Not long ago, a priest wrote to me with some questions prompted by recent events:
Does Saint Thomas teach that the intention of the priest pertains only to the words of institution, as meaning that Jesus becomes substantially present, or does intending what the Church intends encompass more than just the moment of consecration?
Does the SSPX hold, or at least do some within the SSPX hold, that the Novus Ordo is unacceptable because they fear that priests are not intending what the Church intends, by, e.g., understanding the Eucharist to be merely a meal?
But clearly Saint Thomas asserts that lack of personal holiness, and even heretical views, do not prevent a priest, in the context of the liturgy, from intending what the Church intends during the rite of the Mass.
This question seems clear to me, yet there remains some fog surrounding whether the Novus Ordo so undermines what the Church intended for the Mass that I can call its validity into question.
Yet again, I intend what the Church intends: that the Mass is a sacrifice and not merely a meal, and that Jesus is made present on the altar as on Calvary in an unbloody manner. It seems challenging for me to say that I do not intend what the Church intends while celebrating the Novus Ordo through its liturgical prescriptions, such as the change in direction in which I stand (though I have come to understand that the new Mass is still meant to be celebrated facing away from the people).
I am cautious to ask: Is the issue with the Novus Ordo not so much one of validity and intention, but rather of liceity? Liceity seems to belong to following the GIRM, but could the instructions themselves present issues of liceity if the very instructions depart from the meaning of the Mass?
These are important questions, but they involve somewhat dangerous waters. They are also relevant in understanding the positions of the SSPX.
There are a lot of separate issues here to disentangle.
A notorious example of poor understanding is found in Fr. Anthony Cekada, who argued that the Novus Ordo simply “narrates” the institution of the Eucharist, and therefore does not intend the words as consecratory. This, of course, is pure foolishness. The words of institution effect what they signify whenever they are spoken by a priest who intends “to do what the Church does,” which is to confect the Eucharist – however the priest may personally understand that.
St Thomas is very insistent that a priest may have a personally incorrect idea of the sacrament, indeed he may be an atheist, but inasmuch as he is an “animated instrument” of Christ the High Priest, he need merely lend his hands and words to the act of the Church for the rite to be efficacious. This was already hammered out by St. Augustine against the Donatists, who argued that the holiness of the minister was essential; to which St. Augustine replied that it is Christ who accomplishes the sacrament, using the minister as a minister, that is, as an instrument.
For an intention to be invalidating, the instrument must will to not be an instrument, to not serve as the voice and hands of the Church. It is usually assumed that if he recites the words of the rite as printed and follows the usual gestures, he is lending himself to serve in such a way. His invisible thoughts and desires are not relevant in that regard. More relevant would be if he departs so far from the text that he is no longer doing what the Church prescribes, and thus indicating that he has no intention to lend himself as a minister of Christ to doing what Christ’s Church does. I don’t wish to cause readers needless pain, but here is an example shared on my YouTube channel of a priest whose liturgy is certainly invalid:
Since it is the common teaching of theologians that the words of institution are the immediately efficacious sign, the minimum required for validity is that these words be spoken correctly, over the correct matter, with the intention as described above. Obviously messing with the rest of the liturgy would be unfitting, illicit, scandalous, sacrilegious, etc., but it would not invalidate it. The same could be argued with regard to all the sacraments, each of which has its essential “formula” plus all the additional things done around it.There can be no question, judging from official documents released after the Council and the liturgical reform, that the Mass is still taught consistently to be a true and proper sacrifice, with the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist at its core. Thus, in spite of my very forceful critique of the Novus Ordo qua liturgy,I have never found any argument for its invalidity to be even remotely plausible.
As for illicitness, that’s a more involved question. Technically, anything that follows the rubrics issued by the competent authorities is licit (hence, you mention the GIRM that governs the Novus Ordo); but one may also ask larger questions about how far continuity with tradition can be ruptured without introducing a kind of illegality. This is a topic to which Fr. Claude Barthe has made some important contributions in his recently published book The Seven Sacraments, Past and Present: A Short Critical Study of the New Rituals.
In short: the arguments that sedevacantists are wont to make for the invalidity of any of the new sacramental rites are sunk by the classical Thomistic theology of the minimum required for validity, as well as by the consistent teaching of the Magisterium about what the sacraments are and what they effect, demonstrating that, however disastrous pastorally and spiritually the reforms have been, the underlying theology has not mutated past recognizable continuity.
I would only add that in my experiences traveling around the United States and beyond, all the young clergy I have met are reading books like Ludwig Ott and the Catechism of Trent. Their theology is traditionalist, even if the rites they use are not (yet) in full harmony with the tradition. In fact, recently I was looking at a brochure for a Newman Center at an American university, and I had to smile when I saw a large photo of a priest celebrating a Novus Ordo Mass. He was raising aloft a chalice – and observing canonical digits. Now there’s a man who hasn’t the slightest doubt that he is handling the Body of Christ.
What is an icon? Where the tradition came from, and the modern myths that have grown up around it.
The first of two related articles on the iconographic tradition of sacred art. This first article addresses what icons actually are, where the tradition came from, the modern myths that have grown up around it, and the theology that accounts for its distinctive visual language. The second will examine the revealed images “not made by human hands” — above all Our Lady of Guadalupe, which I take to be among the strongest arguments for the authenticity of the tradition.
When people today talk of ‘icons’ or ‘holy icons,’ what many have in mind is the style commonly associated with the Eastern Church, especially that of the Greek and Russian Orthodox Churches. In fact, the iconographic tradition took root across the Christian world, East and West, before Russia existed, and was not limited to the Greek Orthodox Church.
As Christianity became the dominant religion of the Late Antique classical world, a distinct style of art, an adaptation of contemporary Roman art, emerged, and by the early 5th century AD it had become the universal standard for liturgical art across the Christian world. This is the style that became known as icons today and, broadly speaking, is associated today with the Orthodox and Byzantine Catholic churches.
As with so much of Christian culture, the liturgy is the driving force behind the tradition, in that what gives it authenticity as a style is its role as a complement to right worship. Yet, as with Christian culture more broadly, we see variants responsive to particular local cultures and times, all consistent with the broader principles that characterize it and make it authentically liturgical. In the Latin West, sacred art up to about the 12th century — encompassing, for example, the Anglo-Saxon, Celtic, Ottonian, Carolingian, and Romanesque styles — was all consistent with the iconographic prototype. Most non-Roman Churches in the Christian East have their own styles, too. Beyond the Greek and Russian Orthodox traditions, one thinks, for example, of Coptic iconography from Egypt as a particularly distinctive variant. Not only are these national styles distinguishable from one another, but within each there are typically distinct regional variants as well.
