Art, Beauty, Creativity and Inspiration #3: Is Beauty in The Eye of The Beholder?

Or are there standards by which we can measure it?

Detail of Portrait of Cornelius Van Der Geest, by Anthony Van Dyck, Flemish, 17th century.

This is the third in a four-part series exploring a Christian philosophy of art and beauty. In the first post, I examined what art is and what makes it good and Christian. Last week, I looked at the traditional process of artistic creation and the effect that beauty has on us when we apprehend it - how it wounds us with desire for something beyond itself, ultimately for God. This week, I take up what is perhaps the most contested question in all of aesthetics: how do we know whether something is beautiful? Is beauty subjective - merely in the eye of the beholder, or is it an objective quality that can, at least in principle, be discerned and judged? Or is it a bit of both? I argue that while individual judgments differ, tradition provides the most reliable collective measure of what is truly beautiful, far more reliable than the fashions of any single generation or person (…even me!) or the opinions of university elites. Next week, I will conclude with the practical questions of beauty and utility and consider whether or not the creation of beautiful things is simply too expensive to justify.

How Do We Know What is Beautiful?

This is not always easy to answer with certainty, so we must look to tradition for help here.

We follow the traditional assumption that when we apprehend beauty in the world around us, we are discerning a property that belongs to the objects regarded. Consistent with this, we call beauty an objective quality. The subject—the person who views the object—makes a personal judgment on its beauty. To categorize beauty as an objective quality is not to say that everyone makes the same judgments. Clearly, there is a varying subjective element to the apprehension of beauty, as we all know, because there are differences of opinion about what is beautiful.

There is no contradiction in recognizing that there may be a differing subjective response to the same objective quality. There are several reasons two people might look at the same object and differ in their sense of its beauty. It might relate to the proper functioning of the senses: someone who is colorblind will very likely have a different sense of the beauty of something than someone who differentiates colors well.

A second reason concerns legitimate differences in the perceived goodness of the object. Some things can be good for one person but bad for another. The sound of a babbling brook, for instance, has the beauty of the sweetest music to the man who is dying of thirst, but is horrifying to a man who is drowning and sees the water level in the pond rise due to that brook.

A third reason relates to the person’s attitude toward God. Given that beauty is a sign of the divine, someone who hates God will hate beauty also and so be disinclined to accept that it is beautiful. The power of beauty to delight any particular person depends on whether or not God delights or repels him. It is important to note, therefore, that when we stated earlier that it is intrinsic to beauty to delight us, the assumption is that the person is properly ordered in his desire for God, which, in practice, will not always be the case.

Nevertheless, these subjective responses do not undermine the principle that beauty is an objective quality too. The fact that we may have differing abilities to apprehend that quality does not change the fact that we are responding to a reality - the form and appearance of the object itself. It is just as with any physical property that might be investigated by natural science. For example, two different scientists determine an object’s mass differently depending on the quality of the equipment they use to measure it, but that doesn’t mean the object has two different masses. It simply means that it is difficult to determine the mass precisely. So it is with beauty. The fact that it is difficult to know for certain that something is beautiful doesn’t undermine the principle of objective beauty.

Until the modern era, very few people dissented from the idea of beauty’s objectivity. For example, the philosopher most often cited by Catholics on the nature of beauty is St. Thomas Aquinas, who consistently treats it as an objective quality.

According to St Thomas, to be able to apprehend the beauty of an object, we need to know certain things about it:

First, we must know what we are looking at (if we are discussing visual beauty) and its purpose—this is called clarity. If we look at something and have to ask, ‘What is it?’, then it lacks this property of clarity, and we will struggle to determine whether it is beautiful.

Once its purpose is clear to us, we intuitively judge how well suited it is to that purpose and how good or noble that purpose is. When we judge whether something is well-suited to its purpose, we are considering a property known as integrity.

Then, we judge how appropriately its various parts are arranged within it to have high integrity—this is called due proportion. When it has a due proportion, all the parts are arranged within the object so that it can be well suited to its purpose.

The assumption here is not that people systematically consider these elements, one after another, before deciding whether something is beautiful. On the contrary, people just react instinctively and instantaneously to what they see, and in a moment, they see beauty, or they don’t. What St Thomas is describing through his own observation is what properties are present in things that many people, in general, see as beautiful. Similarly, knowing that beauty consists of these sub-categories does not help us to ascertain by reason what is beautiful, for in judging each aspect - clarity, integrity, and due proportion - we are still making personal judgements in regard to each sub-category. We can be no more certain in our judgment of these sub-categories than we can in our judgment that the whole is beautiful.

So, where can we look in order to ascertain what is beautiful? Is there any authority that we can trust? The traditional approach to resolving this difficulty is to seek a broad consensus. So, we can begin to create a measure of beauty that might be accepted by all by considering the common reaction to beauty. When we fully apprehend something as beautiful, we delight in it because we can see its goodness in the context of God’s purpose. St Thomas Aquinas observed this phenomenon and then based his definition of beauty on it. He told us that pulchra dicuntur quae visa placent, which means ‘things that give pleasure when they are perceived are called beautiful’. Here, he is telling us the ‘common sense’ of beauty. There is no assumption here that all people individually form the same opinion when observing a single object or react in the same way when they see something beautiful. Rather, he is describing the ideal that emerges from the general pattern of observation of many people.

