The Fearlessness of St John Chrysostom

Today is the feast of St John Chrysostom, archbishop of Constantinople [1] from 397 until 404, when he was unlawfully deposed from his see. He was one of the first four Eastern Fathers to be officially recognized in the West as a Doctor of the Church, along with Ss Athanasius, Basil the Great and Gregory of Nazianzus. The epithet “Chrysostom” means “golden-mouthed”, since he has always been honored as one of the greatest preachers in the Church’s history. In 1908, Pope St Pius X declared him the Patron Saint of orators and public speakers, a role in which he is needed now as perhaps only very rarely before in the Church’s life; I attended a Mass on his feast day many years ago, the celebrant of which repeatedly called him, both while reading the prayers and in the sermon, “St John Christendom.”

Gian Lorenzo Bernini’s great cathedra in St Peter’s Basilica, in which the throne of Peter is supported by two Latin Doctors, Ambrose and Augustine (with miters), and two Greek Doctors, Athanasius and John Chrysostom.

There is a popular notion that with the coming of Constantine and the end of persecution, the Church somehow sold its soul in part or whole to the Roman Empire. The falsity of this was demonstrated long ago by GK Chesterton, who was a convert from Anglicanism, and knew a state-owned church when he saw one. In the chapter of The Everlasting Man called “The Five Deaths of the Faith”, he rightly pointed out that the Creed of most of the early Christian Emperors was not Christianity, but a version of it far more in keeping with the spirit of the age, that which we now call Arianism. Caesar did not usually appreciate the Church’s resistance to his dogmatic meddling, and persecuted the orthodox Fathers such as St Athanasius. St Eusebius of Vercelli, one of the great Western opponents of Arianism, is even honored as martyr, although he did not die a violent death, because he was hounded into exile by an Arian Emperor.

The same might well have been applied to John, who unlike Eusebius, died in his exile, both from the rigors of the journey and the terrible ill-treatment meted out to him; the date of his death was September 14, 407. In his case, Caesar’s wrath was provoked against him not by dogmatic issues, but by moral ones. The Empress Eudoxia was the wife of the famously useless Emperor Arcadius, a man wholly under the control of his ministers and court sycophants. Taking personal offense at John’s words against the immorality and extravagances of the nobility, she had already arranged once before for John to be exiled. He was swiftly recalled, partly because of the popular uprising in his favor, partly because a small earthquake in the city was seen as a sign of divine displeasure, especially by the highly superstitious Empress. However, when a silver statue of her was erected on a pillar in front of Hagia Sophia [2], the dedication of it was celebrated with a series of “games”, as the Romans called them, an immoral spectacle which also disturbed the liturgy. St John had often preached against public license of this very sort, even when a simple priest in Antioch, and did not hesitate to do so on this occasion well.

A mosaic of St John Chrysostom in Hagia Sophia, ca. 1000. (Public domain image from Wikipedia.)

His sermon began with the words “Herodias is again become furious; again she is troubled, again she dances; and again desires to receive John’s head on a plate.” [3] A synod full of bishops hostile to him and in the Empress’ control was convoked, and deposed him on a canonically invalid pretext, but he refused to relinquish his see. A particularly ugly episode followed in which soldiers were sent to drive the people out of the churches on Holy Saturday, resulting in no little bloodshed in the sacred places themselves. The order for the Saint’s banishment was finally and definitively issued during Pentecost week.

The scene of St John preaching before Herodias was painted by two French artists of the later 19th century, Jean-Paul Laurens (1838-1921) and Joseph Wencker (1848-1919). This choice of subject reflects various events of their era, particularly the conquest of the Papal State, and the subsequent “exile” of Bl. Pope Pius IX, who refused to acknowledge the legitimacy of the Kingdom of Italy by setting foot on land which it illegally occupied. More broadly, it refers to the general situation of the Church in that period. Italy’s was not the only government hostile to the Church and seeking to reduce or destroy its influence by diminishing or destroying its institutions; this was also era of the German Kulturkampf, and the infamous French law of Separation of Church and State was soon to follow in 1905.

Laurens’ painting is the smaller of the two, but the more forceful. (See a higher resolution version here.) The Empress looks down with an expressionless face at the Saint, confident in her eventual triumph over him, but at the same time, she is almost lost in the trappings of her position, less distinct than St John in his white robes. (John also appears to be rather older than he should; historically, he was only about 55 at the time.) Both artists seem to accept the idea, common in their time, that churches in this period were “still” very austere; note that all of the decoration in both paintings is centered around the Empress, while the pulpits and the walls are very plain.

Jean Paul Laurens, 1872

Wencker’s version, on the other hand, is much larger (almost 14½ feet by 20), and he fills the space by showing the crowd in the church, the clergy, the nobility and the poor, and their varied reaction to the Saint’s words. John is on eye level with the Empress, so that she has to look up in order to pretend not to notice him as he points directly at her.

Joseph Wencker, ca. 1880

[1] It was not until well after St John’s death that the title “Patriarch” was given to the archbishops of Constantinople, at the Council of Chalcedon in 451. Even to this day, in the blessing at the end of the Byzantine Divine Liturgy which bears his name, he is referred to as “John Chrysostom, archbishop of Constantinople”, as also in the liturgical calendar, whereas his Sainted successors after 451 are called “Patriarch.”

[2] Not the church which is seen in Constantinople today, a construction of the 6th century, but the original built by Constantine in the 4th century. At the news of John’s second exile, the city was wracked with riots, during which the first Hagia Sophia was burnt down; nothing now remains of it. Its replacement, dedicated in 415, was also destroyed by riots, a very popular pastime in Constantinople, in 532; the present structure was built very shortly thereafter, by the Emperor Justinian.

[3] In the original edition of his Lives of the Saints, Alban Butler wrote that “Montfaucon refutes this slander, trumped up by his enemies. The sermon extant under that title is a manifest forgery.” Modern writers, including Butler’s revisers, all seem to accept its authenticity.

Devotion to St. Nicholas among the Dominicans and in the Life of St. Thomas Aquinas

Fra Angelico: detail of St. Thomas among the saints

Last year in my article “St. Nicholas, Beloved Bishop and Wonderworker,” I offered a brief sketch of the life and influence of St. Nicholas of Myra. This year, in honor of his feast, I will collate and comment on the appearances of St. Nicholas in the writings of St. Thomas.

Early Dominican history displays a more than passing connection with the cultus of St. Nicholas. Two illustrations may be given. The Order’s second and permanent priory in Bologna was located at the church of San Nicolò delle Vigne, where the Basilica di San Domenico now stands, enshrining the relics of the Order’s founder. It was in this church that Diana d’Andalo, through whose good offices the property at the vineyards had been donated to the Friars, made her profession, at the high altar of St. Nicholas. [1]

When Dominic decided shortly thereafter to go ahead with the founding of a convent of nuns in Bologna, he entrusted the affair to four brethren, one of whom was Master Paul of Hungary. A lecturer in canon law who later established a missionary province of the Order in Hungary, Paul wrote a manual for confessors, the Summa de penitentia, which he expressly dedicated ad honorem Dei sanctique Nicholai. [2] The evidence suggests that Dominicans, like everyone else, held St. Nicholas in high regard.