It is important to distinguish between the use of the word ‘icon’ as a generic term for any work of sacred art that is worthy of veneration, as we might use it in considering the decrees of the Seventh Ecumenical Council, and its use to denote a particular style of sacred art. In translations of the writings of St John of Damascus and the deliberations of the Seventh Ecumenical Council in the 8th century, and of Theodore the Studite in the 9th century, the word ‘icon’ is best understood as interchangeable with the English word ‘image.’ It is not being used to denote a particular style of sacred art or to elevate any one style above another. Everything the Council documents about, for example, the necessity of having sacred art in our churches and the criteria by which that art is worthy of veneration applies to all liturgical art. The theology the Council articulates is therefore a general theology of images.
In what follows, when I refer to icons, I mean sacred art in the iconographic style. Before considering how to identify that style and distinguish it from the other legitimate forms of liturgical art, the Gothic and the Baroque, I want to address a few misunderstandings and myths about icons so that we are clear about what we are discussing. The Creative Retrieval of Iconography
The theology of the iconographic style, developed to account for the stylistic elements that characterize the tradition, is a relatively recent development. It may surprise many to learn that, to my knowledge, no such formulation appears in the writings of any Church Father, East or West, until theologians in the 20th century began to develop the theology of icons. This does not necessarily mean there was no shared understanding of the governing principles prior to that; there may well have been. Yet if there was, no record of it has come down to us.
A group of Russian Orthodox expatriates living in France in the mid-20th century developed what is now generally accepted as the theology of the iconographic style. This group included prominent figures such as the theologians Paul Evdokimov, Vladimir Lossky, and Leonid Ouspensky, who was both a painter and a theologian, as well as the icon painter Gregory Kroug. They were responding to what they saw as the steady degeneration of the iconographic tradition in the Eastern Churches over centuries and wished to reestablish it authentically.
Image: St Gregory the Iconographer, painted by Gregory Kroug, 20th century
Unlike the West, which saw the development of Gothic and then Renaissance traditions from the 11th to the 16th centuries, the art of the Eastern Church did not undergo these transitions. However, the effects of the Enlightenment, which came after the Renaissance, were felt in the East, particularly in Russia, through the efforts of reforming rulers — Peter the Great and Catherine the Great especially — who looked to Western Europe as their model for modernization. Arising from this, there was an increased naturalism in iconography that, unlike the naturalism of Gothic art, was not grounded in a truly Christian understanding. The result was a style that is neither properly naturalistic nor properly iconographic.
Russian painters of the 19th century noted this degeneration, and arguments were made to abandon the iconographic style altogether in favor of Western naturalism in sacred art. For a while, Orthodox churches were adorned with 19th-century naturalistic styles. While this may have produced fine results in secular painting — the Russian traditions of portraiture and landscape in this period were indeed spectacular — they jarred with many Orthodox Christians, who felt that this naturalistic style of art undermined their worship. By the turn of the 20th century, commentators once again argued for the reestablishment of a purer, more authentic iconographic tradition. This process of creative retrieval, begun in that period, was interrupted by the Bolshevik Revolution, and it was not until the mid-20th century that the expatriates based in Paris who had escaped from Russia, including those already mentioned above, were able to work toward a change.
Image: 19th century Russian painting of God the Father and God the Son
Their approach was first to establish a canon of imagery they considered the epitome of the style (generally Russian icons from the 15th century). By analyzing the common features within this canon, they developed a theology to explain them, hoping to define a set of principles that would allow both conformity to the tradition and the legitimate organic development of styles within it, as needed by the Church in particular times and places.
It is a tribute to the work of this small group of pioneers that the painting of icons has developed so authentically that many people today wrongly assume that the iconographic tradition of the Eastern Churches has been passed down through an unbroken line since St Luke painted the first icon of the Theotokos. We are now in the third or fourth generation of icon painters who have passed these principles down from teacher to pupil since those 20th-century pioneers, and the best of them are creating work today that is as beautiful and significant as that of the great iconographers of the past.
Because of the success of the pioneering Russians based in Paris, iconographers from other Orthodox and Eastern Rite churches were influenced by their work. Among these were the Greek painter Photis Kontoglou, who contributed to the reestablishment of a flourishing Greek iconographic tradition, and the Egyptian Isaac Fanous, who did the same for the Coptic style.
I have long felt that their approach should serve as the template for Roman Catholic Christians to reestablish their Western traditions of Gothic and Baroque art today. My own analysis of those traditions is based on the work of those 20th-century Russian theologians and is my attempt to begin that process. The Modern Myths of Iconography
The mystique that so many contemporary Roman Catholics and Protestant Christians associate with iconography has also emerged from this recent period, and bound up with this are several modern myths about icons. These include the ideas that you have to be Orthodox to paint icons well, that you have to be a monk to paint icons, that you must ritually fast and pray before painting an icon, and that the true iconographer does not paint icons but only ‘writes’ them.
Is it true that only Orthodox Christians can paint icons successfully? I would certainly agree that someone who regularly worships with sacred art is more likely to paint it well. This does place Roman Catholics at a disadvantage. Unless a Roman Rite Catholic prays the Divine Office with an image corner at home, he will almost certainly not have the opportunity to do so in the Roman liturgy as it is generally celebrated today, even if there is beautiful art in the church. This therefore greatly favors Orthodox and Eastern Rite Christians, although in principle it does not preclude others from painting icons well; in fact, there are several excellent Catholic iconographers today.
Can only monks paint icons? While a monk’s spiritual life is likely to be compatible with that of an artist who wishes to pursue his vocation, it is not the only form of Christian life that can offer such formation. A devout and sincere layman might flourish as an artist too, and there are many fine icon painters today who are not monks.
On the question of fasting and praying: while there is no accounting for whom God may choose to inspire, or which individual will respond well to that inspiration, the greatest chance of a good response lies with those who lead good and holy lives, and typically this involves regular fasting and prayer. However, this principle is not uniquely applicable to artists; it applies to every aspect of the Christian life and to every Christian. Icon painters should fast and pray regularly, as all Christians should, but this is not a special requirement peculiar to icon painters.
