Guigo II (d. around 1188) was a 12th century monk elected ninth prior of La Grande-Chartreuse (the head monastery of the Carthusian religious order in the Chartreuse Mountains of France; yes, these are the monks that make the famous Chartreuse liqueur) and general of the Carthusian order in 1173. He is best known for writing the Scala Claustralium (or Ladder of Monks)1, a letter about the contemplative life addressed to his confrere and prior of another monastery, Gervase. In it, Guigo uses the image of a four-runged ladder to heaven to discuss four steps of lectio divina—reading, meditation, prayer, and contemplation—which has become the standard formulation.
Guigo intended to write to Gervase his “thoughts on the spiritual exercises proper to cloistered monks” (p. 67), but of course, what he describes in The Ladder of Monks reaches far beyond the monastery. Lectio divina need not be limited to religious life, but can be woven into the day-to-day living of lay folks with limited time and space, providing them with spiritual nourishment for the journey. It is no accident that food is one of the images to which Guigo often returns as he describes the process of lectio divina:
Reading seeks for the sweetness of a blessed life, meditation perceives it, prayer asks for it, contemplation tastes it. Reading, as it were, puts food whole into the mouth, meditation chews it and breaks it up, prayer extracts its flavor, contemplation is the sweetness itself which gladdens and refreshes. Reading works on the outside, meditation on the pith, prayer asks for what we long for, contemplation gives us delight in the sweetness which we have found (p. 68-69).
Upon reading a small portion of Scripture, “[the soul of the reader] says to itself, there may be something good here’ (p. 69), something worth investigating further. This initial reading Guigo likens to popping a grape into the mouth—and through meditation, one “bite[s] and chew[s] upon this grape, as though putting it in a wine press” (p. 69). Through reading and meditation, the reader extracts meaning from Scripture, which then leads naturally to prayer. The image of food breaks down; glimpsing the sweetness of promises contained in Scripture, and yet faced with the impossibility of tasting this sweetness unaided, the reader seeks the help of God.
At this point—on the cusp of contemplation—the language begins to alternate back and forth between the gastronomic and the erotic. When Guigo offers his own prayer as an example, his language is strikingly passionate:
Lord, for long I have meditated in my heart, seeking to see your face. It is the sight of you, Lord, that I have sought; and all the while in my meditation the fire of longing, the desire to know you more fully, has increased. When you break for me the bread of sacred Scripture, you have shown yourself to me in that breaking of bread, and the more I see you, the more I long to see you, not more from without, in the rind of the letter, but within, in the letter’s hidden meaning…So give me, Lord, some pledge of what I hope to inherit, at least one drop of heavenly rain with which to refresh my thirst, for I am on fire with love (p. 73).
Guigo describes this prayer that follows meditation as “the soul inflam[ing] its own desire, mak[ing] known its state, seek[ing] to call its spouse,” recalling the longing expressed by the bride in the Song of Songs, by which Guigo is clearly influenced (p. 73). In the opening lines, the bride exclaims, “For your love2 is better than wine; your anointing oils are fragrant; your name is perfume poured out…draw me after you; let us make haste” (1:3-4 NRSVUE)! And later on she calls out to the Bridegroom, “Sustain me with raisins, refresh me with apples, for I am faint with love (2:5)!”
Lectio divina, in other words, is no mere reading. It is nothing less than an intimate encounter between the individual soul and God, between bride and Bridegroom—it is a lovers’ tryst. Even when Guigo switches to another relational metaphor (such as the return of the prodigal son to the Father’s house below), the language is saturated with longing:
…the Lord, whose eyes are upon the just and whose ears can catch not only the words, but the very meaning of their prayers, does not wait until the longing soul has said all its say, but breaks in upon the middle of its prayer, runs to meet it in all haste, sprinkled with sweet heavenly dew, anointed with the most precious perfumes, and He restores the weary soul, He slakes its thirst, He feeds its hunger, He makes the soul forget all earthly things: by making it die to itself He gives it new life in a wonderful way, and by making it drunk He brings it back to its true senses (p. 73-74).
It is therefore fitting to call out with the bride in Song of Songs, “We will exult and rejoice in you; we will extol your love more than wine” (Song of Songs 1:4 NRSVUE)! Through reading, meditation, and prayer, a portion of Scripture is transformed from a fresh grape into a fine wine; this wine is enjoyed in contemplation, the wine which “inebriates the soul” (p. 79). The final bridge between gastronomic language and erotic language is the image of wine—an thirst-quenching and intoxicating aphrodisiac.
In selecting and extracting the meaning from a passage of Scripture (chewing on a grape, tasting the sweet juice), the reader begins to long all the more for a “love better than wine”—the love of God. Guigo writes that contemplation (often accompanied by the strange consolation of tears) can be understood as in some sense “an effect of prayer,” and that “to obtain it without prayer would be rare, even miraculous” (p. 82)—offering the hope that an experience of divine love is available to all who seek it earnestly. But ultimately, contemplation cannot be procured by human effort, but comes as a divine gift from a Bridegroom in love with his bride.
Guigo II, The Ladder of Monks: A Letter on the Contemplative Life and Twelve Meditations, trans. Edmund Colledge, OSA and James Walsh, SJ (Kalamazoo, MI: Cisterian Publications, 1981)
There is a major split in interpretation of these verses, based on differing textual bases; the Masoretic text has “love” (Hebrew: dodim) here, while the Septuagint version (arguably mistranslated) has “breasts” (Greek: mastoi, based on Hebrew: dadim) This has led to the Jewish tradition by and large opting for “love,” and the Christian tradition for “breasts,” as many of the Cistercian Fathers do. You can read more in Dr. Rabbi Zev Farber’s thorough article at TheTorah.com on the common mistranslation and its history in the tradition(s), “What is Better Than Wine?”.