Hoc Est Hodie

Pope Benedict XVI is a master of mystagogical catechesis. This homily for the Mass of the Lord's Supper probes the words of institution and consecration of the Roman Canon, and introduces us into the richness of their mystical content. The Holy Father teaches that these words of the Sacred Liturgy shape and reshape the Church, beginning with the priest who, at the altar, utters them. Again, thank you, Most Holy Father.

Dear Brothers and Sisters,

Today

"Qui, pridie quam pro nostra omniumque salute pateretur, hoc est hodie, accepit panem": these words we shall pray today in the Canon of the Mass. "Hoc est hodie" -- the Liturgy of Holy Thursday places the word "today" into the text of the prayer, thereby emphasizing the particular dignity of this day. It was "today" that He did this: he gave himself to us for ever in the Sacrament of his Body and Blood. This "today" is first and foremost the memorial of that first Paschal event. Yet it is something more. With the Canon, we enter into this "today". Our today comes into contact with his today. He does this now. With the word "today", the Church's Liturgy wants us to give great inner attention to the mystery of this day, to the words in which it is expressed. We therefore seek to listen in a new way to the institution narrative, in the form in which the Church has formulated it, on the basis of Scripture and in contemplation of the Lord himself.

The first thing to strike us is that the institution narrative is not an independent phrase, but it starts with a relative pronoun: qui pridie. This "qui" connects the entire narrative to the preceding section of the prayer, "let it become for us the body and blood of Jesus Christ, your only Son, our Lord." In this way, the institution narrative is linked to the preceding prayer, to the entire Canon, and it too becomes a prayer. By no means is it merely an interpolated narrative, nor is it a case of an authoritative self-standing text that actually interrupts the prayer. It is a prayer. And only in the course of the prayer is the priestly act of consecration accomplished, which becomes transformation, transubstantiation of our gifts of bread and wine into the Body and Blood of Christ.

Eucharistia

As she prays at this central moment, the Church is fully in tune with the event that took place in the Upper Room, when Jesus' action is described in the words: "gratias agens benedixit -- he gave you thanks and praise". In this expression, the Roman liturgy has made two words out of the one Hebrew word berakha, which is rendered in Greek with the two terms eucharistía and eulogía. The Lord gives thanks. When we thank, we acknowledge that a certain thing is a gift that has come from another. The Lord gives thanks, and in so doing gives back to God the bread, "fruit of the earth and work of human hands", so as to receive it anew from him. Thanksgiving becomes blessing. The offering that we have placed in God's hands returns from him blessed and transformed. The Roman liturgy rightly interprets our praying at this sacred moment by means of the words: "through him, we ask you to accept and bless these gifts we offer you in sacrifice". All this lies hidden within the word "eucharistia".

The Hands and Eyes of the Lord and of His Priests

There is another aspect of the institution narrative cited in the Roman Canon on which we should reflect this evening. The praying Church gazes upon the hands and eyes of the Lord. It is as if she wants to observe him, to perceive the form of his praying and acting in that remarkable hour, she wants to encounter the figure of Jesus even, as it were, through the senses. "He took bread in his sacred hands " Let us look at those hands with which he healed men and women; the hands with which he blessed babies; the hands that he laid upon men; the hands that were nailed to the Cross and that forever bear the stigmata as signs of his readiness to die for love. Now we are commissioned to do what he did: to take bread in our hands so that through the Eucharistic Prayer it will be transformed. At our priestly ordination, our hands were anointed, so that they could become hands of blessing. Let us pray to the Lord that our hands will serve more and more to bring salvation, to bring blessing, to make his goodness present!

With Eyes and Hearts Raised Towards God

From the introduction to the Priestly Prayer of Jesus (cf. Jn 17:1), the Canon takes these words: "Looking up to heaven, to you his almighty Father " The Lord teaches us to raise our eyes, and especially our hearts. He teaches us to fix our gaze upwards, detaching it from the things of this world, to direct ourselves in prayer towards God and thus to raise ourselves. In a hymn from the Liturgy of the Hours, we ask the Lord to guard our eyes, so that they do not take in or cause to enter within us "vanitates" -- vanities, nothings, that which is merely appearance. Let us pray that no evil will enter through our eyes, falsifying and tainting our very being. But we want to pray above all for eyes that see whatever is true, radiant and good; so that they become capable of seeing God's presence in the world. Let us pray that we will look upon the world with eyes of love, with the eyes of Jesus, recognizing our brothers and sisters who need our help, who are awaiting our word and our action.

The Lord Distributes Himself

Having given thanks and praise, the Lord then breaks the bread and gives it to the disciples. Breaking the bread is the act of the father of the family who looks after his children and gives them what they need for life. But it is also the act of hospitality with which the stranger, the guest, is received within the family and is given a share in its life. Dividing (dividere), sharing (condividere) brings about unity. Through sharing, communion is created. In the broken bread, the Lord distributes himself. The gesture of breaking also alludes mysteriously to his death, to the love that extends even to death. He distributes himself, the true "bread for the life of the world" (cf. Jn 6:51). The nourishment that man needs in his deepest self is communion with God himself. Giving thanks and praise, Jesus transforms the bread, he no longer gives earthly bread, but communion with himself. This transformation, though, seeks to be the start of the transformation of the world -- into a world of resurrection, a world of God. Yes, it is about transformation -- of the new man and the new world that find their origin in the bread that is consecrated, transformed, transubstantiated.

Agape in Daily Life

We said that breaking the bread is an act of communion, an act of uniting through sharing. Thus, in the act itself, the intimate nature of the Eucharist is already indicated: it is agape, it is love made corporeal. In the word "agape", the meanings of Eucharist and love intertwine. In Jesus' act of breaking the bread, the love that is shared has attained its most radical form: Jesus allows himself to be broken as living bread. In the bread that is distributed, we recognize the mystery of the grain of wheat that dies, and so bears fruit. We recognize the new multiplication of the loaves, which derives from the dying of the grain of wheat and will continue until the end of the world. At the same time, we see that the Eucharist can never be just a liturgical action. It is complete only if the liturgical agape then becomes love in daily life. In Christian worship, the two things become one -- experiencing the Lord's love in the act of worship and fostering love for one's neighbour. At this hour, we ask the Lord for the grace to learn to live the mystery of the Eucharist ever more deeply, in such a way that the transformation of the world can begin to take place.

The Chalice and the Mystery of Nuptial Love

After the bread, Jesus takes the chalice of wine. The Roman Canon describes the chalice which the Lord gives to his disciples as "praeclarus calix" (the glorious cup), thereby alluding to Psalm 23 [22], the Psalm which speaks of God as the Good Shepherd, the strong Shepherd. There we read these words: "You have prepared a banquet for me in the sight of my foes My cup is overflowing" -- calix praeclarus. The Roman Canon interprets this passage from the Psalm as a prophecy that is fulfilled in the Eucharist: yes, the Lord does indeed prepare a banquet for us in the midst of the threats of this world, and he gives us the glorious chalice -- the chalice of great joy, of the true feast, for which we all long -- the chalice filled with the wine of his love. The chalice signifies the wedding-feast: now the "hour" has come to which the wedding-feast of Cana had mysteriously alluded. Yes indeed, the Eucharist is more than a meal, it is a wedding-feast. And this wedding is rooted in God's gift of himself even to death. In the words of Jesus at the Last Supper and in the Church's Canon, the solemn mystery of the wedding is concealed under the expression "novum Testamentum". This chalice is the new Testament -- "the new Covenant in my blood", as Saint Paul presents the words of Jesus over the chalice in today's second reading (1 Cor 11:25). The Roman Canon adds: "of the new and everlasting covenant", in order to express the indissolubility of God's nuptial bond with humanity. The reason why older translations of the Bible do not say Covenant, but Testament, lies in the fact that this is no mere contract between two parties on the same level, but it brings into play the infinite distance between God and man. What we call the new and the ancient Covenant is not an agreement between two equal parties, but simply the gift of God who bequeaths to us his love -- himself. Certainly, through this gift of his love, he transcends all distance and makes us truly his "partners" -- the nuptial mystery of love is accomplished.

Consanguinity With Jesus

In order to understand profoundly what is taking place here, we must pay even greater attention to the words of the Bible and their original meaning. Scholars tell us that in those ancient times of which the histories of Israel's forefathers speak, to "ratify a Covenant" means "to enter with others into a bond based on blood or to welcome the other into one's own covenant fellowship and thus to enter into a communion of mutual rights and obligations". In this way, a real, if non-material form of consanguinity is established. The partners become in some way "brothers of the same flesh and the same bones". The covenant brings about a fellowship that means peace (cf. ThWNT II, 105-137). Can we now form at least an idea of what happened at the hour of the Last Supper, and what has been renewed ever since, whenever we celebrate the Eucharist? God, the living God, establishes a communion of peace with us, or to put it more strongly, he creates "consanguinity" between himself and us. Through the incarnation of Jesus, through the outpouring of his blood, we have been drawn into an utterly real consanguinity with Jesus and thus with God himself. The blood of Jesus is his love, in which divine life and human life have become one. Let us pray to the Lord, that we may come to understand ever more deeply the greatness of this mystery. Let us pray that in our innermost selves its transforming power will increase, so that we truly acquire consanguinity with Jesus, so that we are filled with his peace and grow in communion with one another.

