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Saint John, Apostle & Evangelist

27 December 2023

The CHC blog

Saint John, Apostle & Evangelist

By Joey Belleza

Today we celebrate the feast of the Apostle John, the only apostle spared the fate of martyrdom. In another Wednesday catechesis, Pope Benedict XVI reminds us:

According to tradition, John is the “disciple whom Jesus loved,” who in the Fourth Gospel laid his head against the Teacher’s breast at the Last Supper (cf. Jn 13: 23), stood at the foot of the Cross together with the Mother of Jesus (cf. Jn 19: 25) and lastly, witnessed both the empty tomb and the presence of the Risen One himself (cf. Jn 20: 2; 21: 7).

We know that this identification is disputed by scholars today, some of whom view him merely as the prototype of a disciple of Jesus. Leaving the exegetes to settle the matter, let us be content here with learning an important lesson for our lives: the Lord wishes to make each one of us a disciple who lives in personal friendship with him.

To achieve this, it is not enough to follow him and to listen to him outwardly: it is also necessary to live with him and like him. This is only possible in the context of a relationship of deep familiarity, imbued with the warmth of total trust. This is what happens between friends; for this reason Jesus said one day: “Greater love has no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends…. No longer do I call you servants, for the servant does not know what his master is doing; but I have called you friends, for all that I have heard from my Father I have made known to you” (Jn 15: 13, 15).

Friendship with Jesus is a theme which Pope Benedict often emphasized; indeed, he made this point in his homily at the 2005 Mass for the Election of the Pope. In that homily, he recalled Cicero’s old characterization of friendship: idem velle atque idem nolle—having the same likes and dislikes. However, Christian friendship takes the Ciceronian conception and deepens it—wishing and desiring the same things means a communion of wills. Our wills are called to be so united to Christ that even in moments of struggle, we can still say “thy will be done.” Like Saint John, we must always rest our head on the breast of the Lord—upon his Sacred Heart—to unite our wills ever closer to his.

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Saint Stephen, Deacon & Protomartyr

26 December 2023

The CHC blog

Saint Stephen, Deacon & Protomartyr

By Joey Belleza

In a catechesis on Saint Stephen, Pope Benedict XVI told his listeners:

Every year on the day after the Birth of the Lord the liturgy has us celebrate the Feast of St Stephen, a deacon and the first martyr. The Book of the Acts of the Apostles presents him to us as a man full of grace and of the Holy Spirit (cf. Acts 6:8-10; 7:55). Jesus’ promise, recorded in today’s Gospel text, was fulfilled in him: believers called to bear witness in difficult and dangerous circumstances will not be abandoned or defenceless; the Spirit of God will speak through them (cf. Mt 10:20).

Stephen the Deacon, in fact, worked, spoke and died motivated by the Holy Spirit, witnessing to the love of Christ even to the supreme sacrifice. The Protomartyr is described in his suffering as a perfect imitation of Christ, whose Passion is repeated even in the details. The whole of St Stephen’s life is shaped by God, conformed to Christ, whose Passion is replicated in him; in the final moment of death, on his knees he takes up the prayer of Jesus on the Cross, commending himself to the Lord (cf. Acts 7:59) and forgiving his enemies; “Lord, do not hold this sin against them” (v. 60). Filled with the Holy Spirit, when his eyes were about to be dimmed for ever, he fixed his gaze on “Jesus standing at the right hand of God” (v. 55), the Lord of all and who draws all beings to himself.

On St Stephen’s Day we too are called to fix our eyes on the Son of God whom in the joyful atmosphere of Christmas we contemplate in the mystery of his Incarnation. Through Baptism and Confirmation, through the precious gift of faith nourished by the sacraments, especially the Eucharist, Jesus Christ has bound us to him and with the action of the Holy Spirit, wants to continue in us his work of salvation by which all things are redeemed, given value, uplifted and brought to completion. Letting ourselves be drawn by Christ, as St Stephen did, means opening our own life to the light that calls it, guides it and enables it to take the path of goodness, the path of a humanity according to God’s plan of love. Lastly, St Stephen is a model for all who wish to put themselves at the service of the new evangelization. He shows that the newness of the proclamation does not consist primarily in the use of original methods or techniques — which of course, have their usefulness — but rather in being filled with the Holy Spirit and letting ourselves be guided by him.

How often do we seek “original methods and techniques” to make ourselves understood without having the requisite zeal for God’s house? On this feast of Saint Stephen, may we pray to be filled with the Holy Spirit so that, strengthened with the sevenfold gifts of wisdom, understanding, counsel, fortitude, knowledge, piety, and fear of God, we too might boldly proclaim the Gospel.

Let us also pray for all deacons, whether permanent or chosen for the priesthood, that they too might be encouraged in their ordained ministry of service to the Church, and that when their time of service is complete, they too might gaze upon “Jesus standing at the right hand of God.”