On whether we ‘write’ or paint icons: this question arises from the fact that the Greek and Slavonic words for creating an icon carry no distinction between the two activities, and could legitimately be translated as either writing or painting. One well-known Orthodox iconographer told me that he considered the insistence on the word ‘write’ to be ‘a bit precious.’ As far as he was concerned, if someone uses a paintbrush to apply paint, the English word for that activity is painting, and it does not diminish the standing of the profession to say so. On the contrary, when the icon is beautiful, and we venerate it as we should, that elevates the role of the painter of icons to one of the highest importance, regardless of what we call the process of creating them.
There is also an associated myth that overstates the role of a theology of method, as distinct from the theology that governs the style of the finished image. Some, for example, hold that the image must be created by starting with a dark base and adding layers of lighter color, because God created Light out of darkness. There is no basis for this. A painting is as good as it looks, and if the finished work is good, the method by which it was made is of secondary importance. This is confirmed by modern X-ray analysis of authentic and ancient icons, which shows that painters of the past used a wide variety of methods to produce authentic work.
A Short Summary of the Theology of Iconographic Style
So what is the theology of icons? The iconographic style expresses a desire to present man in full union with God, that is, eschatological man. Consider the Transfiguration icon below, painted in Yaroslavl, Russia, in 1516.
The nimbus around Christ darkens toward its center, reflecting a theological point about the nature of divine light. Christ in the Transfiguration is understood as the prototype for all iconographic imagery, and the principle extends further, since all saints shine with the light of Christ because, as baptized Christians, they have ‘put on Christ’. The halo, typically a gold disc around the head, is a stylized representation of the light emanating from the person. In the Transfiguration icon, the prophets and Christ bear halos, while there is a convention that before Pentecost the apostles do not, though they are still portrayed as saints in other respects: there is no cast shadow from any figure, since each is his own source of light, and we see the floating sparkles of uncreated light on their clothes and bodies.
To convey the heavenly dimension, which is outside time and space, the image avoids creating the illusion of depth. The artist paints the image so that it lives, as it were, in the plane of the surface. Rarely does an iconographer use single-point perspective, in which things diminish with distance; he will often use inverted perspective instead, in which things appear wider as they recede.
The size of the beings and creatures portrayed varies according to the hierarchy of being, a feature often referred to as hierarchical perspective. Christ is the largest figure, while trees and mountains are shown smallest relative to their natural size. Even inanimate objects, such as trees and mountains, can be shown bowing toward Christ, indicating that each owes its existence to him and further reinforcing our sense that each has its place in the hierarchy of being. The negative space around the figures is usually a single color, often gold leaf, with minimal indication of the location. The gold or other single-color background reinforces the sense of flatness, and the environment is suffused with light, an effect accentuated by gold leaf that reflects candlelight, causing it to shimmer as though it were a source of light in itself. Some variants, particularly Western variants, have complex patterned backgrounds that achieve the same end — the sense of flat negative space around the figures.
The sense of another world is further heightened by placing the figures in the middle distance. No matter how near we approach the image, there is always some sense of distance between us and the closest figures depicted; they seem to recede as we draw closer. Even with our faces pressed against the surface, they remain some way from us. This creates a dynamic between us and the icon when we pray with them, for it instills in us a longing to be with the saint. This is a longing that finds its fulfillment only in heaven.
All icons aim to portray heavenly realities. Heaven is a realm in which time is compressed into a single moment; past, present, and future are perpetually in a single moment. It is difficult even to imagine this, but it is possible to reflect this mystery. A way to do so is to present a full narrative with different scenes from a story portrayed simultaneously in the image, even though, in real time, they happened sequentially. What took place over an extended period appears in a single image. This might be useful in an icon of the life of a saint, for example. It is common for an important event in the saint’s life to be the largest image, with several miniature scenes of other events from his life around the periphery.
Consider now another image. This icon of the Mother of God with Christ is known as the Vladimir Mother of God. It was painted in Constantinople around 1100 AD, brought to Russia, and became the prototype and model for Russian iconography.
Image: The Vladimir Mother of God, Constantinople, c. 1100 AD. The prototype for Russian iconography.
The first thing to notice is how the Theotokos, who bore and gave birth to God, expresses a contentedness tinged with melancholy. This is called ‘bright sadness’ and is intended to convey that the saint lives in eternal bliss but nonetheless feels compassion for those who are not yet with God. The saints want us to join them, and they are happy to intercede for us so that it might happen.
The proportions of the person's features are subtly modified to communicate holy wisdom. The wise man reflects on God’s will before acting. To convey this aspect of wisdom, the receptive organs are relatively large, while the active ones are smaller. Therefore, the eyes are enlarged, and the nose, which inhales the fragrance of heaven, is elongated slightly, and the ears, if they are visible, are slightly larger than they would be naturally. (Typically, we don’t see Our Lady’s ears.) In contrast, the mouth and hands are made smaller. This is not to say that saints are inactive; when they act, their actions are effective. Rather, it speaks of an economy of effort in which nothing is wasted. And similarly, while there is no superfluous word coming from the mouth of a saint, every word that is spoken is golden.
We also see that Christ, though a child in his mother’s arms, appears as a little man. This indicates the paradox that, though human and physically immature, he is still fully God.
Another feature of icons is that the faces of saints are always portrayed in either a full or three-quarter view, so that both eyes are clearly visible. This symbolizes the idea that in heaven we can behold another and know them fully; nothing is hidden, and we are fully known to all others. Only the devil would be shown in full profile. (This is one feature that differentiates early Gothic art from iconographic art. Gothic artists, in order to portray a more naturalistic three-dimensional setting and the sense of a more lifelike interaction between the figures in the composition, gradually begin to place some of those key figures in profile.)
These stylistic devices in icons draw out realities that would otherwise be invisible. The modification of natural appearances, therefore, produces a greater realism than any naturalistic painting or photograph could achieve.
It is common for people who cannot draw well to want to learn to paint icons, assuming that draftsmanship matters less in this tradition, but this is not the case. The artist must not be tempted to use the style to conceal a lack of drawing ability. It takes great skill to reflect visible and otherwise invisible realities in the same painting, so that the two aspects support rather than undermine each other. Our figures must both sparkle with the uncreated light of Christ and read anatomically, just as the drapery must hang and fold as it would naturally around the figure.
Here is another common image of Christ, known as the Mandylion.
Image: The Mandylion (Christ Acheiropoietos), 12th century, Russia.