Death and Resurrection

Now, however, a further question arises. In the Upper Room, Christ gives his Body and Blood to the disciples, that is, he gives himself in the totality of his person. But can he do so? He is still physically present in their midst, he is standing in front of them! The answer is: at that hour, Jesus fulfils what he had previously proclaimed in the Good Shepherd discourse: "No one takes my life from me: I lay it down of my own accord. I have power to lay it down and I have power to take it again " (Jn 10:18). No one can take his life from him: he lays it down by his own free decision. At that hour, he anticipates the crucifixion and resurrection. What is later to be fulfilled, as it were, physically in him, he already accomplishes in anticipation, in the freedom of his love. He gives his life and he takes it again in the resurrection, so as to be able to share it for ever.

Make Us Live in Your Today

Lord, today you give us your life, you give us yourself. Enter deeply within us with your love. Make us live in your "today". Make us instruments of your peace! Amen.

The Origins of the Priesthood in the Church

I am in awe of the Holy Father's homilies at the Chrism Mass and at the Mass of the Lord's Supper. These are inspired words. Already he speaks to the heart of every priest. The grace of the Year of the Priest has begun to flow out of his heart. Thank you, Holy Father, thank you.

Dear Brothers and Sisters,

Sanctify Them in the Truth

In the Upper Room, on the eve of his Passion, the Lord prayed for his disciples gathered about him. At the same time he looked ahead to the community of disciples of all centuries, "those who believe in me through their word" (Jn 17:20). In his prayer for the disciples of all time, he saw us too, and he prayed for us. Let us listen to what he asks for the Twelve and for us gathered here: "Sanctify them in the truth; your word is truth. As you sent me into the world, so I have sent them into the world. And for their sake I consecrate myself, so that they also may be consecrated in truth" (17:17ff.).

I Consecrate Myself

The Lord asks for our sanctification, sanctification in truth. And he sends us forth to carry on his own mission. But in this prayer there is one word which draws our attention, and appears difficult to understand. Jesus says: "For their sake I consecrate myself". What does this mean? Is Jesus not himself "the Holy One of God", as Peter acknowledged at that decisive moment in Capharnaum (cf. Jn 6:69)? How can he now consecrate -- sanctify -- himself?

Taken From the World and Given to God

To understand this, we need first to clarify what the Bible means by the words "holy" and "consecrate -- sanctify". "Holy" -- this word describes above all God's own nature, his completely unique, divine, way of being, one which is his alone. He alone is the true and authentic Holy One, in the original sense of the word. All other holiness derives from him, is a participation in his way of being. He is purest Light, Truth and untainted Good. To consecrate something or someone means, therefore, to give that thing or person to God as his property, to take it out of the context of what is ours and to insert it in his milieu, so that it no longer belongs to our affairs, but is totally of God. Consecration is thus a taking away from the world and a giving over to the living God. The thing or person no longer belongs to us, or even to itself, but is immersed in God. Such a giving up of something in order to give it over to God, we also call a sacrifice: this thing will no longer be my property, but his property.

I Sacrifice Myself: Priest and Victim

In the Old Testament, the giving over of a person to God, his "sanctification", is identified with priestly ordination, and this also defines the essence of the priesthood: it is a transfer of ownership, a being taken out of the world and given to God. We can now see the two directions which belong to the process of sanctification-consecration. It is a departure from the milieux of worldly life -- a "being set apart" for God. But for this very reason it is not a segregation. Rather, being given over to God means being charged to represent others. The priest is removed from worldly bonds and given over to God, and precisely in this way, starting with God, he is available for others, for everyone. When Jesus says: "I consecrate myself", he makes himself both priest and victim. Bultmann was right to translate the phrase: "I consecrate myself" by "I sacrifice myself". Do we now see what happens when Jesus says: "I consecrate myself for them"? This is the priestly act by which Jesus -- the Man Jesus, who is one with the Son of God -- gives himself over to the Father for us. It is the expression of the fact that he is both priest and victim. I consecrate myself -- I sacrifice myself: this unfathomable word, which gives us a glimpse deep into the heart of Jesus Christ, should be the object of constantly renewed reflection. It contains the whole mystery of our redemption. It also contains the origins of the priesthood in the Church.

Into the Holiness of God

Only now can we fully understand the prayer which the Lord offered the Father for his disciples -- for us. "Sanctify them in the truth": this is the inclusion of the Apostles in the priesthood of Jesus Christ, the institution of his new priesthood for the community of the faithful of all times. "Sanctify them in truth": this is the true prayer of consecration for the Apostles. The Lord prays that God himself draw them towards him, into his holiness. He prays that God take them away from themselves to make them his own property, so that, starting from him, they can carry out the priestly ministry for the world. This prayer of Jesus appears twice in slightly different forms. Both times we need to listen very carefully, in order to understand, even dimly the sublime reality that is about to be accomplished. "Sanctify them in the truth". Jesus adds: "Your word is truth". The disciples are thus drawn deep within God by being immersed in the word of God. The word of God is, so to speak, the bath which purifies them, the creative power which transforms them into God's own being.

Pervaded by the Word of God

So then, how do things stand in our own lives? Are we truly pervaded by the word of God? Is that word truly the nourishment we live by, even more than bread and the things of this world? Do we really know that word? Do we love it? Are we deeply engaged with this word to the point that it really leaves a mark on our lives and shapes our thinking? Or is it rather the case that our thinking is constantly being shaped by all the things that others say and do? Aren't prevailing opinions the criterion by which we all too often measure ourselves? Do we not perhaps remain, when all is said and done, mired in the superficiality in which people today are generally caught up? Do we allow ourselves truly to be deeply purified by the word of God? Friedrich Nietzsche scoffed at humility and obedience as the virtues of slaves, a source of repression. He replaced them with pride and man's absolute freedom. Of course there exist caricatures of a misguided humility and a mistaken submissiveness, which we do not want to imitate. But there also exists a destructive pride and a presumption which tear every community apart and result in violence. Can we learn from Christ the correct humility which corresponds to the truth of our being, and the obedience which submits to truth, to the will of God? "Sanctify them in the truth; your word is truth": this word of inclusion in the priesthood lights up our lives and calls us to become ever anew disciples of that truth which is revealed in the word of God.

One With Christ the Priest

I believe that we can advance another step in the interpretation of these words. Did not Christ say of himself: "I am the truth" (cf. Jn 14:6)? Is he not himself the living Word of God, to which every other word refers? Sanctify them in the truth -- this means, then, in the deepest sense: make them one with me, Christ. Bind them to me. Draw them into me. Indeed, when all is said and done, there is only one priest of the New Covenant, Jesus Christ himself. Consequently, the priesthood of the disciples can only be a participation in the priesthood of Jesus.

The Seal Imprinted Upon Our Being

Our being priests is simply a new way of being united to Christ. In its substance, it has been bestowed on us for ever in the sacrament. But this new seal imprinted upon our being can become for us a condemnation, if our lives do not develop by entering into the truth of the Sacrament. The promises we renew today state in this regard that our will must be directed along this path: "Domino Iesu arctius coniungi et conformari, vobismetipsis abrenuntiantes". Being united to Christ calls for renunciation. It means not wanting to impose our own way and our own will, not desiring to become someone else, but abandoning ourselves to him, however and wherever he wants to use us. As Saint Paul said: "It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me" (Gal 2:20).

In the words "I do", spoken at our priestly ordination, we made this fundamental renunciation of our desire to be independent, "self-made". But day by day this great "yes" has to be lived out in the many little "yeses" and small sacrifices. This "yes" made up of tiny steps which together make up the great "yes", can be lived out without bitterness and self-pity only if Christ is truly the center of our lives. If we enter into true closeness to him. Then indeed we experience, amid sacrifices which can at first be painful, the growing joy of friendship with him, and all the small and sometimes great signs of his love, which he is constantly showing us. "The one who loses himself, finds himself". When we dare to lose ourselves for the Lord, we come to experience the truth of these words.

Enter Into the Words Set Before Us by the Church

To be immersed in the Truth, in Christ -- part of this process is prayer, in which we exercise our friendship with him and we come to know him: his way of being, of thinking, of acting. Praying is a journey in personal communion with Christ, setting before him our daily life, our successes and failures, our struggles and our joys -- in a word, it is to stand in front of him. But if this is not to become a form of self-contemplation, it is important that we constantly learn to pray by praying with the Church. Celebrating the Eucharist means praying. We celebrate the Eucharist rightly if with our thoughts and our being we enter into the words which the Church sets before us. There we find the prayer of all generations, which accompany us along the way towards the Lord. As priests, in the Eucharistic celebration we are those who by their prayer blaze a trail for the prayer of today's Christians. If we are inwardly united to the words of prayer, if we let ourselves be guided and transformed by them, then the faithful will also enter into those words. And then all of us will become truly "one body, one spirit" in Christ.

True Love Is Costly

To be immersed in God's truth and thus in his holiness -- for us this also means to acknowledge that the truth makes demands, to stand up, in matters great and small, to the lie which in so many different ways is present in the world; accepting the struggles associated with the truth, because its inmost joy is present within us. Nor, when we talk about being sanctified in the truth, should we forget that in Jesus Christ truth and love are one. Being immersed in him means being immersed in his goodness, in true love. True love does not come cheap, it can also prove quite costly. It resists evil in order to bring men true good. If we become one with Christ, we learn to recognize him precisely in the suffering, in the poor, in the little ones of this world; then we become people who serve, who recognize our brothers and sisters in him, and in them, we encounter him.

Property of the God of Holiness

"Sanctify them in truth" -- this is the first part of what Jesus says. But then he adds: "I consecrate myself, so that they also may be consecrated in truth" -- that is, truly consecrated (Jn 17:19). I think that this second part has a special meaning of its own. In the world's religions there are many different ritual means of "sanctification", of the consecration of a human person. Yet all these rites can remain something merely formal. Christ asks for his disciples the true sanctification which transforms their being, their very selves; he asks that it not remain a ritual formality, but that it make them truly the "property" of the God of holiness. We could even say that Christ prayed on behalf of us for that sacrament which touches us in the depths of our being. But he also prayed that this interior transformation might be translated day by day in our lives; that in our everyday routine and our concrete daily lives we might be truly pervaded by the light of God.

