Miracles at the Jesus Oak: Histories of the Supernatural in Reformation Europe

by Craig Harline

To make matters worse, he knew also, like all the world around him, that such out-of-the-way places were favorite haunts of the devil and his demons.

That was why, during yet another nerve-racking trip through the Soniën, he resolved to do what many Catholics of his time did to combat dread: he would sacralize this place, or make it holy, by affixing to it a sacred object. This centuries-old practice reassured the anxious of God’s presence even in the most forsaken places, thus confirming that He was mightier than the devil even on the devil’s own turf.

As long as it bore its crucifix, the oak in the forest seemed less sinister. For decades comforted travelers uttered hopeful prayers as they passed by, and even began calling the tree the Dear Jesus Oak.

After that decisive trip, Peter went to a market in Brussels and bought a small wooden statue of the Virgin, about a foot tall, with the Christ child in her left arm, and vowed to God that he would hang it on the Jesus Oak. But he grew busy and forgot his vow; children visiting his home even played with the statue as if it were a doll. Only when dying from the plague in late 1635 did Peter finally remember. Fully aware that unfulfilled vows were a danger to one’s soul, but lacking both time and inclination to have his vow waived by a priest, a fading Peter whispered his secret to his grown daughter, who in turn told her brother Philip, who understood what he must do.

Whatever the case, by early 1642 the image was known enough that some people began attaching even greater importance to it: now they traveled to the newly sacred place for the express purpose of seeking divine aid.

Since the late Roman Empire, a common feature of Christian miracles was their association with a specific place. To some believers this was simply an extension of the doctrine of Incarnation: thus, God had become incarnate in a particular person, at a particular time and place, in Jesus Christ, and it only made sense that He would continue to manifest His presence in still other times and places and ways. Other believers were influenced more by leftover pagan notions about otherworldly powers being concentrated in special locations and objects—including oaks. But however it was learned, just about everyone believed that though God was everywhere, His powers were more evident at some places than at others.

The connection of the divine to thousands of specific earthly places and holy objects helped to make God more than an abstraction in Christian minds—and after the Reformation more specifically in Catholic minds.

Here people came not only in search of miracles, but to pray, to seek protection from disaster or misfortune, to find forgiveness from sin, and to make or fulfill vows. But the most popular shrines inevitably became so because of some spectacular show of divine power—in other words, a miracle, especially the dramatic cure of an endless array of illnesses.

By the time of Peter van Kerckhoven they were therefore hardly new. But what did seem new was the stunning increase of holy places, especially in such war-torn, desecrated areas as the Spanish Netherlands. Though the powers of older shrines were not denied, the new age and all its blasphemous violence called for new miracles, new intermediaries, and new places.

Popular in the seventeenth century was the mysterious appearance of a statue of the Virgin in a tree, usually an oak, where miracles suddenly began to occur. Or miracles might occur, as at the Jesus Oak, through statues set in place by human hands. Whenever it occurred, the essential thing was some convincing manifestation of God’s power—no miracle, no shrine.

If God kept his eye on such trifles as sparrows, then believers could safely assume that He was most assuredly in charge of this new holy place, directly and indirectly, and saw not only to the necessary miracles but the right earthly people, conditions, and events.

Like every Catholic village, both Tervuren and Overijse already had sacred places within them, most notably a parish church and a chapel or two. But holy places even short distances away were always more alluring than the humdrum home parish.

The pastor of Tervuren, Renier Assels, heard from his parishioners first—perhaps because the recent destruction of their church and homes by Dutch troops gave them an even stronger need for divine renewal, and, admittedly, income from a potential shrine.

A proper shrine required the direction of a priest. The area around the Oak did not belong clearly to any parish. Though the highway on which the Oak stood ran into Overijse, the Oak did stand on the Tervuren side of that highway. And, since beginning as pastor in 1636, he could recall ministering to a few people who lived in a hut near the Oak, thus giving his parish a history there. All these things taken together led the pastor to decide that he had as strong a claim as anyone on the Oak, and would therefore heed his parishioners’ wishes.

In fact, within an hour of the events just described, Pastor Bauwens learned of them as well, thanks to three men from Tervuren who had been along on that parish’s procession. These men decided, for reasons unknown (a sense of mischief? a commission from their pastor?), that before returning home they would first run to Overijse and tell its pastor what had just taken place in the woods.

Upon hearing the men’s tale, Pastor Bauwens admitted that until now he knew nothing of reported miracles at the Jesus Oak, but he knew quite well his parishioner Anna Eregiers, calling her a filthy drunk and declaring that, if she was involved, then the shrine was sure to be “all superstition.” Most of the other dignitaries present grumbled their agreement. Only the assistant pastor understood the importance of the news and urged Pastor Bauwens to make a visit to the Jesus Oak and claim it for Overijse.