Portrait of Dora Maar, by Pablo Picasso, Spanish, 20th century... an ugly portrair of a beautiful woman? (Picture by myself, taken at the Musée Picasso.

This description of the essential elements of beauty assumes an interrelatedness between the observer and the observed object. Accordingly, for someone to be able to observe an object, that object must radiate information about itself to us so that we can perceive it with our senses. For this reason, beauty is often defined alternatively as the radiance of being.

When something is lacking in one or more of these things, we take less delight in its appearance, and we might call it ugly. Ugliness is considered to be a ‘privation’ of beauty. So when viewed in this way, ugliness is not actually a property that anything possesses; rather, something is ugly when it is not as beautiful as it ought to be. Ugliness is, therefore, a sign to us that the object is not fully what it ought to be.

There are various reasons something might be judged ugly.

The object might be distorted or damaged somehow, and so lacks due proportion and integrity because it cannot fulfill its intended purpose. Alternatively, it might be that it can fulfill its intended purpose, but that purpose is evil.

It might be that we are not fully apprehending the object, and it lacks clarity. Perhaps the object is not radiating sufficient information about itself to us, as might be the case in the dark. Alternatively, our senses may be impaired. A blind man cannot appreciate the beauty of a painting.

Even if the object is beautiful and our senses are good, we might misunderstand what we are seeing. This can be, for example, because our intellects are not fully equipped to process information from the senses, or because, even with our sinful natures, we misjudge or reject the good we see. (All these considerations become particularly complex in the judgment of the beauty of people, and we will discuss this later.)

In the properly ordered world, all things would be as they ought to be, and we would have the capacity to recognize this. In such a world, all would be beautiful, for all things exist and are made by God or man to contribute in some way to His glory.

However, we live in a fallen world in which many things are not perfect, and our capacity to judge such things is also impaired, so there appears to be much ugliness in the world. Nevertheless, an imperfect object is still good, even if not as good as it should be. It is still beautiful, even if not as beautiful as it should be. Notwithstanding these imperfections, all aspects of Creation can serve as signs that point us toward the good and our role in the world. We are called to participate in God’s creative work and direct our efforts to the perfection of all things through cooperation with grace. To the extent that we achieve this, we will be good stewards of the world, elevating the natural world by fashioning matter into beautiful art and architecture, and by creating beautiful gardens, farms, homes, and cities. To the degree that we achieve this, contemporary culture will also be beautiful, surpassing even the beauty of the wilderness - the natural world untouched by humans - for we are raising the wilderness up to something higher.

Five Grotesque Heads, drawing by Leonardo da Vinci, Italian 15th century... a beautiful portrait of five ugly men?

The Importance of Tradition to a Culture of Beauty

I have argued that beauty is an objective quality but that people can, for various reasons, differ in their ability to apprehend it. This, in turn, leads to different opinions about what counts as good art and what counts as bad art. When there is a difference of opinion, one might ask, “How do we know who is right? What standard is there to help us make such a judgment?”

This is not an easy question to answer. In another context, if we were considering the morality of someone’s action, for example, we might look to the Magisterium or to scripture directly for an authoritative judgment. Murder is wrong, for example, because Scripture tells us so.

However, God has not revealed an equivalent ‘Ten Commandments of Beauty’. As a consequence, rational arguments that one thing is more beautiful than another or that my judgment is more accurate than yours are usually fruitless because there is no accepted visible standard to back up such a claim.

Moses Receiving the 10 Commandments, Anonymous, 12th-century, from St Catherine’s Monastery, Mt Sinai, Egypt. God gave us moral clarity through revelation…why couldn’t he have revealed principles for beauty too?

Some might ask: what about the criteria already mentioned—integrity, clarity, and due proportion—can I apply them to obtain a definitive answer?

These can help to a degree, but the difficulty here is that we still have to make a personal judgment on the degree of integrity, clarity, and due proportion that the object possesses, and so are effectively left with the same difficulty, except multiplied by three!

The capacity of unaided human reason to judge beauty is so variable that we cannot be sure of the validity of any single judgment.

All is not lost, however. Just because it is difficult to be sure that any single human judgment is good, it doesn’t mean that we have no measure at all. We know that human nature is drawn to beauty just as it is to the common good; thus, we can examine the broad patterns of most people’s likes and dislikes over time in society to consider what is beautiful. We might term this the ‘common taste,’ analogous to concepts such as common sense, common law, and the highest of these, the common good.

The common good is not a physical good that is to be divided up so that a small part is given to everyone; rather, it is a metaphysical principle, the Good, which is ultimately God, to which we are all drawn naturally - although we can exercise free will in rejecting the call of God. It is termed the common good because when someone does what is good, it is good for the person and, simultaneously, good for society as a whole.

