The only certain portrait of Claudio Monteverdi, from the title page of Fiori poetici, a 1644 book of commemorative poems for his funeral (Wikipedia)
It’s not easy to be a pioneer. But that was the path Claudio Monteverdi followed. He straddled the fifteenth and sixteenth cenuries, living from 1567 to 1643. Monteverdi worked in both secular and religious music, and was a key figure in the development of opera, among other things. The composer introduced numerous innovations to the music of his time, playing a large role in the development of Renaissance music into baroque.
As we noted above, innovators don’t always enjoy smooth sailing. Individuals invested in the status quo will fight fiercely to preserve said status quo (and along with it, of course, their own importance). It’s no surprise, then, that Monteverdi received his share of criticism. We may be surprised to learn that even a thing as commonplace (to us) as harmony caused an enormous controversy.
I Rejoiced
All those disputes, of course are centuries behind us. We still listen to Monteverd’s music today because it’s beautiful and inspiring. On an earlier occasion I posted “Nisi Dominus” from Monteverdi’s Vespro Della Beata Vergine (a musical setting for Vespers, or Evening Prayer). Today I’m following up with another selection from the same composition, “Laetatus Sum”.
“Laetatus Sum” (I rejoiced) is a musical rendition of Psalm 122 (see the English translation below from the RSV). The Psalm itself celebrates the joy and peace one can find in “The House of the Lord.”
Jerusalem Old and New
The ancient psalmist was no doubt referring principally to the actual Jerusalem of his day, and the Temple of stone and wood built upon its heights. We, looking back through the lens of God’s Revelation in Jesus Christ, can see a deeper meaning. The Book of Revelation speaks of “the Holy City, the New Jerusalem, coming down out of Heaven from God” (Rev 21:2). In other words, the psalmist’s Jerusalem also represents our Heavenly Destination, Deo volente.
The New Testament, as St. Augustine pointed out, is concealed in the Old, and the Old Testament is revealed in the New. And here, beautifully put to music.
“Laetatus Sum” – English Baroque Soloists
The music in this clip features: – Ensemble: English Baroque Soloists – Choirs: Monteverdi Choir / London Oratory Junior Choir – Conductor: John Eliot Gardiner – Soloists: Michael Chance (Countertenor), Bryn Terfel (Bass), Alastair Miles (Bass), Ann Monoyios (Soprano), Sandro Naglia (Tenor), Nigel Robson (Tenor), Mark Tucker (Tenor)
I Rejoiced – Psalm 122
I was glad when they said to me, “Let us go to the house of the LORD!” Our feet have been standing within your gates, O Jerusalem!
Jerusalem, built as a city which is bound firmly together, to which the tribes go up, the tribes of the LORD, as was decreed for Israel, to give thanks to the name of the LORD. There thrones for judgment were set, the thrones of the house of David.
Pray for the peace of Jerusalem! “May they prosper who love you! Peace be within your walls, and
security within your towers!”
For my brethren and companions’ sake I will say, “Peace be within you!” For the sake of the house of the LORD our God, I will seek your good.
When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, “Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?” He said to him, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.” He said to him, “Feed my lambs.” A second time he said to him, “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” He said to him, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.” He said to him, “Tend my sheep.” He said to him the third time, “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” Peter was grieved because he said to him the third time, “Do you love me?” And he said to him, “Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Feed my sheep.” (John 21:15-17)
It’s Greek To Me
You’re probably familiar with the beautiful passage above, which is from the end of John’s Gospel. As he sits with the Risen Christ at a charcoal fire on the shores of the Sea of Galilee, Peter has the opportunity to redeem himself for what he did the last time we saw him at a charcoal fire. On the night of Holy Thursday, when Our Lord had been arrested, the apostle had denied Jesus three times. Here, Jesus invites Peter three times to tell his Lord, face to face, that he loves Him.
St. John the Evangelist, from the St. Thomas altarpiece Berruguete, Pedro (c.1450-1504) Convent of St. Tomas, Avila, Spain
I wrote an earlier version of this post as one of my first excursions into bloggery. There was something about the language in this passage that caught my attention: I was intrigued by the fact that the original Greek text uses two different words for “love.” I’m not familiar with any English translations that reflect this difference in wording. The difference is pretty clear, however, in the original language. The first two times Jesus asks, “do you love me?” he uses one Greek verb for “love”: ἀγαπᾷς (agapais). When Peter answers “I love you” he employs a different word, φιλῶ (philo); the third time Jesus switches to φιλῶ as well. Now, knowing that, among Christians, the verb ἀγαπῶ came to mean all-embracing divine love, whereas φιλῶ referred to ordinary human affection, I thought I had stumbled onto Something Big. What was the deeper meaning of this passage?
Love is Love
As it happens, contrary to my dreams of achieving scholarly glory through my linguistic discovery, many others before me had also noticed the difference in the Greek verbs. In fact, I soon learned that quite a few commentators had previously written on this very topic (who would have guessed?). I was disappointed to learn that the consensus of the scripture scholars was that we shouldn’t attach too much significance to the difference in the verbs. It appears that at the time John wrote his Gospel Greek speakers used the two verbs more or less interchangeably. φιλῶ was much more common, but there was no substantial difference in meaning. John, the scholars tell us, was probably doing no more than making his language more interesting by avoiding redundancy.