Now Pastor Assels was restless. If the pastor of Overijse, an acquaintance of his, should also make a claim on the Oak, there would be trouble. It wasn’t unheard of for neighboring parishes to argue over shrines that lay on the boundary between them, or even for fistfights to break out when members of these parishes happened to reach the shrine at the same time (a regular occurrence, since parish processions often took place on common feast days). Hence, to avoid trouble and to be absolutely certain that his claim was indeed the first, Pastor Assels decided to ride to the Oak again the next day, July 3, and wait there until noon to see whether any competing clergymen might appear.

He speedily overcame his antipathy toward Anna Eregiers, paying a friendly visit to her home in the early morning hours of July 4, then walking to the Oak itself in order to see her handiwork and stake his claim. His justification went as follows. There was no road at all between Tervuren and the Jesus Oak, while a major highway connected Overijse and the majestic tree. Peter van Kerckhoven, founder of the shrine, had owned lands in Overijse, traveled there often, and clearly intended the shrine for its inhabitants. Finally, Anna Eregiers and the first miraculously healed child both came from Overijse.

With all this running to and from the Jesus Oak, with all this ordering about of Anna Eregiers, with all these solemn declarations of jurisdiction, it was amazing that the two pastors hadn’t yet bumped into each other there. But the inevitable meeting finally occurred on July 5, 1642, the last of four crucial days in the early existence of the shrine.

Then Pastor Bauwens told Pastor Assels his real business: he was on his way to Brussels to discuss the shrine’s jurisdiction. He meant nothing personal by this, but was bothering to make the trip only because his parishioners had pestered him so. Then he rode on.

Pastor Bauwens had indeed gone to Brussels to discuss jurisdiction, but not, as all had assumed, with the archbishop. Instead, he had spoken with several lawyers, secular lawyers at that, about what Overijse could do in civil court to win the Jesus Oak. Obviously the pastor of Overijse did not think the archbishop would change his mind, and obviously the pastor was prepared to use more aggressive tactics

than he had implied to Renier Assels. Thus did the newly holy Jesus Oak became the object of some very worldly squabbling.

The Village of Oppem, North of Tervuren, July 1642. In the middle of this squabbling, and as if to spite it, the biggest miracle yet occurred at the Oak. When she was very young, the peasant girl Dimpna Gillis liked to make fires from thorns. She collected the usual pieces from blackthorns or sweetbriars, dragged them to the single room of her family’s hut, and then, as her mother had taught her, began breaking the larger stalks into fragments that fit on the hearth. One day, when Dimpna was four, a thorn shot up and pierced her right eye, spilling three drops of blood. Her older siblings ran for their mother, who removed the thorn and comforted the screaming girl. But Dimpna lost sight in that eye.

The insults and blindness persisted for nine years, through Dimpna’s childhood. But in the summer of 1642, when she was thirteen, there came talk of a new miracle-working shrine at an oak in the woods, just beyond Tervuren. Like any responsible Catholic parent of her time, Dimpna’s mother had surely tried assorted physical remedies, and when those failed she had at least considered taking Dimpna to one of the dozens of shrines that dotted the region, including the medieval shrine to Our Dear Lady of the Lovely Fragrance, just two miles beyond the Jesus Oak, in the same woods. But it was the newly established shrine at the Oak, and its fresh stories, that sparked her imagination.

As they passed through Tervuren, then into the woods, there were surely other pilgrims on the newly worn path to the Oak; most pilgrims were mothers, or mothers and fathers together, who carried on their backs sick or lame children. The presence of fellow travelers helped ease the tensions on this lonely path, which as they drew closer to the Oak was bordered by a gentle ravine on the right, and flat terrain to the left. The path went slightly uphill, then down, and they were there.

Neighbors who had known Dimpna long came to see for themselves. They looked in vain for the once-conspicuous spot in her eye. They too covered her left eye and quizzed her further, to test whether she could see. At least seven of them, especially various women friends of Anna, were satisfied enough to testify under oath to ecclesiastical authorities about Dimpna’s past and cure. Some in the village were skeptical, but most regarded it as a miracle.

Those in the region roundabout were even more persuaded about the powers of the new shrine when they heard the electrifying news.

The miracle of Dimpna Gillis, and other thrilling miracles soon afterward, did nothing to diminish the earthly struggles over the new shrine but rather intensified them, for now the Oak was more desirable than ever. In the words of its chronicler, the tree, once an infamous “pit of murderers,” was becoming a renowned “house of prayer.”

Overijse’s strategy was fairly simple: civil courts, not the church, had the last word on the establishment of parish boundaries. By demonstrating its long-standing ties with the area around the Oak, Overijse hoped the civil court would extend its boundaries to include the new shrine.

