The Tomb of St. Peter

Statue of St. Peter

Giuseppe De Fabris. Statue of St. Peter (1840). St. Peter’s Square, Vatican City. (saintpetersbasilica.org)

Nearly every day, consistently, the top-ranking search term for my blog is “tomb of st. peter” or some variant. Every day, this post, about my pilgrimage to the tomb of St. Paul, attracts at least several hits in search of St. Peter, despite only mentioning him in passing (to a relic of St. Peter, his head, being at the Lateran). Clearly there is a great deal of demand for the relics of the Prince of Apostles. I have heard my readers’ cry, and decided to give them what they wanted.

As it happens, this is a topic that fascinates me, too. It combines so many of my favorite things: saints, cemeteries, the Church, ancient Rome, archaeology, and history. I had never studied much about the search for St. Peter’s relics, but it was something I had been wanting to pursue for a long time — since I had stood there at the high altar of St. Peter’s, in fact.

St. Peter's Basilica

St. Peter’s Basilica, Vatican City, Rome (Google Earth)

At that time, in 2005, I was something of a skeptic, not yet a searcher. The tomb of St. Paul had been so powerful to me because I had read about the recent archaeological findings. I had faith that Paul was really there. When I got to St. Peter’s however, I knew nothing about the extensive archaeology that had been done beneath the basilica or the provenance of the relics discovered there. I didn’t even understand where exactly the relics were; and I didn’t speak Italian and couldn’t ask. So when I stood there at the altar, peering down into the confessio, I wasn’t quite sure what I was looking at.

Confessio of St. Peter's

Confessio of St. Peter’s. (saintpetersbasilica.org)

What I was looking at was the confessio, the chamber leading down to the tomb. Only those with permission (usually clergy) are allowed to go down these steps, to pray as close as possible to the body of the saint. The niche at the end of the confessio, immediately below the altar, is called the Niche of the Pallia. When in Rome, I thought the silver coffer under the ancient Christ mosaic might contain St. Peter’s bones — but this is actually the chest that contains the pallia, the wool bands which the pope presents to metropolitan bishops as a symbol of delegated authority. The night before the pallium ceremony, the vestments are placed here overnight, that St. Peter, chief of all bishops, might bless them.

The niche had been here, like so, for centuries, longer than anyone could remember. Even before that, there had been generations of successive popes who had remodeled the altar area. The tradition had always been, since time immemorial, that St. Peter was buried beneath the high altar — but it had been ages since anyone had laid eyes on the tomb, and no one knew exactly what was down there.


In 1939, following the death of Pope Pius XI, the Vatican had decided to expand the Grottoes under the basilica in preparation for the pope’s burial. To make room for the additions, they needed to lower the floor. As soon as workmen started digging, they began uncovering marble sarcophagi — burials that over the ages had been lowered through the floor (which had been at the level of the original floor of Old St. Peter’s). This wasn’t cause for particular concern; they set them aside. But then, within a few months of beginning work they struck something — masonry. Old masonry, older than anything that should have been there. Hastily, the workmen summoned the Vatican archaeologist. Very carefully, they exposed what proved to be an ancient mausoleum, without its roof.

Vatican Necropolis

The Vatican Necropolis.

The ancient tradition is that the emperor Constantine had built St. Peter’s on top of an ancient, pagan necropolis, in which St. Peter had been buried following his martyrdom, to venerate the grave of the Apostle. The Vatican archaeologists soon uncovered the truth of this: a long avenue lined with some two dozen ancient, pagan tombs, dating certainly to the second and third centuries and possibly even older. Though most of the oldest tombs were pagan, the later ones showed evidence of increasing Christian burials. A number contained remarkable artwork.