More Than Words
But is that really all there is to it? I’m not one to pick a fight with the experts on their own turf, but I can’t help but think the Evangelist has more on his plate here than simply avoiding redundancy. After all, we know that John is a careful and subtle writer, and if he were that concerned with varying his vocabulary for purely stylistic reasons the prologue to his Gospel would read rather differently, wouldn’t it? In any case, even if we can’t find a Big Linguistic/Theological Significance here, I can’t help but think that John is nonetheless using his selection of verbs to draw us deeper into the events of his Gospel.
Let’s take another look at what’s happening in this passage. First of all, it immediately follows a passage where Peter is fishing. The apostle does not at first recognize the figure on the shore as Jesus. When Peter, who has caught nothing, follows the unknown person’s advice, he immediately hauls in “a hundred and fifty-three [fish]; and although there were so many, the net was not torn.” (John 21:6) It’s then that the Apostles, first John himself, then Peter, recognize Jesus. They return to shore with their fish, where Jesus, who has built a charcoal fire, invites them to cook some of their catch. This, the Evangelist tells us, “was now the third time that Jesus was revealed to the disciples after he was raised from the dead.” (John 21:14)
On the night of Holy Thursday, when Our Lord had been arrested, Peter denied Jesus three times . . .
“The Denial of St. Peter” by Caravaggio, 1610
“Do You Love Me?”
It’s after this meal that Jesus addresses Peter directly. He asks, “do you love (ἀγαπᾷς) me?” Peter answers affirmatively using what appears to be a synonym, φιλῶ, after which Jesus says in reply, “feed my lambs.” Jesus repeats his question using the same verb he used before, and Peter returns his prior response, to which Jesus answers, “Tend my sheep.” Finally, Peter grows visibly distressed by the repeated questioning. No doubt, he knows all too well why it needs repeating. Nonetheless, the Lord asks a third time . . . only this time He uses Peter’s preferred word, φιλεῖς, as if to say, “All right, Peter, you love me, but do you loveme?” At this point, Peter replies “Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.” Jesus completes the series of questions by combining his two previous responses into one: “Feed my sheep.”
I look at this passage as a reflection of how Grace works in our life. Just as Grace always starts with God, Christ comes to Peter, who does not at first recognize Him. After Peter realizes with whom he’s conversing, Christ invites him to express his love. In so doing, he gives Peter an opportunity to repudiate his earlier sin. Peter, the man Jesus named “The Rock,” is willing, but can’t quite bring himself to use the same word that Jesus uses. Instead, he replies with a (possibly more humble) synonym. After the same thing happens a second time Jesus moves a little closer. Then, He moves closer yet, echoing Peter’s own word back to him. He “meets him where he is”, as we like to say. And every time Peter proclaims his love, Christ calls on him to share that love with others (“feed my sheep”).
The Word Becomes Flesh
Just so, God is always the initiator, inviting us to share His Grace. He often comes to us in a tangible form (the Incarnation, the Eucharist, his ordained ministers acting In Persona Christi). Our Creator calls on us to act out the love we proclaim. Isn’t that the purpose of audible confession, acts of mercy, evangelization, living our lives so that we are that beacon on a hill, and so on? And He’s always willing to move a little closer, if it will bring us closer to Him . . . even to the point of becoming one of us, “taking the form of a slave” (Phillipians 2:7).
Christ is always asking us, “Do you love Me?” Can we answer, along with Peter, φιλῶ?
Featured image top of page: “Christ’s Charge to Peter” by Raphael, 1515
It’s funny how different things can look from just a slightly changed perspective. I remember an incident when I was a fallen-away Catholic college sophomore. Responding to what must have been a Divine prompting, I picked up a copy of the New Testament and started to read. I can’t say why I didn’t first seek out the sacraments or a priest. After all, I was a cradle Catholic, on a (more or less) Catholic campus. I suppose I could blame the post-Vatican II catechesis I received in the ‘70’s.
In any case, I felt the call of the Lord. I began with the first chapter of Mathew’s Gospel. Things were looking pretty good, actually, until I came to the Sermon on the Mount. Here I began to entertain the unpleasant suspicion that a Journey of Faith might entail some Demands (horribile dictu!) upon me. I continued nonetheless until I came to chapter 5, verse 48: “You, therefore, must be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect.”
Here was a roadblock. I needed to be perfect? Seriously? This was asking way too much. I put the book down. It would be almost another ten years before I gave serious thought to returning to the practice of the Faith.
It’s Greek To Me
And yet that passage troubled me on and off for a long time. It’s odd because I was studying Latin and Greek, and then went on to teach those languages. It didn’t occur to me to look up the original Greek word that was translated into English as “perfect.” If it had, I might have found Jesus’ pronouncement in Matthew 5:48 less overwhelming. On the other hand, honestly, at the time I may not have wanted that badly to be saved from my sins.
Eventually, however, it did happen. As an older and (somewhat) wiser man I was explaining to my students about the Latin word perfectus. It had not yet completely taken on its modern connotation of flawlessness or moral perfection: its primary meaning was “finished” or “complete.” That, I explained, is why the verb tense denoting completed action is called the perfect tense. At that point, the proverbial light went off in my head. I went ten years back into the past, to my college dorm room. Was this the word St. Jerome used in translating the Gospel from Greek in the fourth century? If so, what did the Greek word really mean?