Sanctify Them in the Truth

On the eve of my priestly ordination, fifty-eight years ago, I opened the Sacred Scripture, because I wanted to receive once more a word from the Lord for that day and for my future journey as a priest. My gaze fell on this passage: "Sanctify them in the truth; your word is truth". Then I realized: the Lord is speaking about me, and he is speaking to me. This very same thing will be accomplished tomorrow in me. When all is said and done, we are not consecrated by rites, even though rites are necessary. The bath in which the Lord immerses us is himself -- the Truth in person. Priestly ordination means: being immersed in him, immersed in the Truth. I belong in a new way to him and thus to others, "that his Kingdom may come". Dear friends, in this hour of the renewal of promises, we want to pray to the Lord to make us men of truth, men of love, men of God. Let us implore him to draw us ever anew into himself, so that we may become truly priests of the New Covenant. Amen.

This Hour of the Priest

Vesperal Mass of the Supper of the Lord

We have entered the Upper Room,
the Supper Room, the Cenacle.
The hour is come "for us to glory in the Cross of our Lord Jesus Christ
in Whom is our health, life, and resurrection" (cf. Gal 6:14).

All is in readiness.
The table is set with fair linen.
The lamps of evening shine.
The incense has shed tears of joy
over coals ignited by a flame that speaks of love
and the fragrance of the evening sacrifice hangs in the air.
The bread is set out in readiness
for the brooding of the Spirit and for the word that will make it His Body;
the wine itself breathes in anticipation of becoming His Blood.

We are in the Cenacle,
"Holy and glorious Sion, the Mother Church
of all the churches of the world" (Liturgy of Saint James).
The far-off there and then of a Paschal moon in Jerusalem
over two-thousand years ago
has become our here and now;
and our here and now
has been assumed into the long-awaited Hour
immeasurable in terms of time.
"Lord, it is good for us to be here" (Mt 17:4).

"Jesus sent Peter and John, saying,
'Go and prepare the passover for us, that we may eat it.' . . .
Tell the householder, 'The Teacher says to you,
Where is the guest-chamber,
where I am to eat the pasch with My disciples?
And he will show you a large upper room furnished;
there make ready' (Lk 22:8-12).

Our cathedral church,
filled with the sights and sounds
of the ancient and ever-returning Pasch of the Lord,
is that Upper Room made ready, at last.
The vaults over our heads and the walls around us
rejoice to imbibe the mystery of it.
The bones of the saints thrill from the place
where they are hid beneath the altar.

In a few moments, there will be cleansing water for our feet
and the kiss of forgiveness;
thus are we made ready for the Bridegroom's kiss
of welcome and of holy love,
even as we shudder to think of that other kiss, the kiss of betrayal.
"With desire have I desired to eat this pasch with you
before I suffer" (Lk 22:15), says the Master.

He summons us to His table;
here all are welcome, here all are embraced.
This is the banquet of "the poor and maimed
and lame and blind" (Lk 14:21).
The traditions of the Church have given a litany of names to this day,
to this gathering around the altar,
to this festival:
it is called the Supper of the Lord,
the Great Fifth Day,
the Birthday of the Chalice,
the Day of the Tradition,
and the Institution of the Holy Priesthood.

We came in rejoicing, and then,
opening the Sacred Scriptures to the book of Exodus,
we found the place where it is written,
"It is the Passover of the Lord . . .
You shall celebrate it as a festival to the Lord;
throughout your generations you shall observe it
as a perpetual ordinance"(Ex 12: 11, 14).

We listened to the ancient rites of passover entrusted to Moses and Aaron and kept alive in Israel, from generation to generation,
in view of their wondrous fulfillment in the Cenacle.
The blood of the Passover Lamb,
the blood marking doorpost and lintel,
the blood that meant life to the houses it marked,
is the Blood that, in a few moments,
will fill the Chalice of our Great Thanksgiving.
This is why we sang,
"Our Chalice of blessing is a communion
in the Blood of Christ!" (cf. 1 Cor 10, 16).

This is the Chalice of which David sang, "My cup overflows" (Ps 22:5).
The Church takes and drinks of it each day:
when she makes present the first and last Supper of the Lamb;
but never with greater exhilaration and thanksgiving than today,
'the birthday of the Chalice.'
So often as the Church drinks from the Chalice
she is inwardly quickened and altogether renewed.
No mere cup the Chalice.
It signifies what it contains
and contains what it signifies:
the Mystery of Faith,
the Blood of the New and Eternal Covenant.

"I will take up the Chalice of salvation," says the Church,
"and call upon the Name of the Lord" (Ps 115:13),
for this is the cup which makes the foolish wise,
the cup of every priest's sober inebriation in the Holy Spirit,
the cup that strengthens martyrs for the outpouring of their blood.
This is the marvelous cup, the Chalice containing fire,
the antidote to every poison,
the healing draught held to the lips of the weak and the sin-sick,
a divine infusion of hope
for those caught in the downward spiral of despair.

We listened as the apostle handed on to us the mystery
that he himself had received:
the mystery of the handing-over, the "traditio" of the Lord.
"I received from the Lord what I also handed on to you,
that the Lord Jesus on the night He was handed over,
took bread, and giving thanks, broke and said,
'This is my body that is for you.
Do this in remembrance of me.'
In the same way He took the cup also, after supper, saying,
'This cup is the new covenant in my blood.
Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me'" (1 Cor 11:23-25).

This is the Day of the Tradition
because today the Lord hands himself over to the Father
for the accomplishment of His will,
because today the Lord hands over for us
the mysteries of His Body and Blood,
because today the Lord is handed over -- betrayed --
into the hands of sinful men to undergo the torment of the Cross.

In the Gospel we were given the image of God kneeling at our feet,
of the God-Man making himself lower than those He created,
lower than those who in Him live, and move,
and have their being (cf. Ac 17:28).
Before offering us the Chalice of His Blood,
He offers us the humble service of His hands
to wash away all our filth,
to soothe feet bruised and scarred
from having toiled among the "thorns and thistles" of sin (Gen 3:18).
Before giving us His Body and Blood, food and drink for the journey,
He tends to our feet so that, with swift pace and light step,
we might, on the first day of the week before the rising of the sun,
make our way with the holy women to the empty tomb.

Between the Upper Room and the empty tomb
lie the mysteries of His agony,
of His prayer to the Father "with loud cries and tears" (Heb 5:7),
of His betrayal, His arrest, His bitter sufferings,
His death, and His burial.

Between the Upper Room and the empty tomb
there is the compassion of His Mother,
standing with John at the foot of the cross.
There is the immensity of her silence and of her Great Sabbath hope.

Between the Upper Room and the empty tomb
there are the burning tears of Mary Magdalene
and a grief known only to those who love much.

Between the Upper Room and the empty tomb
there is the fear of the apostles and their shameful flight;
there is Peter's denial of His Lord three times.

Between the Upper Room and the empty tomb
there is the fearful spectre of all my sins and of yours,
the painful reality of so much brokenness.

Finally, between the Upper Room and the empty tomb
there is the gift and mystery of the priesthood:
the Sacrifice making necessary the priesthood,
the priesthood making possible the Sacrifice,
and the Sacrifice bringing the Church to birth,
not once, but again and again.

In three months time, on June 19th,
we will enter into The Year of the Priest,
a gift of Pope Benedict XVI to the Church.
Were it not for this Hour of the Priest
there could be no Year of the Priest.
Listen then "to what the Spirit is saying to the churches" (Ap 2:29).
We are about to enter into a gratuitous outpouring of grace
upon the priests of the Church, a kind of priestly Pentecost.
Pray that no priestly heart remain closed to what God,
in his infinite mercy, desires to give;
and that no priestly heart will refuse
to be purified, and healed,
and quickened in the grace that has its origin in the Cenacle
and in this most holy night.

By the gift of the priesthood,
it is given us to taste already,
even before tomorrow's nails, cross, lance, and tomb,
the sweetness of the Resurrection.
Once the words of consecration are uttered over the bread
and over the Chalice of wine mixed with water,
the entire Mystery is made present.
Bathe in its light.
Inhale its fragrance.
The Eucharist is the Church held in the embrace of the Cross,
rising from the tomb,
and set ablaze by the Holy Spirit.
O taste and see.

Pope Benedict XVI Presents the Triduum

Yesterday in his Wednesday audience, the Holy Father prepared us for the Sacred Paschal Triduum. Here is his address. The subtitles are my own.

Dear Brothers and Sisters,

Into the Sacred Paschal Triduum

Holy Week, which for us Christians is the most important week of the year, offers us the opportunity to be immersed in the central events of Redemption, to relive the Paschal Mystery, the great mystery of the faith. Beginning tomorrow afternoon, with the Mass "In Coena Domini," the solemn liturgical rites will help us to meditate in a more lively manner on the Passion, Death and Resurrection of the Lord in the days of the Holy Paschal Triduum, fulcrum of the entire liturgical year.