Slope diagrams

Diagrams showing the location of the excavations under St. Peter’s Basilica, along the natural slope of Vatican Hill, which Constantine had leveled in construction of the original basilica, burying the necropolis. (Walsh)

St. Peter’s Basilica was built on the side of the Vatican Hill. Not only does the slope of the hill rise from east (the façade of the church) to west (the apse), but at an even steeper incline, it also rises from south to north. The ground had to be built up considerably to lay an even foundation for the church, and in the process the builders simply removed the roofs of the necropolis’s tombs, packed dirt into the chambers, and used the walls as supports. In the process they preserved them, and left a considerable portion of the ancient cemetery sloping down underneath the church. Over the ensuing months and years, archaeologists painstakingly excavated as much as they could. The corridor of the necropolis, with tombs on both sides, extends some sixty meters beneath the Grottoes. The original necropolis was probably even larger, but the excavators were limited by how much they could uncover without undermining the foundations of the church: Constantine erected six great retaining walls into the hillside, running the length of the church, and no doubt slicing through the cemetery.

Initially reluctant, Pope Pius XII granted permission for the archaeologists to investigate beneath the high altar. Breaking through the rear wall of the Clementine Chapel, they discovered a wall of ancient marble trimmed with porphyry — which proved to be the back of the ancient memoria Constantine had erected around St. Peter’s tomb.*

* This description presupposes a lot that the archaeologists only understood after years of excavation, interpretation, and reconstruction. Initially, they had only a vague idea what they were looking at.


According to the historian Eusebius, writing in the 290s, Saints Peter and Paul were both martyred in Rome under the persecution of Nero, ca. 63–67. Eusebius attests that “this account . . . is substantiated by the fact that their names are preserved in the cemeteries of that place even to the present day.” He cites as testimony a disputation published by Gaius, a churchman under Pope Zephyrinus (r. 199–217), against Proclus, an early Montanist leader. When Proclus appealed to the tombs of St. Philip and his daughters at Hierapolis to substantiate the apostolic tradition of his teaching, Gaius replied, declaring the superiority of Rome’s apostolic tombs (Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History II.25):

But I can show the trophies of the apostles. For if you will go to the Vatican or to the Ostian way, you will find the trophies of those who laid the foundations of this church.

Eusebius, writing some forty years before Constantine began work on St. Peter’s Basilica, here confirms the tradition that St. Peter was buried on the Vatican, and that St. Paul was buried along the Ostian Way, where Constantine also built the Basilica of St. Paul Outside the Walls. Their tombs were still well known in Eusebius’s day. By Gaius’s testimony, the tombs were certainly being venerated from an early date. It is from this passage that the archaeologists came to identify the ancient monument they discovered over St. Peter’s grave, preserved inside Constantine’s memoria, as the Tropaion (τρόπαιον, or “trophy”) of Gaius.

Tropaion

A reconstruction of St. Peter’s Tropaion, with his grave beneath. (Fabbrica di San Pietro)

The Tropaion, as archaeologists discovered it inside Constantine’s memoria and reconstructed it, is believed to have been erected under the reign of Pope Anicetus, between 150 and 167 (this dating from some marked bricks found in the area and from a reference in the Liber Pontificalis regarding the pope who “built the monument of the blessed Peter,” who is identified mistakenly with Pope Anacletus). The archaeologists were able to reconstruct, by the many other graves nearly, layered upon each other — likely Christians who wanted to lie near St. Peter — a history of the grave, dating back certainly, they argued, to the latter half of the first century when Peter would have been buried.

Tropaion Model

A model of the way the Tropaion would have appeared ca. 260, after the construction of the Graffiti Wall. (mcsmith.blogs.com)

Sometime in the mid-third century, around the decade of 250–260, a major break occurred in the supporting wall behind the Tropaion (the famous “Red Wall” of the excavation). A thick sustaining wall was built against the north side of the Tropaion, upsetting its aesthetics considerably but supporting the structure. This wall, when archaeologists discovered it, had come to be covered with the graffiti of pilgrims. Another wall was eventually built on the south side. This is the way the monument would have appeared in the time of Constantine.


Constantine's Memoria

A model of Constantine’s memoria, circa fourth century. The clear shelf at the top of the model corresponds with the floor of the modern-day basilica. (mcsmith.blogs.com)

Constantine Memoria back

The rear of Constantine’s memoria. Compare to the rear wall of the Clementine Chapel (see link above). (mcsmith.blogs.com)

Pope Gregory's high altar and confessio

Pope Gregory’s high altar and confessio, circa seventh century. (mcsmith.blogs.com)


Niche of the Pallia

The Niche of the Pallia. (christusrex.org)

Constantine laid the foundations of St. Peter’s basilica between 326 and 333. In leveling the Vatican Necropolis, a cemetery still in active use, he violated Rome’s most sacred laws against the desecration of graves; it would have taken all his imperial authority to avoid censure. But honoring the Christian Apostles was a higher call. It is likely that Pope Sylvester confirmed the location of St. Peter’s grave, under his protection, to Constantine.