“. . . for He makes His sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust.” (Matthew 5:45)
(Pixabay photo)
A Little Greek Goes a Long Way
What I found changed my entire perception of the passage. The Latin is indeed perfectus, a translation of the Greek word τέλειοι (teleioi). τέλειοιis related to the noun τέλος (telos), “end.” The adjective τέλειοι signifies something that has reached its proper end, or fulfillment, i.e., is complete. There was more. I also realized, for the first time, that verse 48 is intended as a conclusion to the verses preceding, indicated by the word “therefore” οὖν (oun). When I looked at the passage as a whole, it all began to make more sense:
But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be sons of your Father who is in heaven; for he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust. For if you love those who love you, what reward have you? Do not even the tax collectors do the same? And if you salute only your brethren, what more are you doing than others? Do not even the Gentiles do the same? You, therefore, must be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect. (Matthew 5:44-48)
Just as God loves completely (i.e., everyone), and forgives completely, so must we.
The Road MapTo Perfect
Now, that doesn’t mean that Jesus isn’t calling us to strive for perfection as we understand the word today. Clearly, he is. On a literal level, however, he is telling us to love with a perfect, i.e. complete love, and he gives us a “road map”, if you will, to show us how to get there. That’s still a pretty tall order. At the same time, it seems less hopelessly impossible when we can see that Jesus is proposing concrete actions. He’s not simply commanding us to be, well, perfect.
I don’t want to make it seem that my difficulty with one scripture verse held me back from rejoining the Mystical Body of Christ for a decade. I needed more experience of life, of realizing the futility of trying to do things “my way”, and particularly of the Mystery of the Cross, to soften my heart and lead me back to the Lord. Nevertheless, coming to a new appreciation of Christ’s call to perfection in Matthew 5:48 removed one small but significant barrier on that journey.
Featured image top of page: The Sermon on the Mount, by Sebastiano Ricci, 1725
Adam & Eve in the Garden of Eden, by Wenzel Peter, 1829
We’ve been looking at selections from Haydn’s oratorio The Creation over the past few weeks . Last week we saw the overture, “Chaos,” a musical representation of the state of disorder that prevailed before God created the universe. The selection before that was “The Heavens are Telling,” based on Psalm 19. This piece comes at the end of the first part of the oratorio, after God has created the firmament and the land. It celebrates the wonderful way in which creation reflects its Creator.
Today we are listening to the conclusion of Haydn’s masterpiece . . . but not the end of the story. At this point God has created the parents of the human race, Adam and Eve, who are happily busying themselves about the Garden of Eden. In “Sing the Lord, ye voices all!” the chorus booms out a joyful song of thanks:
Sing the Lord, ye voices all! Utter thanks ye all his works! Celebrate his pow’r and glory! Let his name resound on high! The Lord is great, his praise shall last for aye. Amen! Amen!
The drama ends before the Fall. We, of course, know what lies ahead for Adam and Eve, even if they don’t. As we listen to the rousing finale, we can’t help but reflect on the words spoken moments before by the angel Uriel. “O happy pair, and always happy yet,” he says to the first man and woman, “if not, misled by false conceit, ye strive at more, as granted is, and more to know, as know ye should!” The true drama is about to begin.
The clip below features the Norwegian Chamber Orchestra and The Norwegian Soloists’ Choir performing “Singt dem Herren alle Stimmen” (“Sing the Lord, ye voices all!”) from Haydn’s The Creation.
The Norwegian Chamber Orchestra and The Norwegian Soloists’ Choir performed the Creation by Joseph Haydn in the University Aula, Oslo, on April 3rd 2012.
Conductor: Grete Pedersen Soloists: Marita Kvarving Sølberg (soprano), Astrid Sandvand Dahlen (alto), Magnus Staveland (tenor) Johannes Weisser (bass)
What a bizarre world we live in. We have collectively lost our minds. In pursuit of an illusory freedom we have cut ourselves off from the experience of our ancestors (racist, rigid, old, dead, etc.) and don’t even seem to have noticed that at the same time we have cut ourselves off from reality. We seem to think that we can literally invent ourselves ex nihilo, even to the extent of choosing our own gender, and that reality will follow our dictates. We are living in the Age of Esau.
In recent years I find myself reflecting more and more often on the story of Jacob and Esau from Genesis (chapter 27). As a little boy I was fascinated by Jacob’s trick (well, his mother Rebecca’s trick) of using goat skins on his hands to fool his blind old father Isaac into believing him to be his hairy brother Esau, and so obtain the father’s blessing. Later, when I was a father myself, I was also impressed by the obvious importance of the paternal blessing, which I have made a point of bestowing on all my children. But I was always troubled by the fact of Jacob’s dishonesty in obtaining the blessing. The Bible wasn’t condoning lying, was it?