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Christmas Eve 2023: A Reflection

24 December 2023

The CHC blog

Christmas Eve 2023: A Reflection

By Joey Belleza

Around the world, from Saint Peter’s Basilica in Rome to innumerable humbler parishes, the Mass of Christmas night is preceded by an ancient Latin chant called the Kalenda, also known as the Christmas Proclamation. Beginning with the creation of the world, the Kalenda lists the watershed moments of sacred and secular history in chronological order, culminating in the proclamation of Jesus’ birth.  From Creation to the Flood, from Abraham to Moses, from King David to Caesar Augustus, the text is a kind of “countdown,” situating the Incarnation in relation to real events and real people, before finally announcing the birth of Christ according to the flesh as the central, climactic event of all human history.  However, separating the long list of events and the actual mention of the birth of Christ, there lies a short, five word phrase, almost inserted as a parenthetical remark, whose brevity veils its profundity: toto Orbe in pace composito—“the whole world being at peace”. 

Toto Orbe in pace composito: yes, Christ entered the world at a time of a great peace seemingly prepared for him.  He was born at the beginning of the so-called Pax Romana in which the Roman Empire reached the zenith of its expansion, attaining hitherto unparalleled prosperity and security.  The Jewish people, although subjects of the Empire, remained free to worship the One God of Israel and were exempt from offering sacrifices to the gods of Rome—a privilege denied to all other conquered peoples.[1]  The Israelites once more had a king—although he was a puppet—and the elite of Jewish society even held full rights as Roman citizens.  The tumultuous trials of previous generations seemed surpassed.  Against this historical backdrop, in that little town of Bethlehem, while the world lay asleep “in heavenly peace”, the Christ child is born of the Virgin Mary, wrapped in swaddling clothes, and laid in a manger.  Shepherds and angels alike come to adore him, while wise kings from far-off lands bring him precious gifts and do him homage.  Of that momentous occasion, in that silent and holy night, we can say: vere toto Orbe in pace composito—truly the whole world was at peace.

Of course, the Pax Romana, that worldly peace guaranteed only by military might, did not last; the unfolding of history will reveal the common fate of all empires ancient and new.  Jerusalem’s peace with the Caesars will end with a bloody uprising to culminate in the destruction of the Temple.  The tranquillity of the first Christmas would not long endure: when Herod learns of the newborn king foretold by the prophets, he commands the massacre of Bethlehem’s sons to protect his throne, and the infant Prince of Peace will flee to exile in Egypt.  As an adult, Christ will not go untouched by the violence of earthly life; his people will reject him, the disciples will abandon him, the Sanhedrin will condemn him, and Pilate will execute him.  By worldly measures, he is but one of countless other insurgents crushed under Rome’s imperial heel.  But all this will come later; at least for this night, when he enters the world as a “holy infant so tender and mild,” “all is calm; all is bright”; in other words, toto Orbe in pace composito.

Year after year, we run through the gauntlet of life’s tribulations.  Troubles at work, at home, among friends and family, continue to plague us, test us, and overwhelm us to the point that at times, we question our life choices and perhaps even think them mistaken.  But in the time of year when the nights grow longer and the days grow colder, the frantic pace of life seems to slow down bit by bit, until the earth itself appears to stop.  We Christians look forward to this season all year long.  We consciously set aside time—however brief—away from our daily struggles, resentments, and grudges.  We happily come to our friends and family in a spirit of love and reconciliation, and join together to celebrate the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ.  We can recall remarkable events like the Christmas Truce of 1914, when German and British soldiers spontaneously emerged from the mud and blood of the trenches, sharing soccer and schnapps, chocolate and cheer, in a brief flicker of peace on earth while the world was at war.[2]  Amidst our own decorations, the greeting cards and gifts, the Christmas carols, the dark days, and the cold weather that marks the close of the calendar year, we find that for a few sacred moments in this holy night, the ancient words of the Kalenda once again ring true: toto Orbe in pace composito—the whole world is at peace.  As all of creation stops to rest for the winter, the whole Church also pauses to genuflect in thanksgiving for the Incarnation—wherefore in every Christmas Mass throughout the world, Catholics kneel during the Creed as we profess Christ, incarnate of the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary, and made man.  Here and now, as during the first Christmas, we prepare a peaceful stage for the arrival of the Christ child, who comes yet again to fill our hearts with divine gladness.

