What happens when the church? Well, it almost becomes too clever. What happens when faith is no longer something to be lived but something to be analyzed? When theology moves from being just a quiet place of prayer into the noise of an argument and a debate? This is the world we stepped into last time with Peter Ebelard. A world of questions, a world of logic, a world where the human mind begins to take centre stage. But not everyone welcomed that change, because into that rising tide of intellectual confidence another voice begins to break, not from the lecture hall, but from the monastery. Not with the sharpness of a philosopher, but with the fire of a preacher. His name was Bernard of Clevaux. Bernard was not famous because he won debates, and he was not known for constructing complex philosophical systems. He did not gather students around him to analyze contradictions. Instead, Bernard did something that was far more dangerous. He called the church to come back, back to simplicity, to humility, and back to devotion and back to Christ. Where Ebelard questioned, Bernard warned. Were Ebelard analyzed, Bernard worshipped and adored. Where Ebelard trusted reason, Bernard feared what reason might become when it forgets its place. And when he looked at the growing influence of thinkers like Peter Ebelard, he saw more than a disagreement, he saw a threat, a slow drift away from the heart of the Christian faith. A shift from knowing God to merely knowing about God. But he was not a quiet critic, he was a man of deep conviction and powerful influence. Kings listened to him, popes sought his counsel, and crowds were stirred by his preaching, and when he spoke he did not merely argue. He called the church to repentance, he called believers to holiness, and he called theologians to remember that truth is not just to be understood, but to be loved. And eventually, of course, these two worlds would collide the world of the philosopher and the world of the monk. The mind and the heart, some call it, Peter Abelard and Bernard of Claveau. Their conflict would shape their own lives, but it would also shape the direction of medieval theology itself, and that still matters because at its core this is not a story about the twelfth century, it is a story about every generation of the church. Every time we are tempted to rely on intellect without a sense of devotion, clarity without humility, and knowledge without love. And when that happens, the voice of Bernard of Claveau speaks again, reminding us that the goal of theology is never simply to know about God, but to know Him. So join me today in the next episode as we step into the life of Bernard of Globaux. Welcome to my History of the Christian Church. A life of passion, of fierce contradictions, the life of Bernard of Clevaux. The man who in many ways stood against the rising tide of intellectualism and called the church back to the heart of its faith. Let's begin, as I always do, with a short biography of this man, the man who's described as living a life captivated by God. There are some figures in church history whose influence comes through ideas, and then there are those whose influence comes through their presence, through conviction, or through holiness, or through a life that seems to burn with a singular passion, and Bernard of Claveau was just such a kind of man. He was born in 1090, 1090, in Fontaine, Le Dijon, into a noble and deeply religious family. From an early age he showed both intelligence and sensitivity to things spiritual. But his early life was not marked by withdrawal from the world. He was educated, refined, and he expected to pursue a respectable path within society, and yet something began to stir in him, a growing sense that the world, for all its opportunities, could not satisfy his soul. There was something deeper going on, something greater for Berner, something greater calling him, and at around the age of 22, Bernard made a decision that shocked those around him. He chose to leave behind his wealth, his status, and comfort and enter a strict monastic community. But he didn't do this alone. In one of the most remarkable moments of personal influence in church history, Bernard actually persuaded around 30 of his family members and friends to join him. Brothers, relatives, even friends and companions, all drawn by the force of his conviction. It was not argument that moved him, it was the power of witnessing a life wholly given to God. So Bernard entered the Cistercian monastery at Citru Abbey, a reform movement that sought to recover the original simplicity and discipline of monastic life. There was no comfortable retreat. The life there was hard, marked by poverty, fasting, manual labor, and indeed long hours of prayer. But Bernard embraced it fully, perhaps some would say too fully. His extreme asceticism at that time was said to have damaged his health for the rest of his life. But it also revealed something about him. He was not someone interested in moderation, he was interested in serving God. Just a few years later, Bernard was