In the same way he had done at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, Constantine venerated St. Peter’s tomb by breaking down everything around it and encasing it in a marble shell, the memoria. He left the Tropaion intact exactly as it was, even with the unaesthetic graffiti wall. In the original basilica, the memoria stood at the floor level of the church, with the altar set up before it.

Pope Gregory the Great (r. 590–604) conducted a major remodeling of the high altar area of St. Peter’s Basilica during his papacy. He wanted to celebrate Mass on an altar above St. Peter’s tomb — which he placed on top of Constantine’s memoria. In order for the altar to be at the proper level, Gregory raised the floor around the altar, and created the beginnings of the recessed confessio beneath it, and a crypt behind it (which would become the Clementine Chapel).

Later popes would make further additions and improvements. Popes Callixtus II (r. 1119–1124) and Clement VIII (r. 1592–1605) both installed new high altars. Gradually Constantine’s memoria and St. Peter’s tomb were lost from view and memory. St. Peter’s tomb was here, tradition assured the Church; but nothing more was known for certain, than that the Apostle lay beneath the high altar.

The Niche of the Pallia, in the confessio of the present church, rests in the portal of Constantine’s ancient memoria. Immediately beneath it lies St. Peter’s tomb.


That’s enough for one bite! Stay tuned for Part Two, concerning the excavation of the Tropaion: “The Grave of St. Peter.” And the conclusion in Part Three, concerning the relics supposedly belonging to St. Peter, “The Bones of St. Peter.”

Sources:
  • Kirschbaum, Engelbert, S.J. The Tombs of St. Peter and St. Paul. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1959.
  • Walsh, John Evangelist. The Bones of St. Peter. New York: Doubleday, 1982.

Suscipe, Domine

St. Ignatius of Loyola

St. Ignatius of Loyola

Receive, O Lord, all my liberty.
Take my memory, my understanding, and my entire will.
Whatsoever I have or hold, You have given me;
to be governed by your will.
Give me only your love and your grace,
and I am rich enough and ask for nothing more.

The Scholar’s Prayer

Saint Thomas Aquinas

Saint Thomas Aquinas. Detail from Benozzo Gonzolli, The Triumph of Saint Thomas Aquinas (1471), Louvre Museum, Paris.

Creator of all things,
true Source of light and wisdom,
lofty origin of all being,
graciously let a ray of Your brilliance
penetrate into the darkness of my understanding
and take from me the double darkness
in which I have been born,
an obscurity of both sin and ignorance.
Give me a sharp sense of understanding,
a retentive memory,
and the ability to grasp things correctly and fundamentally.
Grant me the talent of being exact in my explanations,
and the ability to express myself with thoroughness and charm.
Point out the beginning,
direct the progress,
and help in completion;
through Christ our Lord.
Amen.

Patron saint of scholars

Saint Joseph’s Day

Today is Saint Joseph’s day, my name day. But now is probably the time to note how completely out to sea I feel in many aspects of Catholic culture.

I don’t entirely understand how “patron saints” work, for churches and institutions, but particularly for individuals. Is there some formal process by which a patron saint is declared? Or is someone a “patron” just because I declare it so, because I ask them in particular to look out for me and pray for me? Are they exclusive? Can I have only one, special patron? Or can I fill my bucket with all my favorite saints I would like to have covering my back, and call them all my patrons? Do they have any particular say in the matter? Is it like choosing an academic advisor; in which case they might decide that their docket is full, and that they can’t afford to take any more advisees? Or do saints in heaven literally have all the time in the world, being outside our understanding of time? Is it, as I’ve heard many people say, a matter of the saint choosing us — much as “the wand chooses the wizard” in the world of Harry Potter?