One may reasonably assume that St. Thomas would have celebrated his feast and called upon his intercession with that habitual fervor of spirit to which all the early witnesses testify. It would not matter which liturgical books Thomas was accustomed to reading, as there was no missal or breviary that lacked prayers and propers for the feast of St. Nicholas. The Dominican Missal, definitively established by Bd. Humbert of Romans in 1255/56 and papally approved in 1267, mandates, as do Western rites in general, the celebration of the feast of St. Nicholas on December 6. The Epistle and Gospel appointed for the day are the same in the Dominican Missal as in the Missale Romanum: Hebrews 13,7-17 and Matthew 25,14-23. [3]

The Charity of St Nicholas by G. Macchietti, 1570

Mentions of St. Nicholas in the works of Aquinas

1. Summa theologiae, II-II. A touching remark comes in a discussion of whether a benefactor is permitted to hide his benefaction, even though doing so will make it impossible for the recipient to show his gratitude, and hence leave him no choice, as it seems, but to be ungrateful. Thomas responds to the objection:

He that is unaware of a favor conferred on him is not ungrateful if he fails to repay it, as long as he is ready to repay it should he come to know it. Nevertheless, it is sometimes praiseworthy that the recipient of a favor should remain in ignorance of it, both in order to avoid vainglory, as when blessed Nicholas threw gold into a house secretly, wishing to avoid human applause; and because the favor is all the more ample when the benefactor takes into account the shame of him who receives the favor. [4]

2. Conferences on the Angelic Salutation. Thomas has in mind the same deed of almsgiving when he notes that the Mother of God

exercised the works of all the virtues, whereas the saints were conspicuous in the exercise of specific virtues: one was especially humble, another chaste, another merciful, and so in them is given a model of that specific virtue, as for instance blessed Nicholas as a model of mercy. [5]

3. Commentary on John. Meditating on the mystery of predestination in his comments on John 5:44, “No one can come to me unless the Father, who sent me, draws him,” Thomas underlines that all blessings we receive originate simply in God’s will. To illustrate the point, he mentions three saints and their God-given roles:

The reason why in His Church he made some apostles, some confessors, and others martyrs, is for the beauty and completion of the Church. But why He made Peter an apostle, Stephen a martyr, and Nicholas a confessor, there is no reason other than His will. In this way is laid bare the weakness of our human powers and the assistance granted us by divine help.[6]

4. Commentary on the Sentences. The most astonishing instance of God’s help aiding our weakness is baptism, which transforms a child of wrath into an adopted child of the Father. At one point in the Scriptum super Sententiis, Thomas, using the Greek baptismal formula as an objection against the Latin, has to think up a sample name for his argument. “The Greeks have this form of baptizing: ‘The servant of Christ, Nicholas, is baptized in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.’” [7]

The hypothetical name is not mentioned again in the context; one may wonder why it occurred to Thomas to choose it in the first place. He might, of course, have read the example in another text and just reproduced it without further thought. But if it was his own choice, the possibilities are more intriguing. Did he associate the name in a special way with the Greeks, the Eastern Church? Did he have a reason for associating this Christian name with the sacrament of baptism? Could it simply be that he had St. Nicholas in the back of his mind, or in his heart, and so the name emerged spontaneously when he reached for an example?

5. Commentary on First Timothy. On the passage where the Apostle is exhorting Timothy to cherish the grace of his calling (1 Tim. 4:14), Thomas comments that “in the primitive Church, where elections [of bishops] took place for God’s sake and without corruption, no one was drawn up to the episcopal rank except by a divine election, as Ambrose and Nicholas were elected.” [8]

The story of the miraculous elevation of Nicholas was widely known, though tellings differ in matters of detail. The elderly bishop of Myra had died, and no one could agree on who the new bishop should be. Several priests had the same dream: they were to select as bishop the first man who walked through the cathedral doors for morning prayer the next day. This man turned out to be Nicholas, already a priest, but still young and a stranger in Myra. He was more than a little surprised when informed of his impending consecration, and though he resisted at first, he recognized in the dreams a divine decision, and submitted.

6. Commentary on Hebrews. Thomas alludes to the same incident in support of his contention that God may be trusted to single out worthy candidates.

It is contrary to nature that something lead itself to a state higher than its own nature, just as air does not make itself fire, but this is done by something higher than it. Hence, he does not have the discipline of God who takes to himself any honor by way of favor, money, or power. “In our strength we have taken up our horns” (Amos 6:14); “They have reigned, but not from me” (Hos. 8:4). He ought rather to be called by God, as was Aaron: “Take unto thee Aaron” (Ex. 28:1). And therefore the Lord confirmed Aaron’s priesthood by the rod which blossomed, as is clear from Numbers 17:5. Such therefore ought to be taken up [into the priesthood or episcopate], who do not thrust themselves forward. Whence in former times such men were pointed out by a visible sign, as occurred with blessed Nicholas and many others.[9]

7. Sermon for the Feast of St. Nicholas. Far outstripping the foregoing examples in length and detail, we find, among those rare echoes transmitted to us of Master Thomas the university preacher, an entire sermon devoted to the praise of St. Nicholas (a translation of this sermon in its entirety may be found here or here).

An offhand reference to the crowded “Little Bridge” over the Seine places the sermon in Paris. Thomas is likely to have preached it there during his second period as Regent Master — that is, on the sixth of December in 1269, 1270, or 1271 [10]—before returning to Naples where he was to suffer a shattering ecstasy on the same date in 1273.

The fact that Nicholas, though beloved to all, was invoked also as a special patron of scholars suggests an added importance his feastday may have enjoyed in Paris. It bears noting, too, that many of Thomas’s students, the “cream of the crop” among clerics, were destined for high office in the Church, often episcopal honors. This would make the example of the holy Bishop of Myra all the more relevant to a Parisian audience — a point not lost on Thomas, who, using the second person singular, forcefully warns his listeners:

If you are doing good in order to get prebends, you are serving yourself, not God. A good bishop ought not to be like these sorts of people, but rather he ought to be upright [innocens] in his own person, devout before God, merciful to his neighbor, faithful in all things in respect to everyone.

St Nicholas consecrated bishop: medieval reredos in Burgos

The Sermon for St. Nicholas: Inueni Dauid

The sermon is structured around two verses applied to sainted bishops and therefore regularly preached upon: “I have discovered David, my servant; with my holy oil I have anointed him; my hand will help him, and my arm will strengthen him” (Ps. 88, 21–22).

Many Parisian preachers took this text for their sermons in honor of Nicholas on December 6. With the aid of Johannes Baptist Schneyer’s Repertorium, [11] a fair number can be identified, with the probable year of delivery stated when known: Guidardus de Laon (Master and canon at Paris, cancellarius in 1236) between 1226 and 1229, [12] Jacobus de Vitry, [13] Nicholaus de Aquaevilla, [14] Odo de Châteauroux (Paris Master) in 1228, [15] Petrus Aureoli (Paris Master) between 1318 and 1320. [16]

The text is particularly well-suited for the feast of St. Nicholas, since his relics were known to exude a sweet-smelling oil possessed of healing power, a fact to which Thomas refers near the end of his sermon. After his introductory remarks (among which we find the statement: “we are not able to scrutinize these wonders that God accomplishes in his saints unless he who searches the mind and heart should instruct us”), the Angelic Doctor divides his sermon into four parts, the “four commendable things about this holy bishop: first, his wondrous election; second, his singular consecration; third, his effective execution of office; and fourth, his unshakable and steadfast stability.”