“Isaac Blessing Jacob” by Nicolas Guy Brenet, 1768
Of course, it’s not condoning lying; but how to explain the apparent contradiction? There are many cases in Scripture in which apparently shocking details serve to grab our attention and direct it to a main point. We see Jesus do this in the Gospels. In Luke, for instance, when he says: “And I tell you, make friends for yourselves by means of unrighteous mammon, so that when it fails they may receive you into the eternal habitations.” (Luke 16: 9) We know that Jesus can’t really mean that we should use “unrighteous mammon [wealth]” to make friends, or that such friends could possibly offer us “eternal habitations”. We need to read on to see where he’s leading us:
He who is faithful in a very little is faithful also in much; and he who is dishonest in a very little is dishonest also in much. If then you have not been faithful in the unrighteous mammon, who will entrust to you the true riches? And if you have not been faithful in that which is another’s, who will give you that which is your own? No servant can serve two masters; for either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and mammon. (Luke 16: 10-13)
We are drawn into thinking about his point more deeply (which is that only God, not mammon, can save us), because we want to resolve the apparent contradiction. We see something similar in the parable of the wedding guest who is “bound hand and foot and cast into the outer darkness” simply because he’s wearing the wrong clothes (Matthew 22:13) and in many other places as well.
In the story of Jacob and Esau we need to look two chapters earlier to get the context for Esau’s loss of his father’s blessing:
Once when Jacob was boiling pottage, Esau came in from the field, and he was famished. And Esau said to Jacob, “Let me eat some of that red pottage, for I am famished!” (Therefore his name was called Edom.) Jacob said, “First sell me your birthright.” Esau said, “I am about to die; of what use is a birthright to me?” Jacob said, “Swear to me first.” So he swore to him, and sold his birthright to Jacob. Then Jacob gave Esau bread and pottage of lentils, and he ate and drank, and rose and went his way. Thus Esau despised his birthright. (Gen. 25:29-34)
Having read the earlier passage, we know that Esau doesn’t deserve his father’s blessing, because he “despised his birthright”; he willingly gave it away even before Jacob and Rebecca’s trickery. He loses both birthright and blessing because he has his priorities reversed: he has given immediate material things priority over those things that are truly important.
“Thus Esau despised his birthright.” (Gen. 25:34)
“The Lentil Dish” or “Esau Sells his Birthright to Jacob” by Mathias Stom, 17th Century
We see this same basic message many times in Scripture, as when St. Paul says:
For many, of whom I have often told you and now tell you even with tears, live as enemies of the cross of Christ. Their end is destruction, their god is the belly, and they glory in their shame, with minds set on earthly things. But our commonwealth is in heaven . . . (Phil 3:18-20a)
Esau and the people St. Paul speaks of are extreme examples; it is possible to fall into lesser degrees of the same problem, as we see in the case of the sisters Martha and Mary:
. . . And she had a sister called Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet and listened to his teaching. But Martha was distracted with much serving; and she went to him and said, “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to serve alone? Tell her then to help me.” But the Lord answered her, “Martha, Martha, you are anxious and troubled about many things; one thing is needful. Mary has chosen the good portion, which shall not be taken away from her.” (Luke 10:38-42)
Martha is too distracted by the various details of hospitality to pay much real attention to the Divine Guest in her house, while Mary, who sits at the feet of Jesus and devotes all her attention to him, “has chosen the better part, and it will not be taken away from her”.
We know that in spite of what happens in this passage, Martha loves Jesus very much, and of course it is right for her to be concerned for the comfort of her guest. The problem is that she becomes so tangled up in means that she forgets about the end to which they are directed. Her example should be a warning to us: we don’t have to go full Esau to get our priorities reversed. We all have causes that are important to us, but we can’t let them become our guiding principles: our actions in these causes should be an expression of our faith (see James 2:18), not the focus of it. While this failing may be endemic to the “social justice” wing of Catholicism (the CDF document Instruction on Certain Aspects of the “Theology of Liberation”, here, explains beautifully; thank you yet again, Cardinal Ratzinger), the rest of us are susceptible, too: it’s a rare Catholic indeed who has not been a Martha, or worse, on more than one occasion (mea culpa!). We need to be on guard all the more because we live in an Age of Esau that exalts Action and the Here and Now, and denies the Transcendent.
So, what to do? How to avoid falling into the trap? Someone with much more experience in such things once directed me to this passage from the Gospel of Matthew:
And one of them a lawyer, asked him a question, to test him. “Teacher, which is the greatest commandment of the law? And he said to him. “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind. This is the great and first commandment. And the second is like it, you shall love your neighbor as yourself. (Matthew 22:37-39)
We must always remember that the “great and first commandment” is to love God; that takes priority. If we put even as worthy a thing as loving our neighbor before, or instead of, loving God, then our actions will be disordered and won’t bear the intended fruit.
Martha herself learned that lesson, incidentally, for which reason we celebrate her feast day today (July 29th). We see a wiser Martha in John’s Gospel, when Jesus has come at the death of her brother Lazarus:
When Martha heard that Jesus was coming, she went and met him, while Mary sat in the house. Martha said to Jesus, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. And even now I know that whatever you ask from God, God will give you.” Jesus said to her, “Your brother will rise again.” Martha said to him, “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection at the last day.” Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life; he who believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live, . . (John 11:20-25)
Martha meets Jesus: “The Raising of Lazarus” by Duccio di Buoninsegna, 1310
Martha understands that it’s not all up to her, and that she needs to rely on Jesus even when she doesn’t fully understand what’s happening.