I’m sure the irony of our situation isn’t lost on anyone: we celebrate the birth of the Prince of Peace as conflict rages across the globe. In Libya, Mali, Sudan, and the Central African Republic, the traces of old colonial empires bleed with the rise of newer nationalist movements.  From the Persian Gulf to the Red Sea, drones and missiles and fast attack craft imperil the free movement of civilian merchant ships. In the South China Sea, Chinese and Philippine vessels tensely square off in disputed territorial waters. An emboldened Venezuela threatens to unilaterally annex the land of neighbouring Guyana. Civil wars in Syria and Myanmar continue unabated, while Armenia and Azerbaijan are no closer to resolving the Nagorno-Karabakh crisis. In the sands of Gaza and on the banks of the Dnipro, Palestinians and Israelis, Russians and Ukrainians, warriors young and old, vigilant as the shepherds of Bethlehem, endure another sleepless night, illuminated not by Christmas lamps but by rockets and gunfire.  We who might count ourselves lucky to live far from these regions of conflict cannot consider ourselves immune to danger; recent riots in Ireland and the mass shooting in Prague show us how the fragile peace of Christmas can crumble in an instant. The experience of the pandemic has also taught us how, by mere ministerial fiat, the power of the state might be wielded against churches and against Christian men and women of good will who desire nothing more than to adore the Incarnate Lord.

Thanks be to God that we can gather tonight as his holy people to celebrate the ineffable gift of his Incarnation. For on this night, we remember and proclaim that God, from the heights of divinity, has immersed Himself completely into our humanity, even unto the depths of our sin, so that when we falter and fail, He is already there in the darkness, waiting to raise us.  Thus, even in the bitterest crucible of war, the “glories of his righteousness and wonders of his love” are ever present.  Let all Christians therefore take hope from the words of the prophet Isaiah, whose prophecy is fulfilled on this very night: “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; upon those who dwelt in the land of gloom a light has shone.”[3]

That light is, as the Kalenda says, “Jesus Christ, eternal God and Son of the eternal Father”[4] who, through that “marvellous exchange”[5] of his divinity for our mortality, made our mortality a path to divinity.  Tonight, “let ev’ry heart prepare him room,” so that the splendour of Christmas might dispel whatever darkness remains within us. We pray for concord among nations, reconciliation among ourselves, and tranquillity in our hearts, for in doing so, we each do our part to help bring about, as the song goes, “Peace on earth and mercy mild/God and sinners reconcil’d”. Thus, when we look back on Christmas 2023, with God’s help we will be able to say, with no hint of irony: toto Orbe in pace composito—that at least for a fleeting moment in the dark of night, in spite of the countless conflicts which afflict our age, Christ the Light appeared to us while the whole world was at peace.

In the midst of our uncertain times, the messenger of the Lord tells us tonight as he told the shepherds of Bethlehem: “Do not be afraid; for behold, I proclaim to you good news of great joy… today in the city of David a saviour has been born for you who is Christ and Lord.”[6]  Tonight, therefore, we reawaken the great hymn of the angels, dormant since we began our Advent pilgrimage, and in concert with the celestial choirs, we acclaim as they did two thousand years ago, saying, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to those on whom his favour rests.”[7]  

Our Lady, Queen of Peace, pray for us.  Amen.

________________________

[1] See Tertullian’s Apologeticum, ch. XXI, in which he responds to charges that Christianity, illegal in his time, “hides under the umbrella of a certain well-known and legal religion [i.e., Judaism], or otherwise under its own presumption” (sub umbraculo insignissimae religionis, certe licitae, aliquid propriae praesumptionis abscondat).

[2] From the diary of German Lieutenant Johannes Niemann, Christmas 1914

[3] Isaiah 9:1

[4] From the Kalenda: “…Iesus Christus, aeternus Deus, aeternique Patris Filius, mundum volens adventu suo piissimo consecrare…”

[5] 1st Vespers, Solemnity of Mary, Mother of God; antiphonum ad Psalmum: “O admirabile commercium (O marvelous exchange): Creator generis humani, animatum corpus sumens de Virgine nasci dignatus est; et, precedens homo sine semine, largitus est nobis suam Deitatem”; see also the Prayer over the Gifts for Christmas Mass at Night, 1962 Missale Romanum: “”…ut, tua gratia largiente, per haec sacrosancta commercia…”

[6] Luke 2:10-11

[7] Luke 2:14

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Beginning Advent With Gabriel, Zechariah, and Mary

23 November 2023

The CHC blog

Beginning Advent With Gabriel, Zechariah, & Mary

By Joey Belleza

The Gospel of Luke is notable for, among other things, its rather attentive narratives concerning the Blessed Virgin Mary during the infancy and youth of our Lord. The stories of the Annunciation, the Visitation to Elizabeth, the finding of Christ in the Temple, and the Nativity itself all manifest such detail that, as many scholars (including Pope Benedict XVI) have theorized, these accounts were likely given directly from the Blessed Mother to Saint Luke. The phrase “Mary pondered all these things and kept them in her heart,” repeated twice in Chapter 2 of Luke’s Gospel, suggests not only Luke’s voice interpolated into Mary’s recounting of her memories; it more importantly points to the same silent, faithful humility of the Lord’s handmaiden who believed the words of the archangel Gabriel.

