Wednesday, March 13, 2024

Ut Unum Sint: An Ecumenism of Blood

 

Something curious took place in the Catholic world earlier this year. On Thursday, the fifteenth of February, the Catholic Church celebrated the feast of the twenty-one Coptic martyrs killed by ISIS in 2015. The image of their martyrdom should be familiar to most people; they were dressed in orange jumpsuits and beheaded by masked men on a beach and video footage of this massacre uploaded by ISIS. The Coptic church declared them martyrs within a week, and the Catholic church recognised this status in 2023.

What is curious about this feast is that the Catholic Church is notorious for taking ages to add persons to the Roman martyrology, the official list of the saints. The elevation of persons to the altar involves investigations, deliberations and can be an exhausting process. Furthermore, the Coptic Church is not even in communion with the See of Rome!

This recognition, and celebration, of their martyrdom was made possible thanks to the development of an interesting, and valuable, concept known as the “ecumenism of blood.” To appreciate this concept one could do no better than turn to the words of Pope Francis himself in his address to the participants in the Conference of Secretaries of Christian World Communions, the international ecumenical association that meets annually in October. Before this, however, a brief excursus would be in order. The term ecumenism derives from the Greek word “oikoumene,” meaning “the whole inhabited world,” and refers to the promotion of cooperation and unity among Christians. The ecumenical movement takes inspiration from recognition of the fact that while there are many churches that are not in communion with each other, in fact, Christ founded but one Church and in His passion prayed that “That they may all be one” (John 17:21). This phrase is, and most certainly not coincidentally, also the episcopal motto of our Archbishop, Cardinal Patriarch Filipe Neri Ferrão.

Returning to the words of the Holy Father, speaking to the participants in the Conference of Secretaries of Christian World Communions, Pope Francis indicated that:

‘[T]here is another form of ecumenism that typifies our age: that of blood. “When terrorists or world powers persecute Christian minorities or Christians”, he observed, “they do not ask: ‘Are you Lutheran? Are you Orthodox? Are you Catholic? Are you Reformed? Are you Pentecostal?’ No. ‘You are Christian’. They recognise one only: the Christian. The enemy is not wrong: he recognises where to find Jesus. And this is the ecumenism of blood. Nowadays we are witnesses to this, and I think of the Orthodox brethren beheaded on the beaches of Libya, for example: they are our brothers. They gave witness to Jesus and they died saying, ‘Jesus, help me!’. With His name: they confessed the name of Jesus”.’

The Catholic celebration of the martyrs of Libia is a concrete manifestation in the belief of the unity of those who died in odio Christi. Another concrete recognition of this belief is available on the Great West Door of Westminster Abbey in London. The abbey, which is currently an Anglican church, started its life as a Catholic establishment and was still Catholic when the plans for the West Door were drawn up. The Abbey took a couple of centuries to complete, and, as many would know, is in the Gothic style. This design sensibility is marked by a profusion of carving, with numerous niches for statues of the saints. The Reformation and the rise of Puritanism (unfortunately) intervened, however, and the Catholic tradition of the celebration of saints, especially through the erection of statues in their honour, and for the imitation of the faithful, fell out of favour. As a result, the ten niches in the façade of this West Door lay unutilised ever since its completion in the fifteenth century.  It was only when this façade was renovated in 1995 that it was decided it was now time to fill these niches. Recognising the twentieth century as the century of Christian martyrdom (a somewhat hasty assumption in my opinion, given that the twenty-first promises to offer a richer harvest of martyrs), the decision was taken to use the niches to commemorate Christian martyrs from across the various churches and continents. The ten martyrs who were commemorated include the Catholic St Maximilian Kolbe from Poland, Manche Masemola from South Africa who was martyred for her desire to be baptised, the Anglican Janani Luwum from Uganda martyred by General Idi Amin (a name well known to Goans), the Orthodox Grand Duchess Elizabeth from Russia, the famous Dr Martin Luther King Jr, St Oscar Romero, the Catholic Archbishop in El Salvador, the German Lutheran Pastor Dietrich Bonhoeffer killed by the Nazis, the Anglican Lucian Tapiedi from Papua New Guinea,  and Wang Zhiming, a  Miao pastor killed during the Chinese Cultural Revolution.

Of all these names, it was that of Esther John from Pakistan which appealed to me, perhaps for the obvious reason of being from the same subcontinent as myself. Born Qamar Zia in pre-Partition British India she moved with her family to Pakistan after which, as a young adult, she converted to Christianity from Islam. An enthusiastic evangelizer working among the labouring women in the Punjab, she was found murdered in February 1960.

Reading about her, I could not help but think of Graham Staines, another Christian missionary who met his death, this time on the other side of the subcontinent. The story of Graham Staines is well known, an Australian citizen, he worked among lepers in Orissa until, along with his sons aged ten and six, he was burned to death by members of the Bajrang Dal.