It’s not all up to us. We can’t invent ourselves, we can’t, as U.S. Supreme Court Justice Anthony Kennedy notoriously opined, “define [our] own concept of existence, of meaning, of the universe, and of the mystery of human life.” A proper appreciation of what we have been given by our predecessors helps us understand our reliance on what has been given to us by God as well (which is one of the main ideas behind this blog). If, like Esau, we listen to our appetites of the moment and disregard everything else, we will lose our own birthright . . . forever.
Featured image top of page: “Isaac Rejecting Esau” by the Master of the Isaac Stories, 1290s
Nisi Dominus: Unless the Lord Builds the House . . .
Claudio Monteverdi (1567-1643) was probably the most important composer in the transition from Renaissance Polyphony to Baroque. This beautiful piece from his Vespers composition, Vespro della Beata Vergine (1610), is a musical setting for Psalm 127 (sometimes listed as Psalm 126).
This particular psalm (printed in full below the music video) has always resonated with me. It is fairly short (four stanzas), but beautifully reminds us of our dependence on God and his providential care. The psalm opens with the image of house construction: “Unless the LORD builds the house, those who build it labor in vain.” (Ps 127:1) The psalmist then presents a series of images illustrating how useless our efforts are without God’s help:
Unless the LORD watches over the city,
the watchman stays awake in vain.
It is in vain that you rise up early
and go late to rest,
eating the bread of anxious toil;
for he gives to his beloved sleep.(Ps 127:1-2)
What an eloquent reminder that it is only through Grace that our efforts bear fruit!
Arrows in the Hand of a Warrior
We see a shift of focus in the last half of Psalm 127: instead of building a house, here we are building our “house”, that is, our family, again only through the Grace of God: “Lo, sons are a heritage from the LORD, the fruit of the womb a reward.” (Ps 127:3) Here, too, God is the real author; and our children are His Providence in tangible form: both gift and blessing, which is to say their source is God, and that’s a good thing. And not good in only a spiritual sense:
Like arrows in the hand of a warrior
are the sons of one’s youth.
Happy is the man
who has his quiver full of them!
He shall not be put to shame
when he speaks with his enemies in the gate.(Ps 127:5)
Like arrows in the hand of a warrior are the sons of one’s youth. -Psalm 127:4
You can’t ask for images more down-to-earth than these: our sons are like weapons, they’ll back us up when we face our enemies . . . and all through the generosity of the Lord.
The Blessed Event
It will come as no surprise that the idea of our progeny as gift and blessing is not as common as it once was. More than forty years ago, in his introduction to Pope John Paul I’s Illustrissimi, John Cardinal Wright wrote:
The present almost pathological lack of joy shows up in every vocation and in every area of life. There already exist among us people who rejoice as little in the coming of children as once used to do only some of our neo-pagan neighbors. Among descendents of people who, only yesterday, spoke of the coming of a baby as a “blessed event,” maternity is no longer thought joyful.
That train has gone much further down the track since 1979, so that now even a recent President of the United States is on record as having remarked disapprovingly on young women being “punished with a baby”.
We need to speak out, of course, against this anti-child attitude, the anti-family ethos and what Pope John Paul II called the Culture of Death. But we also need to remember, as Cardinal Wright points out, that our message is at root a message of Joy. Our children, and children in general (sadly, not all who wish to have their quivers filled in this way are granted that grace) are “a heritage from the LORD,the fruit of the womb a reward.”. We need to say it often, and live it publicly, and always give thanks to God for building up our house.
*Featured image top of page: “The Tower of Babel” by Pieter Breugel the Elder, 1563
Sacred Music: Monteverdi’s “Nisi Dominus”
The clip below features a perfomance by by Consortium Carissimi on January 4, 2015.
PSALM 127
Unless the LORD builds the house,
those who build it labor in vain.
Unless the LORD watches over the city,
the watchman stays awake in vain.
It is in vain that you rise up early
and go late to rest,
eating the bread of anxious toil;
for he gives to his beloved sleep.
Lo, sons are a heritage from the LORD,
the fruit of the womb a reward.
Like arrows in the hand of a warrior
are the sons of one’s youth.
Happy is the man
who has his quiver full of them!
He shall not be put to shame when he speaks with his enemies in the gate.
When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, “Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?” He said to him, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.” He said to him, “Feed my lambs.” A second time he said to him, “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” He said to him, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.” He said to him, “Tend my sheep.” He said to him the third time, “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” Peter was grieved because he said to him the third time, “Do you love me?” And he said to him, “Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Feed my sheep.” (JN 21:15-17)
It’s Greek To Me
You’re probably familiar with the beautiful passage above, which is from the end of John’s Gospel . As he sits with the Risen Christ at a charcoal fire on the shores of the Sea of Galilee, Peter has the opportunity to redeem himself for what he did the last time we saw him at a charcoal fire. On the night of Holy Thursday, when Our Lord had been arrested, he denied Jesus three times: here, Jesus invites Peter three times to tell his Lord, face to face, that he loves Him.
On the night of Holy Thursday, when Our Lord had been arrested, Peter denied Jesus three times . . .
