The Legend of St Philip the Apostle

The feast of the Apostle St Philip is traditionally kept on this day, together with St James the Younger, a custom which derives from the presence of their relics in the Roman basilica of the Twelve Apostles, which was originally dedicated only to the two of them. In the Synoptic Gospels, he is not mentioned apart from the list of the twelve disciples whom Jesus called his Apostles (Matthew 10, 1-4 and parallels). However, St Clement of Alexandria, writing ca. 200 AD, knew a tradition that Philip was the man who asked leave to go bury his father, to whom Christ replied, “Follow me, and let the dead bury their dead.” (Stromata 3, 4, 25, citing Matthew 8, 22.)

Reliquaries of Ss Philip and James displayed in the crypt of the church of the Twelve Apostles. Photo by Agnese, from part 3 of the very first Roman Pilgrim series, in 2014. 

In the Gospel of St John, on the other hand, Philip is a very prominent figure. After Christ “finds” him, and calls him, saying no more than “Follow me!”, Philip brings to Him Nathanael, who confesses “Thou art the Son of God, Thou are the king of Israel.” (1, 43-49.) At the multiplication of the loaves and fishes, it is Philip to whom Christ says “Whence shall we buy bread, that these may eat?”, and who replies “Two hundred pennyworth of bread is not sufficient for them, that every one may take a little.” (6, 5 and 7). Later on, Philip and Andrew together introduce some gentiles to Jesus. (12, 20-22) Finally, during the Last Supper, Philip says to Him, “Lord, show us the Father, and it is enough for us.”, to which Jesus replies, “Have I been so long a time with you; and have you not known me? Philip, he that seeth me seeth also the Father. How sayest thou, show us the Father? Do you not believe, that I am in the Father, and the Father in me?” (14, 8-10) A fuller version of this passage, John 14, 1-13, is listed as the Gospel for the feast of Ss Philip and James in the very oldest lectionary of the Roman Rite, ca. 650 AD, and provides most of the proper antiphons for the Office, as well as the second Alleluia and the Communion antiphon of their Mass.

A motet based on the Communion of the Mass of Ss Philip and James, in a polyphonic setting by the Dutch composer Jan Pieterszoon Sweelinck (1562-1621).

At the beginning of the Acts, he is named in the company of the Apostles in the upper room. (1, 13). When the first seven deacons were chosen, one of them is also called Philip, and there was already in antiquity some confusion between the two. Eusebius of Caesarea, for example, in his Ecclesiastical History (3, 31), takes it for granted that they are the same person, referring to his four daughters, even though in Acts 21, 9, it is stated that it was Philip the deacon who had four daughters. He quotes a letter from Polycrates, bishop of Ephesus, to Pope Victor I (189-99), which refers to Philip’s burial at Hierapolis in Phrygia, (now called Pammukale, in southwest Turkey), where he had preached the Gospel for many years. He also cites from one of the very first Church historians, Papias, bishop of Hierapolis and a contemporary of Pope Victor, the story that Philip had raised a man from the dead, a story which Papias had heard from one of Philip’s daughters.

Like several other Apostles, Philip also has an apocryphal set of Acts written about him; his is a compilation of fifteen different episodes which vary in their degree of absurdity. One of these episodes, the ninth, is a brief account of the slaying of a dragon, which he does on his missionary travels in the company of his fellow Apostle Bartholomew, and his sister, whose name is given as Mariamne.

In the Golden Legend of Bl. Jacopo de Voragine, the account of St Philip is quite short, far shorter, in fact, than that of St James, and also contains a dragon-slaying episode. However, the story is told in a completely different manner from that of his fictitious Acts. In the Golden Legend version, Philip is in Scythia, where he is brought by the pagans before a statue of Mars, and ordered to sacrifice to it. A dragon emerges from the statue’s base, killing the son of the priest in charge of the sacrifice, and the two local officials who were keeping the Apostle in chains, while making everyone else present sick with its breath. Philip promises to remedy these ills if the pagans break the statue and replace it with a Cross; when they do, he heals the sick, raises the three dead persons, and banishes the dragon to an uninhabited desert. He then comes to Hierapolis, where he successfully combats the heresy of the Ebionites, establishes the ecclesiastical hierarchy, and is finally crucified by the infidels.

In the year 1487, a wealthy Florentine merchant named Filippo Strozzi commissioned the painter Filippino Lippi to fresco a chapel dedicated to the name Saint whom he shared with the artist. The complex and agitated style which Lippi learned from his teacher, Sandro Botticelli, perfectly suits the complex and agitated scenes of the dragon’s defeat and the Apostle’s crucifixion. The dragon is clearly too small to really pose a threat, representing that his power is vanquished by that of Christ’s minister. The statue of Mars is shown as a colored figure like the living persons in the lower part of the scene, and not as a white stone figure like the statues below him; this is often understood to represent the fact that the conflict between paganism and Christianity was very much alive in the Florence of Lorenzo the Magnificent and Savanarola.

St Philip Banishing the Dragon, by Filippino Lippi, in the Strozzi Chapel of Santa Maria Novella, Florence, 1487-1502

The Crucifixion of St Philip

In the pre-Tridentine Roman Breviary, this story is told in terms very similar to those of the Golden Legend, even so late as the editions published in the 1520s. The scholars charged with revising the legends of the Saints for the Breviary of St Pius V were very concerned to remove anything that might bring discredit on the Church, and were particularly severe with episodes of dragon-slaying; there is no hint of the story whatsoever in the revised legend of St Philip, the version which is still read to this day in the Breviary of the Extraordinary Form. (Ss George, Martha and Margaret of Antioch are treated in similar fashion.)

Nevertheless, in the 18th century, when statutes of the 12 Apostles were put up in the Lateran Basilica, the Pope’s own cathedral, a reference to the old legend was kept. This work by Giuseppe Mazzuoli, executed between 1703 and 1712, shows St Philip stepping on a dragon, albeit also a very small one.

Candle Artist Offers Unique “Theological Virtues” Design for Easter 2022

Gina Switzer, whose candle work David Clayon featured at NLM five years ago, continues to offer custom-made candles for liturgical use—Paschal candles, baptismal candles, and the like (see her website for a full listing and examples).