sent out to find a new monastery. That place would become known as Clvaux Abbey. At the time it was little more than a wilderness, but under Bernard's leadership it became one of the most important spiritual centres in all of Europe. Clairvaux was known for his intellectual brilliance, but he was also known for his spiritual intensity. And that community that he curated was a community shaped by prayer, humility, discipline, and overall a deep love for Christ, and people began to notice that. What is remarkable about him is the fact that though he lived in a monastery, he became one of the most influential public figures in all of Europe. Kings sought his counsel. Popes depended upon him for support, and church disputes were often brought to him for resolution. He himself did not pursue power, but power seemed to pursue him. He played a key role in various church reform movements, and he defended what he believed to be true doctrine. He even preached in support of the Second Crusade, a moment that for some would cast a shadow over his legacy. And yet, through all this activity, Bernard remained at heart a monk, a man committed to prayer, a man devoted to his view of Christ, a man who believed that the greatest danger to the church was not external opposition, but internal drift. At the center of Bernard's life was a deep and personal love for Jesus Christ. For him the Christian life was not just abstract theology or intellectual speculation, it was something experiential, relational. He spoke of Christ not merely as a doctrine to be understood, but as a person to be loved. His writings, especially his famous series of sermons on the Song of Songs, overflow with this language of divine love. For Bernard, the Christian life was not primarily about knowing more, it was simply about loving more. And the life, his life, stands in striking contrast to the world of Peter Ebelard, which we looked at in the last episode. Ebelard represented the rise of intellectual theology, but Bernard represented the call back to spiritual devotion. Ebelard asked questions, but Bernard simply called for surrender. Some would say Abelard trusted in the power of reason. Bernard warned of its limits. And that tension is not accidental. It is the divining tension of the medieval church and perhaps of every age of the church, because the question Bernard forces us to ask are what does it truly mean to know God? Is it something we achieve through thought or is it something we enter into through love? History sometimes turns on ideas, but sometimes it turns on men, and it seems in the twelfth century two men, these two men stood on a collision course. On one side stood Peter Ebelard, that brilliant, sharp, fearless man, a man who believed truth must be tested through reason, and on the other stood Bernard of Clavaux, passionate, devout, uncompromising. A man who believed truth must be received in humility. This was not just a disagreement, this was a whole clash of worlds. As Ebelard's influence spread, so did unease about him. His lectures drew large crowds, and his ideas stirred debate. His method of questioning, analyzing, challenging began to reshape theology itself. But not everyone celebrated this, because when Bernard looked at Ebelard, he didn't see progress, he saw danger. To Bernard Abelard's approach risked turning theology into something cold, detached, and dangerously arrogant. He believed that Abelard was placing human reason above divine revelation, and for Bernard that was a foundational error. It was a threat to the very soul of the church. At the heart of their conflict was a simple but profound question. What is theology for? What is the study of God for? For Abelard theology was simply a discipline of the mind, a pursuit of clarity through logic, a process of resolving contradictions and refining our ideas. But for Bernard, theology was something altogether different. It was not about mastering truth, it was about being mastered by it, not about analysing God, but simply loving him. And so Bernard began to speak out. And it wasn't a subtle critique, but he spoke with urgency, with accusation and with a sense of alarm. Bernard accused Evelard of overconfidence in reason, of treating sacred mysteries as intellectual puzzles, and ultimately thereby undermining the authority of Scripture and the Church by placing everything under the scrutiny of the new emerging idea of human logic. To Bernard this was not harmless curiosity, it was underpinned by spiritual pride. He warned that Ebelard's method would lead people away from a simple faith and lead many into confusion and error. The stakes in Bernard's mind would and could not have been higher. This was the gospel itself he was contending for. The conflict reached its climax in the year eleven forty, when a church council was convened at Saints. Abelard came expecting to have a debate, a chance to defend his ideas at a forum where arguments could be weighed and answered. But what he encountered was something very different because Bernard had already moved behind the