One cannot do justice to this admirable sermon without going through it line by line, but for our purposes it will be enough to consider a few lines that, while paying homage to the saint of the day, make transparent the hidden, interior life of the preacher who was soon to join him in heaven. The Lord, says Thomas, discovers in Nicholas “something very rare, namely, virtue in the prime of his youth”; “he was not subject to vanity” and had “preserved his holiness from childhood . . . Fish and fruit in season are very much desired; so, too, very desirable to God is the man who carries the Lord’s yoke from his youth.” The preacher asks: “What does the Lord seek?,” and answers:

Surely, he seeks a faithful soul, hence [we read] in John (4:24): God is spirit, and those who worship him must worship him in spirit and in truth. And why does God seek out the man with a faithful soul? I say: whoever takes delight in dwelling with another person seeks out that person. So it is with God, because it gives Him delight to dwell with a faithful soul. Hence he says: My delights are to be with the children of men (Prov. 8:31). And God discovered in blessed Nicholas a faithful soul, because he was frequently in church, faithfully at his prayers; so, what is said in Hosea (12:4) is suitably said of him: He wept and made supplication to him . . .

Shortly thereafter Thomas poses another question: “What makes a person stand out? I say that nothing makes a person so outstanding as piety and a ready will to do good for others.” As in the contemporaneous Secunda secundae, the example cited is that of Nicholas’s gift of gold to relieve the poverty of the virgins. “A servant is one who carries out his lord’s work; and the principal work of the Lord is mercy.” Then, concerning Nicholas’s faithfulness, Thomas makes a remark that could be taken as a theologian’s fundamental rule of life no less than a bishop’s: “A faithful man must be a servant, so that he refers all that is his to God” (or “offers everything of his own back to God”): fidelis debet esse seruus ut omnia sua in Deum referat.

We are told how oil in its varied uses can serve as metaphor of spiritual realities: oil heals wounds, as does healing grace; it fuels light, symbol of the desire for wisdom; it flavors food, as spiritual joy seasons good works; it softens, “and this signifies mercy and kindness of heart, both of which blessed Nicholas possessed, since he was utterly filled with mercy and devotion.” (At this point Thomas gives a twist to the familiar Neoplatonic axiom bonum est diffusivum sui: “Oil is diffusive of itself; mercy is the same way.”) A few lines later he asserts that the glorified bodies of the saints will bear the evidence of their due rewards, “and even in this life the signs of their affection appear”: thus the body of blessed Francis showed “the signs of the passion of Christ, so vehemently was he affected” by this Passion. It is at this point that Thomas mentions how the tomb of Nicholas sweats oil, “indicating that he was a man of great mercy.” As with question 21 of the Prima Pars, so here, too, one cannot help noticing the tremendous weight Thomas gives to the theme of misericordia; in this short sermon, the word or one of its variants is used fifteen times, and the notion is hinted at in a dozen other ways. [17]

At the sermon’s close, Friar Thomas lauds Nicholas as “filled with the power to perform miracles” wrought by the hand of the Lord:

Who is there that has ever sought the glory of the world and obtained it as did blessed Nicholas, who was but a poor bishop in Greece? The Lord adorned him with miracles because he showed the greatest mercy. Know that the Lord has made wonderful his holy one (Ps. 4:4). It was mercy that made blessed Nicholas an extraordinary man, and the Lord [Jesus Christ] strengthened him even unto everlasting life. May He lead us there, who lives [and reigns] with the Father and the Holy Spirit, [God, for ever and ever, Amen.]

All the virtues, all the good works of Nicholas that Thomas had praised briefly and singly in earlier writings, he here combines and amplifies in a discourse whose plain language, heartfelt appeals to listeners, and evident spirit of devotion give us a vivid glimpse of daily university life in medieval Paris, as well as a window into the personality of Friar Thomas.

St Nicholas, Jacques de Poindre, 1563

NOTES 

[1] See the account from the Chronicle of St. Agnes’ Monastery in S. Tugwell, op, trans., Early Dominicans. Mahwah, Paulist Press, 1982, 395.

[2] I have this detail from Mark Johnson, who is working on a critical edition of Paul’s Summa. On Paul of Hungary, see Tugwell, Early Dominicans, 396, 426.

[3] The Introit (Statuit ei Dominus testamentum pacis), Collect (Deus, qui beatum Nicolaum Pontificem), Secret (Sanctifica, quaesumus Domine Deus, haec munera), and Postcommunion (Sacrificia, quae sumpsimus, Domine) also concur, but the Gradual, Alleluia, Offertory antiphon, and Communion antiphon differ. The Roman Missal has for its Gradual, Inveni David; for the Alleluia, Justus ut palma; for the Offertory, Veritas mea; for the Communion, Semel juravi. The Dominican Missal, on the other hand, has for its Gradual, Ecce sacerdos magnus; for the Alleluia, Justus germinabit; for the Offertory, Justus ut palma; for the Communion, Beatus servus. All eight of these chants are very ancient and appear frequently in the common Masses for martyrs, bishops, confessors, and doctors.

[4] Summa theologiae [ST] II-II, q. 107, a. 3, ad 4. The editors of the one-volume Editiones Paulinae Summa theologiae (Milan, 1988) cite three sources here: Jacobus de Voragine, Legenda Aurea; Mombritius, Sanctuarium, Vita B. Nicolai Episcopi; the Dominican Breviary, fourth reading for the Matins of December 6.

[5] In salutationem angelicam expositio, art. 1, n. 1116.

[6] Super Evangelium S. Ioannis lectura, cap. 6, lec. 5, n. 938.

[7] Scriptum super libros Sententiarum [=Sent.] IV, d. 3, q. 1, a. 2, qa. 2, arg. 1.

[8] Super I ad Timotheum 4, lec. 3, n. 173.

[9] Super ad Hebraeos 5, lec. 1, n. 249.

[10] In 1271, the feast of St. Nicholas fell on a Sunday, and hence if Thomas preached the university sermon at Saint Jacques on that day he could reasonably have taken Nicholas as his theme. However, St. Thomas also makes reference to the stigmata of St. Francis, suggesting that it might have been a weekday sermon delivered to the Franciscans.

[11] J. B. Schneyer, Repertorium der lateinischen Sermones des Mittelalters für die Zeit von 1150–1350 [RLSM], Beiträge zur Geschichte der Philosophie und Theologie des Mittelalters, vol. 43.1–11. Münster, Aschendorff, 1969–1990.

[12] RLSM 2:266–67, nn. 192, 195–197, 199.

[13] RLSM 3:205, n. 287.

[14] RLSM 4:195, n. 63.

[15] RLSM 4:436, n. 525.

[16] RLSM 4:588, n. 74. This same incipit was also used for the feast of Saint Martin of Tours by Bartholomaeus de Tours, op, Paris Master, 1258–59 (cf. RLSM 1:438, n. 26) and Bartholomaeus de Bonnia, om, Paris Master (cf. RLSM 1:388, n. 17).