The name comes from the archaic Greek term for ‘cloth’ or ‘towel’ and refers to the tradition that the prototype of this icon was a cloth pressed against the face of Our Lord, and that the image was miraculously transferred to it. It is perhaps the most famous of the icons called acheiropoietos, meaning ‘not made with human hands,’ images that are revealed rather than painted. Notice how stern Christ appears. This sternness is sometimes employed in the depiction of Christ to indicate that he is a judge. It must never be excessive, because we also wish to convey that he is a just judge and that divine justice is always tempered with great mercy.
In common with all authentically liturgical art, there is a general disposition against innovation and originality for their own sake. New icons are created only as needed by the Church, for example to portray a newly canonized saint. The icon painter always reproduces the prototype with an understanding of the ideal it is intended to express and always aims to portray the ideal as best he can rather than a simple copy of another work of art. Accordingly, the goal is to create something greater than that which he copies.
These revealed images — the ones said to be “not made with human hands” — raise a question that goes to the heart of the whole tradition: does what we see in an icon actually correspond to what Christ and the saints are like in heaven, or is it simply an internally consistent system of symbols? That question, and the most remarkable of these revealed images, Our Lady of Guadalupe, are the subject of the second of these two articles.
This feast is called the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, because Chosroas, the king of the Persians, came to Jerusalem, and took away with him from there the wood of the Lord’s Cross, and having made for himself a house decorated like heaven, he made a seat for himself in it, and put the wood on his right in the place of the Son, and a rooster on his left in the place of the Holy Spirit, and standing in the middle, ordered that he be called God.
The Emperor Chosroas adored by the Persians, and Heraclius being told in a dream to recover the relics of the Cross. Painted ca. 1385 by Agnolo Gaddi in the choir of the Franciscan basilica of the Holy Cross in Florence, as a part of a cycle which tells the full legend of the Cross.
On hearing this, the Roman emperor Heraclius moved his army (against the Persians) and having beaten the son of Chosroas in single combat, took back the Lord’s cross. As he was approaching Jerusalem in great splendor, the gates of the city were closed by an angel, so that he could not enter. And as he wondered very greatly at this, a voice was heard from heaven saying that the King of kings, when He came to suffer for all, had not entered Jerusalem thus decked out, but humbly, and sitting upon a donkey.
And he, at once recognizing his own pride, came down from his horse, and was greatly humbled. And the gates opened up to him of their own accord, and he entered the city barefoot, and as he did so, many people who suffered from various kinds of ailments were cured through the Cross, and the emperor himself broke forth with these most devout praises of the Cross, saying, ‘O Cross, moreover splendid than all the stars, renowned to the world, etc.’ Therefore, he lifted up the cross, and established, with the agreement of the bishops, that in his empire the day of the Exaltation would henceforth be a solemn feast.
The Exaltation of the Cross by Heraclius, mid-15th century, by Piero della Francesca; part of a similar cycle in the basilica of St Francis in Arezzo, Italy. The artist’s habit of depicting people in outlandish hats, which he shares with a number of his Tuscan contemporaries, comes from seeing the delegates of the Eastern churches to the ecumenical council of Florence, which concluded in 1449, shortly before he began this project.
Long afterwards, in the sacristy of St Peter’s basilica, Pope Sergius found a silver container, and in it a cross put together from a large portion of the saving wood, adorned with precious stones, and this was put in the basilica of the Savior (i.e. the Lateran), and adored by the people on the day of the Exaltation.
The feast of the Finding of the Cross is greater than that of the Exaltation because of the authority of the one who instituted it, for the former was established by the Pope, namely Eusebius, but the latter by the emperor.” (Rationale Divinorum Officiorum 7, 30, 1-2)
Our friend Durandus evinces some very typically medieval confusion in narrating these events, which took place nearly 700 years before his time. In the reign of the Persian emperor Khosrow II (590-628), whose name is usually Latinized as Chosroas, one of his generals did capture the city of Jerusalem, steal the True Cross from the basilica of the Holy Sepulcher, and bring it back with him to Persia. The Byzantine emperor Heraclius then engaged Persia in a long and spectacularly successful war, penetrating into enemy territory so deeply and so rapidly that at times he lost communication with his own supply lines. In the midst of his astonishing reversals, Khosrow was overthrown in 628 by his son Kavad, who then sued for peace. Heraclius was able to impose the return of the True Cross and various other relics taken in 614 as one of the terms of the peace treaty, and did indeed bring them back to the Holy City in a splendid ceremony.
Piero’s fantastically complicated version of the battle between Heraclius and Chosroas.
All this is narrated in the Roman Breviary in the second nocturn of Matins, leaving out the most obviously legendary embellishment, the story of Chosroas and his chamber made to look like heaven, which is also included in Bl. Jacopo da Voragine’s Golden Legend. The idea of an emperor ordering himself to be worshiped as a god is, of course, a memory of the ancient Romans’ cult of the divinized emperors, the principal cause of conflict between them and the early Christians. It is also unlikely that a Greek-speaking emperor would “break forth with devout praises of the Cross” in the form of the Roman antiphon for the Magnificat at First Vespers.
Aña O Crux, splendidior cunctis astris, mundo célebris, homínibus multum amábilis, sanctior universis: quae sola fuisti digna portáre talentum mundi, dulce lignum, dulces clavos, dulcia ferens póndera; salva praesentem catervam in tuis hodie láudibus congregátam. (O Cross, more splendid than all the stars, renowned throughout the world, much loved by men, more holy than all things, who alone wast worthy to bear the Price of the world, sweet word, bearing the sweet nails and the sweet burdens, save the flock here gathered today in thy praises. A polyphonic setting by Orlando de Lassus.)
The events surrounding the loss and recovery of the True Cross under Heraclius have long been associated with the feast of the Exaltation in the West, but in the Byzantine Rite, they are not mentioned at all. There are, however, a few mentions of the emperor Constantine in the feast’s liturgical texts, and one of his mother Helena, the discoverer of the Cross.
As I explained in an article last year, many major feasts in the Byzantine Rite are followed immediately by a “synaxis” (“σύναξις” in Greek, “собóръ” in Church Slavonic), a commemoration of a sacred person who figures prominently in the feast, but who is, as it were, overshadowed by its principal subject. (Scholars of the Eastern rites also call them “concomitant feasts.” Byzantium borrowed this custom from the traditions of the Syrian church and of Jerusalem.) This past Wednesday, for example, was the Synaxis of Ss Joachim and Anne, which is kept the day after the Birth of the Virgin Mary. Another is kept in honor of the Virgin Herself on the day after Christmas, another of St Gabriel on the day after the Annunciation, etc.