“The Denial of St. Peter” by Caravaggio, 1610
I wrote an earlier version of this post as one of my first excursions into bloggery. There was something about the language in this passage that caught my attention: I was intrigued by the fact that, in the original Greek text, two different words for “love” are used, which is not reflected in English translations. The first two times Jesus asks, “do you love me?” he uses one Greek verb for “love”: ἀγαπᾷς (agapais). When Peter answers “I love you” he employs a different word, φιλῶ (philo); the third time Jesus switches to φιλῶ as well. Now, knowing that, among Christians, the verb ἀγαπῶ came to mean all-embracing divine love, whereas φιλῶ referred to ordinary human affection, I thought I had stumbled onto Something Big. What was the deeper meaning of this passage?
As it happens, contrary to my dreams of achieving scholarly glory through my linguistic discovery, many others before me had also noticed the difference in the Greek verbs. In fact, I soon learned that there has been quite a lot written on this very topic (who would have guessed?). I was disappointed to learn that the consensus of the scripture scholars was that we shouldn’t attach too much significance to the difference in the verbs. It appears that at the time John wrote his Gospel the two verbs were used more or less interchangeably, although φιλῶ was much more common. John, the scholars tell us, was probably doing no more than making his language more interesting by avoiding redundancy.
More Than Words
But is that really all there is to it? I’m not one to pick a fight with the experts on their own turf, but I can’t help but think the Evangelist has more on his plate here than simply avoiding redundancy. After all, we know that John is a careful and subtle writer, and if he were that concerned with varying his vocabulary for purely stylistic reasons the prologue to his Gospel would read rather differently, wouldn’t it? In any case, even if we can’t find a Big Linguistic/Theological Significance here, it seems to me that John is nonetheless using his selection of verbs to draw us deeper into the events of his Gospel.
“St. John the Evangelist” by Pompeo Girolamo Batoni, c. 1740
Let’s take another look at what’s happening in this passage. First of all, it immediately follows a passage where Peter is fishing, and does not at first recognize the figure on the shore as Jesus. Then Peter, who was catching nothing, follows the unknown person’s advice and immediately hauls in “a hundred and fifty-three [fish]; and although there were so many, the net was not torn.” (John 21:6) It is then that the Apostles, first John himself, then Peter, recognize Jesus. They return to shore with their fish, where Jesus, who has built a charcoal fire, invites them to cook some of the fish they have caught. This, the Evangelist tells us, “was now the third time that Jesus was revealed to the disciples after he was raised from the dead.” (John 21:14)
“Do You Love Me?”
It is after this meal that Jesus addresses Peter directly. He asks, “do you love (ἀγαπᾷς) me?” Peter answers affirmatively using what appears to be a synonym, φιλῶ, after which Jesus says in reply, “feed my lambs.” Jesus repeats his question using the same verb he used before, and Peter returns his prior response, to which Jesus answers, “Tend my sheep.” Finally, as Peter grows visibly distressed by the repeated questioning (no doubt because he knows all too well why it needs repeating), the Lord asks a third time . . . only this time He uses Peter’s preferred word, φιλεῖς, as if to say, “All right, Peter, you love me, but do you love me?”. When Peter replies “Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.” Jesus completes the series of questions by combining his two previous responses into one: “Feed my sheep.”
“Christ’s Charge to Peter” by Raphael, 1515
I think this passage is a reflection of how Grace works in our life. Just as Grace always starts with God, Christ comes to Peter, who does not at first recognize Him. After Peter realizes with whom he’s talking, Christ invites him to express his love, and in so doing repudiate his earlier sin; Peter is willing, but can’t quite bring himself to use the same word that Jesus uses, instead replying with a (possibly more humble) synonym. After the same thing happens the second time Jesus moves a little closer, and then He moves closer yet, echoing Peter’s own word back to him. He “meets him where he is”, as we like to say. And every time Peter proclaims his love, Christ calls on him to share that love with others (“feed my sheep”).
The Word Becomes Flesh
Just so, God is always the initiator, inviting us to share His grace; He often comes to us in a tangible form (the Incarnation, the Eucharist, his ordained ministers acting In Persona Christi); He calls on us to act out the love we proclaim (audible confession, acts of mercy, evangelization, living our lives so that we are that beacon on a hill). And He’s always willing to move a little closer, if it will bring us closer to Him . . . even to the point of becoming one of us, “taking the form of a slave” (Phillipians 2:7). Christ is always asking us, “Do you love Me?” Can we answer, along with Peter, φιλῶ ?
This is a revised version of a post first published January 10th, 2014
Not everyone, it would seem, is pleased with the current Roman Pontiff. If that hadn’t been clear to me already, it would certainly be apparent in many of the comments some of my recent posts (this one and this one, for instance) have received in various online venues. Who would have thought it?
Happily, I’m not writing today to discuss the worthiness (or lack thereof) of Pope Francis for his current job. Instead we’re looking at St. Mathias, whose feast we are celebrating. I mention the current Pope because our discussion of St. Mathias will necessarily involve the papal office, if not the papal personality.