Luke presents two parallel stories– two annunciations, in fact– in Chapter 1: the first is the annunciation of the coming of John the Baptist to Zechariah in the Temple, and the second is the Annunciation properly speaking, that is, the message of the angel to Mary. In both stories, Gabriel surprises the two respective interlocutors with surprising news: to Zechariah he announces the pregnancy of his elderly wife Elizabeth; to Mary he announces her role in the coming of the Messiah. In each case, the truth of the message is so strange that both must ask, “how can this be?” Elizabeth is elderly and Mary is a virgin; how can either be pregnant? This leads to another problem. Zechariah is struck dumb for his unbelief, but Mary’s question is met with a further explanation from the angel. Why is Gabriel more patient with Mary than with Zechariah?

One reason, we might suggest, turns on the fact that Zechariah is a priest, but Mary is a young girl. The former has given his life to the service of God in the Temple, a service which required profound study of the Law and Prophets. Certainly the appearance of the angel within the temple would be a terrifying sight, enough to fluster any man, but in comparison to a young girl from Nazareth, we can still say that Zechariah simply should have known better. Already faced with the extraordinary apparition of a divine messenger, he nevertheless protests the content of the message by appealing to its improbability. Note that Zechariah says, “my wife is advanced in years,” not “my wife has passed her childbearing years.” His own words are not an indication of impossibility, and the story of Abraham and Sarah, who conceived in old age, should have been proof enough for this educated priest that the angel’s message could and would be fulfilled. Mary, on the other hand, is faced with a situation of true natural impossibility. A virgin cannot conceive except by some divine power exceeding the power of natural generation, a power now explained to her by the angel. Her question is therefore one of mere natural reason, not true doubt. And when the divine reason is pronounced to her, she conforms her will to God’s and consents to participate in the Incarnation of Christ.

Notice also that the angel says that John would be filled with the Holy Spirit even before Zechariah’s objection, while the power of the Holy Spirit is explained to Mary only after her naturally reasonable question. It is perhaps this momentary doubt of the power of the Spirit–who is, in fact, truly God–that condemns Zechariah to temporary muteness. In this light, we might be able to understand Christ’s own words in the Gospels of Mark and Matthew, where he mentions that “blasphemy against the Holy Spirit” is the only unforgiveable sin. Zechariah certainly does not blaspheme, but his questioning of the Spirit who, as the Creed says, is “Lord and giver of life”, certainly did the priest no credit. Mary, on the other hand, is really given little information–far less than the poetic prophecy initially given to Zechariah in the Temple. But her trust in God and conformity to his will supplies for the limits of her human understanding.

As the season of Advent begins, the parallels and contrasts between the “two annunciations” might teach us something about trusting in God. With the benefit of 2000 years since the Incarnation, we are in many ways like Zechariah. We should know better. We already know that Christ came to us as a child, died as a man, rose from the dead, ascended into heaven, and now continues his work on earth through the Church and her Sacraments. But despite this enduring presence, we still have moments when we let our doubt and our merely natural ways of thinking overcome our confidence in the power of the Holy Spirit. And when we allow ourselves to fall into this doubt, we too fall “dumb” like Zechariah, closed off from the divine wisdom, struggling in vain to bring God down to our ways of thinking. Christ rebuked Peter for this very sin– “thinking as men think, not as God thinks”– when he prophesised his Passion and death. But the Blessed Virgin Mary excels all human creatures, for when she is pushed to the limits of her own understanding, she utters not a word of protest but a word of faith in the God who had already brought forth life in the wombs of Sarah and Elizabeth. And with her word of faith, the Word was made flesh and dwelt among us. Let us look forward to the coming of Christ the Lord, Son of God and Son of Mary, with her same expectant faith.

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Advent & O Antiphons

23 November 2023

The CHC blog

Advent & the O Antiphons

By Joey Belleza

As the Church begins a new liturgical year with the First Sunday of Advent, many parishes all over the English-speaking world will mark this change in through the singing of “O Come, O Come Emmanuel” at Mass. But the origins of this beloved hymn arise from the ancient Church; the sixth century martyr Saint Boethius references these texts in his famous and final work Consolation of Philosophy (written as he awaited execution in 523 AD), meaning that these texts were already widely circulated in the fifth century or earlier. They did not yet take the form of a unified hymn, but in the form of seven separate antiphons which invoke Christ under seven different titles, asking Him to return again. These are the “O Antiphons,” so called because each one begins with the vocative ‘O’.