Christus Factus Est Pro Nobis Obediens

May divine grace open our hearts to comprehend the inestimable gift that salvation is, obtained for us by Christ's sacrifice. We find this immense gift wonderfully narrated in a famous hymn contained in the Letter to the Philippians (cf. 2:6-11), on which we meditated several times in Lent. The Apostle reviews, both in an essential and effective manner, the whole mystery of the history of salvation referring to Adam's pride who, not being God, wanted to be like God. And he contrasts this pride of the first man, which all of us feel a bit in our being, with the humility of the true Son of God who, becoming man, did not hesitate to take upon himself all the weaknesses of the human being, except sin, and pushed himself to the profundity of death. This descent to the last profundity of the Passion and Death is then followed by his exaltation, the true glory, the glory of the love that went all the way to the end. And that is why it is right -- as Paul says -- that "at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord!" (2:10-11). With these words, St. Paul refers to a prophecy of Isaiah where God says: I am the Lord, to me every knee shall bow in heaven and on earth (cf. Isaiah 45: 23). This -- says Paul -- is also true for Jesus Christ. He really is, in his humility, in the true greatness of his love, the Lord of the world and before him every knee truly bows.

How marvelous, and at the same time amazing, is this mystery! We can never meditate this reality sufficiently. Jesus, though being God, did not want to make of his divine prerogatives an exclusive possession; he did not want to use his being God, his glorious dignity and power, as an instrument of triumph and sign of distance from us. On the contrary, "he emptied himself" assuming our miserable and weak human condition -- in this regard, Paul uses a quite meaningful Greek verb to indicate the kenosis, this descent of Jesus. The divine form (morphe) is hidden in Christ under the human form, namely, under our reality marked by suffering, poverty, human limitations and death. The radical and true sharing of our nature, a sharing in everything except sin, leads him to that frontier that is the sign of our finiteness -- death. But all this was not the fruit of a dark mechanism or a blind fatality: It was instead his free choice, by his generous adherence to the salvific plan of the Father. And the death which he went out to meet -- adds Paul -- was that of the cross, the most humiliating and degrading that one can imagine. The Lord of the universe did all this out of love for us: out of love he willed to "empty himself" and make himself our brother; out of love he shared our condition, that of every man and every woman. In this connection, Theodoret of Cyrus, a great witness of the Eastern tradition, writes: "Being God and God by nature and having equality with God, he did not retain this as something great, as do those who have received some honor beyond their merits, but concealing his merits, he chose the most profound humility and took the form of a human being" (Commentary on the Letter to the Philippians, 2:6-7).

The Chrism Mass and the Year of the Priest

As prelude to the Paschal Triduum, which will begin tomorrow -- as I was saying -- with the thought-provoking afternoon rites of Holy Thursday, is the solemn Chrism Mass, which the bishop celebrates in the morning with his presbytery, and in the course of which at the same time the priestly promises are renewed, made on the day of ordination. It is a gesture of great value, an occasion all the more propitious in which the priests confirm their fidelity to Christ who chose them as his ministers. Moreover, this priestly meeting assumes a particular meaning, because it is almost a preparation to the Priestly Year, which I have proclaimed on the occasion of the 150th anniversary of the death of the holy Curé of Ars and which will begin next June 19. Blessed also in the Chrism Mass will be the oil of the sick and of catechumens, and the chrism will be consecrated. These are rites that signify symbolically the fullness of Christ's priesthood and the ecclesial communion that must animate Christian people, gathered for the Eucharistic sacrifice and vivified in the unity of the gift of the Holy Spirit.

The Cenacle

In the afternoon Mass, called "In Coena Domini," the Church commemorates the institution of the Eucharist, the ministerial priesthood and the new commandment of charity, left by Jesus to his disciples. St. Paul gives one of the earliest testimonies of all that happened in the Cenacle, vigil of the Lord's Passion. "The Lord Jesus," he wrote, at the beginning of the 50's years, based on a text he received from the Lord's own realm, "on the night when he was betrayed took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it, and said, 'This is my body which is for you. Do this in remembrance of me.' In the same way also the cup, after supper, saying, 'This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me'" (1 Corinthians 11:23-25). Words charged with mystery, which manifest clearly the will of Christ: Under the species of bread and wine he renders himself present in his body given and with his bloodshed. It is the sacrifice of the new and definitive covenant offered to all, without distinction of race or culture. And from this sacramental rite, which he entrusts to the Church as supreme proof of his love, Jesus appointed his disciples as ministers, and those who followed them in the course of the centuries. Holy Thursday is, therefore, a renewed invitation to render thanks to God for the supreme gift of the Eucharist, to be received with devotion and to be adored with lively faith. Because of this, the Church encourages, after the celebration of Holy Mass, watching in the presence of the Most Holy Sacrament, recalling the sad hour that Jesus passed in solitude and prayer in Gethsemane, before being arrested and then being condemned to death.

The Precious Blood and the Wood of the Cross

And so we come to Good Friday, day of the Passion and crucifixion of the Lord. Every year, placing ourselves in silence before Jesus nailed to the wood of the cross, we realize how full of love were the words he pronounced on the eve, in the course of the Last Supper. "This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many" (Mark 14:24). Jesus willed to offer his life in sacrifice for the remission of humanity's sins. Just as before the Eucharist, so before the Passion and Death of Jesus on the cross the mystery is unfathomable to reason. We are placed before something that humanly might seem absurd: a God who not only is made man, with all man's needs, not only suffers to save man, burdening himself with all the tragedy of humanity, but dies for man.

Trust and Abandonment in God

Christ's death recalls the accumulation of sorrows and evils that beset humanity of all times: the crushing weight of our dying, the hatred and violence that again today bloody the earth. The Lord's Passion continues in the suffering of men. As Blaise Pascal correctly writes, "Jesus will be in agony until the end of the world; one must not sleep during this time" (Pensées, 553). If Good Friday is a day full of sadness, and hence at the same time, all the more propitious a day to reawaken our faith, to strengthen our hope and courage so that each one of us will carry his cross with humility, trust and abandonment in God, certain of his support and victory. The liturgy of this day sings: "O Crux, ave, spes unica" (Hail, O cross, our only hope)."

In the Silence of Mary

This hope is nourished in the great silence of Holy Saturday, awaiting the resurrection of Jesus. On this day the Churches are stripped and no particular liturgical rites are provided. The Church watches in prayer like Mary, and together with Mary, sharing the same feelings of sorrow and trust in God. Justly recommended is to preserve throughout the day a prayerful climate, favorable to meditation and reconciliation; the faithful are encouraged to approach the sacrament of penance, to be able to participate truly renewed in the Paschal celebrations.

The Paschal Vigil

The recollection and silence of Holy Saturday lead us at night to the solemn Paschal Vigil, "mother of all vigils," when the singing of the joy of the resurrection of Christ will erupt in all the churches and communities. Proclaimed once again will be the victory of light over darkness, of life over death, and the Church will rejoice in the encounter with her Lord. We will thus enter into the climate of the Easter of Resurrection.

The Triduum with Mary

Dear brothers and sisters, let us dispose ourselves to live the Holy Triduum intensely, to participate ever more profoundly in the mystery of Christ. We are accompanied on this journey by the Holy Virgin, who in silence followed her son Jesus to Calvary, taking part with great sorrow in his sacrifice, thus cooperating with the mystery of the Redemption and becoming Mother of all believers (cf. John 19:25-27). Together with her we will enter the Cenacle, we will stay at the foot of the Cross, we will watch next to the dead Christ, awaiting with hope the dawn of the radiant day of the Resurrection. In this perspective, I now express to all of you the most cordial wishes for a happy and holy Easter, together with your families, parishes and communities.

Lest We Betray Him With a Kiss

The Call to Holiness

The Church, speaking through my Bishop, has called me to live a particular expression of monastic life, one that is intimately bound up with the lives of my brother priests and with their desire for holiness. This evening I will meditate with you on one priest's abject failure, on one priest's sordid betrayal of Our Lord, on one priest's headlong plunge into the darkness of despair. You all know this priest. His name was Judas Iscariot.

What I am about to share with you applies not only to priests; it applies, in some way, to everyone. Each of us is called to live in the friendship of Jesus. Each of us is called to holiness. Each of us is called to become nothing less than a saint.

Mysterium Iniquitatis

The Wednesday of Holy Week is designated Spy Wednesday: this because it commemorates Judas Iscariot's conspiracy to betray Jesus for thirty pieces of silver. The betrayal of Jesus by Judas --his friend, his chosen one, his priest-- continues to astonish and grieve us. Why did Our Lord allow such an evil? Why did He not stop Judas, confront him with the horror of his sin, and pull him back from the abyss of iniquity about to open beneath his feet? What a mystery it is that Our Lord should so respect the free will of a man, even when that man's choices are misguided; motivated by the desire for power, or money, or pleasure; or manipulated by Satan, the father of lies!

What Happened?

Let us consider, for a moment, what might have happened, had Judas taken the risk of stepping out of his isolation, of reaching out to another. Why did Judas end the way he did? How did he go from giving up everything to follow Jesus, to betraying Him for a miserable thirty pieces of silver?

The Sickness of Our Secrets

The beginning of Judas' downfall was his secrecy. In the beginning of his discipleship, Judas Iscariot was, perhaps, more open, sharing with Jesus his thoughts, his dreams, his desires, and his fears. And then, little by little, Judas became disillusioned and jaded. He withdrew into himself. He dissimulated his temptations, his fears, his struggles, and his failures.

Something very similar happens when a soul stops going to confession, or confesses too infrequently, or puts off going to confession. One becomes accustomed to living with the sickness of one's secrets. One adjusts to living with them, and they poison us. This is something that the Church has always known. How important it is to lay bare our souls to a trusted spiritual father, to admit not only our sins, but also our temptations and our struggles. This act of humility disarms Satan, and renders him powerless. Only pride, and the secrecy that comes from pride and seeks to dissimulate sin, gives the Evil One a foothold in us.

Judas Stopped Conversing with Jesus

Judas must have stopped conversing with Jesus in a personal way. Certainly he continued talking to Jesus superficially, but mostly about business. He was, after all, responsible for administering the common fund of the Twelve. He stopped relating to Jesus in a personal way, as one trusting friend talks to another, heart to heart.