Her Paschal Candle design for 2022 symbolizes Faith, Hope, and Charity by means of the Peacock, the Artichoke, and the Pomegranate. The following explanation was shared with NLM by the artist.

“This year’s candle is ornate in design and more elusive in symbolism.

“The goal of this design is to draw the eye of the viewer by using a kind of sumptuous beauty to begin the questions; starting with, ‘Wait...what is this candle?’; then ‘Why peacocks?,’ etc. The peacock, artichoke, and pomegranate are ancient symbols with various meanings that are not readily apparent. I tried to create a candle that is beautiful and worthy of contemplation and of asking questions.

“The Peacock as a symbol of Faith. The peacock, stunningly beautiful in color, design, and flair is more than just a pretty animal. The ancients believed its flesh to be incorruptible because it does not rot like other flesh, but only dries out. St. Augustine attested to experimenting as such in The City of God. Early Christians baptized the peacock as a symbol of eternal life and used its image on sarcophagi and murals in the catacombs. The tail feathers of the peacock molt at the end of summer and begin to grow back around Christmas, returning in full glory and more brilliant than before around Easter. The feather cycle and the connection to eternal life makes the peacock a fitting symbol of the Resurrection. On this candle the peacocks drink from living water flowing from a font, the waters of baptism. They proclaim the theological virtue of Faith based in the Resurrection, for as Paul say in 1 Cor 15:14, ‘If Christ has not been raised, then our own preaching is in vain and your faith is in vain.’

“The Artichoke as a symbol of Hope. The artichoke is a symbol of hope because the tough, thorny leaves protect the soft, tender heart. The Christian interpretation goes back to Genesis: ‘Cursed is the ground because of you; in toil you shall eat of it all the days of your life; thorns and thistles it brings forth to you’ (Gen. 3:17-18). The artichoke is a thistle. While this scripture verse truly bespeaks a terrible curse, these words should also give us hope! God could have justly punished Adam and Eve with instant physical death and damnation for their sin of disobedience. He did not. He removed them from the Garden but kept them alive as an act of His Mercy and to set the stage for our Savior, who would be born of their lineage. (Oh happy fault!) In toil we grow our food; it takes work to prepare foodstuffs to be eaten. Preparing an artichoke in particular takes perseverance and a bit of ‘hope.’ Trim the thorns. Boil the globe. Peel away each leaf. Scrape away the nascent flower. Finally, the small tender heart is revealed and the hope for a tasty morsel is revealed. In light of the Resurrection, it seems fitting to contemplate the hope of the transformation of a cursed thorny thistle into a delicacy, like our own thorny selves becoming holy through the grace of Christ’s redeeming work on the Cross. On this candle the artichoke is represented in various growth stages with the thistle flowers shooting up to meet the peacock tails as a call and response from Faith to Hope and Hope to Faith, each reaching to the other.

“The Pomegranate as a symbol of Charity. Like the peacock, the pomegranate as a symbol has deep roots in pre-Christian and Christian traditions. The multitude of seeds readily signify fertility in older traditions. But the deep red juice allows the Catholic imagination to see the flow of blood from Christ’s side pouring forth to bring new life and fecundity in the Church. An NLM article describes the pomegranate as a symbol of Charity because ‘it gives of what it contains that is most delicious and precious: it gives itself just like Christ did in his infinite charity through the Eucharist, born in his heart—that heart which he allowed to be opened for us through the striking of the spear of the soldier during his Passion, that the divine red liquid might flow forth.’ On this candle the pomegranate is centered on a symmetrical, ornate gold cross. It is also a feature in the bands representing the Alpha and the Omega, the peacock and the artichoke because, in the end, Charity remains.”

Gina noted that priests will sometimes “preach from the Paschal candle” at Mass, at baptisms and funerals. If the candle itself is decorated with a lot of symbolism, it makes it an obvious reference point for elucidation, and of course a homily about peacocks, artichokes, and pomegranates will be a lot more memorable than a homily in the style of Garrigou-Lagrange about the theological virtues.

Regina Candles (the name of Gina's enterprise) has multiple Paschal Candle designs as well as personalized baptismal candles, to promote and build a culture that recognizes children’s baptisms as their birth into the life and love of the Trinity. She encourages people to keep the candles in a known place and to light them once a year briefly on the anniversary of baptism as a way of reminding ourselves of this immense gift and mystery.

Hand-painted Paschal Candles Available for Order from Denver Artist

Laura O’Connor is a traditional Catholic artist who sells hand-painted religious artwork, devotional items, cards, and gifts at her Etsy shop. She is best known for her beautiful Paschal Candles, which she initially began selling in the Denver area by word of mouth, and now ships to other places.

Each order is painted with quality acrylics on a plain 51% beeswax candle purchased from a major candle manufacturer. Laura can paint any size candle that her suppliers manufacture, and all common sizes are listed with their respective pricing at her shop. Presently, she has four standard designs available, but is also able to an original custom design if desired. The standard designs do offer opportunities for minor customisations such as choice of scene when applicable, and parish, religious order, or diocesan coats of arms or symbols.

As it takes time to hand-paint each order, Laura’s Paschal Candles are available from July through November 15 of this year; she will not be offering them in the Spring season.

Laura may be contacted through her Etsy shop but also by her email: reginasanctorum18@gmail.com.

Design 1: The Glorious Paschal Candle

Detail of the same

Design 2: Lamb of God Paschal Candle

Detail of same

Design 3 (the simplest): Alleluia Paschal Candle

Continue Reading this Article. . .

The Legend of St Philip the Apostle

The feast of the Apostle St Philip is traditionally kept on this day, together with St James the Younger, a custom which derives from the presence of their relics in the Roman basilica of the Twelve Apostles, which was originally dedicated only to the two of them. In the Synoptic Gospels, he is not mentioned apart from the list of the twelve disciples whom Jesus called his Apostles (Matthew 10, 1-4 and parallels). However, St Clement of Alexandria, writing ca. 200 AD, knew a tradition that Philip was the man who asked leave to go bury his father, to whom Christ replied, “Follow me, and let the dead bury their dead.” (Stromata 3, 4, 25, citing Matthew 8, 22.)