In many cultures and many times over history, I know, children were often named for the saint on whose feast day they were born — joining their name day and their birthday. For children who are born Catholic, is their patron saint generally the saint for whom they are named? (In that case, what about children given more modern, non-saintly names?) Or do they, as I will, choose their own patron saint at their confirmation? Are there any particular customs attached to the celebration of the feast day of an individual’s patron saint?

Magnificant, March 2012

Bartolomé Esteban Murillo (1617-1682), Saint Joseph and the Child Jesus, on the cover of this month's Magnificat.

St. Joseph. He is a saint held in especially high regard in the Catholic Church, being the adoptive father of Our Lord, the spouse of Our Lady, and the head of the Holy Family. I learned only today that he is the patron of the Catholic Church. I was gratified when it occurred to me, some months into this process, that my pastor, my bishop, and my pope all share my birth name. I noticed, on Rome Reports, that today is “the pope’s feast day.” Is this by virtue of his name being Joseph, of St. Joseph being his personal patron saint, or of his being pope? Or all of the above?

I really struggled, some months ago, with accepting many of the Marian beliefs. And conjoined to this was the idea of St. Joseph as Mary’s “most chaste spouse” — a notion, like Mary’s Perpetual Virginity, that is very foreign to the Protestant mind. For Protestants especially, Joseph becomes an everyman — just an average joe who received a very special calling from God. He becomes the typical dad and family man. For Catholics, too, he is held up as the exemplary family man, the patron of both fathers and workers; but Catholics ascribe a very atypical degree of righteousness and virtue to this man. Because the Holy Family is in no way a typical family. Not only is the wife the Most Blessed Virgin and Mother of God, and the son Our Lord and Savior, the Eternal Son of God — but St. Joseph has to be an incredible sort of man to put up with all this.

For Protestants, it is much simpler, because Mary, too, is just an average girl who was incredibly used of God. Joseph and Mary become the typical married couple, sharing a typical marriage with each other, which includes a sexual union and other children. To Catholics, the Holy Family models the relationships of Father and Mother to Son and Church; but beyond that, it little resembles any one of our earthly families. It has no sexual component. Two of its three members are most holy and without sin. Joseph becomes the “most chaste spouse” who, after a betrothal to a girl he desired to marry, never experiences sexual union with her at all.

The image of St. Joseph as a man changes considerably for Catholics. He is a much older man, already advanced in years, possibly a widower with other children. I have heard various interpretations and explanations of the “brothers and sisters” or “brethren” of the Lord — that they were Joseph’s children by his prior marriage, or that they were Jesus’s cousins or other close relatives — but the agreement for Catholics is that they were not the children of Mary. As an older man, Joseph wouldn’t have experienced particular hardship in forgoing sexual union. He becomes the guardian and protector of both Jesus and the young Blessed Virgin, taking Jesus as his adoptive son and Mary effectively as his ward. He is willing to do these things because he is a righteous man willing to lay down himself to serve God. He truly earns his sainthood; for the kind of man he was, not merely for the unique position he was in.

And so, St. Joseph is somebody I’m having to get to know all over again, like the Blessed Virgin Mary, whose place in my life I am still trying to find. I find myself having a difficult time relating to him; but he is certainly someone I must admire and venerate.

Confession and Healing

Today I made my First Confession.

I’ve heard from various friends about the sensations they felt the first time they took part in the Sacrament of Reconciliation — from joy, to peace, to release. For me, it was similar. I was very nervous going in. It was a new experience, and I would be laying my soul and my faults bare. I had written out my confessions beforehand. As I confessed them, I had the sensation of a pouring out of my soul — and in the end, catharsis. I felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I felt clean. I didn’t smile; I didn’t skip away; I cried.

Who is a God like you, pardoning iniquity
and passing over transgression
for the remnant of his inheritance?
He does not retain his anger forever,
because he delights in steadfast love.
He will again have compassion on us;
he will tread our iniquities underfoot.
You will cast all our sins
into the depths of the sea.
—Micah 7:18-19 ESV

This has always been one of my favorite Scriptures about God’s forgiveness. Today I truly feel that my sins have been cast into the depths of the sea.