The ‘common taste’ or, put another way, the common sense of what is beautiful, is that standard that emerges over time and in consideration of most people in a society. It is a tradition that preserves and passes on this common taste over generations. As cultural phenomena, artistic traditions can vary across societies, even while retaining universal principles. For example, within the iconographic tradition of sacred art, each national church tends to develop its own style, so that Greek icons are distinct from Russian icons, which are distinct from English Romanesque icons. These are different traditions of iconography, each beautiful in its own way.

Therefore, the best way to determine whether a work of art is beautiful is to ask what tradition tells us about it. That is to say, if something has been considered beautiful by many people for a long period of time, then there is a greater chance that it is beautiful than for those objects that people appreciate for a short period of time. Tradition is not an infallible guide, but I suggest a more reliable guide than a panel of elite intellectuals in a university art department…or even, dare I say it, sacred art writers on Catholic blogs!

In consulting tradition, we consider the society for which a beautiful object was intended. So we would say that the cosmos was made for all men to behold. If we want to consider whether or not the cosmos is objectively beautiful, we ask ourselves if men have generally thought that it was.

Similarly, in sacred art, the best guide to the goodness of the style is its impact on the worshipers for whom it was intended. Does it, overall, draw people to God as intended? The pool of people to draw on in this latter category is much smaller than ‘all men’, and so the reliability of the judgment of the effect will be less certain, but it is still the best that we have.

Popular Culture vs Tradition

This appeal to general opinion will likely disturb some readers who, sensing that popular art and popular culture are low-brow and superficial, worry that it is an overreliance on democracy and popularity. Doesn’t this just tend to the lowest common denominator, rather than an elevated common taste, one might ask? In the short term, the answer is, very possibly yes. However, if we give at least as much weight to the past as to the present, we have a chance, at least, of overcoming the vagaries of fashion. The next generation will not know much of what is popular today. However, some popular items will remain known and appreciated in subsequent generations, and these are more likely to be truly beautiful. Chesterton called this approach of considering past and present opinions the ‘democracy of the dead’. The more we look at the art that transcends its own time and has been considered beautiful by many people in the society for whom it was intended, the greater chance we have of being able to choose the best.

I would argue that we should be so respectful of tradition that, in judging the best art, we should adopt a general principle referred to by Benedict XVI as a ‘hermeneutic of continuity’1. By this principle, the default position is always with tradition. We assume that tradition has the best answer, content, and style unless we have compelling evidence to the contrary. If current needs are identical to those of the past, we conform to tradition. Where needs differ, we may respond accordingly and adjust accordingly to the extent those needs are met. The artist’s whim is not considered here. This principle was articulated by Pius XII in the encyclical Mediator Dei when he said the following:

What we have said about music applies to the other fine arts, especially to architecture, sculpture and painting. Recent works of art which lend themselves to the materials of modern composition, should not be universally despised and rejected through prejudice. Modern art should be given free scope in the due and reverent service of the church and the sacred rites, provided that they preserve a correct balance between styles tending neither to extreme realism nor to excessive “symbolism,” and that the needs of the Christian community are taken into consideration rather than the particular taste or talent of the individual artist. (Mediator Dei, 195)

These principles guide our judgment. There is room for much variation, individual expression, and taste while remaining in conformity with the principles Pius articulates. This is true of all artistic traditions. A tradition is not defined by unbending rules that cannot be adapted to different situations. Rather, every identifiable tradition, such as the Baroque, Gothic or iconographic traditions in art, conforms to core principles that characterise it unwaveringly, but those principles can be applied differently according to different needs. Indeed, it is the mark of a living tradition that it can always adapt to contemporary needs without contravening the principles that define it.

The Ghent Altarpiece (Adoration of the Mystic Lamb), completed in 1432 by Hubert and Jan van Eyck, Flemish, is one of the most visited and influential artworks in the world, housed in St. Bavo’s Cathedral in Ghent, Belgium

Pope St John XXIII Blessing the Agnus Deis

Some interesting unused footage of Pope St John XXIII blessing the Agnus Deis in 1959, from the YouTube channel of British Pathé. (The video has no sound.)

Agnus Deis are discs of wax impressed with an image of the Lamb of God, and often with the arms of the Pope or the image of a Saint on the reverse. They were traditionally blessed by the Popes as described by the old Catholic Encyclopedia: “The great consecration of Agnus Deis took place only in the first year of each pontificate and every seventh year afterwards, which rule is still (in 1907) followed. The discs of wax are now prepared beforehand by certain monks ... On the Wednesday of Easter week these discs are brought to the Pope, who dips them into a vessel of water mixed with chrism and balsam, adding various consecratory prayers. The distribution takes place with solemnity on the Saturday following, when the Pope, after the Agnus Dei of the Mass, puts a packet of Agnus Deis into the inverted mitre of each cardinal and bishop who comes up to receive them.” The custom was a very ancient one, dating back to the early ninth-century; this photo shows some very old ones formerly kept in the Papal chapel of the Sancta Sanctorum at the Lateran, but now in the Vatican Museums.