Reliquaries of Ss Philip and James displayed in the crypt of the church of the Twelve Apostles. Photo by Agnese, from part 3 of the very first Roman Pilgrim series, in 2014. 

In the Gospel of St John, on the other hand, Philip is a very prominent figure. After Christ “finds” him, and calls him, saying no more than “Follow me!”, Philip brings to Him Nathanael, who confesses “Thou art the Son of God, Thou are the king of Israel.” (1, 43-49.) At the multiplication of the loaves and fishes, it is Philip to whom Christ says “Whence shall we buy bread, that these may eat?”, and who replies “Two hundred pennyworth of bread is not sufficient for them, that every one may take a little.” (6, 5 and 7). Later on, Philip and Andrew together introduce some gentiles to Jesus. (12, 20-22) Finally, during the Last Supper, Philip says to Him, “Lord, show us the Father, and it is enough for us.”, to which Jesus replies, “Have I been so long a time with you; and have you not known me? Philip, he that seeth me seeth also the Father. How sayest thou, show us the Father? Do you not believe, that I am in the Father, and the Father in me?” (14, 8-10) A fuller version of this passage, John 14, 1-13, is listed as the Gospel for the feast of Ss Philip and James in the very oldest lectionary of the Roman Rite, ca. 650 AD, and provides most of the proper antiphons for the Office, as well as the second Alleluia and the Communion antiphon of their Mass.

A motet based on the Communion of the Mass of Ss Philip and James, in a polyphonic setting by the Dutch composer Jan Pieterszoon Sweelinck (1562-1621).

At the beginning of the Acts, he is named in the company of the Apostles in the upper room. (1, 13). When the first seven deacons were chosen, one of them is also called Philip, and there was already in antiquity some confusion between the two. Eusebius of Caesarea, for example, in his Ecclesiastical History (3, 31), takes it for granted that they are the same person, referring to his four daughters, even though in Acts 21, 9, it is stated that it was Philip the deacon who had four daughters. He quotes a letter from Polycrates, bishop of Ephesus, to Pope Victor I (189-99), which refers to Philip’s burial at Hierapolis in Phrygia, (now called Pammukale, in southwest Turkey), where he had preached the Gospel for many years. He also cites from one of the very first Church historians, Papias, bishop of Hierapolis and a contemporary of Pope Victor, the story that Philip had raised a man from the dead, a story which Papias had heard from one of Philip’s daughters.

Like several other Apostles, Philip also has an apocryphal set of Acts written about him; his is a compilation of fifteen different episodes which vary in their degree of absurdity. One of these episodes, the ninth, is a brief account of the slaying of a dragon, which he does on his missionary travels in the company of his fellow Apostle Bartholomew, and his sister, whose name is given as Mariamne.

In the Golden Legend of Bl. Jacopo de Voragine, the account of St Philip is quite short, far shorter, in fact, than that of St James, and also contains a dragon-slaying episode. However, the story is told in a completely different manner from that of his fictitious Acts. In the Golden Legend version, Philip is in Scythia, where he is brought by the pagans before a statue of Mars, and ordered to sacrifice to it. A dragon emerges from the statue’s base, killing the son of the priest in charge of the sacrifice, and the two local officials who were keeping the Apostle in chains, while making everyone else present sick with its breath. Philip promises to remedy these ills if the pagans break the statue and replace it with a Cross; when they do, he heals the sick, raises the three dead persons, and banishes the dragon to an uninhabited desert. He then comes to Hierapolis, where he successfully combats the heresy of the Ebionites, establishes the ecclesiastical hierarchy, and is finally crucified by the infidels.

In the year 1487, a wealthy Florentine merchant named Filippo Strozzi commissioned the painter Filippino Lippi to fresco a chapel dedicated to the name Saint whom he shared with the artist. The complex and agitated style which Lippi learned from his teacher, Sandro Botticelli, perfectly suits the complex and agitated scenes of the dragon’s defeat and the Apostle’s crucifixion. The dragon is clearly too small to really pose a threat, representing that his power is vanquished by that of Christ’s minister. The statue of Mars is shown as a colored figure like the living persons in the lower part of the scene, and not as a white stone figure like the statues below him; this is often understood to represent the fact that the conflict between paganism and Christianity was very much alive in the Florence of Lorenzo the Magnificent and Savanarola.

St Philip Banishing the Dragon, by Filippino Lippi, in the Strozzi Chapel of Santa Maria Novella, Florence, 1487-1502

The Crucifixion of St Philip

In the pre-Tridentine Roman Breviary, this story is told in terms very similar to those of the Golden Legend, even so late as the editions published in the 1520s. The scholars charged with revising the legends of the Saints for the Breviary of St Pius V were very concerned to remove anything that might bring discredit on the Church, and were particularly severe with episodes of dragon-slaying; there is no hint of the story whatsoever in the revised legend of St Philip, the version which is still read to this day in the Breviary of the Extraordinary Form. (Ss George, Martha and Margaret of Antioch are treated in similar fashion.)

Nevertheless, in the 18th century, when statutes of the 12 Apostles were put up in the Lateran Basilica, the Pope’s own cathedral, a reference to the old legend was kept. This work by Giuseppe Mazzuoli, executed between 1703 and 1712, shows St Philip stepping on a dragon, albeit also a very small one.

Pray for Rain and Dig for Water! A Traditional Approach to Overcoming a Creative Block

One of my students at www.Pontifex.University has been commissioned to contribute to an exhibition, and has to create one painting a month for the coming year. She asked me if I had any experience of artist’s block when approaching deadlines, saying she was beginning to feel some anxiety about whether or not she would be able to paint at her best, and this was inhibiting her.

The best I could do was suggest the following to her as my personal approach to dealing with it. I can’t promise it will work for everyone, but it has always worked for me, so it might be of help to some of you out there who a facing a similar situation too.