What has moved me the most in approaching Confession is that it’s known as a Sacrament of Healing. I don’t know what I thought it was when I was a Protestant; but I conceived of it more as a burden, a legalistic obligation, than as an administration to the soul. Christ is the physician to our bodies and souls. Confession is the Sacrament of Reconcilation, the Sacrament by which we as sinners are reconciled to the Church, to each other, and to God. It is also called the Sacrament of Conversion, because through it, through Confession and Penance, we actively turn away from our sins and convert (turn towards) God and His path of righteousness (CCC 1423-1424). This whole chapter in the Catechism is powerful and poignant to me; I have quoted sections of it before; but to quote another:

“The whole power of the sacrament of Penance consists in restoring us to God’s grace and joining us with him in an intimate friendship.” Reconciliation with God is thus the purpose and effect of this sacrament. For those who receive the sacrament of Penance with contrite heart and religious disposition, reconciliation “is usually followed by peace and serenity of conscience with strong spiritual consolation.” Indeed the sacrament of Reconciliation with God brings about a true “spiritual resurrection,” restoration of the dignity and blessings of the life of the children of God, of which the most precious is friendship with God (CCC 1468).

One of the key scriptural foundations for Confession is telling to this point:

Is anyone among you suffering? Let him pray. Is anyone cheerful? Let him sing praise. Is anyone among you sick? Let him call for the elders of the church, and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord. And the prayer of faith will save the one who is sick, and the Lord will raise him up. And if he has committed sins, he will be forgiven. Therefore, confess your sins to one another and pray for one another, that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous person has great power as it is working.
—James 5:13-16 ESV

Here, confession of sins is intimately connected with healing, both physical and spiritual. And it is paired essentially with the other Sacrament of Healing, the Anointing of the Sick.

In the Christian tradition from which I’m coming, miraculous healings, through the gifts of the Holy Spirit, are at the forefront of the Christian experience. When someone is sick, especially gravely sick, there is so much prayerful petition, so much faith and hope that God will work miracles of healing through prayer, anointing, and the laying on of hands — inspired by the healing miracles of Christ and the Apostles, and by this same Scripture that undergirds the Catholic Sacrament of Anointing of the Sick. There is a genuine belief and an active faith that God heals; but even beyond this, there is ready credence and faith given to faith healers, individuals who profess to have individual, personal gifts of miraculous healing through the Holy Spirit. Jesus said, in the Great Commission of the “Longer Ending” of Mark (Mark 16:14-20), that “whoever believes and is baptized will be saved,” and that “these signs will accompany those who believe: in my name they will cast out demons; they will speak in new tongues . . . ; they will lay their hands on the sick, and they will recover.” St. Paul, in 1 Corinthians 12, writes of gifts of healing and other spiritual gifts. While Catholics and cessationists apply these passages only to the Apostles and believers of the Apostolic Age, many Protestants and continuationists apply them to wider Church, to all believers in all ages, and believe that these miraculous, personal gifts of healing continue to this day.

I have no doubt that God heals today — that He intervenes in our lives in miraculous and mysterious ways. If this weren’t the case, I wouldn’t be alive today. But I believe that more often than not, these healings follow the course of the mysterious rather than the miraculous: of God’s infinite love and grace, and not His desire to make a show or spectacle. My own healing was miraculous, but it was a private, personal miracle, more for me than for anyone else. My experience, and the faith it engenders in me, is of little weight to anyone else; and to me, that makes it all the more personal and precious. I believe God works through medicine, through surgery, through the unexplained, through paths that no one sees, that few appreciate but those that receive His graces. When it comes to professed faith healers, to individuals with professed gifts of healing, I tend to be a skeptic. Many of them, I fear, are charlatans and showmen. I certainly don’t believe “word of faith” teaching, that professes that we can “speak” or “declare” God’s blessings and graces into our lives.

Do Catholics believe in divine healing? This was one of the most pressing questions I faced as I made this journey. When someone is terminally ill and dying in the Catholic Church, I have never heard a priest or anyone pray for God’s divine healing. There seems to be a ready acceptance that death is imminent. In many ways I think this is healthy; earthly death is a part of life, as much as being born, and I have seen firsthand the crises of faith faced by those who believed they had “spoken” a healing and “received” it, only to face death in the end. But do Catholics believe in divine healing? Most certainly. Catholicism abounds with stories attributing healings and other miracles to the intercession of saints; even attributing intercession against certain ailments and diseases to particular saints. St. Peregrine Laziosi, for example, is the patron saint against cancer.

