Tag: Catholicism

Memorial of St Ambrose, Bishop and Doctor of the Church

St Ambrose of Milan

St Ambrose of Milan was renown even in his own lifetime as a brilliant theologian, a kind and indefatigable pastor, and an accomplished statesman. But one of the things for which he was regarded as remarkable will seem puzzling, even comical, today: his ability to read silently! Silent reading is now the norm rather than the exception; we would think it odd to find someone reading aloud to themselves. But in late antiquity – and on into the Medieval era – reading aloud was so much the norm that the ability to read silently seems to have ranked as a remarkable accomplishment.

We learn of St Ambrose’s ability to do so in the Confessions of his contemporary, St Augustine: “When he read his eyes would travel across the pages and his mind would explore the sense, but his voice and tongue were silent” (VI,3[3], in as translated by Sr Maria Boulding, OSB).

There is an intriguing if oblique reference in the Rule of St Benedict to the fact that reading aloud, even to oneself, was the norm in his time. In arranging the outline of the monks’ day, Chapter 48 prescribes that “after Sext [or midday prayer] and their meal, they may rest on their beds in complete silence; should a brother wish to read privately, let him do so, but without disturbing the others” (as translated by monks of Collegeville).  “Reading privately” in the dormitory would not disturb others unless it were done aloud; the Rule expects it to be in a low voice during the siesta so as to allow others to sleep.

I mention all of this in order to draw attention to the fact that, historically, people engaged with texts in a way that involved more of the body than does the silent reading to which we are now accustomed, and texts were written in the expectation that they would be experienced in this way. You may find this helpful in your own encounters with Sacred Scripture, liturgical texts (when you pray alone), the writings of the Fathers and Mothers of the church, and “secular” writings, too. If you are struggling to encounter a text in a way that resonates with you, whether in lectio divina or in some other situation, try reading it aloud to yourself; try proclaiming it if it is something proclaimable. You may find that it comes alive in a new way.

Feast of St Andrew the Apostle

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St Andrew, Simone Martini, ca. 1326, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

Today’s feast might be an appropriate occasion for the inaugural post on this new website. The Abbey in which I spent truly formative years as a monk is under the patronage of this Saint and, while I am no longer affiliated with it in any way, it remains one of those places-of-the-heart for me. St Andrew is the patron of Scotland, the country from which a few of my ancestors hail, including (at least according to Hazlet lore) Robert the Bruce – and of whose national dress, the kilt, I am a great fan. More somberly, today’s saint is the patron of Ukraine, a country embroiled in terrible conflict at this time.

Most relevant, though, to the purpose of this website is that St Andrew is regarded as the first of Jesus’ disciples, the “Protoclete” or “first called,” and discipleship of the Lord will be an underlying theme here.

Today’s Gospel, Matthew 4:18-22, contains that puzzling summons of Jesus, “Come after me, and I will make you fishers of men.” “Fishers of persons” might give a better sense of what is intended here. Jesus is evidently presenting this fishing for human beings as a good thing, yet when fish are pulled from the sea, they die and are eaten. We could have a long discussion about how or whether this might be justifiable in terms of human stewardship of Creation, but as an analogy for what the disciples of Jesus do it is certainly puzzling.

Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI is a controversial figure. His ministry contained many tensions: having been a rather progressive theologian and peritus or adviser to the Second Vatican Council, he became known for his conservatism as Prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. His papacy was characterized by encyclicals, homilies, and audiences of often quite striking theological and pastoral – even mystical – insight, an over-the-top approach to liturgical splendor and pontifical haberdashery that verged on camp, and, alas, some decisions and policies that can only be called regressive and and that were in some instances genuinely harmful. Then, in a highly ambiguous and much-discussed gesture, he resigned, becoming the first Pope to have done so in nearly six hundred years.

In any case, his homily on the occasion of the inauguration of his papacy contains what I find to be a very helpful insight into this reading from the Gospel of St Matthew – an insight, he says, that is of Patristic origin. (One doesn’t cite sources in a homily, but I do wish he had done so in this case – I’ve been unable to track down the source in question! Perhaps one of you, dear readers, might help me here.)

The saline environment of the sea is splendid for the fish who live there, but aside from the occasional swim (or free-dive, or snorkel, or scuba excursion), it is most inhospitable for human beings. Immersed in it, we die. It becomes a place of alienation from which we need rescuing. So, to go fishing for human beings is not to entangle them in a deadly net, but to seek to draw them from alienation and death into community and life. In the person of Jesus, and, through him, in the embrace of the Holy Trinity, we have found both.

Our vocation as disciples, and, together, as the Church, is thus not to try to persuade people of an idea, but to live in relationship with one another, with Jesus, and with the world in the way Jesus both proclaimed and enacted. If sin has scattered and alienated us from one another and from God (even, indeed, from our own true selves), Jesus, simply in virtue of who he is, draws us back toward the Center which is himself, and the closer we are to him, the closer we are to one-another and to every being made by God.