It is very telling that in Saint John's Gospel, Judas speaks rather caustically about expenses. He sounds calculating and disgruntled. "Why," he asked, "was this ointment not sold for three hundred denarii and given to the poor?" (Jn 12:5) Judas had become all business. There was little love left in his heart. He was concerned about running a successful operation in worldly terms, but in his heart a viper was hid, and it was about to sting him with its deadly poison.

Had He Turned to Jesus

If only Judas had gone to Jesus and said, "Master, I need to talk to Thee. I want to open my heart to Thee. I am troubled, and tempted, and on the verge of committing a very great evil. Save me, lest I perish. Hold me fast, my Jesus, and do not let me go. I trust in Thy love for me. I believe in Thy mercy. I remember what Thou didst say one day: "All that the Father gives Me will come to Me; and him who comes to Me I will not cast out" (Jn 6:37).

It is never too late to stop and open one's heart to Jesus in the intimate conversation that we call prayer. The worst betrayals, the most heinous crimes, and the living death of mortal sin begin their gestation when we forsake prayer, when we stop conversing with Jesus, or only deal with Him when we are obliged to do so by convention or routine. Then, there is no more friendship with Him. There is only business. And so the heart grows hard and cold.

He Could Have Turned to Mary

Judas had another recourse, but he was too proud to make use of it. He could have gone to Mary, the Mother of Jesus. Even before the words of Our Lord to Saint John from the Cross, "Behold, thy mother" (Jn 19:27), Mary was a true mother to each of the Apostles. She knew them as any mother knows her children, and she loved them, even with their weaknesses and repeated failures to believe in her Son, to hope in Him, and to love Him. Any one of the twelve could have gone to Mary at any time for counsel, for comfort, for encouragement, and for a mother's blessing. She loved each of them because her Son loved them, and chose them, and called them to leave all things and follow Him.

Judas could have gone to Mary and said, "Mother, behold, my life is filled with wicked desires, with anger, and jealousy, and pride. Mother, I am ashamed to confess this to thee, but I am losing confidence in thy Son. I cannot accept His way of doing things. I am hardening my heart against His teachings. Mother, help me! And Mary, moved by an immense compassion, would have caressed his cheek, and opened her hands in prayer over his head. Mary was then, and remains even now for us, the Mediatrix of All Graces, the Mother of Mercy, the Refuge of Sinners, our life, our sweetness, and above all, our hope in this valley of tears. She would not have condemned Judas. She would not have been angry with him. She would have felt an immense pity for him, the pity of a mother for a wayward child. Mary could have saved him from the terrible fate that awaited him. But Judas did not seek her out. And so Mary would weep for him bitterly.

One can go to Mary at any moment, with any temptation, any weakness, and any sin. Our Lady hates sin, but loves poor sinners. She is disgusted by evil, but is merciful towards those held in its grip. She is repulsed by vice, but full of compassion for those who struggle to become free of it. Seeing us in our sins, she weeps over us, allowing her tears to soften and purify our hearts. Turn to her and she will crush the head of the serpent who plots our ruin. It is enough to look at her image with confidence, enough to say her blessed name, "Mary, Mary!"

He Could Have Opened Up to Peter

Judas could have gone to Peter. Peter had already emerged as the spokesman of the Twelve. Judas could have said to Peter, "Peter, my brother, tonight, let us get together for a glass of wine and a plate of figs. I need to talk. I am confused, troubled, restless. Hear me out. Help me." Peter was often outspoken, and impetuous, but he had a tender side as well. He was capable of compassion. Peter would have listened to Judas. He may have argued with him, as one brother argues with another. He may have reproved him as Padre Pio so often reproved his penitents in order to win them back. But the simple fact of opening up to Peter might have saved Judas. Instead, Judas chose to live with his secret. In the end, it would kill Jesus and cause Judas to hang himself.

It a dangerous thing to hold on to one's secrets, to entertain an inner life populated by demons and noisy with their evil suggestions. There is a solution: it is enough to go to one who represents Jesus, one who so knows the Heart of the Master that he can speak on His behalf and pull us back from the precipice.

He Could Have Asked John to Intercede for Him

Judas could have gone to John. John was Jesus' beloved friend, the one with whom He shared all the secrets of His Sacred Heart, the friend in whose company He found comfort and solace, the friend who would remain with Him even on Golgotha, the friend to whom He would entrust His All-Holy Mother. John was, and is, a powerful intercessor with the Heart of Jesus. Had Judas gone to John and exposed his temptations, John would have spoken to him of the gentleness of the Master, of the love of His Heart, of His readiness to forgive. And John, interceding, would have gone to Jesus, to speak to Him on Judas' behalf.

But Judas could not bring himself to do this. Out of pride certainly, out of jealousy perhaps. And so he went his dark way into the night of betrayal and death.

The Mercy of God

Judas remains a tragic mystery. Had he renounced his sin, or had he repented after it, he might have become one of the shining trophies of Divine Mercy in the early Church. Instead he went his dark way, keeping his secrets, and refusing to reach out to Jesus, to Mary, to Peter, to John or to any one of the company of faithful disciples who might have been able to grab hold of his hand and pull him back from the infernal pit.

The very act of reaching out is an expression of humility, and humility opens the floodgates of Divine Mercy. Apart from an abiding trust in the Mercy God, one cannot have but a tragic destiny. Merciful Jesus, save us, lest we, like Judas, betray Thee with a kiss!

Mother of God, Portress of the Holy Mysteries

Wednesday of Holy Week

Isaiah 50:4-9
Psalm 68: 8-10, 21bcd-22, 31 & 33-34 (R. 14C & b)
Matthew 26:14-25

At Saint Mary Major

Today’s Roman Stational Church is the Basilica of Saint Mary Major. We go, in spirit, to this ancient church of the Mother of God, asking her to be present to us as we prepare to cross the threshold into the Paschal Triduum. We go to the suffering Christ, to the Crucified, to the Risen One with and through his most holy Mother. The Virgin of Sorrows is the Portress of the Holy Mysteries, the Keeper of the Door of Christ’s Pierced Heart, the Mother of our Joy. We will return again to Saint Mary Major for the Mass of Easter Day to sing our joy to the Mother of God -- Regina caeli, laetare! -- and to share in the joy that was hers at the resurrection of Christ. By framing the Paschal Triduum between two stations at the church of Saint Mary Major, the Roman liturgy suggests that the mystery of Christ is given us enveloped in Mary. Mary, like the Church, embodies and contains the mystery of Christ.

Christ in the Glory of God the Father

We sing today’s Introit in the presence of the Mother of Jesus. “In the name of Jesus let every knee bow, of those that are in heaven, on earth, and under the earth; for the Lord became obedient unto death, even to the death of the cross. Therefore our Lord Jesus Christ is in the glory of God the Father (Phil 2:10, 8, 11). She who was the witness of his sufferings on Calvary is the witness of his glory in heaven, for she “has chosen the better part which shall not be taken away from her” (Lk 10:42).

We confess the self-emptying obedience of Christ, obedience even to the death of the cross, calling him LORD. We summon the entire cosmos -- things in heaven, on earth, and under the earth -- to adoration of his Name! Already, we lift our eyes to the see the glory of the risen and ascended Christ. The very melody of the introit scales an entire octave to soar into the heights, obliging us to “seek the things that are above” (Col 3:1). Dame Aemiliana speaks of “the irresistible, shining tone of triumph with which today’s Mass straightaway puts the approaching shadows of evening to flight.” Like Saint Stephen at the hour of his death, we see Christ in the glory of God the Father. “Behold, I see the heavens opened, and the Son of Man standing on the right hand of God” (Ac 7:56). The Crucified is our Kyrios, the triumphant king, raised up into the glory of the Father.

Gibbeted on the Cross

The Collect echoes the Introit with its motif of cross and resurrection. Monsignor Knox translates it this way: “For our sakes, O God, and of the fiend’s power to rid us, thou wouldst have thy Son gibbeted on the Cross; O that we thy servants, may find grace to rise again with him.” The Latin text refers to the patibulum of the cross, the gibbet, an instrument of torture and execution. Christ, though innocent, goes to a criminal’s death. The cross is attached to the body of Christ to become the instrument by which he routs the power of the enemy.

The Tree and the Garden

The wood by which Satan sought to uproot the kingdom of God from creation becomes the wood by which Satan is catapulted out of it. The tree by which Satan sought to poison the good and beautiful work of God in the beginning -- “And God saw everything that he had made, and behold it was very good” (Gen 1:31) -- becomes the new shoot by which God’s lovely garden is replanted to flourish, irrigated by the water and the blood flowing from the side of Christ. Here too is an echo of the cosmic imagery of the Introit: “. . . . in heaven, on earth, and under the earth.” “Behold,” he says, “I make all things new” (Rev 21:5).

Newness of Life

We ask in the Collect that we may come to the grace of the resurrection. The Prayer Over the People will spell out for us exactly what this means: newness of life. The grace of the resurrection means forsaking all the old and ugly things by which we open the garden of Christ’s new creation to the hateful hissing of the Evil One. For Saint Bernard and his disciples the monastery is to be nothing less than a paradisus claustralis, a cloistered paradise, a garden enclosed in which one lives a new life, a life made beautiful by grace. “A garden enclosed is my sister, my bride, a garden enclosed, a fountain sealed” (Ct 4:12).

We are to let go of what is old. The hope-chest of the bride of Christ is empty; it is the treasure of her poverty. We are to hold nothing of the sinful past in reserve. Only then will we be able to inhale the sweet fragrance of the risen Christ. Only then will Christ say to each of us, “Your lips distill nectar, my bride; honey and milk are under your tongue; the scent of your garments is like the scent of Lebanon” (Ct 4:11).