And in the Catechism itself, in the mainstream, established doctrine of the Church, there is also hope in God’s healing. The Sacrament of Anointing of the Sick — the so-called “Last Rites” — is not a sacrament of death or even strictly of preparation for it, but of healing (CCC 1499-1532). Though the emphasis of the Sacrament, as described in the Catechism, is the healing of the soul — on the gift of grace to face sickness; on the forgiveness of sins; on preparation to make life’s final journey — throughout is an acknowledgement that Christ is a physical healer. It affirms that Christ may heal the body to accomplish the salvation of the soul (certainly, this is what happened for me); but accepts that the salvation of the soul is paramount, and that crossing over into the next life is a grace in itself to those who belong to Him.

So do Catholics believe in divine healing? Yes, they do. Sometimes I think that there should be more faith and prayer for physical healing in this life; but what I see, more openly than that, is perhaps even more valuable: a full acceptance of God’s Will and Grace in our lives, that not ours, but His Will be done.

Poor Saint Valentine

This morning, picking myself up off the ground and climbing back on my horse yet again, I happened to glance a few pages back in my Magnificat, and take a look at the liturgical calendar.

David Teniers III. St. Valentine Kneeling in Supplcation. 1600s. (Wikipedia.)

David Teniers III. St. Valentine Kneeling in Supplcation. 1600s. (Wikipedia.)

In my anxiety to avoid all the glut and glurge of St. Valentine’s Day the other day, I had neglected to realize that St. Valentine’s Day, by far the most popularly known and universally celebrated saint’s day on the calendar — isn’t actually on the calendar. Or rather, it’s not on the general calendar. St. Valentine is not the saint that’s recommended for all churches to celebrate at Mass that day. Instead, that’s Saints Cyril and Methodius, two saints I’m rather fond of, and would have found a lot of comfort in commemorating. In addition to being great heroes of the faith, they invented an alphabet!

But St. Valentine. If you ask a typical Protestant to name a saint’s feast day, they will almost certainly name St. Valentine’s Day. It’s on most secular calendars. But not on ours, the place I would have expected to find it most prominently? My curiosity piqued, I turned to the place I knew would have an interesting and informative post: Brad at Southern Fried Catholicism.

The story was far richer, and more gratifying to a Valentine’s hater, than I could have imagined. As it turns out, there are more than a dozen saints named Valentine (the name, Valentinus, stemming from Latin valens, meaning “strong, powerful”), and popular culture celebrates entirely the wrong one on February 14, subjecting a perfectly innocent and worthy third century martyr to association with cheap love, cheesy cards, and mass-produced candy, thanks to a famous mistake involving Geoffrey Chaucer, King Richard II, and later lovestruck Victorians. With so much uncertainty and so much confusion (and, I like to think, a bit of Catholic disgust for the popular holiday, too), the Church under Pope Paul VI removed the festival from the general calendar in 1969. May St. Valentine — the real St. Valentine — any one of them, or all of them — please pray for us, and all the people left feeling lost and lonely by this unfortunate celebration.

The First Harbingers

The Apostle Paul

The Apostle Paul

The first and only time I ever had a formal Sunday school lesson curriculum was in my seventh grade Sunday school. For two semesters, we were taught about the journeys and epistles of the Apostle Paul (the first time I learned the word “epistle”). We had a small, intimate group of boys, a nurturing teacher, and truly instructive and edifying lessons — perhaps the only formal Bible instruction I ever received. I do not remember our teacher’s name; only that he was a good man and a good teacher, a leader with the Royal Rangers (the Assemblies of God’s answer to Boy Scouts). He looked an awful lot like the image of Paul on the cover of our lesson booklets — short and bald with a beard and moustache — so to me he will always be Paul. (I will have to inquire about his name; I would like to know.)