As they were shaped like medallions, they were also used like medallions. Again from the Catholic Encyclopedia: “The(ir) symbolism ... is best gathered from the prayers used at various epochs in blessing them. As in the paschal candle, the wax typifies the virgin flesh of Christ, the cross associated with the lamb suggests the idea of a victim offered in sacrifice, and as the blood of the paschal lamb of old protected each household from the destroying angel, so the purpose of these consecrated medallions is to protect those who wear or possess them from all malign influences. In the prayers of blessing, special mention is made of the perils from storm and pestilence, from fire and flood, and also of the dangers to which women are exposed in childbirth. It was formerly the custom in Rome to accompany the gift of an Agnus Dei with a printed leaflet describing its many virtues. Miraculous effects have been believed to follow the use of these objects of piety. Fires are said to have been extinguished, and floods stayed. The manufacture of counterfeits, and even the painting and ornamentation of genuine Agnus Deis, has been strictly prohibited by various papal bulls.”

Low Sunday 2026

As newborn babes, alleluia, desire the rational milk without guile, alleluia, alleluia, alleluia. Ps. 80 Rejoice to God our Helper; sing aloud to the God of Jacob. V. Glory be... As it was... As newborn babes... (The Introit for Low Sunday.)

Quasi modo géniti infantes, allelúia: rationábiles, sine dolo lac concupíscite, allelúia, allelúia, allelúia. Ps. 80 Exsultáte Deo, adjutóri nostro: jubiláte Deo Iacob. Glória Patri. Sicut erat. Quasi modo...

The Station Churches of the Easter Octave (Part 3)

Alongside the Apostles, the martyrs were held in special honor among the early Christians; their feasts are the oldest and most universal in the early liturgical calendars, and the first among them, St. Stephen and the Holy Innocents, are celebrated immediately after the birth of Christ. It was anciently the custom in some places to commemorate those who have shared most especially in the Passion and Resurrection with a collective feast on the Friday of Easter Week, a custom still kept by Chaldean Christians. For this reason, the Roman station is held the same day in the ancient building known as the Pantheon, dedicated as a church with the name “St. Mary at the Martyrs” in 609 A.D.

The Pantheon, by Ippolito Caffi, first half of the 19th century

There is very good reason to believe that the Pantheon was not in point of fact a temple at all. (See Amanda Claridge’s Rome: An Oxford Archeological Guide, p. 206 of the 1998 edition.) Nevertheless, it was believed by early medieval Christians to have been a temple of all the countless gods of pagan Rome; its dedication as a church was therefore understood to have re-founded it as a monument to the triumph of Christianity over every pagan cult and superstition at once. This idea fits well with the stational Mass’ Gospel, Matthew 28, 16-20, and the Communion antiphon taken from it: “All power is given to me in heaven and in earth, alleluia; go and teach ye all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, alleluia, alleluia.”

On Saturday, the station was kept once again at the Lateran, eight days after the station of Holy Saturday. The Mass of the Easter vigil is not traditionally a first Mass of Easter, as the midnight Mass of December 24th is the first Mass of Christmas; it is a vigil, a keeping watch for the Resurrection, which is not truly revealed in the liturgy until the morning of Sunday. For this reason, the vigil Mass is textually incomplete; the Introit, Creed, Offertory and Agnus Dei are all omitted, the Alleluia which is said after the Epistle is nothing like the normal Alleluia said between the readings, and the Communion antiphon is substituted by Vespers. The Mass of Low Saturday, therefore, brings the Church back to the Archbasilica of the Holy Savior to celebrate Easter with the fullest solemnity on the octave day of Holy Saturday.

The Epistle of the Mass (1 Peter 2, 1-10) describes the baptized as “newly born infants”, words which are repeated in the Introit of the following day, when they would put off the white garments which they had worn throughout the week and take their place among the rest of the faithful. The Communion antiphon of the Mass is the same text sung by the Byzantines at the Easter vigil before the Epistle: “All ye who have been baptized in Christ, have put on Christ, alleluia.”

Fragments of medieval Agnus Dei’s in the Vatican Museums’ collection of relics from the Sancta Sanctorum. These were traditionally distributed by the Pope on the Saturday of Easter Week at the stational Mass.

The final station, that of Low Sunday, is the only one kept at the basilica of St. Pancras, an orphan who was martyred in Rome during the persecution of Diocletian at the age of fourteen. In the Roman world, this was roughly the earliest age at which a young man could receive the toga virilis, which signified that he was now entering adulthood. Thus, the white garments of spiritual infancy were laid aside at the tomb of one who gave his life for Christ when he had just become an adult, and legally capable of being killed for his faith. Over the course of Lent, the catechumens had visited the churches of many different martyrs; on the day they become adults within the Church, they are reminded that although they are just at the very beginning of their spiritual adulthood, they must give their whole lives to Christ, who gave His own for the salvation of the world.