The sequence of O Antiphons is as follows: O Sapientia (O Wisdom), O Adonai (O Lord), O Radix Jesse (O Root of Jesse), O Clavis David (O Key of David), O Oriens (O Rising Sun), O Rex Gentium (O King of the Nations), O Emmanuel. Traditionally, each of these was assigned respectively to the last seven days before Christmas, beginning on 17 December (O Sapientia) end ending on the 23 December (O Emmanuel). While the composer of the O Antiphons remains unknown, the author must have been highly literate with a poetic spirit; a feature of the O Antiphons considered together is that, when the first letter of each title is read in reverse order, an acrostic phrase is revealed: “ERO CRAS,” meaning “I will be there tomorrow.” Since the sequence ends on the evening of the 23rd, the anticipation of Christ’s arrival on Christmas Eve is subtly referenced in the antiphons. Furthermore, each antiphon makes use of several scriptural references. To give just a few examples, let us consider the first two antiphons, O Sapientia and O Adonai.

O Sapientia,
quae ex ore Altissimi prodiisti,
attingens a fine usque ad finem fortiter
suaviterque disponens omnia:
veni ad docendum nos viam prudentiae.

“O Wisdom, who came forth from the mouth of the Most High, reaching from end to end with strength and sweetly ordering all things: come to teach us the way of prudence.”

This antiphon references the following scriptural passages: “I came forth from the mouth of the Most High” (Sirach 24:3); “[Wisdom] reaches mightily from one end of the earth to the other, and she orders all things well” (Wisdom 8:1); “Forsake childishness, and live, and walk by the ways of prudence” (Proverbs 9:6). 

O Adonai,
et dux domus Israel,
qui Moysi in igne flammae rubi apparuisti
et ei in Sina legem dedisti:
veni ad redendum nos in brachio extento.

“O Lord and chief of the House of Israel, who appeared to Moses in the flame of the burning bush and gave him the Law on Mount Sinai: come to redeem us with your outstretched arm.”

This antiphon references the following scriptural passages: “I came forth from the mouth of the Most High” (Sirach 24:3); “[Wisdom] reaches mightily from one end of the earth to the other, and she orders all things well” (Wisdom 8:1); “Forsake childishness, and live, and walk by the ways of prudence” (Proverbs 9:6). 

This references the following passages: “I am the Lord. I appeared to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob as God Almighty (El Shaddai), but by my name ‘The Lord’ (Adonai) I did not make myself known to them” (Exodus 6:2-3); “the chief over my people Israel” (2 Chronicles 6:5); “The angel of the Lord appeared to him in a flame of fire out of a bush” (Exodus 3:2); “These are the commandments that the Lord gave to Moses for the people of Israel on Mount Sinai” (Leviticus 27:34); “I will redeem you with an outstretched arm” (Exodus 6:6).

As we can see in these two examples, the anonymous author has done a wondrous job of recalling images from the Old Testament, and invoking them to link the coming of Christ with the saving acts of God under the covenant made with Abraham. This style of composition continues with the rest of the antiphons, showing how the events of salvation history given to Israel all find their fulfilment in the Incarnation of Christ.

But why are they not all sung at once, as when we sing “O Come, O Come Emmanuel” in English? Why are they assigned to different days?

The O Antiphons are special because of their original place in the liturgy; that is, they were the antiphons for the Magnificat, which is sung at Vespers each day. For the days 17-23 December, in recognition of the Marian character of the season, these antiphons which express hope for the coming of Christ were matched with Mary’s own prayer of expectation for her Son. Thus, the O Antiphons themselves assume a kind of Marian character at the moment in the liturgical year when the Church most eagerly anticipates the celebration of Christmas as well as the Second Coming of Christ. When we sing the O Antiphons as the Church intends, we too enter into the mode of hopeful expectation, as did the Blessed Virgin, that Christ will come once again into the world, “to teach us the way of prudence” and “to redeem us with an outstretched arm.”

To hear the O Antiphons as sung in the Church for centuries, including the Magnificat, see the video below by the Dominican Friars of Fribourg, Switzerland. All the antiphons are available on their Youtube channel.

For more about each O Antiphon, see our previous posts here: (1) O Sapientia, (2) O Adonai, (3) O Radix Jesse, (4) O Clavis David, (5) O Oriens, (6) O Rex Gentium, (7) O Emmanuel.

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Saint Francis of Assisi

4th October 2023

The CHC blog

Saint Francis of Assisi (Feast Day: 4 October)

Getting to know the real Poverello 

Francis of Assisi remains one of the most beloved saints of all time. His love for the natural world, for his fellow human beings, and for the poor and suffering Christ have gained for him a wide appeal among Christians and non-Christians alike. The current Pope’s selection of the regnal name “Francis” is one of the most obvious signs of the saint’s exalted place in the popular imagination. This enduring broad fascination with the Poverello (“little poor one”), however, has led to some misunderstandings of the man and consequent misappropriations of his legacy. From his death on 4 October 1226 to the present, many different groups—across society, inside the Church, and even among Franciscans—have sought to claim Francis as a mouthpiece for diverse, and even competing, viewpoints. 