The dedication of the church of the Holy Sepulcher, which Constantine and Helena built over the site of the Lord’s tomb, was celebrated on September 13th, and was one of the most important feasts in Jerusalem; in the oldest sources of the city’s native liturgical rite, it was kept with an octave. The complex also contained the site where the True Cross was found, and the Cross itself was long kept within it. The Exaltation of the Cross therefore began as a kind of synaxis or concomitant feast for this dedication. Since the latter was closely tied to the traditions of the Holy City, but obviously less important elsewhere, in Byzantium, the Exaltation supplanted the Dedication in importance.
Durandus notes that in the West, the feast of the Finding of the Cross was superior in dignity to that of the Exaltation, although the reason which he gives for this is not really correct. (In pre-Tridentine Roman books, and in the missal and breviary of St Pius V, they have the same rank.) There was a Pope called Eusebius, but he ruled for only 4 months in the year 310, and obviously has nothing to do with either feast.
There have been four Popes named Sergius. Durandus does not say which was the one who discovered the silver reliquary of the True Cross in the sacristy of St Peter’s basilica, but such a reliquary does exist. The Crux Vaticana is also known as the Cross of Justin II, the early Byzantine emperor (reigned 565-78) who gave it to Pope John III sometime around 568. The wood of the Cross contained within it comes from the portion which St Helena had sent to her son in Constantinople more than 200 years earlier. This cross was used for centuries at the adoration ceremony of Good Friday; after being kissed by so many people for so long, the original container mounted in the middle finally disintegrated, and was replaced in the early 19th century.
Justin II gave a second cross, very similar in form, to St Radegund, the Queen of the Franks (520 ca. – 587); her friend St Venantius Fortunatus, bishop of Poitiers, composed the famous hymns of the Cross Vexilla Regis and Pange, lingua to celebrate its arrival.
O Lord, look unto my aid; let them be confounded and ashamed, who seek after my soul to take it away. O Lord, look unto my aid. (The Offertory of the Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost.)
Offertorium, Ps. 39 Dómine, in auxilium meum réspice: confundantur et revereantur, qui quaerunt ánimam meam, ut áuferant eam. Dómine, in auxilium meum réspice.
This Offertory is also sung on Friday of the second week of Lent; when I went to search for it on YouTube, this very beautiful polyphonic version by Palestrina, written for that season, also came up.
After the Lord greeted the Apostles, He said to them again, “Peace be with you” (John 20, 19-21), showing that we must have peace not only in our mouth, but also in our heart, lest we be among those who speak peace with their neighbor but have evil in their hearts. (Ps. 27, 3) Therefore, when He had said these things to the Apostles, He breathed upon them and said to them, “receive the Holy Spirit.”
The Incredulity of St Thomas, 1308-11, by Duccio di Buoninsegna, one of the panels of the dismembered altarpiece of Siena Cathedral known as the Maestà.
To symbolize, this the priest, when he has done the commingling and finished the prayer, in some churches, receives the peace from the Eucharist, that is from the very Body of the Lord (i.e. by kissing it), or according to others, from the tomb itself, that is, from the chalice or the altar, and immediately gives the kiss to deacon. They who receive it from the Body itself do this as a sign that spiritual peace was given by Christ to the human race. … But the deacon gives the peace to others, and they amongst themselves, as a sign that all must have peace, but especially the sons of the Church. …
Therefore, because charity is poured forth (diffunditur) upon our hearts through the Holy Spirit who is given into us, therefore the kiss of peace he is spread forth (diffunditur) through all the faithful in the Church, for the Apostle advises, “Greet one another with a holy kiss.” (2 Cor. 13, 12)
The fact that the priest gives the peace to the people was prefigured by Joshua, who, having overcome his enemies, took possession of the land, which he then divided by lot, and possessed in peace; and likewise Christ, rising from the dead and overcoming the devil, gives gifts and peace to man. (Eph. 4, 8, cit. Ps. 67, 19)
A bishop gives the peace first to a minister who was previously on his left, but comes to receive the peace on his right. By this are signified the gentiles, who first passed in peace from the left side of infidelity to the right side of faith and eternity; then through this minister, the peace goes up to the people.
The people give the kiss amongst themselves at the Mass … because through the sacrificing of the saving Victim, our sins are forgiven, and we are reconciled to the Most High. Rightly then did the Church decree that the kiss of peace be given at the time when the saving Victim is sacrificed for sins. Therefore, men give the kiss, that is, the sign of peace, to one another, to show that they are joined in the body of Christ, through Whom peace was made in heaven and on earth. …
In the Mass for the Dead, the peace is not given, because these faithful souls are no longer in the tribulation of this world, nor will they be so any longer, but they already rest in the Lord. For this reason, the kiss of peace which is the sign of peace and harmony, is not necessary for them. And likewise, the priest does not say the prayer, “Lord Jesus Christ who gave peace to your Apostles,” nor does he receive the peace from the altar.
Two French pax bredes made in the 15th or 16th century, displayed earlier this year in a show on medieval art at the Louvre in Paris, photographed by Nicola.
Truly it is worthy and just, right and profitable to salvation that we should give Thee thanks always, here and everywhere, o Lord, Holy Father, almighty and eternal God: Who willed the blessed Virgin Mary to be the mother of Thine Only-begotten Son, since no other mother was befitting for God than a virgin, and no other Son was befitting for the Virgin than God. And just as at the name of Jesus, every knee of those in heaven, on earth and below bends before Thy divine majesty; so also, at hearing the name of Mary, the heavens bow down, the earth falls prostrate, those below tremble, and confess that in the Virgin Mother, Thy omnipotence must be adored. And therefore with the Angels and Archangels, with the Thrones and Dominations, and with all the army of the heavenly host, we sing the hymn to Thy glory, saying without end: Holy, Holy, Holy... (The Ambrosian Preface for the feast of the Holy Name of Mary.)