The altar of San Pancrazio decorated for Mass on Low Sunday, following the common Polish custom of draping a stole over the Crucifix in Eastertide.

An Important New Resource for the Study of Holy Week

Romanitas Press has just made available a very useful resource for the study of Holy Week, and particularly, of the reform of it promulgated by Pope Pius XII in 1955. This is a three volume series by a German Jesuit priest named Herman Schmidt, who taught liturgy at the Gregorian University in Rome, compiled with all the thoroughness one would expect from a German and a Jesuit. The first volume is occupied almost entirely by the text of the traditional Roman Holy Week, placed in parallel columns with the new one. The second is in two parts, the first of which gives a catalog of sources, then a summary of their contents according to the various genres: sacramentaries, lectionaries, antiphonaries etc. The secunda secundae, as it were, offers a commentary on the various rites as they appear in the different sources. (It should be noted that all three volumes are entirely in Latin, and a fairly high level academic Latin at that.)

The frontispiece of Schmidt’s first volume. (This was provided to me by Gregory; the Romanitas pdf is in black and white, and not word-searchable.) 

Now it should be noted that Schmidt was writing in the 1950s, and exactly as one would expect, he accepts and repeats some of the commonly held mistakes of his time. So, e.g., in his commentary on the Good Friday Mass of the Presanctified (vol. 2.2, p. 133), he repeats the erroneous idea that the fraction rite “seems” to arise from a theory of “consecration by contact”, which held that the wine was consecrated by having a consecrated host put into it. (Note the word “seems”, which also appears in the Vatican’s official commentary on the reform, written by Annibale Bugnini and Carlo Braga, and published in the Ephemerides Liturgicae in 1956. As explained in the article linked above, this theory is completely untenable.)

But on the whole, these are minor issues. Far more importantly, these volumes are an invaluable resource for demonstrating how completely devoid of any foundation in the Roman tradition the 1955 Holy Week actually is. For example, here we have a comparative table of Scriptural readings from volume 2.2 (pp. 674-675), which shows very clearly that no historical Roman lectionary ever omitted the first part of the three Synoptic Passion narratives, the parts which include the Last Supper and the preparations for it. (This is one of the errors of the 1955 reform which was recognized to be so serious that it was partly walked back in the Novus Ordo.)

One of these things is not like the others...

And of course, these volumes also help to demonstrate how the 1955 reform was in some ways a preparation for the more thorough reform of the liturgy that would be enacted after the most recent ecumenical council. E.g., here we see from volume 1, pp. 44-47, the introduction of a kind of responsorial psalm for the distribution of the Palms on Palm Sunday...

while some of the traditional antiphons for the procession were eliminated.

As the Church continues to slowly recover the fullness of its authentic liturgical tradition, books like this are extremely useful for making us more aware of what has been lost, and what needs to be rediscovered. Our thanks to Romanitas Press and its editor, Mr Louis Tofari, for such making a significant contribution to this vital process.

Eastern Music for Good Friday

Today is Good Friday on the Julian calendar, and so here are two interesting pieces of music for the day, one Byzantine and one Coptic, brought to my attention by the YouTube suggestion algorithm.

The first is a chant for the Ninth Hour in the Byzantine Rite when it is sung as part of the Good Friday service known as the Royal Hours; I have previously described this service in full. The channel which posted it includes a link to an album by the Chronos Ensemble, which describes it as an older kind of Slavonic polyphony from the 16th to 18th centuries, i.e., predating the very strong influence which Austrian and Italian music would later come to exercise on liturgical music in the Russian empire. The fellow who runs this channel, Evgeny Skurat, a member of the ensemble, posts a great deal of older music from both the Greek and Slavonic traditions, much of it with cleverly designed computer generated images of churches as the background. I have to confess that for me personally, a lot of this is really not to my taste, but I find this piece very beautiful indeed.

- Today, He that hung the earth upon the waters is hung upon the tree. (thrice)
- The king of angels is arrayed with a crown of thorns.
- He that girdeth heaven with clouds is girt with purple in mockery.
- He that freed Adam in the Jordan received a slap.
- The Bridegroom of the Church is fixed with nails.
- The Son of the Virgin is pierced with a lance.
- We adore Thy sufferings, o Christ. (thrice)
- Show us also Thy glorious Resurrection.

The second piece comes from the Twelfth Hour on Good Friday in the Coptic Rite, a tradition about which I know almost nothing. According to a video which I stumbled across (included below), which is based on an article published 14 years ago in First Things, this chant consists of a single Psalm verse, 44, 7, “Thy throne, O God, is for ever and ever: the sceptre of thy kingdom is a sceptre of uprightness.” But these eight words (in Coptic) can be drawn out, in the very particular style of Egyptian liturgical chants, to over 20 minutes. This is also not much to my personal music taste, but one can only admire the intensity of devotion that would produce such a thing. Here is a somewhat more restrained version that clocks in at a bit over 15 minutes.

An explanation of the chant from a Coptic Church channel, reproducing the aforementioned article from First Things.