scenes. He'd gathered and garnered support, and he presented Abelard's teachings as dangerous. He framed the issue not as a debate, but as a matter of orthodoxy. When the council convened there was no opening exchange of ideas, no current back and forth, instead a series of propositions drawn from Abelard's own writing were read out and condemned. Abelard was stunned. This was not the contest of minds he had expected, this was just judgment, and in that moment the great debater did something rather unexpected. He chose not to fight, he didn't argue, he didn't try and defend himself, he just fell silent and then he left. Abelard appealed to Rome, but before the appeal could even be heard, his teachings were officially condemned. His voice, once the loudest in the school of Paris, was silenced, and he would spend his final years in quiet reflection under the care of Peter the Venerable. The conflict was over, but the questions it raised were not. So who was right? And this is where we must be careful, because it's tempting to turn the story into something simple, a sort of hero and a villain, a right and a wrong, victory and defeat. But history is rarely that neat. Peter Ebelard did see the importance of clear thinking, and Bernard of Clavaux saw the necessity of a humble faith. Ebelard reminds us that truth must be understood, but Bernard reminds us that truth must also be revered, and the church, if it is to remain faithful, must hold both these views together without allowing one to overpower the other. But their clash didn't end in eleven forty, it has continued in a sense ever since through every generation. Every time we in the church prioritize intellect over devotion or devotion without adhering to truth, every time we rely too heavily on human reasoning or retreat from careful thinking altogether, we are stepping back into that same tension. And in the end the question is not whether we should think or whether we should believe, the question is what kind of thinking will lead us to worship, what kind of theology, what type of theology leads us not to a place of pride, but to Christ Himself. Because the goal of theology must surely be not to simply win arguments, it should be to know God a little more nearly and dearly. And in that pursuit both the mind and the heart must find their proper place. Now, if you were to ask Bernard of Calvo a simple question, what is the Christian life really about? He would not even begin with doctrine, he would not begin with argument, he would ignore any systems or ideas or thoughts, he would begin with the single word love. For Bernard, the doctrine of love was the heart of the Christian life, not knowledge, love. For Bernard, the greatest danger facing the church was not ignorance, it was coldness, a faith that knows much but loves little, a theology that is precise and correct, but lifeless, a mind that is full but a heart that is empty. And so Bernard really turned everything on his head. He insisted the goal of theology and the study of God is not simply to know about God but to love him. He famously wrote that line The measure of love is to love without measure. Here is where Bernard's theology becomes its most profound, but also its most deeply challenging, because he does not separate love from knowledge, he simply reorders it. For Bernard, you do not first understand God and then learn to love him. You love God and by loving him you begin to know him truly. This is not anti intellectual. It's something deeper and beyond that. It is the recognition that God is not an object, not something to be analyzed, but a person to be encountered, and that encounter happens not through detached reasonings, but through perfection, devotion, and surrender. One of Bernard's most famous contributions to this idea of theology is his description of what he calls the four degrees of love, a spiritual journey of the soul. And this is where his theology becomes intensely personal thing for him and for us. He describes the Christian life as a movement. Firstly, loving self for self sake. At the beginning, we are turned inward, we love ourselves and we seek our own good. But the second degree is to move to a position of loving God for self sake. Then he says we may begin to turn towards God, but still for what he gives us. We love him because he blesses us, he helps us, indeed he saves us. The third step of this movement is loving God for God's sake. At this point something changes, he says. We begin to love God not for what he gives, but for who he is, his beauty, his holiness, his glory. And then finally, the highest stage, loving self for God's sake. Even our love of self is now transformed. We see ourselves through God's love, and we are thereby aligned with his purposes. This, for Bernard, is the goal of the Christian life, a heart so captured by God so that everything else is reordered around him. For Bernard, this journey, this movement of love is not abstract. It is centered on Jesus Christ. Christ is not merely the means of salvation, he is the object of our love. Bernard