A statue of the Virgin Mary on top of the tallest pinnacle of the cathedral of Milan, and affectionately known as “La Madonnina - the Little Madonna.” The cathedral is dedicated to Her Nativity. (Image from Wikimedia Commons by Ibex 73, CC BY-SA 4.0)
Vere quia dignum et justum est, aequum et salutare, nos tibi semper hic et ubique gratias agere, Domine, sancte Pater, omnipotens aeterne Deus: Qui beatissimam Mariam Virginem Unigeniti tui Genitricem esse voluisti: quoniam nec alia Deum mater decebat, quam virgo; nec virginem alius Filius, quam Deus. Sicut autem divinæ majestati tuæ in nomine Jesu omne genuflectitur caelestium, terrestrium, et infernorum; sic, audito Mariæ nomine, inclinantes se coeli, terra procumbens, trepidantes inferi tuam in Virgine Matre adorandam omnipotentiam confitentur. Et ideo cum angelis et archangelis, cum thronis et dominationibus, cumque omni militia caeliestis exercitus, hymnum gloriae tuae canimus, sine fine dicentes: Sanctus...
SingCon is an annual gathering of cantors, choristers, choir directors, and anyone interested in the musical tradition of the Ukrainian Greco-Catholic Church, held with the goal of advancing the state and quality of music in that Church within the English-speaking world. The weekend includes workshops on liturgical and musical topics, vocal exercises, mass choir practices, and liturgical services, including Vespers, Matins, and the Divine Liturgy. This year’s edition, which began yesterday evening, is being hosted at the church of St Elias in Brampton, Ontario, which has a well-deserved reputation for cultivating this tradition in all its fullness; the final day will be Monday, September 14, the feast of the Exaltation of the Cross.
There will be several live-streams available from the event over the few days, which you can access via the dedicated YouTube channel, a wonderful opportunity to hear some of the splendors of this rich tradition: https://www.youtube.com/@singconugccmusic/streams. There will also be a lecture by His Excellency Erik Varden OCSO, bishop of the territorial prelature of Trondheim in Norway. (Bishop Varden preached the Lenten spiritual exercises for the Pope and Curia this year.)
Saturday, Sept. 12:
10am - Parastas (a prayer service for the dead) 6pm - Great Vespers 7:30pm - Lecture by Bp Varden, “ ‘He Who Sings Prays Twice’; How? ”
Sunday, Sept. 13
8am - Matins and Hierarchical Divine Liturgy of the Sunday before the Exaltation of the Cross. 7pm - Vigil (Great Vespers, Litia, Matins) for the Universal Exaltation of the Precious and Life-giving Cross.
After the commingling and the Agnus Dei the priest silently prays the following:
Domine Jesu Christe, qui dixisti Apostolis tuis: Pacem relinquo vobis, pacem meam do vobis: ne respicias peccata mea, sed fidem Ecclesiæ tuæ; eamque secundum voluntatem tuam pacificare et coadunare digneris: Qui vivis et regnas Deus per omnia saecula saeculorum. Amen.
Which I translate:
O Lord Jesus Christ, Who said to Thine Apostles, ‘Peace I leave with you, My peace I give unto you’, look not on my sins but on the faith of Thy Church; and, in accordance with Thy will, deign to pacify her and to collect her into one, Who livest and reignest, God, forever and ever. Amen.
My translation is not as eloquent as that of the 2011 ICEL:
Lord Jesus Christ,
who said to your Apostles:
Peace I leave you, my peace I give you,
look not on our sins,
but on the faith of your Church,
and graciously grant her peace and unity
in accordance with your will (no. 126).
“Grant her peace and unity” is better on the ears than “pacify her and collect her into one.” The imperative “pacify her” makes the Church sound like a dyspeptic baby in need of her binky. But by using the verb pacificare, the prayer does not simply ask that the Church be given a gift called peace that she can use or not use to various degrees, but that she be transformed by peace, that she herself be made peaceful.
Coadunare, which I have translated as “collect into one,” is also an apt verb for uniting. Aduno already means to “make one,” that is, to move the many to (ad) the one (uno). Co-ad-uno makes the action both more corporate and more intense. To my mind the verb calls to mind the meaning of the word “Church” – in both the Greek Ekklēsia and the Latin Ecclesia, it means the assembly. The prayer essentially asks that Christ may really and truly make the Church what she is, that He may make her an assembly collected from everywhere and now united in His peace.
My translation renders digneris as “deign to.” ICEL changes this verb in the subjunctive mood to the adverb “graciously,” while some preconciliar hand Missals use “vouchsafe.” The latter is a lovely if obsolete word: to vouch or warrant something safely is to be generous, trustworthy, and gracious in bestowing. But in English, “deign” still maintains a tenuous connection to “dignify,” a connection that is stronger in the Latin and, I contend, significant. The inclusion of digneris adds a layer of hierarchic formality (which it is good to do in sacred liturgy), but more than that, it has the Domine Jesu Christe ask that God dignify His Church or increase her dignity by granting her certain properties. And human dignity is one of the surprising themes of the Latin Mass. The Offertory Rite marvels at the dignity that man has been given through His creation and redemption, and the priest and faithful in a moment will be reciting the Domine, non sum dignus, still trembling at the thought of their own unworthiness or lack of dignity in receiving so august a Sacrament.
The prayer reminds Jesus Christ of what He said during the Last Supper: “Peace I leave, My peace I give.” The full quote is:
But the Paraclete, the Holy Ghost, whom the Father will send in My name, He will teach you all things, and bring all things to your mind, whatsoever I shall have said to you. Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, do I give unto you. (John 14, 26-27)
The hint of a relationship between the Holy Spirit and Christ’s peace is confirmed later in John’s Gospel, when our Risen Lord appears to the Apostles and says:
‘Peace be to you. As the Father hath sent Me, I also send you.’ When He had said this, He breathed on them; and He said to them: ‘Receive ye the Holy Ghost. Whose sins you shall forgive, they are forgiven them.’ (John 20, 21-23)
The Church Fathers interpreted Christ’s insufflation here as a kiss. Hence, His breathing of the Holy Spirit onto the Apostles after bidding them peace is a Kiss of Peace. Indeed, as I argue elsewhere, Eastern liturgies place their Kiss of Peace before their Offertory/Anaphora because they are following Matthew 5:23-24:
If therefore thou offer thy gift at the altar, and there thou remember that thy brother hath any thing against thee; Leave there thy offering before the altar, and go first to be reconciled to thy brother: and then coming thou shalt offer thy gift.
