the average, dirty, messiness of life before the brief introduction of the Savior? The strength of this choice is rooted in Paul’s writing and in John’s allusions to Christ as the light that “shines in the darkness” (John 1:5). If you want to incarnate the glory and holiness of God, you have to first incarnate the sinful depravity of man. Israel needed the law first before they could understand grace.
Writers and artists in the Christian arena face the perpetual dilemma: what is appropriate subject material? How graphic, how dark, how explicit should I be? Scripture gives us no hard rule, but it does exemplify the storytelling principle of contrast. Think of the most distasteful Bible stories you can, the ones that make you squeamish, the ones that you wouldn’t read to your children. Maybe you think of Judah and Tamar (Gen 38), Lot and his daughters (Gen 19), or the concubine who is cut up into twelve pieces and sent to the twelve tribes (Judg 19). These stories aren’t pretty, but they show us the depth of sin and ultimately the deep grace of God as he deals with his people.
Perhaps the contrasting stories are the most striking aspect of The Second Shepherds’ Play. The façade of the Mak and Gill’s sheep is revealed when the shepherds attempt to bring it gifts, while the truth of the person of Jesus, sent to redeem a broken world, shines brightly when the shepherds bring their gifts to him.
The strange structure of The Second Shepherd’s Play embodies a truth perhaps best summed up by Madeleine L'Engle, “Maybe you have to know the darkness before you can appreciate the light.”[5] As we look to our own writing and the decisions we face, we would do well to remember this lesson. To put flesh on God, we must put flesh on humanity, too.
[1]Wakefield, The Second Shepherds’ Play. In The Norton Anthology of English Literature. Vol. 1. 9th ed., (New York: W. W. Norton & Company) 450-477.
[2]Stephan Greenblatt, The Norton Anthology of English Literature. Vol. 1. 9th ed., (New York: W. W. Norton & Company), 459.
[3]Albert C. Baugh and Kemp Malone, A Literary History of England: Vol 1: The Middle Ages (to 1500). Vol. 2., (Great Britain: Routledge) 281.
[4]Susan Nakley, “On the Unruly Power of Pain in Middle English Drama.” Literature and Medicine 33, no. 2: 302-325.
[5]Madeleine L'Engle, A Ring of Endless Light, (New York: Macmillan) 224.
Callie Johnson works as Editorial Assistant at Kelli Sallman Writing and Editing with a bachelor’s degree in Theatre Arts and Creative Writing from Calvary University. She previously interned with Kelli for two years, working as proofreader and copyeditor on several manuscripts. Her strange obsessions include kerning, East Coker, and the sound of cows chewing.