For the longest time I wondered what ought to be the relation of myself – a Catholic – to this Evangelical missionary. The celebration of the feast of the Twenty-one Coptic martyrs of Libya offered a direction. His is a life of example to be venerated. He may not (yet) be recognised by the Catholic Church in Her martyrology, but this does not prevent me from venerating the memory of one who died for Christ. Further, it also offers another lesson to Christians in the subcontinent. While we may disagree on doctrine – and these disagreements are important and should not be dismissed – we ought not to attack one another. Rather, we need to recognise that we work for, and in these trying times may well have to suffer for, the one name. We must be kind to one another.

(A version of this text was first published in the O Heraldo dated 13 March 2024.

With thanks to Rev. Thomas Hiney and Rev. Lister Tonge for their inspiration.)

Friday, February 2, 2024

The Rise and Fall: Homily for the Feast of the Presentation of Our Lord

"Presentation of Jesus in the Temple" (detail), Francesco Vittore Carpaccio, Gallerie dell'Accademia, Venice. 

“Behold, this child is destined
for the fall and rise of many in Israel,
and to be a sign that will be contradicted
—and you yourself a sword will pierce— so that the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed.” Lk 2: 34-35

The words of Simeon, that we hear in the Gospel today, the feast of the Presentation of Our Lord in the Temple, are often understood as referring to the political, worldly, or material, fall of “many in Israel” – this could refer to the socio-political elite of the times, Herod, Pilate, the Temple elite. Indeed, some commentators point out that the sense of this text is similar to the verse from the Magnificat, that hymn of Our Lady, where she sings that “He [i.e. God] has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly” (Lk 1: 52).

However, as I reflected on Simeon’s words this popular understanding of the text was tempered by Our Lord’s own revelation of Himself and His mission: “God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him” (Jn 3:17), or in the Gospel of Luke, the very Gospel where we encounter the meeting between Simeon and the Holy Family; “for the Son of Man has not come to destroy the lives of human beings but to save them.”

So now, if Our Lord Himself suggests that He did not come to pull people down, but pull us up, to refine and purify us, as we read in the first reading from the Prophet Malachi, how are we to make sense of these words of Simeon, the words of Our Lady in the Magnificat, and reconcile them with the words of Our Lord Himself?

We do so by having regard to the fact that one of the central aspects of this feast is to highlight the meekness, and humility, of God. The point of the presentation (i.e. the appearance of the woman in the Temple) in the Mosaic law was that the child had to be redeemed, and the woman, who was considered impure after having given birth, had to be purified.  We have the incredible situation, here therefore, where both the Son of God  imagine the Redeemer of the world Himself has to be redeemed!  and His Holy Mother, herself born without sin, submit themselves before earthly authorities to fulfil the law in force – that their impurity and assumed sinfulness be corrected through sacrifice.

There is, also, another dimension, Christ even as infant, for having taken flesh, also takes on the sinful condition of humanity. Regard these words from the Apostle Paul in the second letter to the Corinthians, “For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God” (2 Cor 5: 21), or his words from that beautiful canticle in the letter to the Phillipians (2:6-8):

though he was in the form of God,
    [he] did not regard equality with God
    as something to be exploited,
but emptied himself,
    taking the form of a slave,
    being born in human likeness.
And being found in human form,
    he humbled himself
    and became obedient to the point of death—
    even death on a cross.

The point of this feast is about the humility of God, and the revelation of the highly illogical idea that it is through the humbling of ourselves, through our embrace of meekness – to be meek is to submit ourselves to the will of God, even when that submission puts us in conflict with the world, conflict even to the point of death – it is through our meekness to the will of God and it has to be stressed that the virtues of meekness and humility are always in reference not to worldly authorities and powers but to God alone – that that we are raised, i.e. we grow in dignity. This salvific logic has been well-understood by our Holy Mother the Church. Consider, for a moment the Collect from the feast of St. Agnes that we celebrated just a few days ago: “O Almighty and everlasting God, you choose the weak things of the world to confound the strong.”

But perhaps precisely because it is a salvific logic, and not of this world that the world finds it difficult to appreciate, understand, or follow it. It is in this sense that Christ will be the sign that will be contradicted, precisely because this most Christian of logics is so difficult, or confounding, for the world to understand, it is the stumbling over this stone – that the builders rejected – that will reveal the thoughts of our hearts – offering us an opportunity to evaluate ourselves.

I leave you, therefore, with the counsel from St. James “Humble yourselves in the sight of the Lord, and he shall lift you up” (James 4:10).

Laudetur Jesus Christus, [semper laudetur].

(A version of this homily was first preached at the Pontificio Collegio Beda on 2 Feb 2024).

Sunday, January 7, 2024

Humility and Dignity: Homily for the Feast of the Baptism of Our Lord

Baptism of the Lord, Master of St. Bartholomew Altar, circa 1485-1500, National Gallery of Art, DC.