Silent Retreats with the ICRSP at the Sacred Heart Retreat Center in Wisconsin

The Sacred Heart Retreat Center in Burlington, Wisconsin, which is run by the Institute of Christ the King, has recently updated its schedule of silent retreats, some of which run for a whole week, and others over a long weekend. If you are interested in spending some time away from the world in prayer and contemplation, with the traditional Mass available to attend daily, you are invited to take a look at the calendar. Please note that some of these events are for men only, including one in early May that has just been added, and has plenty of room available, and some for women only, so be sure to check the schedule carefully. There is also a special gala fundraising event planned for October 30.

https://shrcburlington.org/register/#schedule

The large church on the south end of the building, which seats about 250 people.

A chapel for retreatants, which will have a capacity of 80, is currently under construction on the top floor. 

This painting of the Immaculate Conception by the Milanese artist Stefano Maria Legnani (1631-1713) will grace the high altar.

The Risen Lord as Hunter and Trapper

Since last week we examined Patristic metaphors of the Crucifixion as a fishing trip, this week let us turn to similar images of the Paschal mystery in St. Augustine of Hippo.

Jesus the Ratcatcher

Augustine was probably unfamiliar with the fishing metaphor that the (mostly) Greek Fathers were using, but he came up with a similar image on his own. If the Devil is a rat, then the Son of God is the ultimate Ratcatcher – as well as the Bait. Commenting on John 5, 5-14 (the miracle of the five loaves and two fishes), Augustine strays onto the topic of our atonement:

The Redeemer came, and the deceiver was conquered. And what did our Redeemer do to our captor? In payment for us He set up His Cross as a mousetrap; there, He placed His own blood as if it were bait. [The Devil] could indeed shed that blood, but he was not worthy of drinking it. And because He shed the blood of One who was not his debtor, he was ordered to release his debtors; he shed the blood of the Innocent One and was ordered to depart from the guilty.

Jesus the Supreme Hunter

St. Augustine’s imagination was not limited to small prey. In one of his Easter sermons, he compares the risen Lord to a lion-hunter. The Devil, a “roaring lion who goeth about seeking whom he may devour” (1 Peter 5, 8), is a ferocious killer of men’s souls, but in this sermon, Augustine likens Death to a lion who slays everyone born in sinful flesh. Jesus Christ was not born in sinful flesh but “in the likeness of sinful flesh” – that is, He was born a true man, but without original sin and without the subsequent penalty of death. Nevertheless, Christ voluntarily took death upon Himself through His crucifixion to save us from death. In being slain by death, He slew death itself, freeing us from the powers of death. He is thus not only the Bait for the ultimate man-killer but the Ultimate Killer of the ultimate man-killer. He is the Summus Venator or Supreme Hunter:

He died, but He killed death; He put an end in Himself to what we had been fearing; He took it upon Himself and He killed it; as the Supreme Hunter He captured the lion and He slew it.

If Augustine is right, then the Resurrection of Jesus Christ, whom we picture in garments as white as snow as when He was transfigured (see Mark 9, 2), gives a much improved new meaning to the phrase “Great White Hunter.”

Video of Medieval Vespers of Easter in Paris

As I described in an article last year, Vespers of Easter Sunday and the days within the octave was celebrated in the Middle Ages according to a special form used only in that period. There were many variations to the ceremony; my article was based on the Use of Sarum, simply because the rubrics of Sarum liturgical books are more thorough than those of most other medieval Uses. When the See of Paris passed over from its Neo-Gallican Use to the Roman books in 1871, a special indult was granted to continue the celebration of Vespers in this form, and this is still done at the church of St Eugène. Here is the video of the full ceremony celebrated four days ago, from the YouTube channel of our dear friends of the Schola Sainte-Cécile; you can follow along in this pdf booklet in Latin and French: https://schola-sainte-cecile.com/programmes/Vepres-stationnales.pdf.

Potent New Work Defends Intuition Behind Summorum Pontificum and Critiques Violence of Traditionis Custodes

As Kevin Tierney has pointed out more than once, there are many indications that Traditionis Custodes has been a tremendous failure in its overt mission of ridding the Church once for all of the dreaded Tridentine rite.

For sure, its implementation (like that of Sacrosanctum Concilium) has led to damages, divisions, and dismay in far too many places, but worldwide there has been little attempt to suppress the old rite altogether, which continues to flourish in or adjacent to parishes and in certain fortunate dioceses. Pope Leo XIV himself has signaled that this policy is no longer a priority and has urged making room for diverse “sensibilities.” Whether he will dismantle or modify his predecessor’s legislation on this point is difficult to say.

All the same, Traditionis Custodes looks like an act of violence in comparison with the pacific intentions of Summorum Pontificum, and it is well for us to reflect on the deeper theological and pastoral issues at stake, in order (ideally) to move away from the violence towards peaceful coexistence and even, dare one say, mutual enrichment – at least of communities, if not of rites.