Christ Sustains the Weary

All of this would be daunting were we not sustained by the word of the suffering Christ. “The Lord God,” he says “has given me the tongue of those who are taught, that I may know how to sustain with a word him that is weary” (Is 50:4). Christ sustains us in our weariness with every word of his uttered from the cross. He sustains us with every word of his repeated by the Church, over and over again, in the Psalter. He sustains us with every word of his heard, repeated, prayed, and held in the heart by means of lectio divina. Every word of his is, in some way, the application of the virtus crucis, the power of the cross, to our infirmity, to our weakness, to our misshapen, fragmented, selves. It is by the word of the suffering Christ, a communication of the power of the cross, that we are changed, that the garden of his delights is planted in the midst of us, that things broken are made whole again. The cross of Christ is both ambo and altar. From the ambo of the cross our Lord utters the word that sustains; from the altar of the cross he gives the sacrificial food of his Body and Blood.

Tears in His Chalice

The Communion Antiphon begins today with a mysterious word, a word of the suffering Christ, given to sustain us. Potum meum cum fletu temperebam. “I mingled my drink with weeping” (Ps 101:10). The chalice is given Christ by the Father. “Father, if thou art willing, remove this cup from me; nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done” (Lk 22:42). The chalice of Christ’s sufferings is made full when he adds to it his own tears, the tears of a Man, the tears of God. This is the chalice offered us in the Eucharist: a communion with the suffering Christ, a communion in his blood and in his tears. He mingled his drink with weeping to make our drink sweet. He was lifted up and thrown down (cf. Ps 101:10) that we who are thrown down might, by grace, be lifted up. He became withered like the grass (cf. Ps 101:11) that the garden of the kingdom might be planted and flourish and grow beautiful among us.

The Time to Have Mercy

See, already he arises to have mercy on Sion (cf. Ps 101:13), for the time to have mercy is come! At Cana he said to his mother Mary, “My hour has not yet come” (Jn 2:4). Today, Mother Church sings, “The time to have mercy is come” (Ps 101:13). With these words she ushers in these final hours before the Paschal Triduum. It is the time to have mercy.

Let us love the friends of the King

This 15th century painting of the miraculous Mass of Pope Saint Gregory the Great is in the Church of Sant'Andrea in Palermo, Sicily. Above, we see Our Lord Jesus Christ surrounded by depictions of the mysteries of His bitter Passion, all of which are made present in the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass. Below, we see Saint Gregory at the altar surrounded by his Cardinals. It appears to be the moment of the consecration. Notice the large host. Curiously, the Pope is wearing his tiara and the Cardinals their galeros. The Pope is facing outward, and there are two missals on stands placed on either side of the altar.

In preparation for this evening's Holy Mass of the Chrism and for the forthcoming Year of the Priest: A Sermon of Saint Ephrem, Syrian Deacon, on the Priesthood. Saint John Eudes chose this passage for Matins of the Office that he composed for the Feast of the Priesthood of Jesus Christ in 1652. Saint John Eudes' Mass and Office for the Feast of the Priesthood of Jesus Christ were adopted not only by his own Congregation of Jesus and Mary, who kept it on November 13th, and by the Priests of Saint Sulpice, who kept it on July 17th, but also by the Benedictines of the Blessed Sacrament, who kept it on the Thursday after the Octave of Corpus Christi. The feast fell into disuse in the middle of the nineteenth century. Only the Sulpicians kept it until the liturgical reforms of Pope Pius X.

O wondrous miracle!
O power unutterableI
O tremendous mystery of the Priesthood,
holy and spiritual mystery, worthy of reverence and blameless,
which Christ hath by His advent into the world
imparted even to those unworthy!

On bended knees, with tears and sighs,
I pray that we may look into this treasure of Priesthood;
a treasure, I say, to those who guard it with fitting holiness.
For it is indeed a matchless bright shield, a strong tower, a wall unbreakable,
a firm and stable foundation, reaching from earth to highest heavens!
What am I saying, brethren?
It even attaineth those supernal regions,
ascending without let or labor from the depths to the very heavens,
and there with incorporeal spirits, surrounded by angels,
holdeth free and familiar intercourse.

But why do I say surrounded by the Heavenly Powers except it be that it treateth
--familiarly with the very Lord and Creator of angels Himself, the Giver of Light,
asking forthwith whatsoever it will,
making petition as it were with certain seemly ease and right?

Nor do I desist, brethren, from giving praise and glory
to that profundity of dignity which the Holy Trinity hath liberally bestowed
upon us, the sons of Adam.
Thereby the world hath been saved and the creature enllghtened.
Thereby both the power of death hath been destroyed and the forces of hell spoiled;
both the curse of Adam destroyed and broken,
and the heavenly bridal chamber adorned and thrown open.
What shall I say and declare? what in the way of praise?

Forsooth, this gift of the lofty dignity of the Priesthood
hath outrun my mind and speech and all thought.
And this I think is what Saint Paul indicates when,
stricken with an amazement of mind, he exclaims:
O the depth of the riches of the wisdom and the knowledge of God!
How incomprehensible are His judgments, and how unsearchable His ways!
Flying from earth to high heaven,
it bears most swiftly to God above our requests,
praying the Lord for His servants.

O power unutterable, which hath deigned to dwell in us
through the laying on of hands of holy priests!
What great depths lie within this awful and wonderful Priesthood!
Happy the man who purely and blamelessly ministers in this dignity!

So let us know, brethren, that great and manifold, vast and boundless
is the dignity of the Priestly Office itself.
Glory be to the Sole-Begotten,
glory also to the Only Good,
Who offers this through the new and holy covenant to His disciples,
that these in turn, by the laying on of their hands upon worthy men,
may furnish an example unto us.

Therefore let us all give honor to Priests
and all pronounce those to be happy who have been adorned
by this sublime and admirable office of Priesthood,
knowing for sure that he will be loved much more by the King,
who is a lover of the King's friend.
Wherefore, let us love the priests of God,
seeing that they His friends are good
and intercede for us and the world.

"If you want God to hear your prayers, hear the voice of the poor. If you wish God to anticipate your wants, provide those of the needy without waiting for them to ask you. Especially anticipate the needs of those who are ashamed to beg. To make them ask for alms is to make them buy it"

Ten things you should know about Archbishop Vincent Nichols, England's new Catholic leader

1. He is the right man for the job.

2. He is a tribal Catholic, though not in a bad sense. The identity of generations of working-class Irish and Liverpool Catholics is written into his DNA. He is open to encounters with other faiths (too open, sometimes) but doesn't take kindly to insults to the Church. He blew his top when the BBC tried to air Popetown - and stopped it happening.

3. He is markedly more intelligent than many of his fellow bishops. This is especially obvious in interviews. Unlike Cardinal Murphy-O'Connor, he can think on his feet.

4. He used to occupy a space right at the centre of the Magic Circle. As a young man he was the protege of Derek Worlock, who encouraged him to become a bureaucratic liberal. Then he came under the influence of Cardinal Hume. "It went to his head a bit, and for a time he seemed preoccupied by his career," says an old friend.

5. He no longer identifies with the Magic Circle. After being made Archbishop of Birmingham, +Vincent came to see that the bureaucratic Bishops' Conference that he helped set up was often impeding, rather than furthering, the national mission of the Church.

6. He has a firm belief in the traditional Catholic family. He said yesterday that one of his priorities was to persuade more families to pray together. This is one indication that the Archbishop has come to identify more strongly with the Catholic culture of his childhood.

7. He is determined to safeguard Catholic education - but he has yet to distance himself fully from the political correctness of the Catholic Education Service. His heart is in the right place, however.

8. He has devoted a lot of time to nurturing good relations with non-Christian faiths. This may explain his lamentable failure to condemn the use of a Catholic chapel at Newman University College to celebrate Mohammed's birthday.

9. He has no natural affinity with the Extraordinary Form of the Mass, but his passionate advocacy of the cause of John Henry Newman has brought him close to the traditionalist Birmingham Oratory. He is now beginning to discover for himself the riches of pre-Vatican II worship.

10. He is loyal to, and has deep admiration for, the Holy Father, Pope Benedict XVI.

Iowa Supreme Court Unanimously Permits Gay "Marriage"

Iowa has joined Massachusetts and Connecticut in legally permitting gay "marriage" after a lawsuit was filed by "Lambda Legal, a New York-based gay rights organization" and the Iowa Supreme Court determined that the law defining marriage as being between one man and one woman was unconstitutional.

As this is breaking news, there's no word yet on whether Iowa will attempt to pass a constitutional amendment, but I think it's a pretty safe bet. Societally, this ruling is on a par with December's decision permitting assisted suicide in Montana.

Gay "marriage" and assisted suicide bills are on the legislative agendas of several states across the nation (gay "marriage" in New York, New Jersey, and Vermont, and assisted suicide in Hawaii and New Hampshire). I could go on about the very fabric of our culture unraveling, but it's just too depressing.

Hm. I was studying the Compendium of the Social Doctrine of the Church yesterday, and my favorite line comes from the conclusion: we must be "immersed in God and inserted into society" (small misquote possible; it's not in front of me). I think I've said this before: We're all called to holiness, but it just may be that God isn't calling us to be holy within a holy society. Or, if I may attempt to quote Bl. Teresa of Calcutta, "God doesn't call me to be successful; he calls me to be faithful." Let's try for vigorous and loving opposition to these transformations to society, all while pushing for the transformations our nation and world actually need.