Fortunately, recent scholarship on the earliest documents of Francis’s life have helped point the way toward a fresh portrait of the saint. A proper examination of these early sources depicts a man who is decidedly not, as Franco Zeffirelli’s famous 1972 film “Brother Sun, Sister Moon” would have it, a carefree nature mystic opposed to the Church and churchmen of his time. Neither was he a man suddenly bestowed, as if from on high, with a clear and detailed vision of Church reform, a project which he resolutely pursued until his death. Nor is he the man of popular hagiographical traditions exercising power over animals (unfortunately the story of the “Wolf of Gubbio” does not describe an historical event). Neither is he a total pacifist in the mold of contemporary anti-war movements, nor the author of the beloved “Peace Prayer “which often bears his name (“Lord, make me an instrument of your peace…”). Nor is he a man who upheld total poverty as an abstract institutional ideal above all other concerns.

If these things popularly associated with Francis are taken away, what do we have left of this figure so deeply admired? The answer to this question is far more complex, far more fascinating, and arguably far more compelling than the man of the legendary accounts.

Ironically, one contemporary author who has contributed greatly to our understanding of early Franciscan sources is not a Franciscan friar but a priest of the Order of Preachers (i.e., the Dominicans). Fr Augustine Thompson OP’s book Francis of Assisi: A New Biography (Cornell University Press, 2012) sifts through the earliest sources and eyewitness accounts from those who knew Francis, not to mention Francis’s own oft-neglected letters, to show a portrait of the man who, in his simple desire to follow God as the least of his disciples, struggled with the burden of authority thrust upon him. Unlike Saint Dominic, who had begun his religious life as an educated canon regular, Francis (only ordained a deacon toward the end of his life) was not a skilled administrator. His numerous attempts to produce an acceptable Rule for his friars prove this fact, and the effects of Francis’s managerial shortcomings were manifested in the bitter struggles among Franciscan factions which arose after his death. 

Despite all these things—or perhaps because of them—Francis remains a saintly example for all who, despite their faults and failings, strive to follow the will of God. As his own writings show, he was a man of the Church, deeply devoted to her ministers, confident in the power of the sacraments—especially the Eucharist. In his Letter to the Faithful and the Letter to Clerics, he admonishes each group, exhorting them to hold the Body and Blood of Christ with the highest reverence. He reminds the faithful in no uncertain terms the grave threat to their souls if they unworthily receive Holy Communion, while also telling priests who fail to use precious vessels and clean altar linens for the distribution and reservation of the Blessed Sacrament that they must render an account before Christ himself on Judgment Day. 

This Francis, burning with love for Christ present in the Eucharist, is the same Francis who received the stigmata—the wounds of Christ—upon his own body. He is not a man with power over animals nor an indignant opponent of bishops and popes but a servant profoundly devoted to the ministers and sacraments of the Church. Beyond the tranquil, romantic portraits and clean plaster statues on so many bird baths, Fr Augustine Thompson brings to light a very pious yet conflicted—and thus very human—saint worthy of our imitation.

For more on the historical figure of Francis of Assisi, see the following video and article by Fr Augustine. 

VIDEO:  Poverty in the Church & Saint Francis of Assisi

ARTICLE:  A Quest for the Historical Francis

By Dr Joey Belleza

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Iconography, imago Dei and identity

6th July 2023

The CHC blog

Iconography, imago Dei and identity

How the ancient art of iconography symbolises man’s relationship with God 

By Gabriel Stirling

It has just gone 9 am, and fifteen iconographers have gathered in the atrium of Theodore House. For the next week, they will study the ancient art of iconography under the guidance of Deacon Nikita Andrejev of the Prosopon School of Iconography. For the next week, they will gather each morning to pray that God might glorify the work of their hands. Through the strokes of the brush, they hope that the light of God might touch the blank canvas.

The first thing I learned was not to call it icon painting. You do not paint an icon; you write them. More than just mere pigments spotted on a canvas, the icon is the Gospel drawn out. 

Right from the outset, the religious symbolism of the icon dominates the methods and techniques used. The students began with a blank board made of gesso, representing, according to Nikita, “the moment before the creation of the world where there was just the divine.” But as God formed the heavens and the earth by His hands, so too our iconographers transformed these blank boards into a holy image of Divine realities.

All the materials used in icon writing are natural. The paint is based on diluted egg yolk mixed with natural pigments. As the colours took shape, the students slowly added lines to their icons. We had moved beyond the first part of creation, where light, colour, and matter existed. Figures start to emerge from the dust of the board, a firmament creating definitive shapes.

One of the icons written by a participant of the course
Deacon Nikita mixes the first colour to add to the image proper

Icon writing is not easy, and mistakes happen along the way. Likewise, being a Christian is a challenge, and we all fall into temptation at times. But as much as we wish, neither the icon writer nor the sinner can rewrite the past. However, the future is still up for grabs, and just as repentance sees us turn from our past wrongs to God, a slip of the icon writer’s brush can be turned into something greater. “This is a process of transfiguration,” says Nikita. 