Fortunately a new book has been published that serves exactly this purpose, and does so with brilliant insightfulness. I cannot recommend it too highly. The title is Liturgical Peace, Liturgical War: Benedict XVI’s “Summorum Pontificum” and Its Critics (London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2026; also available at Amazon), and its author is Tomasz Dekert, a professor at the Jesuit University Ignatianum in Krakow, Poland, who has written it in English.

The book advances the thesis that the motu proprio Summorum Pontificum of Benedict XVI initiated a genuine – though long-term and demanding – process of leading the Catholic Church out of the postwar “liturgical conflict,” whereas the subsequent Traditionis Custodes interrupted this process and intensified existing tensions.

The author argues that the roots of the conflict lie not merely in opposing preferences (tradition vs. reform), but in a deeper problem: a flawed understanding of the nature of liturgy as ritual, structured by abstract and functionalist assumptions, which came to dominate approaches to liturgy in the context of postwar liturgical reforms. In particular, he criticizes approaches that subordinate ritual form to theological or cultural constructs, rather than recognizing its primary, “self-evident” character – that is, its sensibly apprehensible, performative, and socially constitutive nature.

An important component of the book is its polemic with critics of Summorum Pontificum, who view it as a threat to the unity of the Church, an expression of nostalgia, or an ideological project. The author argues that such criticism rests on the same reductionist understanding of liturgy that underpinned the postwar reform, treating it as an instrument for expressing or shaping doctrine and identity, rather than as a constitutive practice that is prior to them.

Drawing on the ritual theory of Roy A. Rappaport, the author demonstrates that the stability and repetitiveness of ritual form are conditions for the functioning of a religious community. Consequently, the radical and top-down liturgical reform following the Second Vatican Council – intervening in the entirety of the ritual’s “canonical” layer – necessarily led to a profound crisis within the Church, affecting not only liturgy, but also its structure of meaning and its unity.

Against this background, Summorum Pontificum appears as an attempt to restore ritual continuity by permitting the coexistence of liturgical forms and creating the conditions for their organic interaction, as well as for a gradual and patient healing of the situation. By contrast, Traditionis Custodes, grounded in the same problematic vision of liturgy as that of the critics of Summorum Pontificum, abandons this path and seeks an administrative resolution to the conflict, which – according to the author – leads to its escalation and entrenchment.

Ultimately, the book argues that overcoming the “liturgical war” cannot be achieved at the level of legal decisions or theoretical disputes, but requires a fundamental revision of the theological understanding of liturgy: namely, the recognition of its ontological and social role as a constitutive practice, and the restoration of its continuity as a condition for the unity of the Church.

With regard to the Novus Ordo, Dekert’s book makes essentially one claim – but a fundamental one with extensive ramifications, namely, that its introduction was a mistake because of the sheer scale of the change it brought about, a change which, precisely for that reason, could not help but act in a profoundly destructive way upon the Catholic system.

One wonders to what extent this kind of approach – far more anthropological than theological – can or will be taken seriously by contemporary theologians, that is, by those who operate primarily in the world of words, concepts, and ideas. This is a world in which, and with which, a mind sufficiently skilled in dialectics and interpretation can do almost anything. One can, for example, “prove” that although adding two apples to another two gives us four apples, “in reality” recognizing that there are seven will make us richer! When reading today’s mainstream liturgical writers, one often feels as if their defense of the post-conciliar liturgical reform amounts to something along these lines. The argument takes place at the level of ideas, not at the level of actual practice and its impact on real people.

This cuts both ways: if you want to understand why the traditional rite is so powerful and attractive, you must not stop at the level of ideas, but pay close attention to the way in which living it, participating in it according to its own rhythm and symbology, profoundly shapes consciousness and worldview.

One other tremendous strength in Dekert’s book is his thrilling treatment of the involvement and significance of papal authority in the process of reform and the implications this carried, both for Catholics within the Church and for ecumenical relations, especially with the East.

The price tag of the book is very high, as is the strange custom of academic publishers, but we may hope that it will eventually go down, as occurred with U. Michael Lang’s book on the Roman Rite, which eventually came out in a paperback edition as well. But if you or an institution you work for can afford Dekert’s book now, take my word for it: the book is worth every penny. It is one of the most insightful critiques of the liturgical reform I’ve ever read.

The Station Churches of the Easter Octave (Part 2)

The first part of this series, covering the Sunday and Monday of Easter, was published two days ago.

The Introit of Tuesday’s Mass also clearly refers to the Saint at whose church the station is kept. As the Pope comes to the tomb of St. Paul, the “vessel of election, to carry (Jesus’) name before the gentiles, and kings, and the children of Israel”, the Church sings “He gave them the water of wisdom to drink, alleluia; he shall be made strong in them, and he shall not be moved, alleluia: he shall exalt them forever, alleluia, alleluia.”

In the Epistle from Acts 13, St. Paul preaches the Resurrection in the synagogue at Antioch of Pisidia.

