What might Dominic Cummings have in common with a medieval abbot?

The controversy enveloping Dominic Cummings shows no signs of abating. His now notorious 264-mile journey from London and Durham and back during the height of the lockdown while suffering from symptoms of Covid-19 has led to a clarion call for his resignation or sacking.

This this got me thinking of some medieval monastic resignations and dismissals, some of which have clear parallels with recent departures (or not) of prominent public figures.

An abbot or abbess running an abbey or a prior or prioress presiding over a priory would traditionally remain in office until their death. Inspired by the Holy Spirit, they were freely elected by their communities, and entrusted with the fatherly or motherly governance of their monasteries. Whatever challenges came their way, superiors were expected to imitate Christ’s sacrifice and endure the trials and tribulations of office until death relieved them of their burden.

More often than not, this was the case. In 1147 Aelred was elected abbot of Rievaulx, a great Cistercian monastery in Yorkshire. An inspirational leader, talented theologian author and efficient administrator, his final years were blighted by serious illness, a combination of kidney stones, shingles, gout and bronchial disease. Despite this, he remained a loving and compassionate father, guiding his monks until the very moment of his death at Rievaulx in 1167.

Thanks to inspirational figures such as Aelred, the 12th century is often perceived as a “golden age” of monastic growth and rigour. Nevertheless, there were still occasional resignations. Aelred’s immediate predecessor was the scholarly Maurice. His reputation was such that one contemporary praised him as the “second Bede”. He was elected abbot of Rievaulx in 1145 but rapidly realised he wasn’t cut out for the job and resigned after two short years. Given these events, it’s a little surprising that immediately after he was chosen by the monks of nearby Fountains to be their abbot. Maurice lasted a matter of months and resigned to live out his days as a humble monk.

Though they still remained far from the norm, the frequency of resignations increased in later centuries. By the early 14th century, resignations were often accompanied by generous golden handshakes. This was even the case when a superior’s conduct in office wasn’t exactly up to scratch.

In 1309 the Archbishop of York conducted a “visitation” of Kirkham Priory (North Yorkshire). This medieval equivalent of an Ofsted inspection from hell found much to criticise. Prior John of Elveley was told off by the Archbishop and instructed, “to be more faithful and diligent in fulfilment of his office”.

Doubtless this stinging rebuke was still ringing in Elveley’s ears when he resigned a year later. His evident faults not withstanding, Elveley was awarded a pension £20 (a substantial sum at the time) and given his own chamber and gardens at the priory where he was looked after by a team of servants. Kirkham couldn’t afford such generous provision and in 1314 the Archbishop ordered the pension “moderated”.

However, the context for most resignations remained entirely honourable. Overcome with the infirmities of old age, in 1471 John Greenwell was granted papal permission to resign the abbacy of Fountains, an office he had diligently occupied for the best part of 30 years. In recognition for his good services, he was granted a generous cash allowance and comfortable lodgings within the monastery (though he didn’t live long to enjoy them).

There are also instances of monastic superiors taking one for the team and standing down to spare their monasteries expense or scandal. A good example is Thomas Burton. He was elected as abbot of Meaux (East Yorkshire) in 1396. Some of his monks, backed by powerful nobles and churchmen, were far from convinced that his elevation to the abbacy was fully legit.

After three tortuous years the dispute enveloping the validity of the Meaux election reached Pope Boniface IX in Rome. By then Burton had had enough and threw in the towel. His resignation spared his brother monks the fight to get rid of him in he papal chancery, which would have had ruinous financial costs and attendant loss of moral reputation.

Burton lived out his days at Meaux, chronicling the history of his beloved monastery. It’s still being read 600 years later; how many 21st-century post-resignation political or business memoirs will be able to claim that distinction?

But not every one had Burton’s high morality. Some disgraced superiors stubbornly clung onto office, even when confronted by overwhelming evidence of incompetence or wrongdoing.

I’m especially familiar with the case of Alexandar Banke. He was elected abbot of Furness (Cumbria) in 1497. He seemed a good choice at the time, described by a fellow Cistercian abbot as an “excellent and remarkable young man…endowed with great gifts, experience, modesty and many noble virtues.”   

Banke never lived up to this accolade.

Within three years the ruling General Chapter of the Cistercian Order convicted him of various crimes, including sexual “incontinence”, failure to observe the monastic rule and selling church property. After promising to mend his ways, Banke was let off with a stern ticking-off and penance.  Undeterred, he carried on much as before, bullying his monks and intimidating the abbey’s tenants and neighbours for his personal profit.

In 1514 he double-crossed the Earl of Derby, the most powerful aristocrat in the Northwest. This time Banke had bitten off more than he could chew. The Earl, backed by several hundred armed retainers, attacked Furness. Banke was deposed and fled to London, taking the abbey’s jewels with him. The affair then became embroiled in high politics. Friends in the very highest of places, including Henry VIII, came to Banke’s rescue and he was restored to the abbacy, his behaviour unchanged until his death in 1531.

Cummings’ journeys up and down the M1 and A1 and around the Durham countryside will have taken him close to several of the monasteries mentioned above.

I’d recommend he overcomes his reported disdain for the humanities and contemplates their chequered histories: they provide a mirror in which he, and a good many other public figures, might see their own reflections.