1. Stick to a routine
Schedule the time and paint, regardless of how you feel, and just do your best. Put pen to paper, fingers to the keyboard (as I am doing now), or brush to canvas, and make it happen. Painting engages the intellect, and I find that usually my work isn’t actually affected by how I feel very much. Also, the action of painting will induce a particular feeling more in harmony with the activity, and so it will be more enjoyable once I actually get going. Aside from scheduled breaks (which are a good idea), during your scheduled time never give up and go and do something else instead, such as washing the dishes...or teaching yourself to juggle (which is what I did while studying for my finals at university - I learned to juggle, but I’m not convinced it did much to raise my degree classification.) This is where past discipline and practice help. The more ingrained the good habits and skills are, the better the quality of the work, regardless of mood. In a totally different context, the South African golfer, Gary Player always used to say something that is nevertheless apropos: ‘The more I practice, the luckier I get.’ 

2. Set up an icon corner and pray
Create your prayer corner in the traditional form (Mary on the left, Crucifixion in the center, risen Christ on the right) and pray to it (look at the icons, stand, bow for the doxology etc).

Here’s a simple icon corner I created for my courtyard garden where I live. The plants are fairly new so I am waiting for them to mature - and for the vines to climb up the frames - but it’s getting there.

If you can sing, even just simple monotone chant, all the better. Pray some sort of prayer for guidance, but I suggest the following:

In the name of the Father Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen
Glory to you O God , Glory to You!

Prayer to Holy Spirit: O Heavenly King, Comforter, the Spirit of Truth, present in all places and filling all things, Treasury of Goodness and Giver of life: come and abide in us. Cleanse us from every stain of sin and save our souls, O Gracious Lord.

Trisagion Prayer: Holy God. Holy Mighty. Holy Immortal Have mercy on us.(3)
Glory be to the Father, and the Son and the Holy Spirit, both now and ever and unto ages of ages. Amen
All Holy Trinity, have mercy on us. Lord, forgive our sins. Master, pardon our transgressions. Holy One, visit and heal our infirmities, for the glory of Your Name.

Lord, have mercy.(3)

Glory be...
Our Father...

Lord have mercy (3)

Way of Beauty prayer: God be in my thoughts and words and deeds. Send your Holy Spirit that I many complete your will, grace responding to grace. May the beauty of my work inspire those who see it to love as Christ loved, that through worship of you and charity to others, all may know His peace and joy.

3. A spiritual exercise for anxiety reduction

If you really have to deal with feelings of deep anxiety, adopt the method of analysis of fears and resentments that I outline in my book The Vision for You. I have been doing these spiritual exercises daily for nearly 30 years now, and there is no anxiety yet that it hasn’t been able to dissipate.

If I were to summarize the approach, two sayings come to mind:

Pray for rain and dig for water! or

Work like it depends on you, pray like it depends on God.

And finally, if none of that works, then try the secular method: stare at the blank canvas, or blank page, and think of a clever justification for it, as it is, as a work of art. Ideally, this will be peppered with pseudo-intellectual jargon. Then call yourself a cutting-edge Minimalist.

The quality of the work is as good as the justification you create - and remember it doesn’t actually have to make sense, so you’ll get away with any old gobbledygook as long as you can keep a straight face as you do it. After, all, that’s what most other people have done for last 100 years.

‘What is it? is a stupid question’ - a blank canvas named by David Clayton (copyright 2018)

How Artists Create a Dynamic of Prayer Through Style and Content in Sacred Art

As I described last week, praying with sacred art is not difficult if it is practiced regularly, and if the art is well chosen. Some holy images are created so as to promote good prayer, by artists who understand deeply what prayer is and how visual imagery can nourish it. In this article, I will consider how artists working within the three liturgical traditions of the Church - the iconographic, the Gothic and the Baroque - have employed the visual vocabulary of style to this end. I should point out that this analysis is my own. I cannot cite accounts from the artists themselves of their intentions in order to support what I am saying. I am drawing personal experience of painting and praying with art to formulate the account that I give you now.

Prayer is “...the raising of one’s mind and heart to God or the requesting of good things from God” (CCC 2559), and within these aspects listed by the Catechism, we can distinguish also between two movements. One is passive (or receptive) by which we listen to what God is saying to us. The other is active, responding to the promptings of the Holy Spirit, by which we might, for example, give praise or thanks to God or ask something of Him.

A well-painted piece of sacred art will engage the viewer in such a way that it promotes both attitudes of prayer, active and passive, and each of the traditions of liturgical art has been developed to serve this double role, but in different ways. Each is painted to use visual devices that engage us, so that we might see what God is telling us through the image, and then be inspired to respond in love.

Iconographic art and Gothic art employ similar techniques, and as a result, engage us in a similar dynamic of prayer. Both are more stylised and less naturalistic than later Western traditions such as the Baroque. The less naturalistic styles of these traditions promote a sense of emotional distance between the observer and the Saint portrayed; the lack of naturalism always gives a painting an other-worldly feel. The stylization is also deliberately unsentimental - it does not evoke the sense of a Hallmark type prayer card, for example - and this ensures that we are not beguiled by prettiness. The austerity reminds us that this is an image and not the actual Saint. A spiritual hunger is created by this as we long for a relationship with the real Saint. At this point there is a mental jump in our imaginations, and our thoughts move from the image to the real Saint in heaven.

The image acts as a mental stepping stone by which we come to contemplate the real Saint in heaven. This is why these styles of art are often described as “windows to heaven.” When we see Christ in an icon, through this image there is a profound awareness of the real Christ beckoning to us from heaven and saying, “Come to me, join me in heaven!”

There is another way in which an image can create a sense of distance, which the power of the prayer dynamic just described overcomes. This is the way that the artist combines the angle of vision with the amount of detail visible. I will explain how this works.

In nature, the closer you are to an object the wider the angle of vision. So a man close to us appears large and the angle that subtends his limits - say from feet to head - is large. However, if the man moves away from us, that angle is reduced. We naturally judge how far away a man is from us by matching his apparent height (i.e. angle vision) with the height we assume him to be. Without being able to quote precise numbers we develop through experience an innate sense of the fact that a man who is 6ft tall will create an angle of vision of about 15 degrees of arc when he is 18 feet away.