The Springtime of John Paul II

By Thomas D. Williams
Thursday, April 2, 2009, 12:00 AM

In his celebrated Christian allegory The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, C.S. Lewis represents evil’s hold on the world with the image of an enduring winter—Narnia under the power of the White Witch, who makes it “always winter and never Christmas.” According to prophecies, the coming of Aslan the Lion—Lewis’ Christ-figure—is to be marked by the end of winter and the appearance of springtime. At one point the human visitors to Narnia are quoted a proverbial refrain obviously well known to the good local folk:

Wrong will be right, when Aslan comes in sight
At the sound of his roar, sorrows will be no more,
When he bares his teeth, winter meets its death,
And when he shakes his mane, we shall have spring again.

Throughout his twenty-seven-year papacy John Paul II often employed the image of spring in a similar vein. In his 1990 Redemptoris Missio, he wrote: “As the third millennium of the redemption draws near, God is preparing a great springtime for Christianity, and we can already see its first signs.” In his 1995 address to the United Nations, he added, “the tears of this century have prepared the ground for a new springtime of the human spirit.” And in his 1998 remarks to pilgrims gathered in Rome for Pentecost, he spoke of the Holy Spirit’s bringing “a new springtime in the Church.”

Some have suggested that this unflagging confidence in the coming of spring says more about John Paul than about the contemporary reality of the Church and society—his naively sunny optimism that, after a century of bloodshed and human suffering, things must get better. Those who read the pope this way typically contrast his outlook with that of his close friend and papal successor, Joseph Ratzinger, who balanced, they suggest, John Paul’s positive mindset with a more realistic (perhaps pessimistic) approach.

The interpretation is not entirely baseless. With Memory and Identity, his last published work, John Paul shocked many by his hopeful reading of even the darkest chapters of the twentieth century. Reflecting on the Nazi occupation of Europe and the communist domination that followed, John Paul made some disconcerting assertions. “There was a sense,” he wrote, “that this evil was in some way necessary for the world and mankind. . . . It can happen, in fact, that in certain concrete circumstances, evil is revealed as somehow useful, inasmuch as it creates opportunities for good.” Such a sanguine assessment of what were among the most heinous instances of evil in all of human history confirmed suspicions that John Paul was infected with a hope that bordered on the pathological.

But, if this was so, it was a discernibly Christian pathology. Nowhere in his life or writings does one discover the roly-poly optimism of shallow souls. When John Paul wrote “I have had personal experience of ideologies of evil,” he was closer to understatement than hyperbole. His contact with totalitarianisms both Nazi and Marxist, and his pastoral familiarity with the usual gamut of sin, all combined to leave little room for a buoyant naivete. “It is hard to forget the evil that has been personally experienced,” he noted. “One can only forgive.”

To write off John Paul’s announcement of spring as the product of a positive outlook on life ignores the depth of his spirit. When he spoke of spring, was he reading empirical signs of springtime, or simply encouraging believers to keep their collective chin up? And if he did intend to offer an objective diagnosis, is there any reason to believe he may have been right? Now—four years after his death on April 2, 2005—is a good moment to engage these questions.

We might start by noting that there is a difference between optimism and hope. Optimism is a matter of optics, the way we view life and reality in general. Optimism is characterized by an enthusiasm that minimizes defeats and is often linked to a healthy personality.

Hope, on the other hand, is a theological virtue—a desire for heaven as one’s greatest good, and a confidence in Jesus’ promises and God’s grace for attaining it. “Hope is not empty optimism springing from a naive confidence that the future will necessarily be better than the past,” John Paul told the UN. “Hope and trust are the premise of responsible activity and are nurtured in that inner sanctuary of conscience where ‘man is alone with God’ and he thus perceives that he is not alone amid the enigmas of existence, for he is surrounded by the love of the Creator!”

Christian hope necessarily fosters a certain kind of optimism—not the optimism that concerns the outcome of a contingent predicament but the optimism for life in general. Christians are not, so to speak, watching the scoreboard to see who wins. We already know, for the final victory has been achieved in Christ’s death and resurrection. Christians who cultivate the theological virtue of hope naturally becomes more optimistic in their interpretation of events around them, knowing that God is able to weave even the worst of situations into his plan for our good. A firm belief in providence—based on the assurance that, as St. Paul says, “for them that love God all things work together unto good”—leads to a more positive outlook even of externally negative happenings. To a 1979 youth congress, John Paul explained, “Without certain hope in Christ’s victory in you and in the world that surrounds you, there can be no optimism, and without optimism that serene gaiety without which the characteristic of the youth cannot exist.”

John Paul’s talk of a new springtime did not derive directly from the theological virtue of hope, since hope transcends all circumstances, favorable or unfavorable. It is significant that the first pope, Saint Peter, told Christians, you must be prepared to give “reasons for your hope” (1 Peter 13:15). Yet these reasons are founded in God’s goodness and faithfulness, not in “the signs of the times,” and theological hope concerns eternal life rather than temporal well-being. “Signs of spring” may of course make it easier to hope, since the signs themselves bolster our confidence in God’s activity and commitment to the world. Yet true hope does not wax and wane with the times—good or bad. Hope shines most truly, indeed, when the times are darkest. Hope is the stuff of gulags and cancer wards, not of cruise ships and cotillions. In other words, a time of hope is not the same as a trial of hope. Even the most fervent and hope-filled Christian must distinguish between signs of hope and signs that put hope to the test—and John Paul’s references to springtime clearly suggest the former. If we are to call the present moment a springtime, it must be verifiably different from other times.

Similarly, John Paul’s springtime cannot have been merely an expression of his optimism. Both the optimist and the pessimist are objective enough to distinguish between springtime and winter. The pessimist will harp on winter’s bitter cold and lifeless landscape, while the optimist may praise the beauty of the driven snow, chilly sleigh rides, and hot cocoa. They are clearly at odds, but not on the fact that winter is upon them. The optimist in winter will not look around and say: “Beautiful day! Let’s hit the beach!”

In at least some of his allusions to springtime, John Paul II intended to make an objective statement about the world. In his comment before the UN—“We will see that the tears of this century have prepared the ground for a new spring of the human spirit”—John Paul referred not simply to his unwavering theological hope, nor to a supposed optimism, but to contingent historical events that would encourage a more hopeful reading of humanity’s proximate future. Similarly, when he claimed that “God is preparing a great springtime for Christianity, and we can already see its first signs” he evidently had something concrete in mind.

So what did he discern? The first significant sign of spring does not involve twittering birds and pink buds. What we see first is slush and mud: The world in spring gets uglier before it gets prettier. That, after all, is why T.S. Eliot called April the cruelest month: Winter kept us warm, covering earth in forgetful snow.

In the slush and mud of his own day, John Paul II saw something emerging: a meltdown of formerly frozen ideologies and consolidated problems. People’s disillusionment with the therapeutic promises of Freud, the voluntarism of Nietzsche and the utopianism of Marx may not lead to a sudden embrace of Christian faith, but it does prepare the way, just as the Prodigal Son’s hunger brought him back to his father’s house. We can witness an opening to and hunger for spiritual realities, located in a generalized dissatisfaction with what the world offers.

Joseph Ratzinger, too, saw that melting ideologies offer a new chance for the Christian message. Delivering the 1988 Fisher Lecture at Cambridge, Ratzinger emphasized “an intense, new desire for moral values like freedom, justice, and peace.” “Ideologies have been cast aside,” he said, “and so one can directly recognize what is good once more. In point of fact, this may be welcomed as an element of hope: God’s profound message can be smothered and distorted in man. Nonetheless, it is constantly bursting forth anew, working a way out for itself.”

In Salt of the Earth, Ratzinger similarly described the opportunities opened by melting ideologies:

The internal dead-ends and contradictions, as well as the internal falsity of such theories [Marxism, Freudian psycho-analysis, the ethics of the sociologists] will emerge. And that is, in fact, already happening to a large extent. We are experiencing the demythologization of many ideologies. For example, the economic explanation of the world that Marx attempted and that at first seemed so logical and so compelling and therefore could exercise such fascination, especially because it was associated with a moral ethics, simply doesn’t correspond to reality. Man is not comprehensively described in these terms. It has become plain that religion is a primordial reality in man. And the same holds in relation to all these other things.

This first sign of spring—winter’s loss of power and influence—does not guarantee future flourishing, but it does make spring possible. Springtime is not a period of reward but a time of labor. Unworked land will produce acres of weeds rather than rows of wheat. No harvest can be expected if no seed is sown. In the Christian life as well as in business there is such a thing as a missed opportunity. Springtime offers a temporal window in which to invest one’s efforts for future gains. It is a call to earnest effort, not a promise of guaranteed success.

John Paul’s vision of spring was not, therefore, a simple invitation to passively observe a fleeting season, but a call for engagement. His many references to springtime, in fact, make growth contingent on personal commitment. In Tertio Millennio Adveniente, the pope stated this “new springtime of Christian life will be revealed by the Great Jubilee if Christians are docile to the action of the Holy Spirit.” Similarly, in 1998 he argued to U.S. bishops: “The new evangelization that can make the twenty-first century a springtime of the gospel is a task for the entire People of God, but will depend in a decisive way on the lay faithful being fully aware of their baptismal vocation and their responsibility for bringing the good news of Jesus Christ to their culture and society.” John Paul understood the springtime of our age to be a particularly apt moment for intense evangelizing work.

This contingency of effort is evident in Ratzinger’s writings as well, and once more the two seem to complement rather than oppose one another. Ratzinger wrote: “The mere failure of preceding ideologies doesn’t necessarily lead to a rebirth of Christianity or issue on great, vital, positive movements. Disappointment settles in and can lead to further collapse, but can also lead to an openness so that people may be touched by the power of Christianity and regeneration can occur. But it doesn’t happen, as I said, with the necessity of a sort of natural law.”