I remember being fascinated with the historical Paul and his times. It was the first time I had ever truly conceived of a biblical character as a true, flesh and blood person, or of biblical times in the context of history. This was the same year that I first became enthralled with ancient history in Mr. Reece’s Social Studies class (may he rest in God’s mercy). I remember the maps of Paul’s missionary journeys; I have always loved maps. Every Bible I’ve ever had has included maps of Paul’s three missionary journeys, but I distinctly remember there being a fourth one. Perhaps it was his journey to Rome, as few evangelicals seem to acknowledge anything that took place outside the certainty of Scripture; but I do recall this map taking him to western Europe and to Spain, as he had hoped (Romans 15:24). My ESV Study Bible notes that there is “some historical evidence” that Paul did preach in Spain — among the Church Fathers? This mystery has compelled me for years.

(An aside: Another memory, another song, that’s always dwelt on the edges of my memory, from the Christian conference in Richmond we used to attend when I was a child: In our daytime class, they taught us a song about the twelve disciples. All these years I’ve been trying to remember that song, every time I’ve tried to recall the twelve Apostles — but all I could remember was the last one, “and Bartholomew.” For that reason, Bartholomew has always had a special place in my heart, as the “last one picked.” Anyway, recalling vaguely the tune, “and Bartholomew,” I set out to find that song tonight — and I found it! To the tune of “Bringing in the Sheaves.”)

I remember the first time I ever heard of the Roman Catholic Church — some outlandish rumor from a friend, when I was ten or so, that Roman Catholics drank wine and worshiped naked. Perhaps he had it confused with some pagan ritual?

The next harbinger — the first clear indication that I was longing for the roots of my faith — appeared when I was sixteen or so. At Calvary in those days, we had a zealous, emotional youth pastor named Pastor Pat, who encouraged us to be “on fire” for God. In many ways this was a painful time for me; it was even more painful in its coming to an end. So it is ironic — no, it is the work of God’s hand, bringing all the pieces together — that an experience that came so close to driving me away from God completely should be so instrumental in my discovering my true path so many years later.

Caravaggio, Crucifixion of Peter

The Crucifixion of Peter, by Caravaggio

A number of Pastor Pat’s sermons left a mark on me — some ridiculous, others thoughtful but overblown — but there was one in particular that I will never forget. Pastor Pat had somehow gotten a hold of a book other than the Bible, Foxe’s Book of Martyrs (which he declared to be “the closest thing to inspired literature other than the Bible”), and he passionately preached the martyrdom of St. Peter, crucified upside down because he felt unworthy to die in the same manner as his Lord, and of St. Polycarp, burned at the stake but miraculously spared from the flames, until pierced by the sword.

The vivid pictures Pastor Pat painted of these early heroes of faith captured my imagination. Very soon after that, I ventured to the library (I was driving by this time) and checked out a book on the fates of the Apostles after the New Testament. For the first time, I conceived that our Church had a history after the New Testament but before us. I also around this time began to wonder about the New Testament itself, and discovered the New Testament apocrypha. I was deeply fascinated, and more than a little disturbed, that there were writings that the early Church had rejected. I checked out several books of apocryphal writings. I did not study them deeply, but read enough to convince myself that there was a reason they were rejected, and that we have the New Testament we are supposed to have. This was perhaps the early stages of the real period of questioning my faith that I entered my senior year. Reason, with regard to my faith, was awakening.

The Historical Church

Tonight was the second week of RCIA. There are about thirty inquirers, I would say — I first started trying to jot down their names, then at least count them, and finally stopped at “a lot.” We went around the room and introduced ourselves. The lesson tonight was on “Religion vs. Spirituality,” the difference between the two, the world’s definition and view of religion, and the Catholic answer to it. I spoke up several times to contribute to the discussion or to answer questions; but often I feel that my comments may appear to others that I’m trying to show off my knowledge, and I end up kicking myself.

We were asked to explain what was drawing us to the Catholic Church. I named about three things (though I’m afraid I rambled a bit): the Church’s continuity and connection to history and tradition; the unity and authority of the Church; and the order of Catholic doctrine and liturgy, and the peace that it brings. Several other people mentioned being drawn by the Church’s history and the conviction that it is the true and original Church. And that brings me back to where I was a few nights ago, before my train of thought was wrecked: the premises on which I’m undertaking this journey.