If the artist wants to control the perception of distance, he must be aware of the point where the image is most likely to be observed from, and then he controls the angle of vision accordingly to create the desired perception of distance. So if the image is seen from 12 feet away, and the image is 4 feet high, then the angle of the arc that subtends the height of the image will be about 15 degrees; we will not think we are seeing a 4 foot tall man 12 feet away, but a 6 foot-tall man 18 feet away. We assume this because on the whole, men aren’t only 4 feet tall.

A reasonable question might be, but there are some people who are 4 feet tall; how do we know that this isn’t a life-size image of one of them? The answer is that there are other signs. First of all, we do the same intuitive calculation for every other person or object portrayed in the picture. We quickly gauge that unless everything else in the painting is also proportionately reduced in size, which is unlikely, then this person is a 6 feet tall, not 4. As I mentioned before, we don’t think of the numbers when we look at the image, any more than when we look at an ordinary person, we just have a sense of how far away someone is and how tall he is.

Something else that gives us a clue as to how far away something is from us is the amount of discernible detail we can make out, what we might call “detail perspective.” Through the experience of seeing things around us, we know whether, e.g., at a distance of 18 feet, we can to make out individual strands of hair on a head, or if we will see a broad swathe of color which we recognize as a mass of hair. It takes great skill for an artist to match this detail-perspective with the angle of vision so that all is in harmony. If the two factors are not in harmony, then usually we will sense that something is wrong, and we feel uneasy about it. Getting the balance of these two effects wrong is a common error made by inexperienced or poor artists. It is a fault of many well-known artists who should have known better, for example, many of the Pre-Raphaelites. Their paintings were over-packed with detail, so that every blade of grass and every individual leaf might be painted. Typically, our brain struggles to interpret what is seen in paitings like this, because one way of discerning distance, the amount of detail, tells us “This is close”, while the other, the angle of vision, says, “This is far away.” This generally causes a feeling of unease.

Baroque art of the 17th century, unlike Pre-Raphaelite art, is a naturalistic style that balances these two factors perfectly. However, paradoxically, iconographic and Gothic art deliberately introduced a mismatch, but in such a way that they contrive to enhance their spiritual power.

Both iconographic and Gothic art are designed so that when measured by angle of vision, the image is in the middle distance; we can get close enough to kiss an icon, for example, and it still seems in the middle distance because of the angle of vision. This further reinforces the dynamic of prayer described above. However, by the measure of detail-perspective, Gothic and iconographic art seem to break the rule of harmony with the angle of vision; there is lots of detail, and so the images are much closer to us than the angle of vision ould lead us to judge.

Ordinarily, we would expect to feel disconcerted by this, but generally we don’t. What then, is the difference between iconographic and Gothic art, where it works, and the Pre-Raphaelites, where it doesn’t? Clearly, something else is at play here. The difference is that while the Pre-Raphaelites attempt to portray things as they are naturalistically, the Gothic and iconographic styles are not intended to portray things as they are naturally. The style of both is informed by a theology of what man is like in heaven; the integration of theology and form in these traditions is so well worked out that we pick up on this instinctively. In heaven, to see someone is to know them perfectly, and so all the detail of their lives (in fact, more than simply the visual details) would be known to us. When we look at an icon or Gothic image, we see that they are otherworldly, and therefore the excess detail doesn’t seem unfitting to us. If this were just an arbitrary stylization that was not reflective of a truth, it would not be a convincing portrayal, but it works because these styles really do reflect something of the heavenly reality to us. In short, it rings true, because it is true.

To recap: in the case of Gothic and iconographic art, all of this “visual engineering” by the artist comes together to create a natural dynamic of prayer as follows. We look at the image, and because it seems to be in the middle distance, we are drawn toward it; we want to pull the image into the foreground so that we can establish a firmer relationship with the Saint. As we move closer, the image rewards us, so to speak, with a clearer vision of all the rich detail, which then increases our sense of wanting to get closer. However, we just can’t get close enough to satisfy our desire. Even if our noses are pressed against the image, it seems to be in the middle distance because of its design. The only way to get closer is through the use of our imaginations, which take us through the image to the real Saint in heaven; this is a profound connection that nourishes prayer. The Saints in heaven call us to be with them through the sacred art; each is saying, “Come to me and be in heaven with me.” The image of Our Lady will be seen, for the most part, from a great distance, and so will have a small angle of vision when viewed by most people.

Some will point out, quite legitimately, that there are life-size images in the iconographic style. The images at ground level on the walls are commonly close to life size. In these examples, the artists want the images to appear closer so that we know the Saints are praying alongside us in the liturgy. But even then, in my experience, the images are often slightly smaller than full-size on the side walls. (Often, but not always; this shows icons where are definitely close to life size, if not larger. This is the reason why I carefully inserted the word “generally” before my argument above.) I would say in regard to these paintings, that the other stylistic aspects that affect our engagement in the way I describe are still present, and these continue to reinforce the heavenly, otherworldly reality of the image. Secondly, if I was commissioning or painting such images today (a big “if”, I hear some of you say!), I would make efforts to ensure that there were no mixed messages by making them just slightly smaller than life-size.

Baroque art contains a visual vocabulary of style which, in contrast to the iconographic and Gothic styles, is intended to portray man on earth, what John Paul II called “historical man”, in a Christian way. This naturalistic, but nevertheless authentically liturgical style has been carefully worked out so that, in contrast to the iconographic and Gothic styles, the level of detail matches perfectly the perceived distance of the image from the observer when judged by angle of vision. This creates a different dynamic of engagement, and therefore of prayer, from that generated by iconographic and Gothic art.

To illustrate, consider the following situation: have you ever had the experience of seeing a beautiful large traditional oil painting in an art gallery? If you are like me, you want to get closer, but when you approach the image, it transforms. What was originally a clear image changes into a mess of rough brush strokes and you can no longer see the image as clearly. Then, in order to make it cohere visually again, you have to retreat back to the place where you first saw it. This is not accidental. The artist has deliberately painted the image so that it is out of focus when you are close, and in focus when you are several feet away.