speaks of Christ with an intimacy that is striking in any age. Jesus, the very thought of you, is sweet, he said, but sweeter far your face to see. This is not a detached spirituality. This is devotion, isn't it? Christ is to be loved, desired, pursued, and in loving him your soul might be transformed. And it is in this we see why Bernard becomes so concerned about the rise of these thinkers like Hebelard. Bernard believed that if knowledge is not rooted in love, it will always lead to pride. A person may master theology but remain very far from God. But love does something different because love humbles, love draws us in, it draws us near, and it transforms. For Bernard, the greatest theologians and thinkers are not the ones who know the most, but the ones who love the most. There's something really deeply powerful, I think, in this vision of Bernard, because he reminds it that Christianity is not merely a system of beliefs, it is ultimately a tarder relationship. Not just truth to be understood, but simply God to be loved. And yet there is also a tension here, because love, if separated from truth, can become something vague, subjective, even misleading. The heart must be guided, the affection must be shaped by truth, and this is where the balance, I think, must be found. Bernard's voice speaks with surprising clarity into our modern church and our modern age, particularly because we now live in an age of information, an age of sermons everywhere, books, podcasts, debates, online and in the real world, an age where it's possible to know more about theology than probably at any time in history, and yet an age in which people love God less. And Bernard's question cuts through all the years and asks the simple question, but do you love him? Not do you understand him, not can you explain God, not can you even defend him, but just do you love him? And in the end, Bernard's call is a call back to something simple but searching, that the Christian life is not measured merely by what we know, but by who we love, because what and who we love reveals who we truly are. And the goal of the gospel is not to inform the mind, ultimately it is to capture the heart. So there's something deeply compelling about Bernard of Claveau and his view in an age where theology for him was becoming increasingly technical, increasingly academic, and increasingly confident in human reason. And he reminds us today of something essential that Christianity is not merely about knowing truth. It is about loving God. And that is not a minor point, because that is something actually that in itself is profoundly biblical. At his best, Bernard captured something that runs throughout Scripture and history, that the greatest commandment is not to understand God, but to love the Lord your God with all your heart, your mind and your strength. He reminds us that theology divorced from devotion is in fact dangerous and that knowledge without love inevitably leads to pride, and also that it is entirely possible to be intellectually correct and spiritually cold at the same time. In this Bernard stands as a necessary corrective, not only to Peter Ebelard in his day, but to every generation of the church. His emphasis on loving and knowing Christ personally is still deeply valuable. He doesn't present Jesus merely as a concept, but as a living person and a saviour, one to be adored, pursued in life, and cherished when found, with warmth, with affection, with relational depth. These are the things that evangelical Christianity. Rightly treasures to this day. But here is the concern. For all his strength, Bernard's theology raises important concern when measured against Scripture, because whilst Bernard elevates love clearly, he doesn't always define it clearly enough in strictly biblical terms. One of the central issues of his theology leans heavily towards experience and inward devotion. Some would say a kind of subjective spirituality. Love becomes something deeply felt, deeply personal, deeply internal, but without grounding this can always become subjective. The danger is that love for God begins to be measured by our feelings rather than by truth, by the intensity rather than by the obedience. But Scripture, the Bible, consistently anchors love in something more solid. Jesus said when speaking of God, if you love me, you will keep my commandments. So love is not merely an inward experience, it is shaped, defined, and directed by the Word of God. A second concern lies at the very center of the Christian message. While Bernard speaks much of loving Christ, he is less clear, at least by evangelical standards, on the objective work of Christ on the cross. The danger here is subtle but significant because if the focus shifts too heavily towards our love for God, it can obscure the power foundational truth of the necessity of God's saving work for us. The New Testament places the emphasis first not on our love for God, but on his action towards us. Christ bearing our sin, Christ satisfying divine justice, and Christ reconciling us to God. Without that