Such a plan, undertaken without the least bit of consultation, was sure to offend the archbishop. He assumed, by virtue of his supreme ecclesiastical authority, that any designation of spiritual jurisdiction he made—temporary or permanent—would be respected by boundary-drawing civil courts (not to mention his parish clergy). Hence, since he had already declared Tervuren to be temporarily in charge of the Jesus Oak, he expected courts to postpone any adjustment of boundaries until his decision was final. And if he should decide to make Tervuren’s jurisdiction over the Oak final, then he had good reason to expect courts to redraw that parish’s boundaries accordingly. In other words, the civil court should follow the archbishop’s decision, and not, as Overijse wanted, the other way around.

The court Overijse chose to hear its case was the Council of Brabant, highest in the duchy of Brabant. At times this court was, like most others, only too willing to encroach on the turf of Church and archbishop and hear cases that the latter considered rightly his own, for such could only strengthen the council’s authority. But at other times the council thought it better to cooperate with the Church, especially when, as in this case, it could hardly lose: the council would win the archbishop’s goodwill if it gave him a say in the decision over the Oak, and the council’s very supervision of the case would tacitly strengthen its authority over the Church anyway!

Of all the piles of evidence heaped before the commission, the most interesting and dramatic proved to be the testimonies meant to demonstrate each village’s long-term claim to jurisdiction over the area in the woods around the Jesus Oak. During the next six months, the most important people in Tervuren and Overijse were suddenly the very elderly, some in their nineties, who came forward one after the other to tell stories that proved their parish’s prior claim to the Oak.

None of this impressed Tervuren. Its lawyers discounted most of the witnesses called by Overijse, claiming that their testimonies had been bought. Moreover, even if previous pastors of Overijse had cared for the dead and administered communion, they did so not out of parochial duty but rather simple Christian charity—hardly a basis for jurisdiction.

The rector also followed the usual protocol of gathering medical opinions as to whether their cures were natural or supernatural.

When Archbishop Boonen confirmed at least Dimpna’s cure as miraculous, and allowed the others to be published as “edifying,” it enhanced not only the legitimacy of the shrine but its current guardians as well.

In October 1642, when rainier weather came, Rector Piccaert drew up a request to the king of Spain (through the king’s governor-general in Brussels) to build a small but fully enclosed wooden chapel, which would protect the image and pilgrims far better than had the shrine of Anna Eregiers, or the makeshift additions constructed since.

During the summer months, when the war season was in full swing, Rector Piccaert’s already substantial headaches multiplied. His chief aim then was to protect the image from marauding soldiers, and more than once he carried it away to Tervuren or Leuven—never to Overijse—for safekeeping. If soldiers weren’t trouble enough, then there were the semi-legal vendors who sold food and drink around the shrine. Once when Rector Piccaert tried to move the image because of the threat of war, the vendors grew furious that their major attraction was being taken away, and promised to “shoot up” the priest, who was saved only by the fortuitous intervention of an armed band from Tervuren.

Despite the various and often mundane burdens resting upon him, Rector Piccaert persisted—for the sake of the shrine, and to help make Tervuren’s association with it almost traditional.

Again, the archbishop was only one voice on the commission, but it was a powerful voice—especially since the other sitting clergyman was the archbishop’s subordinate and good friend, the dean of Brussels!

Growing ever more doubtful of victory with the commission, Overijse tried one last appeal to another purely secular court, this one supreme in the entire Spanish Netherlands: the Grand Council of Mechelen. But the appeal never amounted to anything. By 1647, few but the diehards from Overijse believed their village could prevail. Then in that year came a final blow: Pastor Jan Bauwens, Overijse’s strongest voice, died, and his successors proved less zealous about pushing onward.

Like most victors of the time, Tervuren attributed its good fortune to the will of God. But Overijse showed, through its continuing complaints and long cries of “unfair,” that in its view the matter of jurisdiction had not been decided by God at all but by the arm of flesh: it was worldly know-how and unbeatable earthly connections that gave Tervuren its hard-earned victory.

Any shrine was by definition an exceptional place in the cruel world, but some were more exceptional than others. Some shrines did not outlive the enthusiasm of their early years, and disappeared. Others settled into a local and modest role, after a start that seemed to promise more. A few enjoyed a regional reputation. But only the very elite were able to sustain their early momentum to become truly great, with their names on the lips of believers many duchies and counties away.

The Jesus Oak did survive its early years, with miracles occurring in slightly declining numbers but still enough to attract pilgrims for a few strong decades.

True, it was far from lavish: the first rector, Benedictus Piccaert, died around 1658, hardly a rich man, and, in fact, with many unpaid bills to physicians, surgeons, hospitals, and apothecaries accumulated in his last months. But at least his beloved shrine was still alive.