Baroque art generally works like this. This effect is that rather drawing us into the image, as a Gothic painting might, the image jumps out to us. And when the image is of Christ, for example, God is made present to us here on earth. It says, “You stay where you are, I am with you.” This sense of the presence of God on earth is reinforced further by the artist when this device is combined with the other distinctive aspects of the visual vocabulary of Baroque art. The strong contrast between shadow and light, for example, communicates to us a sense of Christian hope that transcends suffering - the Light of the good that overcomes the darkness of evil.

Here is Velazquez’s crucifxion.

And here are two details of that same painting.

The different dynamics of prayer that we see in the different liturgical traditions need not be seen in opposition to each other; rather, they are complementary. One can think of them working together as the angels on Jacob’s ladder. Some go up, taking us with them, others come down to give us solace, and all help us on our path to God.

Ordinarily, I bemoan the fact that in the Roman Church we are detached from our authentic liturgical traditions. (I have devoted so much time to trying to understand them int he hope of helping to re-establish them as living traditions.) But there is some good in this. We can look more objectively at the past from our current position of detachment from it, and so choose what we feel is best for a new beginning.

In regard to this discussion, we could, potentially, establish a double tradition today, one that allows for both dynamics of prayer and so enrich our worship and prayer in a way that has not been done before. We might choose the come-to-me style for the side altar and for our contemplative prayer; and the I-am-with-you style, for greater and more immediate impact, for the reredos or altar piece that is in the sanctuary and will be viewed from a distance. The task for artists who set out to do this would be to do so in such a way that each side of the coin is connected stylistically, as well as distinguishable from the other, so to maintain the sense of unity that a single tradition has.

Santa Maria in Organo in Verona, Italy

The church of Santa Maria “in Organo” in Verona takes its name not from its own organ, but from an ancient Roman water clock which was powered by the river Adige, which runs through the city; as the water flowed through the device and turned it, it also passed over pipes that played music. The clock was perhaps already badly damaged by the flooding of the Adige when it was destroyed by the Lombards in the 8th century.

In 1444, the church was given to the Olivetan monastic order, who held it until the suppressions of the Napoleonic era, in 1808. At the very end of the 15th century, a monk of this order, Fra’ Giovanni da Verona, built and decorated the sacristy, a work which the great artist historian Giorgio Vasari described as “the most beautiful sacristy in all of Italy.” Here are some photos taken by Nicola; those of the church itself are given below.

“...in the lunettes he painted various Popes in pontifical habit, two per section, those who were elected to the papacy from the order of St Benedict. Around the sacristy ... there is a band ... in which are depicted in monastic habit various emperors, kings, dukes and other princes, who left the states and principalities which they had, and became monks.” (Vasari)

“And truly it was because of this decoration that this became the most beautiful sacristy in all of Italy, because, apart from the beauty of the well-proportioned space of a reasonable size, and the fact that the paintings are very beautiful, there is also in the lower part the doors of the cupboards, worked in cut and inlaid wood, with lovely images in perspective, done so well that in those days, and perhaps also in our own, none better are to be seen, since Fra’ Giovanni da Verona, who made the work, truly excelled in that art...  as is also demonstrated (by his other works.)” (Vasari)

The city of Verona has an ancient Roman amphitheater, known simply as “the Arena”, built in the first century, but severely damaged by an earthquake of 1117, as seen here in Fra’ Giovanni’s representation of it. After various modern restorations, it is now used for operatic performances and many other events.

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The Legend of St Philip the Apostle

The feast of the Apostle St Philip is traditionally kept on this day, together with St James the Younger, a custom which derives from the presence of their relics in the Roman basilica of the Twelve Apostles, which was originally dedicated only to the two of them. In the Synoptic Gospels, he is not mentioned apart from the list of the twelve disciples whom Jesus called his Apostles (Matthew 10, 1-4 and parallels). However, St Clement of Alexandria, writing ca. 200 AD, knew a tradition that Philip was the man who asked leave to go bury his father, to whom Christ replied, “Follow me, and let the dead bury their dead.” (Stromata 3, 4, 25, citing Matthew 8, 22.)

Reliquaries of Ss Philip and James displayed in the crypt of the church of the Twelve Apostles. Photo by Agnese, from part 3 of the very first Roman Pilgrim series, in 2014. 

In the Gospel of St John, on the other hand, Philip is a very prominent figure. After Christ “finds” him, and calls him, saying no more than “Follow me!”, Philip brings to Him Nathanael, who confesses “Thou art the Son of God, Thou are the king of Israel.” (1, 43-49.) At the multiplication of the loaves and fishes, it is Philip to whom Christ says “Whence shall we buy bread, that these may eat?”, and who replies “Two hundred pennyworth of bread is not sufficient for them, that every one may take a little.” (6, 5 and 7). Later on, Philip and Andrew together introduce some gentiles to Jesus. (12, 20-22) Finally, during the Last Supper, Philip says to Him, “Lord, show us the Father, and it is enough for us.”, to which Jesus replies, “Have I been so long a time with you; and have you not known me? Philip, he that seeth me seeth also the Father. How sayest thou, show us the Father? Do you not believe, that I am in the Father, and the Father in me?” (14, 8-10) A fuller version of this passage, John 14, 1-13, is listed as the Gospel for the feast of Ss Philip and James in the very oldest lectionary of the Roman Rite, ca. 650 AD, and provides most of the proper antiphons for the Office, as well as the second Alleluia and the Communion antiphon of their Mass.

A motet based on the Communion of the Mass of Ss Philip and James, in a polyphonic setting by the Dutch composer Jan Pieterszoon Sweelinck (1562-1621).

At the beginning of the Acts, he is named in the company of the Apostles in the upper room. (1, 13). When the first seven deacons were chosen, one of them is also called Philip, and there was already in antiquity some confusion between the two. Eusebius of Caesarea, for example, in his Ecclesiastical History (3, 31), takes it for granted that they are the same person, referring to his four daughters, even though in Acts 21, 9, it is stated that it was Philip the deacon who had four daughters. He quotes a letter from Polycrates, bishop of Ephesus, to Pope Victor I (189-99), which refers to Philip’s burial at Hierapolis in Phrygia, (now called Pammukale, in southwest Turkey), where he had preached the Gospel for many years. He also cites from one of the very first Church historians, Papias, bishop of Hierapolis and a contemporary of Pope Victor, the story that Philip had raised a man from the dead, a story which Papias had heard from one of Philip’s daughters.