After interrogation and reflection, I’m going to revise the first one:

Premise #1: Everyone who calls on the name of Christ, and subscribes to historical, ecumenical creeds of the Church, is a Christian. God, in His mercy and grace, works through many different churches. But not all churches are the same.

I maintain that spiritually, we are all part of Body of Christ — even if one arm, and other various appendages, have gone and hacked themselves off. The Roman Catholic Church, I’ve come to believe, embodies the true Church that Christ founded through His Apostles, in which His Real Presence subsists and ministers.

Second — and I’ve been trying to write this for days:

Premise #2: The Roman Catholic Church represents an unbroken continuity of history and tradition from Jesus Christ and His Apostles to the present.

The Church’s history, more than anything else, is what has drawn me to the Church; what has lit my way to its threshold. I’ve been fascinated and compelled by it since the very first time I encountered it as a teenager. In college, as a history major, the history of the Church and its saints captured my heart more than almost anything else.

Christianity, the Bible tells us, was founded by Jesus Christ and His Apostles in Jerusalem, in Judaea, ca. A.D. 33. According to the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus entrusted His Church to the Apostle Peter: “And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.” (Matthew 16:18). St. Peter, both Catholic and Protestant scholars widely agree, journeyed to Rome and was the first bishop of the Christian church there. Over a period of several centuries, the primacy of the bishops of Rome — their authority over all other bishops — came to be accepted by the rest of Christendom. Today, the bishop of Rome is better known by another title: pope (from Latin papa, a child’s word for “father,” as per English “papa”).

For 1500 years, the Roman Catholic Church was the Church in the West (the Eastern Orthodox Church formally split from Rome in the Great Schism of 1054). Across those years shine innumerable saints and heroes of the faith who have captured my love and admiration and inspired my faith. In the Church have been handed down the traditions and beliefs of the Early Church, and of countless believers over the centuries. When Martin Luther, John Calvin, and other leaders of the Protestant Reformation brought about their split from the Catholic Church, they discarded wholesale many, if not most, of these traditions and beliefs. The Reformers went far beyond their original grievances, finally cutting away everything but the Bible itself, leaving sola scriptura (Scripture alone). In so many ways, I feel they threw out the baby with the bathwater — which, it can’t be denied, was befouled and muddied. The Church needed to be reformed. What it didn’t need was to be shattered.

Since the Reformation, with no single, recognized authority, Protestant churches have continued to fragment into literally thousands of separate sects and denominations. Anyone with a complaint or grievance simply breaks away and forms a new church or denomination. Every division and schism marks a further degradation of the Historical Church — a further generation departed from the history and traditions of the Apostles. With each generation, more and more tradition is discarded as irrelevant (though some churches have attempted to reclaim parts of it). My church upbringing marked tradition’s total loss: there was no sense of tradition at all; no sense that anyone or anything had preceded us; no instruction in belief, practice, theology, or doctrine that had been handed down; no mention that we as Christians had any history at all, aside from a few references to Azusa Street, barely expounded upon. I pined for it. I longed for it, before I even knew what I was longing for.

In the Roman Catholic Church, I feel I’ve finally found what I’ve been longing for all my life: a connection to the past, to the continuous, unbroken history and tradition of Christ’s Church on Earth; a connection, always felt but never fully, to all the saints of all the ages. The wealth of tradition, of devotion, of belief, that I’ve been missing all these years, was not lost, but was all right here. I am coming home to that glorious city.

Prayer for Humility

Mother Cabrini

Mother Cabrini.

Lord Jesus Christ, I pray that you may fortify me with the grace of your Holy Spirit, and give your peace to my soul, that I may be free from all needless anxiety and worry. Help me to desire always that which is pleasing and acceptable to you, so that your will may be my will.

Grant that I may be free from unholy desires, and that, for your love, I may remain obscure and unknown in this world, to be known only to you.

Do not permit me to attribute to myself the good that you perform in me and through me, but rather, referring all honor to you, may I admit only to my infirmities, so that renouncing sincerely all vainglory which comes from the world, I may aspire to that true and lasting glory that comes from you. Amen.

St. Frances Xavier Cabrini (Mother Cabrini) (1850-1917)