The reason why iconography is so captivating might be that it speaks so deeply about human existence. It takes us right from the beginning, the formless void of the gesso board, right through the beauty of creation. But it shows us something about ourselves, too. We are not blank automatons, but men and women created in the image of God. Thus, humans are in a sense the proto-icon, created out of dust in the likeness of God. 

By Monday morning, the last day, the icons were almost complete—the shining crown of the Virgin Mother and Christ, their loving eyes gazing at us. Not unlike man, these icons are in the image of God. The icon writing might be over, but the writing of our souls remains an ongoing task. As Nikita put it: “We are born with the image of God intact as an embryo, but this likeness is yet to be achieved.”

Oh, blessed Virgin, pray that we might share in the likeness of your Son!

The Ancient Byzantine Iconography Course returns in 2024 from 3rd to 10th June: click here for more information

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Igor Sikorsky’s Search for Faith

2nd June 2023

The CHC blog

Where is God? Igor Sikorsky's Search for Faith

A spiritually unconscious or dead man would be in the position of a rushing air­liner with an unconscious or dead crew in the control cabin – Igor Sikorsky

“БОГА НЕТ!” (There is no God!) proudly proclaims a Soviet poster from 1975. Above, a cosmonaut looks out on the heavens, across which are countless galaxies, towering over the backward churches. It is a sentiment that now forms a dominant part of public discourse across the West, where religious belief is ridiculed and presented as incompatible with reason. But for the Russian scientist Igor Sikorsky, science had far from disapproved existence of God. 

Born in 1889, Sikorsky took inspiration from the Wright brothers’ first flight to enter the infant aviation industry. He established a successful manufacturing business in Russia, before fleeing to the US in the aftermath of the 1917 Revolution. He spent the rest of his life in America developing what is now a multi-billion dollar company.

Throughout his life, Sikorsky was awestruck by the scientific accomplishments made during the 20th century . “Aeronautics”, he argued, “was neither a science nor an industry. It was a miracle”. The aviation industry was still in its infancy when he began manufacturing planes: it required a true leap of faith to make his dreams possible. When asked by a journalist if he had seen God whilst ascending to the sky, Sikorsky replied that he had not seen Him, but he had felt God’s presence. Today, such comments might seem backwards. But as a pioneering aeronautical engineer, he could hardly be described as such.

Sikorsky is credited with developing the first commercially successful helicopter

Science can illustrate the great wonders of the universe. However, Sikorsky was acutely aware that some of the accomplishments done in the name of science were deeply troubling. This did not come from science, but it was a symptom of a culture that was jettisoning Christianity. The consequences, Sikorsky warned, would prove fatal, arguing that a man without faith was like the unconscious pilot of a plane. Although technically flying, he would be hurtling towards destruction.

"There is no God!" - a Soviet poster from 1971

This comment was made against the backdrop of the Second World War and under the cloud of the Atomic Age, a time where mass destruction loomed large. However, these comments ring true today in our postmodern age. Despite all the scientific accomplishments of the West, a moral crisis of being and purpose runs through the nerves of our society. Human reason is capable of great triumphs, but it becomes distorted when society has no place for faith.

Remedying this is not easy. However, the scientist warned against entirely ditching scientific enquiry and reason. Instead, he proposed that humanity must rediscover the power of “spiritual wisdom”, putting reason not as the end of human existence, but as a means to even greater truth. “The very first men to find and accept Christ were wealthy alien scientist astronomers,” wrote Sikorsky. The point is clear: science can point us towards God.

This brings us back to the beginning. Both the Atheist and the Christian look into space and see stars, planets, and galaxies; but arrive at opposite conclusions. The Atheist sees the stars and the earth, but that is all. They are the end of all existence. Sikorsky looked upon the same sky but saw something different. Reason led him to see that the universe was created by God, full of wonder and beauty. Just like the three astronomers visiting the infant Christ, he found that reason is no barrier to faith.

If you are interested in learning more about the place of faith in contemporary society, please visit our Faith & Reason course page. 

Note, this post draws on the following article: A Scientist’s Orthodox Faith’, The British Association of Iconographers Review, Issue 71, 2023

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The Cross of Good Hope

7th April, 2023

The CHC blog

The Cross of Good Hope

At the start of the Easter Triduum, the folly of the Cross stands as testament to the power of God

Christ’s Crucifixion brings us to the brink of the central tenet of our faith. It is the final test of the claims made by the person of Jesus. At the cross, there are only two options left: either death swallows up Jesus or death is finally defeated. Of the mocking crowds with their high priests and Jesus’ few, faithful followers, only one or the other group can be vindicated. All the expectations, controversies, passion and hopes that surfaced as a result of the teachings and miracles of Jesus are concentrated in this moment of truth. Vengeance, sorrow, hope, disillusion, belief, unbelief, all meet at the Cross, each waiting to be justified or dispersed.

