In the wee hours I often admire my husband’s muscular back, giving thanks for its “surest protection” like the “resplendent mountain,” I recently discovered in a 13th-century spiritual memoir by a German mystic. Mechtild de Magdeburg wrote surprisingly carnal—bordering on erotic—love poetry, describing her ecstatic experiences of deep, unburdened, and reliably reciprocal physical union with the Divine with all parts of her humanhood: mind, heart, soul and body. Although her manuscript languished undiscovered for centuries, once its unashamedly detailed and passionate dialogues between lovers was translated from low German, it has inflamed imaginations, including mine. Mechtild writes, for example:

“The narrower the bed of love becomes, the more intense are the embraces,
The sweeter the kisses on the mouth become, the more lovingly they gaze at each other….
The more she consumes, the more she has.
The more ardent she remains, the sooner she bursts into flame.
The more she burns, the more beautifully she glows.”

Many holy men and women across time have explored, as Mechtild did, the metaphor of Christ as bridegroom to the soul’s bride. Union with God as in marriage is a common theme in Christian memoir by authors of all genders who desired God with their entire humanity. Their scriptural starting point is often the biblical poetry known as the Song of Songs, portraying Christ as a lover “leaping like a stag” to meet his bride, the church. Holy thinkers ranging from Origen to Bernard of Clairvaux to Teresa of Ávila celebrated romantic and even erotic love described in the Song, connecting human emotions to parallel experiences in mystical relationships between humans and God: desire, yearning, passion, pleasure, excitement, intensity, and ecstasy. But unlike others, Mechtild—self-proclaimed as an “unruly woman of God”— describes not a one-sided relationship of longing through chastity and sacrifice, but rather a Christ equally desirous of her.

Humans crave connection, at every age, every life stage. Unless harmed by trauma, we instinctually desire touch, yearn to feel love with all our senses and experience union with our bodies. We treasure our most intimate relationships—with family, friends, caregivers—because those bonds come with permission to both give and receive hugs, kisses, strokes of hair, drying of tears, and other mortal linkages that electrify not just our hearts, but also skin and sinew. St. Mother Teresa recognized that when we shrink from bodily contact with others, we insult our shared humanity. “Let us touch the dying, the poor, the lonely and the unwanted according to the graces we have received. And let us not be ashamed or slow to do this humble work.”

For many years I denied my own desire for embodied connection, manipulated by a romantic partner to believe I was disordered because of my wants. He characterized my need for nearness as cloying, selfish. Holding hands was off limits, especially in public. Side-hugs, indifferent pecks on the cheek and sitting apart became the best I could hope for from a man who insisted that physical affection was not his “love language.” That we managed to produce three daughters from our bond was nothing short of remarkable. And that I settled for an unhealthy relationship was evidence of a disordered definition of holy sacrificial love.

“We need to understand the fullness of human love — even including the passion and physical intimacy of romantic love — if we truly wish to explore the mysteries of God’s love,” writes contemporary contemplative Carl McColman. I understood the truth of that statement—and Mechtild’s poetry—only after being graced with a love so authentic, so passionate, so earthly that it was, by extension, spiritual, too. Not until I experienced an embodied love and soul-level shared faith with a romantic partner did I begin to understand God’s perfect love for me. Not until I participated in a healthy, balanced, reciprocal relationship did I believe I deserved such love.

I assumed Mechtild was a soul sister because she, too, experienced deeply satisfying physical and romantic love. She was never a religious sister nor part of any avowed order requiring chastity. As member of a loosely organized affiliation of secular women known as the Beguines, she dedicated her life to works of charity. But likely because this group was disbanded by the Catholic Church just a few decades after her death, she was never officially recognized as a saint. So imagine my surprise when I discovered this frank-talking mystic was in fact an avowed virgin from the time she first experienced a mystical vision at age 12. “We should raise the feathers of our longing to God,” she wrote to explain how even those who never experience nor consummate physical love can nonetheless encounter an all-consuming love of the Divine.

“The mystics, even though so many of them were themselves celibate, recognized …that physical love…matters just as much as… ethereal or spiritual love,” writes McColman. If in human relationships we are deprived of the rich and delicious joy of eros, as I once was, our capacity to understand love’s fullness is diminished.
Extraordinary experiences such as visions, ecstasies and even suffering with stigmata allowed mystics to experience an otherworldly abundance of love, what McColman characterizes as an array of “love vitamins.” These qualities are present in healthy romantic relationships on earth, and if any are missing, our malnourishment can have soul-level consequences. The vitamins are “A” (affection), “C” (caring and compassion), “E” (eros), “F” (friendship), “I” (intimacy), “S” (self-sacrifice), and “V” (vulnerability).

In her twenties Mechtild was encouraged by a confessor to record what was by then a years-long friendship (F) with God. She began and continued to write the rest of her years a remarkable story positively alive with Vitamins A and E. Alongside other Beguines in Magdeburg, she cared (C) for that city’s poor and forgotten. Her first intimate (I) encounters with Christ and almost daily rendezvous after are devotedly detailed in the seven books that make up her memoir. Her initial self-sacrifice (S) of celibacy strengthened her body and will for lifelong dedication to other ascetic practices, such as fasting.
Mechtild’s lived experience with the last love vitamin, however, is what connects us.

Repeatedly every night that “resplendent mountain” who is my bridegroom softens and turns to entwine his body with mine. Often overcome with the immensity of our mutual love he squeezes me tightly for a moment, vulnerable and trusting that I’ll reciprocate, which I always do: a kiss or a whispered “I love you.” As in other memoirs by mystics, Mechtild describes being so besotted with her bridegroom that she is vulnerable, so enflamed by desire in body, mind, and spirit that she offers him complete surrender. But remarkably, Mechtild’s lover is as naked as she is, as vulnerable because of equally intense desire. In this mystic’s life story, God and woman are equals in surrender, equals in mutual trust.

“Stay, Lady Soul,” [says Christ].
“What do you bid me, Lord?”
“Take off your clothes.”
“Lord, what will happen to me then?”
“Lady Soul, you are so utterly formed to my nature that not the slightest thing can be between you and me.
Never was an angel so glorious
That to him was granted for one hour
What is given to you for eternity.
And so you must cast off from you
Both fear and shame and all external virtues…”
“Lord, now I am a naked soul.”

Mechtild teaches that we all deserve to be chosen, wanted, and desired with mutuality, both in human relationships and those with the Divine. Settling for less—succumbing to fear or shame or self-martyrdom—sullies the beauty of sacrificial love. Real love makes us angels.

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