[17] See J. Saward, “‘Love’s Second Name’: Saint Thomas on Mercy,” in The Canadian Catholic Review 8.3 (1990), 87–97.

Pulpits in Ship Shape, with Commentary from Moby Dick

Some years ago, I visited a church in Poland, Tyniec Abbey to be more specific, in which I saw, for the first time, a pulpit shaped very definitely like a ship. Then I discovered that many pulpits in the Baroque period were built in this style, because of the Counter-Reformation emphasis on the Catholic Church as the one and only ark of salvation, the barque of Peter. Such pulpits could take quite extravagant forms, like this one from Traunkirchen, Austria:

Or this one from Irsee Abbey:

A magnificent passage in chapter 8 of Melville’s Moby Dick can serve as a fitting commentary as one ponders these curious Baroque furnishings. (Today happens to be the anniversary of the novel’s first publication in the United States, in 1851.)

*     *     *

I had not been seated very long ere a man of a certain venerable robustness entered; immediately as the storm-pelted door flew back upon admitting him, a quick regardful eyeing of him by all the congregation, sufficiently attested that this fine old man was the chaplain. Yes, it was the famous Father Mapple, so called by the whalemen, among whom he was a very great favorite. He had been a sailor and a harpooneer in his youth, but for many years past had dedicated his life to the ministry. At the time I now write of, Father Mapple was in the hardy winter of a healthy old age; that sort of old age which seems merging into a second flowering youth, for among all the fissures of his wrinkles, there shone certain mild gleams of a newly developing bloom—the spring verdure peeping forth even beneath February’s snow. No one having previously heard his history, could for the first time behold Father Mapple without the utmost interest, because there were certain engrafted clerical peculiarities about him, imputable to that adventurous maritime life he had led. When he entered I observed that he carried no umbrella, and certainly had not come in his carriage, for his tarpaulin hat ran down with melting sleet, and his great pilot cloth jacket seemed almost to drag him to the floor with the weight of the water it had absorbed. However, hat and coat and overshoes were one by one removed, and hung up in a little space in an adjacent corner; when, arrayed in a decent suit, he quietly approached the pulpit.

Like most old fashioned pulpits, it was a very lofty one, and since a regular stairs to such a height would, by its long angle with the floor, seriously contract the already small area of the chapel, the architect, it seemed, had acted upon the hint of Father Mapple, and finished the pulpit without a stairs, substituting a perpendicular side ladder, like those used in mounting a ship from a boat at sea. The wife of a whaling captain had provided the chapel with a handsome pair of red worsted man-ropes for this ladder, which, being itself nicely headed, and stained with a mahogany color, the whole contrivance, considering what manner of chapel it was, seemed by no means in bad taste. Halting for an instant at the foot of the ladder, and with both hands grasping the ornamental knobs of the man-ropes, Father Mapple cast a look upwards, and then with a truly sailor-like but still reverential dexterity, hand over hand, mounted the steps as if ascending the main-top of his vessel.

The perpendicular parts of this side ladder, as is usually the case with swinging ones, were of cloth-covered rope, only the rounds were of wood, so that at every step there was a joint. At my first glimpse of the pulpit, it had not escaped me that however convenient for a ship, these joints in the present instance seemed unnecessary. For I was not prepared to see Father Mapple after gaining the height, slowly turn round, and stooping over the pulpit, deliberately drag up the ladder step by step, till the whole was deposited within, leaving him impregnable in his little Quebec.

I pondered some time without fully comprehending the reason for this. Father Mapple enjoyed such a wide reputation for sincerity and sanctity, that I could not suspect him of courting notoriety by any mere tricks of the stage. No, thought I, there must be some sober reason for this thing; furthermore, it must symbolize something unseen. Can it be, then, that by that act of physical isolation, he signifies his spiritual withdrawal for the time, from all outward worldly ties and connexions? Yes, for replenished with the meat and wine of the word, to the faithful man of God, this pulpit, I see, is a self-containing stronghold—a lofty Ehrenbreitstein, with a perennial well of water within the walls.

But the side ladder was not the only strange feature of the place, borrowed from the chaplain’s former sea-farings. Between the marble cenotaphs on either hand of the pulpit, the wall which formed its back was adorned with a large painting representing a gallant ship beating against a terrible storm off a lee coast of black rocks and snowy breakers. But high above the flying scud and dark-rolling clouds, there floated a little isle of sunlight, from which beamed forth an angel’s face; and this bright face shed a distant spot of radiance upon the ship’s tossed deck, something like that silver plate now inserted into Victory’s plank where Nelson fell. “Ah, noble ship,” the angel seemed to say, “beat on, beat on, thou noble ship, and bear a hardy helm; for lo! the sun is breaking through; the clouds are rolling off—serenest azure is at hand.”

Nor was the pulpit itself without a trace of the same sea-taste that had achieved the ladder and the picture. Its panelled front was in the likeness of a ship’s bluff bows, and the Holy Bible rested on a projecting piece of scroll work, fashioned after a ship’s fiddle-headed beak.

What could be more full of meaning?—for the pulpit is ever this earth’s foremost part; all the rest comes in its rear; the pulpit leads the world. From thence it is the storm of God’s quick wrath is first descried, and the bow must bear the earliest brunt. From thence it is the God of breezes fair or foul is first invoked for favorable winds. Yes, the world’s a ship on its passage out, and not a voyage complete; and the pulpit is its prow.

Tyniec Abbey, Poland

Kcynia, Kujawsko-Pomorskie (Kuyavian-Pomeranian Voivodeship)

But... one wonders what the author of Moby Dick might have made of this:

Baroque pulpit at Duszniki in Lower Silesia

The Fearlessness of St John Chrysostom

Today is the feast of St John Chrysostom, archbishop of Constantinople [1] from 397 until 404, when he was unlawfully deposed from his see. He was one of the first four Eastern Fathers to be officially recognized in the West as a Doctor of the Church, along with Ss Athanasius, Basil the Great and Gregory of Nazianzus. The epithet “Chrysostom” means “golden-mouthed”, since he has always been honored as one of the greatest preachers in the Church’s history. In 1908, Pope St Pius X declared him the Patron Saint of orators and public speakers, a role in which he is needed now as perhaps only very rarely before in the Church’s life; I attended a Mass on his feast day many years ago, the celebrant of which repeatedly called him, both while reading the prayers and in the sermon, “St John Christendom.”

Gian Lorenzo Bernini’s great cathedra in St Peter’s Basilica, in which the throne of Peter is supported by two Latin Doctors, Ambrose and Augustine (with miters), and two Greek Doctors, Athanasius and John Chrysostom.

There is a popular notion that with the coming of Constantine and the end of persecution, the Church somehow sold its soul in part or whole to the Roman Empire. The falsity of this was demonstrated long ago by GK Chesterton, who was a convert from Anglicanism, and knew a state-owned church when he saw one. In the chapter of The Everlasting Man called “The Five Deaths of the Faith”, he rightly pointed out that the Creed of most of the early Christian Emperors was not Christianity, but a version of it far more in keeping with the spirit of the age, that which we now call Arianism. Caesar did not usually appreciate the Church’s resistance to his dogmatic meddling, and persecuted the orthodox Fathers such as St Athanasius. St Eusebius of Vercelli, one of the great Western opponents of Arianism, is even honored as martyr, although he did not die a violent death, because he was hounded into exile by an Arian Emperor.