St. Mathias was the thirteenth Apostle, chosen to replace Judas Iscariot after Judas betrayed the Lord then took his own life. It’s interesting that our scriptural sources actually tell us very little about St. Mathias himself. The only place he is mentioned by name is the passage is the Acts of the Apostles that describes his election:
In those days Peter stood up among the brethren (the company of persons was in all about a hundred and twenty), and said, “Brethren, the scripture had to be fulfilled, which the Holy Spirit spoke beforehand by the mouth of David, concerning Judas who was guide to those who arrested Jesus. For he was numbered among us, and was allotted his share in this ministry . . . For it is written in the book of Psalms, ‘Let his habitation become desolate, and let there be no one to live in it’; and ‘His office let another take.’ So one of the men who have accompanied us during all the time that the Lord Jesus went in and out among us, beginning from the baptism of John until the day when he was taken up from us–one of these men must become with us a witness to his resurrection.” And they put forward two, Joseph called Barsabbas, who was surnamed Justus, and Matthias. And they prayed and said, “Lord, who knowest the hearts of all men, show which one of these two thou hast chosen to take the place in this ministry and apostleship from which Judas turned aside, to go to his own place.” And they cast lots for them, and the lot fell on Matthias; and he was enrolled with the eleven apostles. (Acts 1:15-26)
Notice that the only personal information we have about st. Mathias, aside from the fact of his election, was that he had been a follower of Jesus since the beginning of his ministry. That’s all. Now, as an Apostle Mathias was ipso facto an important person, and there are various traditions identifying him with other names that come up in the New Testament, and about his ministry and martyrdom; the passage above, however, is the only canonical information we have. Which is to say that whatever importance he had in his own time, his significance for us lies in the very fact and manner of his selection.
So, what do we see in this passage? We see Peter taking the initiative: he presides and authoritatively interprets Scripture. We see also that it is universally understood that the Apostles hold an office that someone must fill when another relinquishes it, and it is accepted that their choice is guided by the Holy Spirit. We also have concrete confirmation that Jesus’ mission didn’t pass from the world when he ascended into Heaven, but was to be carried forward by his followers.
This passage and others like it were very important to me at the time of my reversion to the Church after my exile among the secular humanists. One of the first things I did following my own initial conversion experience was to read through the New Testament, where I could see in this passage not just the Early Church, but the Catholic Church with Pope and Bishops already in place just a few days after the Ascension. Not only that, it’s clear that they were already exercising magisterial authority, with the help of the Third Person of the Trinity, even before the full outpouring of the Holy Spirit a few days later at Pentacost. It confirmed for me that if I wanted to set aside my disordered life and follow Jesus, I also needed to submit to the authority of the Church that He had established from the beginning.
“As the Father has sent me, even so I send you.” (John 20:21)
“The Great Commission” by Szymon Czechowicz, 1758
That’s not to say that we owe unthinking obedience to all pronouncements from persons holding positions of authority in the Church (this is a topic I also discuss in “What Do We Do When Our Priest Is A Communist?” Part I & Part II). Let’s remember that the passage from the Acts of the Apostles above tells us more about the need to fill an office that’s been vacated by the wrongdoing of its occupant than it does about the personal qualities of the new Apostle Mathias. The holders of office come and go, but the office itself remains, and retains the authority invested in it by none other than Jesus Christ himself. That is in fact one of the salient themes of yesterday’s Feast of the Ascension: Jesus is withdrawing his direct, human presence so that his followers can take over the leadership of his mission. It is clear that the authority they are to exercise is his, not their own, and that they are to be guided by the Holy Spirit. For instance, in John’s Gospel we read:
Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, even so I send you.” And when he had said this, he breathed on them, and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.” (John 20:21-23)
and also in Matthew’s Gospel:
And Jesus came and said to them, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you; and lo, I am with you always, to the close of the age.”(Matthew 28:18-20)
So, yes, today’s feast honors one of the first Apostles and, in fact the very first successor to the Apostles. It is also a timely reminder that malfeasance on the part of an office holder, even on the scale of Judas’ betrayal of Jesus himself, can’t undo that essential office.
Concluding Prayer from today’s Liturgy of the Hours:
O God,
Who assigned St. Mathias
a place in the college of Apostles,
grant us, through his intercession, that,
rejoicing at how your love has been allotted to us,
we may merit to be numbered among the elect.
Through our Lord Jesus Christ. Your Son,
Who lives and reigns with you in the unity of the Holy Spirit,
There’s something a little unsettling about Palm Sunday. It appears that the same people who welcome Jesus as a victorious king at the beginning of the week are screaming for his death by its end. The liturgy reminds us of this incongruity by putting Palm Sunday and Passion Sunday together (at least in the Ordinary Form; in the Extraordinary Form last Sunday was Passion Sunday). I’ve heard a number of possible explanations for this apparent change in the crowd. I read once (I’m sorry to say I can no longer remember where) that the supporters greeting Jesus with palm fronds and hosannas on Sunday may not have been the same angry mob demanding his crucifixion on Friday. Maybe they were all different people.
There may be some small element of truth to this theory, but I can’t help but think that there must have been a very significant overlap between the two groups. How likely is it that the entire mass of people who were so enthusiastic just a few days earlier would simply stay away from their new king’s trial? I find the more traditional explanation more likely, that a large portion, at least, of the first crowd had soured on the whole Jesus phenomenon over the intervening days.