Like several other Apostles, Philip also has an apocryphal set of Acts written about him; his is a compilation of fifteen different episodes which vary in their degree of absurdity. One of these episodes, the ninth, is a brief account of the slaying of a dragon, which he does on his missionary travels in the company of his fellow Apostle Bartholomew, and his sister, whose name is given as Mariamne.

In the Golden Legend of Bl. Jacopo de Voragine, the account of St Philip is quite short, far shorter, in fact, than that of St James, and also contains a dragon-slaying episode. However, the story is told in a completely different manner from that of his fictitious Acts. In the Golden Legend version, Philip is in Scythia, where he is brought by the pagans before a statue of Mars, and ordered to sacrifice to it. A dragon emerges from the statue’s base, killing the son of the priest in charge of the sacrifice, and the two local officials who were keeping the Apostle in chains, while making everyone else present sick with its breath. Philip promises to remedy these ills if the pagans break the statue and replace it with a Cross; when they do, he heals the sick, raises the three dead persons, and banishes the dragon to an uninhabited desert. He then comes to Hierapolis, where he successfully combats the heresy of the Ebionites, establishes the ecclesiastical hierarchy, and is finally crucified by the infidels.

In the year 1487, a wealthy Florentine merchant named Filippo Strozzi commissioned the painter Filippino Lippi to fresco a chapel dedicated to the name Saint whom he shared with the artist. The complex and agitated style which Lippi learned from his teacher, Sandro Botticelli, perfectly suits the complex and agitated scenes of the dragon’s defeat and the Apostle’s crucifixion. The dragon is clearly too small to really pose a threat, representing that his power is vanquished by that of Christ’s minister. The statue of Mars is shown as a colored figure like the living persons in the lower part of the scene, and not as a white stone figure like the statues below him; this is often understood to represent the fact that the conflict between paganism and Christianity was very much alive in the Florence of Lorenzo the Magnificent and Savanarola.

St Philip Banishing the Dragon, by Filippino Lippi, in the Strozzi Chapel of Santa Maria Novella, Florence, 1487-1502

The Crucifixion of St Philip

In the pre-Tridentine Roman Breviary, this story is told in terms very similar to those of the Golden Legend, even so late as the editions published in the 1520s. The scholars charged with revising the legends of the Saints for the Breviary of St Pius V were very concerned to remove anything that might bring discredit on the Church, and were particularly severe with episodes of dragon-slaying; there is no hint of the story whatsoever in the revised legend of St Philip, the version which is still read to this day in the Breviary of the Extraordinary Form. (Ss George, Martha and Margaret of Antioch are treated in similar fashion.)

Nevertheless, in the 18th century, when statutes of the 12 Apostles were put up in the Lateran Basilica, the Pope’s own cathedral, a reference to the old legend was kept. This work by Giuseppe Mazzuoli, executed between 1703 and 1712, shows St Philip stepping on a dragon, albeit also a very small one.

Exquisite Altar Cards from Notre Dame in Paris

Until this past September, I had never been to Paris, and a fortiori, had never been to the Musée de Cluny (Musée Nationale du Moyen Âge), or the medieval collection at the Louvre, or the treasury of the Cathedral of Notre Dame. My son and I visited these three remarkable places, looking closely at the liturgical treasures they contain. Although we told ourselves ahead of time that we were going to favor our eyes and brains and not take pictures of everything, I allowed myself photos of items that struck me as having, for one reason or another, high interest to NLM readers.

In the past, NLM has drawn attention to custom-made altar cards for the traditional Latin Mass and has recommended that people commission altar cards from artists or, at very least, search around for more artistic diversity than the standard cards that are reproduced in vast numbers, as useful as they are unquestionably are. When one is just starting up a TLM apostolate, the budget is usually tight and what matters is having an affordable set of altar cards available for Mass. As time goes on, however, and especially in the context of a stable community, a dedicated parish or a religious house, we may want to give serious thought to how we might augment the beauty of the furnishings of the altar and the sanctuary, and even, if possible, use the occasion for offering patronage to a promising Catholic artist. The fine arts will never take off again in the Church if we who claim to love beautiful things do not step forward and donate for this specific purpose.

It is no insult if a patron asks an artist to emulate an historical model, and no shame if an artist produces excellent copies of past models. So much great art of the past, particularly in the Middle Ages, was born in the midst of a well-defined system of apprenticeship, with successive artists able to achieve better work thanks to the humble discipline of faithful imitation. The modern cult of the artistic genius and his or her “originality” has led only to an accelerating debasement and derangement of art. If today’s artists start off by patiently and humbly emulating historic models, tomorrow’s artists, under the guidance, might stand a chance of producing something more brilliant and unique, while yet beautiful.

Today, I would simply like to share photos of a set of altar cards kept in the treasury of the Cathedral of Notre Dame. Their exquisite calligraphy and ornamentation, set within the Baroque frames, elevates them above the realm of the everyday or the utilitarian. These are no longer mere textual prompts but works of beauty that give glory to God, the Greatest and Best.

While I’m at it, let me share a photo of a side altar at St. Catherine of Siena church in New York City, an altar dedicated quite obviously to the celebration of Masses for the Holy Souls in Purgatory. Notice how the altar cards here are exceptionally well integrated into the overall scheme, and how they make their own artistic contribution to the ensemble. It is as if the craftsman said to himself: “These cards have a certain function, but since they are going to be visible throughout, I will make them worth looking at.” It is one more example of the Catholic way of raising up the mundane and making a virtue of necessity.

Books That Cry Out the Unique Richness and Holiness of God’s Word

A Romanesque Gospel book

Why are we afraid to buy, commission, make, or build beautiful things for our churches?

Why are we content with plainness and mediocrity?

Why do we have no aspirations to do the greatest possible honor to our God, to His Word, to His Sacraments, to His house, and therefore to His people who will worship there?