The Roman Rite, on the other hand, follows John 20 and hence has not a [primarily] conciliatory Kiss but a Paschal Kiss, a Kiss that communicates the peace of the Risen Christ. The Paschal character of this kiss is reinforced by its placement after the commingling, which represents the Resurrection. In the words of Honorius Augustodunensis (1080-1140): “By sharing the pax, [the priest] denotes the peace given after Christ’s resurrection and our participation in its joy.” [1]
The Church takes seriously the words of the Domine Jesu Christe and of these Johannine passages. Christ has bequeathed to the Church a unique peace that is real and palpable and not vague or metaphorical. As David Yeago notes, Christ describes the peace “with utter substantial realism,” as “a concrete reality” which “confers the gift of which it speaks” and has the power to return to the giver if the recipient is unworthy. [2] As James Perella notes in his magisterial study The Kiss Sacred and Profane, for Church Fathers such as Sts. Cyril of Jerusalem and John Chrysostom, “the kiss exchanged by the brethren is more than just a symbol”: it is the actual mixing of souls, [3] the movement of souls towards “a mutual intercourse.” [4]
In the traditional Mass this respect for the Peace’s substantial realism may be seen in two areas: its ceremonies and its language.
In the traditional Mass, the priest kisses the altar near where the Sacred Host lies (earlier rubrics have him kissing the Host itself or the lip of the Chalice) and then “kisses” the deacon who in turn “kisses” the subdeacon and so on. To administer the Kiss (which is no longer labial), the giver of the peace places his hands on the other’s shoulders. He leans forward towards the recipient’s left cheek and says, Pax tecum, to which the recipient replies, Et cum spiritu tuo. I call this form of the Kiss of Peace the Roman accolade, for “accolade” comes from or “to the neck,” and the act of “falling on” someone’s neck betokens a kiss, as we see with the father of the prodigal son who ran out of his house and “fell upon his [son’s] neck and kissed him” (Luke 15, 20).
No one can give the peace who has not received it from someone else, including the priest, who receives it from Christ Himself on the altar. The symbolism is both beautiful and clear. All true peace comes from Christ through the ministration of His Church. Grace cascades from the Eucharistic sacrifice through Christ’s ministers to His people, forming what several Western rites aptly called a “chain of peace and charity” that both binds together and elevates. [5] In the words of Fr. Pius Parsch, the kiss:
is especially a glorious symbol of the union of Christians among themselves and of their union with Christ ; for the
kiss comes from the altar, which is the symbol of Christ. Therefore it is Christ who kisses those who are participating
in the holy sacrifice. The kiss goes from one to another, thus uniting all the faithful most intimately among themselves and with Christ. That mystical union of the faithful in Christ, which the holy sacrifice and Communion are to accomplish, is beautifully represented in the kiss of peace. [6]
The power of the Peace is reinforced in the etiquette governing the ritual. While it is common in the Tridentine rite to bow to one’s ecclesiastical superior at incensations and the like, one does not acknowledge the rank of the giver of the peace before it is administered, for, as the Caeremoniale Episcoporum puts it, “there is consideration not for the minister bringing it but for the Peace [itself], which is conveyed to him from the Sacrifice of the altar.” [7] The giver of the peace, in other words, represents not himself but Christ, for the peace that he gives is Christ (cf. Eph. 2, 19).
The second way in which the traditional Roman Rite acknowledges the substantial realism of the Peace is the manner in which it speaks about it. The 1570/1962 Missal simply states:
Si danda est pax, osculatur altare et, dans pacem, dicit: Pax tecum. ℟. Et cum spiritu tuo.
In Missis defunctorum non datur pax, neque dicitur praecedens oratio.
Which I translate as:
If the Peace is to be given, [the priest] kisses the altar and, when giving the Peace, says, Peace be with thee. ℟. And with thy spirit.
In Masses for the dead the Peace is not given, nor is the previous prayer said.
Unlike today, there is no talk of a “sign of peace” being exchanged. In the classical Roman liturgy, the Peace itself is given and received. And that Peace is a real spiritual blessing which even has the power to forgive venial sins, for it is (at least according to Parsch) a sacramental. [8] And insofar as the Peace bestows forgiveness and peace, it may be considered a fulfillment or instantiation of Psalm 84[3],11: justítia, et pax osculátæ sunt—“justice and peace have kissed.”
The 1970 Missal
The Novus Ordo changed the Kiss of Peace in four ways. The rubrics of the 2002 Missale Romanum state:
Deinde, pro opportunitate, diaconus, vel sacerdos, subiungit:
Offerte vobis pacem.
Et omnes, iuxta locorum consuetudines, pacem, communionem et caritatem sibi invicem significant; sacerdos pacem dat diacono vel ministro.
The 1985 ICEL translation for which is:
Then, if appropriate, the deacon or priest adds:
Let us offer each other the sign of peace.
All make an appropriate sign of peace, according to local custom.
The priest gives the sign of peace to the deacon or minister.
And the 2011 ICEL translation for which is:
Then, if appropriate, the Deacon, or the Priest, adds:
Let us offer each other the sign of peace.
And all offer one another a sign, in keeping with local customs, that expresses peace,
communion, and charity.
The Priest gives the sign of peace to a Deacon or minister.
The rubric now appears after the fraction rite and before the commingling, the first change to the Kiss and one that undermines the Paschal meaning of the Kiss as coming from the Risen Lord, since the mystical symbol of the Resurrection, the commingling, has yet to occur. According to the testimony of Annibale Bugnini, on the basis of the principle that the Consilium was authorized to simplify but not alter the structure of the Roman Rite, Pope Paul VI “asked for the elimination of no. 13 of the draft [of the Novus Ordo], which placed the rite of the fraction after the greeting of peace and during the singing of the Agnus Dei.” [9] His request, however, was denied!. And thus today, while the faithful smile, shake hands, and offer each other the hippie peace sign, Our crucified Lord mystically lies lifeless on the altar.
Second, the new rubrics simply state Offerte vobis pacem or “Let us offer each other the sign of peace.” Gone is the chain of love: The vertical mediation of Christ’s peace from Host to priest to ministers and so on has been replaced by a horizontal immediacy, with peace springing up spontaneously from among the people. The metaphysics of pseudo-Dionysius (who coined the word “hierarchy”) has been replaced by that of Hegel (who coined the word Zeitgeist).
Third, the peace is to be administered according to local custom. Instead of a kiss or a kiss-adjacent gesture like that of the Roman accolade, any “appropriate sign” is valid, thereby efectively ending the kiss of peace as a kiss—a tradition, incidentally, that goes back to the “holy kiss” in the New Testament. [10]
In the United States, the most common replacement of the kiss or accolade (at least before the COVID pandemic) has been the handshake. In many respects, this is not an unreasonable choice. As an indication that one is unarmed, the handshake is certainly a recognizable sign of peace. Unfortunately, though, it is a better sign of the peace that comes from the city of man rather than from the city of God. Handshaking signifies a truce, a deal, the kind of agreement one makes in the world of politics and business. It is not first and foremost a sign of love or intimacy, let alone the charity that the Holy Spirit alone pours forth into our hearts. Indeed, unlike the kiss and virtually every other sacred gesture in the liturgy, it has undergone no transformation or modification that would mark it as distinctive from the “profane” handshakes outside the temple and thus it more or less retains its worldly resonance.