“Trial of Jesus”, artist unknown, 1545
Which brings us back to the original question: why did so many change their minds? The likeliest thing seems to be that when they found out that Jesus had no intention of being the sort of savior they were looking for, disappointment and disillusionment turned to disgust and hatred. They thought that Jesus was a conquering hero who would free them from the oppression of the foreign Romans; when they discovered that his real aim was to free them from sin, well, no thanks, Jesus.
This explanation rings true, because it fits with human nature: I’ve experienced it in myself, I’ve seen it in other people. The fact is that, very often, we don’t really want to be saved from our sin. We would be happy to have Jesus take on our external hardships for us, to battle “Caesar” out there on our behalf, but we’re all too comfortable with the inner tyrants who hold us bound in a way no emperor can do. How often have we welcomed Christ as our savior, only to turn away when the freedom he offers comes with the admonition “Go, and sin no more” (John 8:11)? But Christ still rides into Jerusalem, receiving acclaim from a crowd that he knows will soon turn against him. He does it because he loves them . . . just as he loves every one of us.
Featured image (top of page):“Christ’s Entry Into Jerusalem” Hippolyte Flandrin, (1842-1848)
Did you know that we are all slaves – and have you noticed how often the topic of slavery comes up in Scripture and in Salvation History? We can see it in some recent posts here: last Wednesday we discussed how St. Patrick was kidnapped and sold into slavery, and then returned after his escape to convert his former slave masters. Two days later we celebrated the Solemnity of St. Joseph, whose forerunner Joseph son of Jacob had also been sold into slavery. An impressive number saints have been slaves at some point, as recently as St. Josephine Bakhita, who died in 1947.
St. Josephine Bakhita
Why is slavery so prevalent? We Catholics know that in the Bible and in the history of God’s interaction with humanity there are different levels of meaning. In another recent post, for instance, we talked about leprosy in scripture as a metaphor for sin; in much the same way slavery represents our attachment to sin. Why else has the Church’s Office of readings placed so much emphasis on the Book of Exodus during the first weeks of Lent? God’s action in freeing the Hebrews from servitude to the King of Egypt is a foreshadowing of Christ’s Passion, Death, and Resurrection. Through his Passion, Death, and Resurrection he frees all of us from slavery: not thralldom to any human Pharaoh, but our own sinfulness.
While Jesus himself was free from any attachment to sin, his human ministry inevitably reflected human servitude. Although we rightly call him the King of Kings, for instance, he didn’t look like a king when he lived on Earth. As Jesus himself told Pilate, “My Kingdom is not of this world.” (John 18:36). In fact, St. Paul tells us “though he was in the form of God, [Jesus Christ] did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave (δούλου in Greek), being born in the likeness of men.” (Philippians 2:6-7) St. Paul seems to be suggesting that to be man is therefore to be a slave – since of course, we’re all slaves, to sin. Jesus took the form of a slave so that by his death and resurrection he might break the bonds of sin that hold all of us in servitude. That’s why it’s Good News, Evangelion (Eὐαγγέλιον) in Greek, Gospel in Old English.
Christ has broken our chains, but here’s the catch: we need to be willing to shake them off, get up, and follow him. “If any man would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.” (Matthew 16:24) And in fact, a quick search of all four Gospels finds at least twenty instances of Jesus inviting his disciples to “follow” him.
The problem is, that’s not as easy as it sounds for those of us who are Slaves to Sin. The bonds of sin have been there so long, they feel like a part of us. Anyone who’s worn a ring for a long time knows what that’s like. I once had to send my wedding ring out to be resized. My finger was discolored and actually disfigured where the ring usually rested. Not only that, I was constantly feeling for it, not even consciously, but out of a reflexive sense that something was missing . . . something that was supposed to be there.
I mentioned above that the Exodus story takes a prominent place in the liturgical observances of Lent. We might notice that the Hebrews did not go straight from slavery under Pharaoh to the Promised Land, but spent forty years in the desert trying to shake off their desire to return to the well-known comforts of bondage. More than once we see them yearning to go back to the predictability of a slave’s existence:
“The Israelites Leaving Egypt” by Johann Heiss (late 17th Century)
Would that we had died by the hand of the LORD in the land of Egypt, when we sat by the fleshpots and ate bread to the full; for you have brought us out into this wilderness to kill this whole assembly with hunger.” (Exodus 16:3)
and again
Now the rabble that was among them had a strong craving; and the people of Israel also wept again, and said, “O that we had meat to eat! We remember the fish we ate in Egypt for nothing, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic; but now our strength is dried up, and there is nothing at all but this manna to look at.” (Numbers 11:4-6)
They weren’t ready to enter the Promised Land until their desire to move forward was stronger than their longing to back to their old, well-known chains.
The forty days of Lent are intended to be our own forty years in the desert. The penances and prayers of this penitential season are designed to help us turn away from our “strong craving” for whatever Fleshpots of Egypt we have in our own lives, and direct our gaze instead in the direction of the Promised Land.
Now, as we enter into Holy Week, the Church invites us to accompany Jesus into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, with its Passion Narrative to remind us what the sequel is to that ironic Triumphal entry. Through the Triduum we have the opportunity to pick up our cross and follow Our Lord to Calvary and, through the tomb, to the True Triumph, Easter Sunday. After all, we have nothing to lose but our chains.
(Feature Image top of page: “Joseph Sold Into Slavery” by Cornelis van Poelenburgh, early 17th Century)