Why do we produce so few masterpieces of fine art today?

Here are some absolutely stunning Epistolarium and Evangelarium covers from various periods, Romanesque, medieval, Baroque, and modern (19th century), that embody the Catholic spirit of proclaiming unmistakably the utter uniqueness of Sacred Scripture.

A Gothic Gospel book

The Word of God is given a rich casing of gold and semi-precious stones or glass to indicate the priceless treasure of wisdom contained within. It is decorated with figures of the saints, often stories from the life of Christ or the Virgin, to proclaim outwardly, even prior to the use of any words, the burden of its inner message of holiness. In the very excess of these book covers there is a potent symbol of the ineffable, of what cannot be depicted, that mysterium of which no human art can ever be worthy.

When we make something appreciably less magnificent than such works of art, and yet we might have done something better (in other words, we are not suffering for lack of money or workshops of skilled laborers), what then are we actually saying about the content of the book and our beliefs in regard to that content? About its superabundant excess of wisdom, its supreme worthiness of our affection and awe? About its value in our community and within our hierarchy of economics and politics?

A Baroque Gospel book

The way in which the fine arts embody and communicate the communal value of any given object, practice, or content is far too little noticed among Catholics. Magnificent Gospel books preach the truth of the Gospel by their very splendor, their exaltation above any other book, the time, money, and care that went into them. They radiate the preciousness of the Law of God, more valuable than fire-tried gold, more costly than any jewels. Conversely, plain or ugly Gospel books say something about a community's lack of faith in a deconstructed, demoted Gospel. Ugly altars or ambos or chairs or vessels all transmit the same subliminal, prerational, and unarguable message: this is a playground for second-rate stuff, the left-overs, the unwanted, a half-serious pretense that no person of moderate taste would allow in their own living rooms.

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Titian the Trailblazer - the Balance of Naturalism and Symbolism

Titian is one of the greats of Western art. He lived in Venice from about 1480 to 1576, and was active almost right to the end of his life. He began painting in the period of the High Renaissance, and died in the later part of the 16th century, which was characterized by a series of idiosyncratic artistic styles collectively called “mannerism.” His style, though unique to him when he established it, was highly influential, and much of what characterized the baroque tradition of the 17th century was derived from his work. This is important because the Baroque is one of the artistic traditions that Pope Benedict describes, in his book The Spirit of the Liturgy, as an authentic liturgical tradition. (Shown left, Titian’s self-portrait, ca. 1567, in the Museo del Prado in Madrid.)

Some people may be surprised, as I was, to discover that the High Renaissance (the style of Leonardo, Michelangelo and Raphael, from about 1490 to 1525) is not considered fully and authentically liturgical, which is to say, right for the Catholic liturgy. This is not to say that there are not individual works by these great artists that might be appropriate, but they did not form a coherent tradition in which a theology of form had been fully worked out, as was later to happen for the Baroque. Pope Benedict argues that for the most part, the High Renaissance was too strongly influenced by the pagan art of classical Greece, and as such, reveals the self-obsessed, negative aspects of classical culture in a way that is not fully Christian.

As a young man, Titian trained during the High Renaissance, and the influence of this can be seen in this early painting of his, the Enthronement of St Mark. At St Mark’s feet are Ss Cosmas and Damian on the left, and Ss Sebastian and Roch on the right. This was painted in 1510, and one could be forgiven for thinking it was painted by Raphael. Notice how sharply defined all the figures and details are, even down to the floor tiles.

If you compare this with the following paintings, we see how his work changed as he got older. The first is Cain and Abel, painted in 1543; and the second is the entombment of Christ, painted in 1558. In the latter, Joseph of Arimathea, Nicodemus and the Virgin Mary bring Christ to the tomb, as Mary Magdalene and Saint John the Evangelist look on.

In contrast to the first painting, we can see how diffuse and lacking in color so much of these later painting is. The edges are blurred in many places, and only certain areas have bright or naturalistic color; only the areas of primary focus are painted with sharper edges and with bright colors, to draw our attention to the important part of the composition. The artist cannot apply bright color to the figure of Christ, but notice how he uses the bright colors from the clothes of the three figures who are carrying him to frame his figure. In contrast, the two figures in the background are depleted of color and detail. He wants us to be aware of them, but not in such a way that they detract from the most important parts of the composition. He uses the white cloth draped over the tomb in the same way, making sure that the sharpest contrast in tone in the painting, light to dark, is between this and the shadow of the tomb. The eye is naturally drawn to those areas where dark and light meet, and this is another way that Titian draws our gaze onto Christ.

It is suggested that this looseness of style in Titian’s later works comes about because, as his eyesight declined, he was unable to paint as precisely as he had done as a young man. This may very well have been what forced him to work differently, but if so, all I can say is how well he accommodated his handicap so as to create something greater as a result!

Going forward to early 17th century Rome, Caravaggio is often credited with creating the Baroque style’s characteristic visual vocabulary of exaggerated light and dark. We see deep shadow and bright light before him, but Caravaggio exaggerated it and imbued it with spiritual meaning in a new way. The shadow represents the presence of evil, sin, and suffering in this fallen world; it is contrasted with a light which represents Christ the Light, who offers Christian hope that transcends such suffering.

This can be seen in the painting above of the incredulity of St Thomas. Notice how it is so pronounced that we do not see any background landscape at all; apart from the figures themselves, all is is obscured by shadow. Caravaggio does retain from the visual style of the High Renaissance edges that are sharp and well defined, even if partially obscured by shadow. Other artists studied this and, while adopting Caravaggio’s language of light and dark, to varying degrees also incorporated also the controlled and selective blurring of edges that characterized Titian.

Look at the following painting of St Francis in Meditation by the Flemish artist Anthony Van Dyck, painted in 1632, in which we can see how much he has taken from Titian.

Van Dyck trained under Rubens, who, as a young man traveled in 1600 to Italy, and lived there for eight years. His travels took him to Venice, where he saw the works of Titian, and both Florence and Rome, where much of Caravaggio’s work was. He was influenced strongly by both. and passed these influences on to his star pupil.