Msgr. Peter Elliott has an interesting interpretation, or rather suggestion, regarding these rubrics. While acknowledging that the “sign of peace” is to take place according to local custom, he recommends that within the sanctuary, the traditional Roman accolade be given. One wonders how often his advice has been heeded. [11]
Fourth, while the Latin of the 1970/2000 Missale Romanum preserves a belief in the substantial realism of the Peace by simply calling it the Pax, some approved translations undermine this realism. We have already seen above how ICEL calls the Pax the “sign of peace.” As for other languages, the Italian is just as weak, the French is the strongest of the translations that I consulted, and the Mexican Missal is somewhere in between.
The third edition of the Italian Missal has:
Scambiatevi il dono della pace.
Oppure:
Come figli del Dio della pace, scambiatevi un gesto di comunione fraterna.
Oppure:
In Cristo, che ci ha resi tutti fratelli con la sua croce, scambiatevi il dono della pace.
Oppure:
Nello Spirito del Cristo risorto, scambiatevi il dono della pace. [12]
Which I translate as:
Exchange the gift of peace.
Or:
As children of the God of peace, exchange a gesture of fraternal communion.
Or:
In Christ, who made us all brothers and sisters by his cross, exchange the gift of peace.
Or:
In the Spirit of the risen Christ, exchange the gift of peace.
The French has:
Dans la charité du Christ, donnez-vous la paix.
Et tous se manifestent la paix et la charité mutuelles selon les coutumes locales.
Le prêtre donne la paix au diacre ou au ministre. [13]
Which I translate as:
In the charity of Christ, give one another the peace.
Mutual peace and charity are manifested according to local customs.
The priest gives the peace to the deacon or the minister.
Because of its numerous options, the Mexican Misal Romano is all over the map:
Luego, si se juzga oportuno, el diácono, o el sacerdote, añade:
Dense fraternalmente la paz.
O bien:
Como hijos de Dios, intercambien ahora un signo de comunión fraterna.
O bien:
En Cristo, que nos ha hecho hermanos con su cruz, dense la paz como signo de reconciliación.
O bien:
En el Espíritu de Cristo resucitado, dense fraternalmente la paz.
Y todos, según la costumbre del lugar, se dan la paz.
El sacerdote da la paz al diácono o ministro. [14]
Which I translate as:
Then, if deemed appropriate, the deacon or priest adds:
Fraternally give the peace.
Or:
As children of God, exchange now a sign of fraternal communion.
Or:
In Christ, who has made us brothers and sisters through his cross, give the peace as a sign of reconciliation.
Or:
In the Spirit of the risen Christ, fraternally give the peace.
And all, according to local custom, exchange a sign of peace.
The priest gives the peace to the deacon or minister.
Note that while some options refer to the Peace, others refer to a sign or gesture. And while one option rightly characterizes the Peace as Paschal (Johannine) in character, another wrongly characterizes it as conciliatory (Matthean) in character.
Notes
[1] Gemma Animae I (Migne, PL 172.570), ch. 83.
[2] Yeago, “Unfashionable Thoughts on Sharing the Peace,” Dialog 23 (August 1984), 292.
[3] Perella, The Kiss Sacred and Profane: An Interpretive History of Kiss Symbolism and Related Religio-Erotic Themes (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1969), 24. Perella cites Cyril, Catechesis Mystagogice XXIII.3 (PG 33:1112).
[4] John Chrysostom, Homily 30 (PG 61:606); cf. In epistulam II ad Corinthios 30:2 (PG 61:607). And if the kiss produces united souls, it also produces one body, thereby fulfilling the petition of the Domine Jesu Christe (cf. John Chrysostom, In epistulam I ad Corinthios 44.4 (PG 61:376).
[5] Along with the “Pax Domini sit semper vobiscum,” several medieval Missals include the blessing: Habete vinculum pacis et caritatis, ut apti sitis sacrosanctis mysteriis (cf. Jungmann, 332, n. 61).
[6] Liturgy of the Mass, 298.
[7] Quia ante non habetur consideratio ipsius ministri deferentis, sed Pacis, quae a Sacrificio altaris ad illum defertur (I.xxix.8).
[8] See Liturgy of the Mass, 298.
[9] The Reform of the Liturgy: 1948-1975, trans. Matthew J. O'Connell (Liturgical Press, 1990), 837, n. 19.
We are now in the midst of an octave that contains three feasts of the Virgin Mary, her Nativity on September 8th, her Holy Name on the 12th, and the Seven Sorrows on the 15th. The historical starting point of this arrangement is of course the first of these, which was imported into the Roman Rite from the Byzantine tradition at the end of the 7th century, along with three other Marian feasts, the Annunciation, the Purification, and the Assumption. Unlike those other three, however, it was slow to catch on, and still not celebrated in many parts of western Europe even by the beginning of the 11th century.
A stained glass window in the south ambulatory of Chartres Cathedral, known as Notre-Dame de la Belle Verrière (Our Lady of the Beautiful Window), or the Blue Virgin. The three large panels in the center were made in the 12th century, and are among the very few pieces of stained glass that were found to be salvageable from the fire of 1194 that destroyed the older church.
To a large degree, the impetus for its general acceptance came from the preaching of a Saint named Fulbert, who became bishop of Chartres in France in 1006, and held the see for 22 years. His city was already an important pilgrimage center because it possessed an object believed to be a garment of the Virgin Mary herself. Fulbert began rebuilding Chartres Cathedral after it was destroyed by a fire in 1020 in a much larger form, to accommodate the great crowds of pilgrims who came to venerate the relic. As is so often the case with such projects, it was not completed until after his death. This new church in turn burned down in 1194, leading to the magnificent Gothic building which stands today, rightly recognized as one of the greatest architectural achievements of the Middle Ages.
Here is a fairly recent documentary about Chartres cathedral which I found quite enjoyable, and which explains a lot of interesting things not just about the building project, but also its relation to the previous structure, the church that St Fulbert would have known.
,_2022_(8).jpg)