However, what takes place on the Cross and beyond is not immediately accessible to those who stood at its foot some two thousand years ago, as indeed it remains a profound mystery for every Christian since. It is an event that moves beyond human word and comprehension. “Every word is silenced before this… the Father’s hour, when the eternal triune plan is executed,” says von Balthasar.

It is precisely the Word, the only necessary Word, that speaks in the action that begins on the Cross.  The Cross will verify, through the glory of the Resurrection, the fullest revelation of God in His incarnate Word; and in doing so, it will stand as the final word of God’s love for humanity, in the Lamb who takes away the sins of the world.

The Crucifixion, by Andrea Mantegna

Yet in this action, the Word nailed to the Cross utters seven, spoken words, as recorded across the four Gospels. Spoken by the Son, these words draw in all time and embrace it within the history of faith. On the one hand, they recall and fulfil the Father’s Word as revealed in the Old Testament, words spoken in earlier centuries, but overlooked and forgotten. On the other, they promise the new life in the Spirit that the Church will offer mankind for the duration of this world, and the future glory of eternal life.

Thus, to use Benedict XVI’s language, the word of God and event become deeply interwoven at the Cross. In the eternal nature of the Word, human events are joined to a greater and timeless mystery. As Christ hangs on the Cross, the Christian sees the culmination of the history of faith, the master plan enacted by the Holy Trinity in and through the vagaries of human history. The Christian sees on the Cross the Logos that gave creation itself its very logic, that overlooked the fall of our first parents, that was promised in ever-increasing relief over millennia of covenants and prophecies.

More than this, in the Son of Man lifted up on the Cross, the Christian sees the gateway to the end of all history, as intended by God: the Wedding Feast of the Lamb. The Cross unlocks the Divine promise that will close all earthly history and bring the history of faith to fulfilment in the new Jerusalem. Through whatever events Providence allows this world to come to its end, our personal stories will continue through the veil of that apocalypse and into the Light that will reveal their true significance. Through the Cross, shines that Light.

By Stefan Kaminski, Director

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Advent with St Anthony: Perseverance

22nd December, 2022

The CHC blog

Advent With St Anthony: Perseverance

In this final Advent reflection, Gabriel Stirling looks at what St Anthony the Great can teach us about preserving in the faith.

‘What did you go out into the wilderness to see?’ – Gospel of St Matthew, 11.7

Advent will soon be over and Christmas will begin. As the Gloria returns to Mass, Christians across the globe will gather to celebrate the birth of our Saviour. 

At the same time, the change of the season brings to an end this series of blogs. 

We conclude with the death of St Anthony of Egypt. Aged 105 and having spent most of his life in the seclusion of the mountains, he left his monastery for one last time, heading to spend eternity with God.

Before his death, St Anthony spoke to his fellow monks, calling them to prepare “zealously” in hope of the return of Our Lord. Warning of “the treachery of the demons”, he nonetheless reassures them to “Fear them not, but rather ever breathe Christ, and trust Him.” 

St Anthony spoke from harsh experience. During the past few weeks, these blogs have delved into the spiritual torment which the monk endured at the hands of the Devil. In this 15th century Italian painting, St Anthony is shown being tempted by the promise of Gold. But trusting in God, St Anthony was delivered from the pit of sin.

As Christmas begins and passes, it might be easy to forget the lessons learned from Advent. But through the changing seasons, the message shown in the Holy Scriptures and by the lives of the Saints remains the same. The looming sense of preparation that defines Advent has value throughout our life.

Owing to this is the fact that we are in dire need of preparation. The threat of sin is one which we all face, a point graphically illustrated by St Anthony during the last few weeks. As St John puts it candidly in his First Epistle, “if we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves.”

Yet we are not without hope. At Christmas, we celebrate the Nativity of the Incarnate Word and the hope which he brought into the world. This hope remains with us in the Church, which as the bride of Christ, prepares sinners to spend eternity with God. Her sacraments – and the Eucharist in particular – provide us with real hope that we might be reconciled to God.

Saint Anthony the Abbot Tempted by a Heap of Gold, Master of Osservanza

Therefore, the message of Advent is not a seasonal fixture that comes and goes like the latest TikTok trend. Our life forms its own extended Advent, a sense of constant preparation. This might seem a tall order. The world – and indeed our own lives – can feel irretrievably broken. But as one popular hymn reminds us, Christ offers us real hope of everlasting peace:

O come, O come, Emmanuel,
And ransom captive Israel,
That mourns in lonely exile here,
Until the Son of God appear.

Wishing you all a warm and Holy Christmas.

Read also:

Advent with St Anthony: Preparation

Advent with St Anthony: Penance