And when they had fulfilled all things that were written of Him, taking Him down from the tree, they laid Him in a sepulcher. But God raised Him up from the dead the third day: Who was seen for many days, by them who came up with Him from Galilee to Jerusalem, who to this present (day) are His witnesses to the people. And we declare unto you, that the promise which was made to our fathers, this same God hath fulfilled to our children, raising up Jesus Christ, our Lord.

Each day of the Easter octave, the first part of the Gradual is the same verse of Psalm 117, “This is the day which the Lord hath made: let us be glad and rejoice therein.” The verse, however, changes daily, and on this day is taken from Psalm 106: “Let them say so that have been redeemed by the Lord, whom He hath redeemed from the hand of the enemy, and gathered out of the countries.” St. Paul himself was such a one, redeemed from the hand of the enemy whose purposes he served when he persecuted the Church; and by his work, many were gathered from the nations of the world.

The Alleluia verse that follows looks back to the first words of the Epistle cited above, “The Lord hath risen from the sepulcher, even He who for us hung upon the tree.”

The Communion antiphon then cites the Epistle of St. Paul which is sung at the Mass of the Easter vigil: “If you be risen with Christ, seek the things that are above; where Christ is sitting at the right hand of God, alleluia: mind the things that are above, alleluia.” (Colossians 3, 1-2)

Detail of Michelangelo’s Conversion of Saul in the Capella Farnese, Vatican City (1542-5)

In the Mass of Wednesday at the tomb of St. Lawrence, the Introit is taken from the Old Latin version of the Gospel of the first Monday of Lent, “Come, ye blessed of my Father, receive ye the kingdom, alleluia, which was prepared for you from the beginning of the world, alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.”

These words are spoken by Christ in Matthew 25 to those who practice the corporal works of mercy, doing to Him whatever they do to even the least of His brethren. This was indeed the work of St. Lawrence, who was placed in charge of the Roman church’s charitable funds by Pope St. Sixtus II in the mid-3rd century. When ordered to hand over to the Romans the riches of the Church, Lawrence distributed everything at his disposal to the poor, whom he then brought to the house of the city prefect, saying, “These are the riches of the Church.”

Detail of Fra Angelico’s St. Lawrence Distributing Alms in the Capella Niccolina, Vatican City (1447-9)

In this same Mass, St. Peter also figures prominently once again. The Epistle is taken from the speech which he makes to the crowds after healing the paralytic at the Beautiful Gate, (Acts 3, 13-15 and 17-19), the Alleluia repeats the words of the Communion antiphon of Monday, cited above, and the Gospel, John 21, 1-14, tells of the appearance of the Lord to Peter and several of the other Apostles at the sea of Tiberias. The liturgy appropriately celebrates the witness of the first Pope to the Resurrection at the tomb of a martyr who served so nobly under a successor of Peter in the see of Rome.

On Thursday, the church commemorates the whole of the “glorious choir of the Apostles” at the basilica dedicated to them, also the station church of the four Ember Fridays. It was originally dedicated only to Ss. Philip and James, whose relics are kept in the large crypt beneath the main altar. The Apostle Philip was often confused with the deacon Philip (Acts 6, 5) who evangelized Samaria and converted the eunuch of the Queen of Ethiopia, (Acts 8, 5-14 and 26-40); as we find, for example, in book 3, 31 of Eusebius’ Ecclesiastical History. This is certainly part of the reason why the story of Philip and the Ethiopian eunuch is read at this Mass. It is also a reminder that the Apostles instituted the diaconate under the guidance of the Holy Spirit, to help their evangelizing mission, and that the true preachers of the Gospel are those sent by them and their successors, the bishops of the Catholic Church.

Philip the Deacon Catechizes the Ethiopian Eunuch, from a illustrated Bible by Jean de Tournes père, Lyons, 1558. Image courtesy of the Pitts Theological Library, Candler School of Theology at Emory University.

The Introit of this Mass is taken from the tenth chapter of the book of Wisdom, commenting on the Exodus: “They praised with one accord thy victorious hand, o Lord, alleluia; for wisdom opened the mouth of the dumb, and made the tongues of infants eloquent, alleluia, alleluia.”

On Monday, the Church has sung of Baptism as the new Exodus, and Peter as the new Moses; today, she celebrates the unified witness to the Resurrection of all the Apostles together, whose “sound hath gone forth into all the earth, and their words unto the ends of the world.” (Psalm 18) The “tongues of the dumb” here are those of the Apostles, which at the time of His Passion kept silent and betrayed Him, though they swore they would die with Him; in the Resurrection and the coming of the Holy Spirit, they are made eloquent before all nations in their fearless preaching, for the sake of which they were all eventually martyred. The Offertory of this Mass also looks back to the Mass of Monday, partly repeating the words of its Introit, “On the day of your solemnity, sayeth the Lord, I will being you into the land that floweth with milk and honey, alleluia.”

In a number of early Christian sarcophagi, the Apostles are shown standing together around the Chi-Rho monogram, the symbol of Christ’s victory, and offering crowns in homage; the two soldiers kneeling before it are the symbol of His triumph over death and the devil. (Arles, later 4th century)