The feast of the Baptism of Our Lord, which we celebrate today, is a feast that twines two apparently contradictory sensibilities: one of humility, where one lowers oneself, and that of dignity, where one is elevated. It is a feature of our faith that often when faced with a choice, we do not choose one or the other; ours is not a faith of either-or, but rather of both-and. Thus, the feast of the Baptism of Our Lord does not present us with a choice between humility and dignity, but through the figures of John the Baptist, and his cousin, our Lord Jesus Christ – both of whom are in today’s feast models for our emulation –the Faith demonstrates to us how these two virtues of humility and dignity are combined.

We have this reference to humility right at the start of today’s reading of the Gospel from Mark:

This is what John the Baptist proclaimed: 

“One mightier than I is coming after me.

I am not worthy to stoop and loosen the thongs of his sandals.

I have baptized you with water; he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit.”

The Baptist recognised his own role merely as the one who made paths straight for the Lord, the one who is mightier than He, who is the Son of God. The evangelist St. Mathew in his narration of the baptism of our Lord tells us that when faced with the Baptist’s reluctance to baptise one who ought to have been baptising him, Our Lord responded: “Let it be so now; it is proper for us to do this to fulfil all righteousness.” (Mt 3:15).

This entire scenario presents us key features of the virtue of humility which we need to appreciate. Humility is not simply the debasing of oneself. It is not simply about cute, bourgeois or middleclass modesty. And one cannot emphasise enough the difference between modesty and humility. To be clear humility is about self-effacement, but it is more particularly about self-effacement before God. The Baptist recognised his nothingness before God the Son, The Son emptied Himself, to take on human nature, to reconcile the world to God the Father. Humility, therefore, is always a self-effacement before God. It is the recognition of the power of God, the centrality of God in our lives, and in our plans, and eventually ceding Him this control over our lives in confidence that He knows best. Humility, therefore, in the words of the second reading is the love of God through the keeping of His commandments (1 Jn 5: 3).

And what are His commandments? We hear a version of them in the first reading today:

I formed you, and set you

as a covenant of the people,

a light for the nations,

to open the eyes of the blind,

to bring out prisoners from confinement,

and from the dungeon, those who live in darkness.

There is the temptation, however, to take it on ourselves to set things right. This temptation is especially strong for us, since we live in times when the model of the virtuous hero is not the humble worker in the vineyard of the Lord, but the revolutionary. And yet, this is not what the humble fulfilment of the commandments is. We need to only take lessons from the first half of the first reading – from Isaiah – to see how Christ behaved:

not crying out, not shouting,

not making his voice heard in the street.

a bruised reed he shall not break,

and a smoldering wick he shall not quench

What we need to bear in mind is that we are not here to set up an earthly utopia, but we are here, above all to fight against, and resist, sin by pointing always to the truth.

Christ’s humility offers for us a model where we stand witness to the truth but do so without contemplating the overthrow of legitimate authority. We stand witness to the truth, without crying out, without shouting in the street, without revolutionary violence. Rather we stand witness to the truth, like Our Lord, and bear the terrible consequences that must follow when we stand up to the powers and principalities of this world. For the greatest proof of Our Lord’s humility was His taking up of the Cross while fulfilling these commandments. The paradox of the Cross is that in the moment of the greatest shame Roman society could offer we see the sign of enduring dignity.

What resources could Our Lord have drawn on as he endured the apparent indignity of the Cross? Once again, the day’s lectionary comes to our rescue, pointing out to us the confidence that comes from the testimony of God on behalf of His Son; the implicit belief that “whoever is begotten by God conquers the world.”

Let us return to the words of the Prophet Isaiah from the first reading, and think of the confidence that must have been generated in the heart of Our Lord when he heard these words:

I, the LORD, have called you for the victory of justice,

I have grasped you by the hand;

I formed you, and set you

as a covenant of the people,

a light for the nations,

“I have grasped you by the hand;” put this phrase together with the words from the psalm “The voice of the LORD is over the waters, the LORD, over vast waters,” “The LORD is enthroned above the flood; the LORD is enthroned as king forever” and we can recollect the confidence Saint Peter ought to have had when Our Lord grasped Him by the hand and pulled him from the waters of the Lake of Galilee (Matthew 14:22-33). If it is when we are afraid and terrified and lose dignity, we need only remember Our Lord’s words to Peter: “Take courage! It is I. Don’t be afraid.”

Brothers and sisters, the feast of the Baptism of Our Lord calls to mind our own baptism and saving, when Christ grasps our hand and pulls us from the waters and darkness of chaos and forms us and sets us as a light for the nations. And as if this were not enough, to enable us in this grace He sustains us weekly through the gift of his blood in the Eucharist: Jesus Christ came, Saint John reminds us, not by water alone, but by water and blood. Let us pray that we may be worthy for this gift so that at the end of time on earth our Father in heaven will say:

“You are my beloved; with you I am well pleased.”

(A version of this homily was first preached to the congregation at the Cappella di Nostra Signora del Santissimo Rosario e San Pietro Chanel of the Domus Australia, Rome on 7 Jan 2024 ).