The same might well have been applied to John, who unlike Eusebius, died in his exile, both from the rigors of the journey and the terrible ill-treatment meted out to him; the date of his death was September 14, 407. In his case, Caesar’s wrath was provoked against him not by dogmatic issues, but by moral ones. The Empress Eudoxia was the wife of the famously useless Emperor Arcadius, a man wholly under the control of his ministers and court sycophants. Taking personal offense at John’s words against the immorality and extravagances of the nobility, she had already arranged once before for John to be exiled. He was swiftly recalled, partly because of the popular uprising in his favor, partly because a small earthquake in the city was seen as a sign of divine displeasure, especially by the highly superstitious Empress. However, when a silver statue of her was erected on a pillar in front of Hagia Sophia [2], the dedication of it was celebrated with a series of “games”, as the Romans called them, an immoral spectacle which also disturbed the liturgy. St John had often preached against public license of this very sort, even when a simple priest in Antioch, and did not hesitate to do so on this occasion well.

A mosaic of St John Chrysostom in Hagia Sophia, ca. 1000. (Public domain image from Wikipedia.)

His sermon began with the words “Herodias is again become furious; again she is troubled, again she dances; and again desires to receive John’s head on a plate.” [3] A synod full of bishops hostile to him and in the Empress’ control was convoked, and deposed him on a canonically invalid pretext, but he refused to relinquish his see. A particularly ugly episode followed in which soldiers were sent to drive the people out of the churches on Holy Saturday, resulting in no little bloodshed in the sacred places themselves. The order for the Saint’s banishment was finally and definitively issued during Pentecost week.

The scene of St John preaching before Herodias was painted by two French artists of the later 19th century, Jean-Paul Laurens (1838-1921) and Joseph Wencker (1848-1919). This choice of subject reflects various events of their era, particularly the conquest of the Papal State, and the subsequent “exile” of Bl. Pope Pius IX, who refused to acknowledge the legitimacy of the Kingdom of Italy by setting foot on land which it illegally occupied. More broadly, it refers to the general situation of the Church in that period. Italy’s was not the only government hostile to the Church and seeking to reduce or destroy its influence by diminishing or destroying its institutions; this was also era of the German Kulturkampf, and the infamous French law of Separation of Church and State was soon to follow in 1905.

Laurens’ painting is the smaller of the two, but the more forceful. (See a higher resolution version here.) The Empress looks down with an expressionless face at the Saint, confident in her eventual triumph over him, but at the same time, she is almost lost in the trappings of her position, less distinct than St John in his white robes. (John also appears to be rather older than he should; historically, he was only about 55 at the time.) Both artists seem to accept the idea, common in their time, that churches in this period were “still” very austere; note that all of the decoration in both paintings is centered around the Empress, while the pulpits and the walls are very plain.

Jean Paul Laurens, 1872

Wencker’s version, on the other hand, is much larger (almost 14½ feet by 20), and he fills the space by showing the crowd in the church, the clergy, the nobility and the poor, and their varied reaction to the Saint’s words. John is on eye level with the Empress, so that she has to look up in order to pretend not to notice him as he points directly at her.

Joseph Wencker, ca. 1880

[1] It was not until well after St John’s death that the title “Patriarch” was given to the archbishops of Constantinople, at the Council of Chalcedon in 451. Even to this day, in the blessing at the end of the Byzantine Divine Liturgy which bears his name, he is referred to as “John Chrysostom, archbishop of Constantinople”, as also in the liturgical calendar, whereas his Sainted successors after 451 are called “Patriarch.”

[2] Not the church which is seen in Constantinople today, a construction of the 6th century, but the original built by Constantine in the 4th century. At the news of John’s second exile, the city was wracked with riots, during which the first Hagia Sophia was burnt down; nothing now remains of it. Its replacement, dedicated in 415, was also destroyed by riots, a very popular pastime in Constantinople, in 532; the present structure was built very shortly thereafter, by the Emperor Justinian.

[3] In the original edition of his Lives of the Saints, Alban Butler wrote that “Montfaucon refutes this slander, trumped up by his enemies. The sermon extant under that title is a manifest forgery.” Modern writers, including Butler’s revisers, all seem to accept its authenticity.

Why Archaic and Elevated Bible Translations Are Better, Especially for Liturgical Use

In an article last month, “Against Vernacular Readings in the Traditional Mass,” I spoke about why the traditional Latin Mass should remain in Latin for all of its parts, including the readings. However, I would not wish to be misunderstood as an opponent of vernacular translations of Scripture. On the contrary, there is an important twofold place for these translations: first, as a “support” to the congregation at Mass, either by way of their missals or from the pulpit before the homily; second, as a “mainstay” for lectio divina or personal meditation on Scripture. In keeping with the principle of St. Augustine, one should consult a variety of editions of the Bible because each will bring out meanings that the others do not. (The limit to this is merely a practical one: there are only so many Bibles one can juggle, and it is beneficial to have a “primary” Bible for the sake of memory and thorough familiarity.) Even knowledge of the original language of Scripture—Hebrew for the Old Testament and Greek for the New—does not obviate the need for other languages. For example, the Greek Septuagint offers invaluable insights into the Old Testament that the Masoretic text cannot supply.

This much is clear to me: for public proclamation of the Word of God, the translation we use should not be in “contemporary English” as it is spoken—or rather, cheapened and slaughtered—in today’s society. There are many reasons for this judgment in favor of archaic eloquence. Here I will present one set of reasons articulated by Fr. Luke Bell in his book Staying Tender: Contemplation, Pathway to Compassion (Angelico, 2020). Fr. Bell explains why he has chosen to quote from the King James Version:

Readers of early drafts of the book have suggested that this might be more difficult for people to get their head around than a modern version, so a word of explanation is in order. I don’t want you to get your head around it. I want it to get into your heart. I have chosen this version because it is poetic. T. S. Eliot observed (in connection with Dante) that “genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.”
       That is to say that what comes through it is more than what the mind can grasp, at least to begin with. It speaks first of all to intuition rather than to any analytical faculty. That in us which sees the whole is touched by the poet’s own vision of the whole, its words awakening in us what awoke the words in him or her. Just as an inspiration of the oneness of creation can sometimes come through the beauty of nature, so a sense of the one divine source of all meaning can sometimes be received through poetry. It is the genre of the transcendent. Through it can be heard an echo of the music of eternity.
       If all this is true of poetry it should be true a fortiori of versions of Scripture, which is above all the text through which the transcendent comes to us. If we word it so it reflects back to us the quotidian banalities of our own speech with all the limitations of its vision, reducing in effect what it speaks of to that of which we speak, then we tend to make it tamer than it should be. We risk the complacency of thinking we have mastered it replacing the aspiration that it should master us…
       An older version, written when the language was richer and less abstract, is more likely to make us pause before the mystery, to humble us before the numinous, to open us to what comes from beyond.

Frontispiece of KJV, 1611 ed.