Along with the meltdown of ideologies, John Paul also noted the appearance of new life and renewal as further evidence that the world was experiencing a change of seasons. In another passage in Redemptoris Missio, he checked off a whole series of items indicating renewal, which he credits to God’s work in the world.

As the third millennium of the redemption draws near, God is preparing a great springtime for Christianity, and we can already see its first signs. In fact, both in the non-Christian world and in the traditionally Christian world, people are gradually drawing closer to gospel ideals and values, a development which the Church seeks to encourage. Today in fact there is a new consensus among peoples about these values: the rejection of violence and war; respect for the human person and for human rights; the desire for freedom, justice and brotherhood; the surmounting of different forms of racism and nationalism; the affirmation of the dignity and role of women.

The reference to “a new consensus” may be overstated. Violence and war continue—though, as Stephen Pinker recently pointed out, “Violence has been in decline over long stretches of history, and today we are probably living in the most peaceful moment of our species’ time on earth.” Moreover, despite evident signs of greater respect for the dignity of the human person, abuses continue not only on the individual level, but also institutionally and at the state level. One need think only of how the unborn are treated as a matter of course in the western world, or the treatment of women in some Muslim countries, or the suppression of religious liberty across the globe. The signs of spring are mixed, and winter is far from over. In addition, troubling shifts in a reigning ethical mentality, decried by both John Paul II and Benedict XVI as a “dictatorship of relativism,” has actually made further inroads in the last ten years.

John Paul also pointed to more specific ecclesial manifestations of springtime: the appearance and growth of new ecclesial movements. Some 300,000 people, representing more than fifty movements overflowed Saint Peter’s Square at a Pentecost 1998 convocation. Addressing the convocation, John Paul pointed out: “After 2,000 years of Christianity, the inexhaustible fruitfulness of the Spirit is always active and evokes a new springtime in the Church.” The ecclesial movements, as he put it, were not the result of any overarching pastoral plan, but they were a clear witness to the action of the Holy Spirit on the threshold of the third millennium.

Other areas of Church life show similar signs of improvement. The state of Catholic catechesis for both for children and adults, for instance, has notably improved, especially since 1992, the year John Paul published the Catechism of the Catholic Church. This is true not only in the United States, where the bishops carried out a nationwide review of catechetical texts to evaluate their conformity with the new catechism, but throughout the world. Compared to the construction-paper butterfly cutouts, felt banners, and parable dramatizations that I was treated to in my catechism years in the 1970s, catechesis today is an earnest effort in Christian education.

Ecumenism, too, flowered during John Paul’s twenty-seven year pontificate, and has shown continued vigor during Benedict XVI’s reign. John Paul did not believe that division between believers was an option. Ut Unum Sint encapsulated his conviction that Christ “cannot remain divided,” but believers “must profess together the same truth about the Cross.” John Paul’s willingness to reconsider even the role of the papacy for the sake of Christian unity met with positive responses from all Christians. His twin overtures to Orthodoxy and Protestantism were especially noteworthy. In the latter instance, the Joint Declaration on the Doctrine of Justification by Faith created the greatest ecumenical rapprochement since the Reformation.

On an intra-ecclesial level, though, the story is hardly uniform. Throughout John Paul’s pontificate, the number of seminarians did increase significantly, rising seventy-five percent from 1978 to 2000. Yet vocations to the priesthood did not begin to approach pre-Vatican II levels and they continue to languish in many countries. The decline of religious life among communities of women shows no signs of abating, and the fallout for Catholic education, healthcare, and missionary activity throughout the world continues to be acutely felt. But when comparing the overall state of the Church in 1978 (John Paul’s first year) with the present situation, the balance sheet tilts positive.

To these two acknowledged signs of spring—the end of winter’s grip and the first signs of burgeoning life—John Paul added a third, bearing a more somber tone: the witness of the martyrs. Just before the year of the Great Jubilee, John Paul wrote that “the Church has become once again a Church of martyrs” (Tertio Millennio Adveniente 37). He was fully convinced by his own theological hope as well as the witness of history that such martyrdom is necessarily fruitful. On numerous occasions he cited the maxim of the early Christian apologist Tertullian (a.d. 250): Sanguis martyrum, semen christianorum (The blood of martyrs is the seed of Christians). Just as the Christian Church grew out of her martyrs in the early centuries, John Paul asserted, so was she destined to grow as a result of the twentieth century’s witnesses.

This and similar assertions expressed more than a desire that today’s Christians might find an example set by those who gave their lives for Christ. Rather, he was asserting his theological conviction that it would be so. And so he could write: “For the Church, the martyrs have always been a seed of life,” and once again cited what he called Tertullian’s “famous ‘law,’” which “has proved true in all the trials of history” (Novo Millennio Ineunte). Here he found a sign of springtime rooted in theological hope and in trust of God’s faithfulness.

These three signs of John Paul II’s springtime faith—the meltdown of paralyzing ideologies, social and ecclesial renewal, and the immense witness of twentieth-century Christian martyrdom—may not be empirically conclusive, but they raise serious questions and deserve pondered consideration. Evangelization does not follow seasonal patterns with the regularity of summer, fall, winter, and spring. At the same time, the seasonal analogy is not without merit, and Christians must always read the signs of their times. Though some may continue to attribute John Paul’s vision of a new springtime to a sunny temperament infected with rootless optimism, his spring nonetheless was based on considerations he believed were objective and accessible to any careful observer.

Just as opportunities can appear, however, they can also disappear. Once spring is past, some windows of opportunity will close. One thing is certain: Much work remains to be done and opportunities now exist that did not a mere generation ago.

Father Thomas D. Williams, LC, teaches theology at the Regina Apostolorum Pontifical Athenaeum in Rome, and is author of, most recently, Knowing Right from Wrong: A Christian Guide to Conscience.

Archbishop Vincent Nichols is the new leader of Catholics in England and Wales, sources confirm

Archbishop Vincent Nichols of Birmingham will succeed Cardinal Cormac Murphy-O'Connor as leader of the Catholic Church in England and Wales, sources confirmed tonight. The news will be formally announced at a press conference at Archbishop's House, Westminster, at 11 am tomorrow morning (Friday).

The 63-year-old Archbishop of Birmingham is a forceful character who was once regarded as a liberal. But, in recent years, his pastoral gifts have won him friends among Catholics of all varieties - and have persuaded Pope Benedict XVI that he is the man to transform the Church in England and Wales and bring it closer to Rome.

I'm delighted by the news, because all the signs were that the job was going to a less suitable candidate. "Vin", as he is known, may be ambitious – but for a long time now he has been ambitious on behalf of the Catholic Church. He has fought the Catholic corner a good deal harder than many of his fellow bishops, most recently seeing off plans to force Catholic schools to accept a quota of non-Catholic students. He has also given the BBC a hard time for its anti-Catholic stance.

I don't think +Vincent would have been the first choice of many, if any, Catholic traditionalists, who were hoping that the Pope would choose a dynamic conservative outsider. The Archbishop of Birmingham is dynamic, all right, but it would seem ridiculous to describe him as conservative or an outsider.

And yet... Vin Nichols has become more conservative over the years, and more independent-minded. There are some old-style liberals in his entourage, but anyone who saw a recent photograph of the Archbishop cheerfully processing the relics of St Chad around Birmingham Cathedral, dressed to the nines as a proper bishop, will have realised that this is a man who is not afraid to celebrate traditional Catholic culture. (The same, alas, could not be said of Bishop Kieran Conry of Arundel and Brighton.)

His record on the traditional Latin liturgy is patchy. He has never celebrated Mass in the Extraordinary Form, to the best of my knowledge, and has not made much provision for it. On the other hand, I think we can be confident that he will not restrict its celebration in Westminster Cathedral in the way that the current Cardinal has.

Which brings me to a delicate subject. Many, many sources have told me that +Vincent was not Cardinal Cormac's choice as successor. I don't think this is the time to labour the point, but the odd thing is that Archbishop Nicholas has become something of an outsider in recent years, though in a good way.

As general secretary of the Bishops' Conference, the then Mgr Nichols helped create the Magic Circle, the dreadful politically correct, self-perpetuating bureaucracy in Eccleston Square which these days is more interested in social engineering and environmentalist rhetoric than in promoting Catholic teaching. But, recently, he has made no secret of his impatience with its sclerotic structures. Those expensive committees must be disbanded.

It's time for change in the Church in England and Wales; time for firm leadership at last. That is not the sole responsibility of the Archbishop of Westminster, of course. A number of important sees will become vacant soon, and my guess is that one of them will fall to a true "Benedictine" - an enthusiast for Benedict XVI's liturgical reforms.

Archbishop Nichols does not match that description - but he is significantly more loyal to the Holy Father than some of his fellow bishops. When Cardinal Ratzinger was elected in 2005, +Vincent welcomed the news. Some of his fellow bishops, who worked hard to stop him moving to Westminster, will now no doubt be saying that he has got his reward.

But that is unfair. Archbishop Nichols is unlikely to be made a cardinal until Cardinal Murphy-O'Connor reaches the age of 80 in 2012. So his new post does not carry with it the status of a Prince of the Church. Cynics would say that this might explain why +Vincent did not seem especially anxious to leave Birmingham. A better explanation is that he is probably dismayed by the scale of the challenge he faces. The Church in England and Wales is in far sharper decline than it need be, thanks to a Bishops' Conference lacking in imagination and talent. That cannot be said of Vincent Gerard Nichols, who is a sensitive pastor - as friends of mine have experienced - and a bit of a bruiser. Which is no bad thing.