foundation underpinning everything, love risks becoming the means of salvation rather than a response to it. Bernard's intense monasticism also raises questions in some people's minds. His embrace of what many see as extreme aesthetic practices like fasting, self denial, and withdrawal from the world reflect, of course, his sincere desire for holiness, but from an evangelical perspective they can unintentionally suggest that spiritual growth is achieved through self-imposed hardship rather than through grace and the work of the Spirit, or simply living a life in the world under and in obedience to God's word. The New Testament calls believers not out of the world, but to live faithfully within it. Bernard's strong support for the authority structures of the medieval church also, I think, requires careful evaluation. We need to remember that he operated in a system where the church hierarchy held significant authority and tradition carried great weight, and scripture was not always seen as the sole or final authority. From a biblical evangelical perspective, this of course raises a critical issue. For me, Scripture alone must be the ultimate authority for faith and practice, and even the most devout voices, including those like Bernard, must be tested against the word of God. So what about the final balance of all this? How do we assess Bernard of Claveau? Well, we certainly should not dismiss him, and we should also not romanticize him. Instead we should learn from him and carefully. Bernard does remind us that theology must lead to worship and truth must stare the heart, and Christ is to be loved, not merely studied. But Scripture, the Bible, also reminds us that love must be grounded in truth, and experience must always be tested by the Word, and that devotion must flow from the gospel and not replace it. So, perhaps the best way to understand Bernard of Claveau is this. He is and was a needed voice, but not a complete one. He calls us back to the heart, but the heart must still be guided, because in the end, the Christian life is not built on feelings alone, but in the truth that is revealed by God, then accomplished in Christ, and applied by the Spirit. And that leaves us with one final question today, one that lingers as we move forward. How do we hold together truth and love, the mind and the heart, desire for good doctrine, but also devotion without losing neither? That's the tension that remains. I hope you're able to apply it in your life. So, two voices today, but one problem. Ebelard had called us to think, didn't he? To question, to engage, to refuse a shallow faith and the easy answers. He reminded us that truth matters and that Christianity is not afraid of the mind, and that faith cannot be strengthened by ignorance. But Bernard calls us to something else, something deeper perhaps, that in that there must be love, worship, and ultimately surrender. He reminds us that truth is not merely to be understood, but to be experienced, and that theology is never an end in itself, but a means to knowing God better. And yet both voices, powerful as they are, are of course incomplete on their own. If we follow Peter Ebelard alone, we risk a faith that is theologically cold, clear, but distant, intellectually impressive perhaps, but spiritually, maybe even lifeless. And if we follow Bernard of Claveau's thinking alone, we risk a warm faith, but undefined, passionate but unanchored, sincere, but vulnerable to drift from the truth of Scripture. However, helpfully the Bible refuses to let us choose. It calls us to love God with all our heart and all our mind, both at once. It commands us to know the truth and then rejoice in it, to think clearly and to worship deeply, and to hold doctrine and devotion together without allowing either to replace the other. The greater reality in the end, the greater answer is not found in Ebelard, and it's not found in Bernard. It is, of course, found in Christ Himself. Because in him truth and love are not intention, they are in fact perfectly united. He is the truth to be known and the Savior to be loved. And so the question that remains for us is not merely historical, it is deeply personal. What kind of Christian should you be? What kind of Christian will you be? Will you pursue knowledge but then neglect love? Or will you chase experience but ignore truth and the authority of Scripture? Or will you seek God on His terms by God's grace, to know Him rightly and to love Him fully? Because that's what we can learn from both of these giants of medieval Christianity together. So looking ahead, our story does not end here. The questions raised by Ebelard and Bernard of Clovo will continue to echo through the Middle Ages in the rise of the great theological systems and the growing influence of philosophy on the church, and also in the unfolding struggle to understand how faith and treat and reason can truly belong together. Thanks for being with me today. I'll see you again very soon in my history of the Christian Church. Two thousand years of Christian thought. Bye bye for now.