In Anthony Lo Bello’s extremely interesting, if eccentric and occasionally erroneous, Origins of Catholic Words: A Discursive Dictionary (Washington, D.C.: CUA Press, 2020), we read this marvelous quotation from Theodore Dwight Woolsey (1801–1889), chairman of the American New Testament Committee and ex-president of Yale University, who wrote in 1879, concerning the impending revision of the King James Version:

We would here guard against a wrong inference which might be drawn from our remarks, as if in a translation for the nineteenth century the words most in use in the century, and most familiar to the ears of the people, ought always to take the place of others less in use, which, however, retain their place in the language. This is far from being a safe rule. One of the most important impressions which the Word of God makes is made by its venerableness. The dignity and sanctity of the truth are supported by the elevation of the style, and woe to the translator who should seek to vulgarize the Bible, on the plea of rendering it more intelligible. Understood it must be, and this must be provided for by removing the ambiguities and obscurities to which changes in society and changes in the expression of thought give rise. But as long as the English is a living tongue, the style of the scriptures must be majestic, and removed from all vulgarity. Indeed, it must be such as it is now, with those exceptions, few in number, which time brings with it, and most of which will hardly be noticed by the cursory reader.

Another one of the revisers, A. B. Davidson (1831–1902), professor of Hebrew in Ediburgh, commented on the same topic:

The antique cast of style must be retained. Nothing that is not absolutely wrong, or not absolutely out of use, should be removed. The modern vocabulary, and the modern order of words, and the modern cast of sentence must be avoided. Any change of familiar passages will grate on the ear, and even on the heart, of the devout reader.

These men were part of the committee that produced what we now call the Revised Version (OT, 1881; NT, 1885). As Lo Bello wryly remarks, “another point of view was that to be discovered in the literary principle of the Roman Consilium” in connection with translations of the Roman Missal:

The language chosen should be that in “common” usage, that is, suited to the greater number of the faithful who speak it in everday use, even “children and persons of small education.” (Comme le prévoit, 1969)

Hmm. Let’s take the liturgy, the highest and most sublime public activity known to man, and render it into the most commonplace language we can manage, easy enough for little kids and the uneducated to follow. And then let’s ask people to listen to this week in, week out, for decades of their lives. What wonderful results can be predicted! They will fall in love with this facile discourse! They will mutter the memorable words as they go about their day, as people in former times would sing folksongs or savor tales. Their dreams will be permeated with the phrases and periods of the New American Bible, like so many susurrant winds or heaving waves. The very discourse of Catholics in the home and in the market will be shaped by the resonance of ICEL’s prose, as once upon a time the English tongue was leavened with the lines of the Bard of Avon.

I’m afraid not.

What's that about not judging a book by its cover? 

The truth of the matter is that an elevated diction, unusual rhetorical tropes, a spacious and ponderous feel, are all highly suitable to signifying that this book is like no other book, and that it is worthy of our attention and our effort. We must, to some extent, strain to it, in order to find out what it is saying; its lack of immediate comprehensibility is a shield against contempt. Anything easily understood is viewed by us as beneath us, inferior to our own power of understanding; at best, it will be classified as “useful,” at worst as worthless. I remember hearing one Sunday at Mass the word “froward” in the Epistle that was read from the pulpit before the homily: I said to myself: “What in the world does froward mean?” Much later, I learned that it meant difficult to deal with, contrary, ornery. The word actually stuck in my memory better because I did not know what it meant.

That reminds me, too, of times when our children would ask us what something meant in a story or a poem or at Mass. Usually they asked us about something strange in a text—something that went beyond their reading comprehension. And the answer provided by my wife or me was often an occasion for a brief catechetical lesson.

It seems to me that there is so much wisdom to be found in the practice, common to every religious tradition on earth, of using more archaic and more solemn forms of language as part of the act of worship. I would be remiss not to mention in this connection the stellar example given to the English-speaking world by the Anglican Ordinariate, which has brought into Catholic life, for the first time since the Council, a truly lofty and noble register of vernacular. And I daresay “even children and persons of small education” are instructed, inspired, and intrigued thereby.

God as Fire

As a layman in the pews, I often find myself wondering why the clergy do not preach more often on the symbolic meaning of the rites, gestures, and objects of the liturgy, not to mention the texts (especially the Propers of the Mass — in those fortunate places that utilize the Propers). Since the liturgy is the most obvious common object of perception and meditation for everyone present, it seems both useful and decorous to preach in such a way that the faithful may be led into a deeper understanding of what they are seeing and doing. Admittedly, this could get heavy-handed and risk didactic overload, but at least some of the content of a given liturgy could be brought in — I’m referring here not to the readings, which are what get the lion’s share of attention, but the other elements of the liturgy that take place around the readings, as it were. A sign that this is fair game can be seen in the remarkable amount of patristic and medieval preaching that concerns itself with unpacking the meaning of the liturgy for the faithful.

A good opportunity is rapidly approaching: I refer to the great Easter Vigil with its kindling of the new fire and the lighting of the Paschal candle. We have probably all heard some reference in homilies to fire and light, but it seems to get stuck in generalities, which have the effectiveness of clichés. Why not follow in the footsteps of St. Thomas Aquinas and ponder the deep symbolism behind fire — particularly, the reasons why God Himself is compared with fire? In his Scripture commentaries, the Angelic Doctor frequently comments on why God and His action are compared with fire.

• At Super Isaiam 33, three reasons are given: fire purges, sets other things aflame, and condemns.
• At Super Hebraeos 12, lec. 5, where fire is said to have, among sensible things, more nobility, more brightness, more activity, more altitude, and more purifying and consuming power.
• At Super Isaiam 30, five reasons are given for symbolizing charity as fire: it illuminates, boils up or heats [exestuat], turns things towards itself, makes one ready to act, and draws upwards.
• Super Ieremiam 5 gives five reasons why the word of the Lord is said to be a fire: it illuminates, sets aflame, penetrates, melts, and consumes the disobedient. 

Such descriptions of fire frequently parallel Thomas’s discussions of the effects of love. For example, in both Scriptum super Sent. III.27.1.1 ad 4 and Summa theologiae I-II.28.5, Thomas speaks of the way in which intense love causes fervor or burning, how it melts or “liquifies” the heart, and how it makes the lover penetrate into the inmost recesses of the beloved. This, indeed, is why extasis or ecstasy (for Aquinas, one of the many effects of love) is so aptly compared with fire, which seems to be ever rising up above itself and disappearing into the air, always tending outwards and upwards. Thomas charmingly notes that it is the custom of lovers to be unable to keep their love silent, but it bursts forth from them because its flames cannot be contained under their breast.[1] And elsewhere: “Burning comes from an abundance of heat; hence the Spirit is called burning, because, owing to an abundance of divine love, the whole man burns up into God.”[2]

The most ample comment on the symbolism of fire for God comes from Thomas's Commentary on Isaiah, chapter 10:

       Take note on those words, and He will be a light to Israel in fire, that our God is called ‘fire’ [for four reasons]. First of all, because it is subtle; and regarding this He is called subtle, [first] as regards substance, for He is called ‘spirit.’ Jn. 4: “God is spirit.” Secondly, as regards knowledge, because He is capable of penetrating. Heb. 4: “The word of the Lord is alive and active, more penetrating than any sword.” Thirdly, as regards appearance, because He is invisible. Job 28: “Whence therefore [is your] wisdom?”, and the same below: “It is hidden from the eyes of all the living.” Or Job 36: “All men [see him, every one beholds from far off],” etc.
       The second reason is that it is bright. Now, that He is bright is evident first from the fact that He makes something manifest to the intellect. Ps. 35: “In your light we shall see light.” Secondly, because He delights the affection. Tob. 5: “what kind of joy is there for me, for I sit in darkness and I do not see the light of heaven?” Thirdly, because He directs one’s acts. Below, c. 60: “The nations shall walk in your light, and the kings in the splendor of your rising.”
       The third reason is that it is hot; and this, first, because He vivifies. Job 39: “you perhaps will warm them in the dust?” Lam. 1: “From above He has sent fire into my bones and has chastised me.” Secondly, because He cleanses. Eccl. 38: “the vapor of the fire wastes his flesh, and He fights with the heat of the furnace.” Thirdly, because He devastates. Dt. 32: “A fire is kindled in my wrath, and shall burn even to the lowest hell.”
       The fourth reason is that it is light; and this, first, on account of motion [towards the end], because “the Lord made everything for the sake of Himself” (Prov. 16). Secondly, on account of His place, because “He dwells in the heights” (Ps. 112). Thirdly, because of His mode of unmixedness. Wis. 7: “[for wisdom is more active than all active things] and reaches everywhere by reason of her purity, for she is a vapor of the power of God [and a certain pure emanation of the glory of the almighty God, and therefore no defiled thing comes into her].”[3]

It is good to be reminded again, through such exquisite texts that demonstrate an Augustinian mastery of exegesis and lay out for us a feast of mutually illuminating cross-references, that the Angelic Doctor was, and saw himself as, primarily a commentator on Scripture, a Magister Sacrae Paginae, a teacher of the sacred page. The rest of his eminent intellectual activities flowed from the systematized lectio divina of the schools. This may also suggest a kind of reconciliation between preaching on the lectionary and preaching on the liturgical rites and symbols. In the end, those rites and symbols are themselves rooted in Scripture, and Scripture, in turn, is powerfully illustrated and enacted by them. Expounding the meaning of the liturgy is therefore not opposed to reflecting on the readings but is the essential context for it.

Moses and the Burning Bush (from Notre Dame in Paris)

NOTES
[1] Super Rom. 8, lec. 7 (Marietti, 127): “Hic enim amantium mos est, ut amorem suum silentio tegere nequeant: sed necessariis suis et charis asserunt et produnt, et flammas suas infra pectus cohibere non possunt. Enarrant ea frequentius, ut ipsa assiduitate narrandi amoris sui solatium capiant, et refrigeria immensi ardoris assumant.”
[2] Super Rom. 12, lec. 2, §988: “Procedit autem fervor ex abundantia caloris, unde fervor spiritus dicitur, quia propter abundantiam divinae dilectionis totus homo fervet in Deum” (Marietti 1:183). At ST I.108.5, Thomas gives as the first reason why the seraphim are named from fire: “Primo quidem, motum, qui est sursum, et qui est continuus. Per quod significatur quod indeclinabiliter moventur in Deum.”
[3] Super Isaiam 10 (28:76.330–63): “Nota super illo uerbo Et erit lumen Israel in ignem, quod Deus noster dicitur ignis primo quia subtilis; et quantum ad hoc dicitur subtilis quantum ad substantiam, quia dicitur spiritus, Io. IV «spiritus est Deus»; secundo quantum ad scientiam, quia penetrabilis, Heb. IV «Viuus est sermo Dei et efficax et penetrabilior omni gladio ancipiti»; tertio quantum ad apparentiam, quia inuisibilis, Iob XXVIII «Vnde ergo sapientia?», et infra eodem «Abscondita est ab oculis omnium uiuentium», uel Iob XXXVIII: «Omnes homines».
Secundo quia lucidus: quod autem sit lucidus, patet primo quia manifestat quantum ad intellectum, Ps. «In lumine tuo uidebimus lumen»; secundo quia delectat quantum ad affectum, Tob. V «quale gaudium est michi, qui in tenebris sedeo et lumen celi non uideo?»; tertio quia dirigit quantum ad actum, infra LX «Ambulabunt gentes in lumine tuo et reges in splendore ortus tui».
Tertio quia calidus: et hoc primo quia uiuificat, Iob XXXIX: «Tu forsitan in puluere calefacies ea?», Tren. I «De excelsis misit ignem in ossibus meis et erudiuit me»; secundo quia purgat, Eccli. XXXVIII «Vapor ignis urit carnes ejus et in calore fornacis concertatur»; tertio quia deuastat, Deut. XXXII «Ignis succensus est in furore meo et ardebit usque ad inferni nouissima».
Quarto quia leuis; et hoc primo propter motum, quia «uniuersa propter semet ipsum operatus est Dominus», Prou. XVI; secundo propter situm, quia «in altis habitat», Ps.; tertio propter incommixtionis modum, Sap. VIII «Attingit autem ubique propter munditiam suam, uapor est enim uirtutis Dei».”

New Resource: Online Commentaries on the Mass Propers and Readings of the Usus Antiquior

Back in January 2014, I published an article at NLM entitled “Where Have All the Good Preachers Gone?” In it I noted the general dissatisfaction with shallow and rambling homilies and sermons, and pointed out that the Catholic Tradition is rich with models of excellent preaching. The article recommended three things: first, preaching about Scripture from Scripture, or at least leavening any subject preached on with copious citations of the Word of God; second, leaning heavily on the great exponents of Scripture and the theological masters: the Fathers and Doctors of the Church (not modern exegetes; at least not principally); third, integrating the doctrine, if not the words, of classic magisterial documents such as reliable papal encyclicals.

A subsequent article from January 2018, “Preaching from the Propers of the Mass — An Example from Ireland” noted that many great preachers in the old days, and many of the best resources from the healthy phase of the Liturgical Movement, took inspiration from the propers of the Mass: the antiphons, the orations, the lections, the prefaces, and so forth. A few still do (such as Dom Mark Kirby, many of whose homilies can be heard here), but the vast majority, as far as I can tell, simply ignore the texts of the liturgy, which are in fact among the richest texts, doctrinally and spiritually, to preach on.

Surely part of the reason for this neglect is that it is not always easy to find the time or acquire the library necessary to prepare such homilies. That is why I am extremely excited to announce a new web resource that places many classic commentaries on the usus antiquior Sunday and Holy Day Masses at preachers' (and laity's) fingertips: Sermonry.

For now, the website features commentaries from the Catena Aurea by St. Thomas, a work that itself draws upon over 80 Church Fathers (the majority of them Greek); the Haydock Bible; and Denzinger. Designer and programmer Patrick Hawkins intends to add more commentaries as time goes on, including Guéranger. Here is a description that Mr. Hawkins kindly sent to me:

Sermonry takes the propers of the Mass and puts traditional commentaries right next to them, in a way that’s easy to navigate and a pleasure to read. I think the site will be useful for two groups of Catholics: clergy and laity.
          My hope is that clergy will find this a useful resource when preparing homilies for Traditional Latin Masses for years to come. A priest to whom I showed an early version of the site worried that if every priest was using this resource, they’d all come up with the same homilies. But that’s unlikely. One priest might preach on the Introit; another, on the Gradual. A priest might preach on three different passages from a single Gospel over three consecutive years. These commentaries will support and enhance what a priest is already trying to do in the pulpit.
          For the laity, these commentaries can supplement and reinforce what they are receiving every Sunday from the liturgy. For myself I’ve noticed, especially with the Haydock, explanations of particular phrases and customs of the day make it easier to visualize what’s going on in a particular passage, aiding meditation. And having it all right there in one place, I’m not switching back and forth between 2 or 3 books, which helps with focus.
          Sermonry has a beta label on because it’s not yet complete. Adding commentaries is a time-consuming process. But what’s there is already useful, today. A priest relying on this for homily prep should find commentaries for Sundays and major feasts added a month in advance.

Anyone wanting progress updates can sign up on the email list here.

Questions? Address them to hello@sermonry.com.
On Facebook: https://facebook.com/sermonry
On Twitter: https://twitter.com/@sermonry

This strikes me as a brilliant use of technology in service of tradition. I hope many clergy and laity will take advantage of it. Thank you, Mr. Hawkins, for launching this project. We wish you great success with its development.

The Fearlessness of St John Chrysostom

On the calendar of the Ordinary Form, (and, as I have noted previously, nowhere else) today is the feast of St John Chrysostom, archbishop of Constantinople [1] from 397 until 404, when he was unlawfully deposed from his see. He was one of the first four Eastern Fathers to be officially recognized in the West as a Doctor of the Church, along with Ss Athanasius, Basil the Great and Gregory of Nazianzus. The epithet “Chrysostom” means “golden-mouthed”, since he has always been honored as one of the greatest preachers in the Church’s history. In 1908, Pope St Pius X declared him the Patron Saint of orators and public speakers, a role in which he is needed now as perhaps only very rarely before in the Church’s life; I attended a Mass on this day many years ago, the celebrant of which repeatedly called him, both while reading the prayers and in the sermon, “St John Christendom.”

Gian Lorenzo Bernini’s great cathedra in St Peter’s Basilica, in which the throne of Peter is supported by two Latin Doctors, Ambrose and Augustine (with miters), and two Greek Doctors, Athanasius and John Chrysostom.

There is a popular notion that with the coming of Constantine and the end of persecution, the Church somehow sold its soul in part or whole to the Roman Empire. The falsity of this was demonstrated long ago by GK Chesterton, who was a convert from Anglicanism, and knew a state-owned church when he saw one. In the chapter of The Everlasting Man called “The Five Deaths of the Faith”, he rightly pointed out that the Creed of most of the early Christian Emperors was not Christianity, but a version of it far more in keeping with the spirit of the age, that which we now call Arianism. Caesar did not usually appreciate the Church’s resistance to his dogmatic meddling, and persecuted the orthodox Fathers such as St Athanasius. St Eusebius of Vercelli, one of the great Western opponents of Arianism, is even honored as martyr, although he did not die a violent death, because he was hounded into exile by an Arian Emperor.

The same might well have been applied to John, who unlike Eusebius, died in his exile, both from the rigors of the journey and the terrible ill-treatment meted out to him; the date of his death was September 14, 407. In his case, Caesar’s wrath was provoked against him not by dogmatic issues, but by moral ones. The Empress Eudoxia was the wife of the famously useless Emperor Arcadius, a man wholly under the control of his ministers and court sycophants. Taking personal offense at John’s words against the immorality and extravagances of the nobility, she had already arranged once before for John to be exiled. He was swiftly recalled, partly because of the popular uprising in his favor, partly because a small earthquake in the city was seen as a sign of divine displeasure, especially by the highly superstitious Empress. However, when a silver statue of her was erected on a pillar in front of Hagia Sophia [2], the dedication of it was celebrated with a series of “games”, as the Romans called them, an immoral spectacle which also disturbed the liturgy. St John had often preached against public license of this very sort, even when a simple priest in Antioch, and did not hesitate to do so on this occasion well.

A mosaic of St John Chrysostom in Hagia Sophia, ca. 1000. (Public domain image from Wikipedia.)

His sermon began with the words “Herodias is again become furious; again she is troubled, again she dances; and again desires to receive John’s head on a plate.” [3] A synod full of bishops hostile to him and in the Empress’ control was convoked, and deposed him on a canonically invalid pretext, but he refused to relinquish his see. A particularly ugly episode followed in which soldiers were sent to drive the people out of the churches on Holy Saturday, resulting in no little bloodshed in the sacred places themselves. The order for the Saint’s banishment was finally and definitively issued during Pentecost week.

The Facebook page of the Bollandist Society, who have been publishing the Acts of the Saints since the early 17th century (with a notable interruption), today highlighted two paintings of St John preaching before the Empress Eudoxia. Both were done by French artists of the later 19th century, Jean-Paul Laurens (1838-1921) and Joseph Wencker (1848-1919). The commentary referred them both specifically to one of the most important events of the era, the conquest of the Papal State, and the subsequent “exile” of Pope Pius IX, who refused to acknowledge the legitimacy of the Kingdom of Italy by setting foot on land which it illegally occupied. This is surely true, but broadly speaking, they may also be referred to the general situation of the Church in that period. Italy’s was not the only government hostile to the Church and seeking to reduce or destroy its influence by diminishing or destroying its institutions; this was also era of the German Kulturkampf, and the infamous French law of Separation of Church and State was soon to follow in 1905.

Laurens’ painting is the smaller of the two, but the more forceful. (See a higher resolution version here.) The Empress looks down with an expressionless face at the Saint, confident in her eventual triumph over him, but at the same time, she is almost lost in the trappings of her position, less distinct than St John in his white robes. (John also appears to be rather older than he should; historically, he was only about 55 at the time.) Both artists seem to accept the idea, common in their time, that churches in this period were “still” very austere; note that all of the decoration in both paintings is centered around the Empress, while the pulpits and the walls are very plain.

Jean Paul Laurens, 1872

Wencker’s version, on the other hand, is much larger (almost 14½ feet by 20), and he fills the space by showing the crowd in the church, the clergy, the nobility and the poor, and their varied reaction to the Saint’s words. John is on eye level with the Empress, so that she has to look up in order to pretend not to notice him as he points directly at her.

Joseph Wencker, ca. 1880

[1] It was not until well after St John’s death that the title “Patriarch” was given to the archbishops of Constantinople, at the Council of Chalcedon in 451. Even to this day, in the blessing at the end of the Byzantine Divine Liturgy which bears his name, he is referred to as “John Chrysostom, archbishop of Constantinople”, as also in the liturgical calendar, whereas his Sainted successors after 451 are called “Patriarch.”

[2] Not the church which is seen in Constantinople today, a construction of the 6th century, but the original built by Constantine in the 4th century. At the news of John’s second exile, the city was wracked with riots, during which the first Hagia Sophia was burnt down; nothing now remains of it. Its replacement, dedicated in 415, was also destroyed by riots, a very popular pastime in Constantinople, in 532; the present structure was built very shortly thereafter, by the Emperor Justinian.

[3] In the original edition of his Lives of the Saints, Alban Butler wrote that “Montfaucon refutes this slander, trumped up by his enemies. The sermon extant under that title is a manifest forgery.” Modern writers, including Butler’s revisers, all seem to accept its authenticity.