"Blessed the Man" (Ps 1), Stuttgart Psalter. Anonymous (c. 830), Württermbergische Landesbibliothek, Stuttgart, Germany.

 Blessed the Man (Ps 1), Stuttgart Psalter. Anonymous (c. 830), Württermbergische Landesbibliothek,

Stuttgart, Germany. 

Blessed the Man

Pilate’s words, Behold, the man! (Jn 19:5) are cruel mockery as he displays the whipped and bloodied prisoner to the screaming crowd. The words mean: look at what you call a man. Look at how weak he is. How defenseless. How beaten down. And the words have menace: this is who you are in the hands of Roman justice, and any one of you could be next.

But the unknown artist of the early-9th-­century Stuttgart Psalter noticed that, through the mockery and the menace of Pilate’s words, an echo of another voice can be heard: Blessed the man (Ps 1:1). The man to whom the Psalter first directs our gaze is also the man on Pilate’s balcony and the man on the cross. To gaze on that man, the artist proposes, is to discover the One who reveals the true nature of every man and every woman.

A model of blessing

In the hands of the Stuttgart illuminator, the first letter of the first word of the Psalter expresses a whole theological universe in miniature. The “b” in “blessed” (beatus) is composed of the upright form of King David and a growing, curling vine. At one level, then, David himself is the “blessed man” Psalm 1 calls us to behold, whose vibrant life with God causes new growth to spring up like verdure covering once-barren earth. Since the whole Psalter was traditionally thought to have been composed by David, every word in the book is both an effect of David’s blessing and a means by which the one who prays the psalms enters into David’s gifts.

But how exactly is David blessed? The artist suggests an answer by depicting David as a power­ful, youthful warrior, clad in armor and a royal cloak, who wields a spear in his right hand and a cruciform scepter in his left. The portrayal evokes David’s first victory over Goliath as a boy, as well as the series of victorious conquests that marked David’s whole life, first as military commander for Saul and then as king himself. But battles, victory, and power are not the point of the story. The blood on David’s hands prevents him from building the temple; God’s dwelling place on earth will only be built by the man of peace (1 Chr 22:8-9). Over the head of David the Warrior rises a new sign: the sign of the cross.

New David, new blessing

Directly below the martial figure, the New David appears: the beardless, youthful Christ, stripped of all royal trappings, hands bearing nothing but the nails that pierce them. Jesus, son of David, reveals the true nature of kingship and victory. The perfect king of Israel, the eternal King of heaven and earth, does not conquer with the sword or terrify people into subjection. He reigns from a tree, crowned with thorns and clothed only in derision. His radical humility upends the cynical conviction that might makes right. Love, not power, is the true force that governs reality.

Because Jesus is the New David and the heir to God’s promises to David’s line, all David’s blessings are transformed and expanded in Jesus Christ. Read in the light of the cross, the whole Psalter becomes a revelation of Christ’s face, the perfectly “blessed man” who moves the human heart to seek him. The artist of the Stuttgart Psalter places Jesus Christ on the opening page of his work because he is convinced that the book of Psalms is really about Jesus Christ, and that by praying with it, we share ever more deeply in the blessings he poured out on the cross.

Of David’s line

But how exactly do the blessings promised to David and fulfilled in the New David come down to us, who are neither of David’s line nor contemporaries of Jesus’ earthly life? The remaining two figures in the scene point the way. A figure clad in a green cloak walks off Mount Cavalry and towards another mountain, where an orange-robed figure sits teaching. These figures express the only way the Church grows and moves through time: not by the sword, nor even by the ties of family, but by teaching and receiving the sacred mysteries that come from the cross. The graces that Christ pours out from his pierced side come to you and me from priests who enact Christ’s words in the sacraments, and from the countless men and women who teach us by word and deed who Jesus Christ is. This mystery is the Church, which the artist visualizes as a river of grace that receives the promises made to David and the people of Israel, bursts into waves of glory on the cross, and flows out into human history.

Blessed are the merciful

Taken together, the figures on the first page of the Stuttgart Psalter give insights into why Easter Sunday and Divine Mercy Sunday bookend a single eight-day celebration—the Easter Octave. We cannot bootstrap ourselves to the graces of the cross. We cannot teach ourselves the saving truths of the Incarnation. We cannot impress God with our great deeds. To enter into the resurrected life of the Blessed Man, Jesus Christ, we need to be washed in his blood, receive forgiveness, and learn the Truth who overcomes the lies we tell ourselves. In other words, we need mercy—which is the life of the Church. Blessed the man whom we behold scourged and bloody. Blessed the man who offered his life to give us mercy. Blessed are we when we long to see his face.

Father Gabriel Torretta, O.P.

Scholar of medieval Christianity who teaches theology at Providence College in Rhode Island.

"Risen Christ embracing the cross" (1594), Giovanni Battista Tinti (1558–1617)

Risen Christ embracing the cross (1594), Giovanni Battista Tinti (1558–1617), National Gallery, Parma, Italy.

His Death Freed Us from Death

Giovanni Battista Tinti (1558–1617) was an Italian mannerist painter who settled in Parma. He was one of the artists who best understood and translated into their works the essential message of the Council of Trent (concluded in 1563).

The work that adorns the cover of this issue of Magnificat was not painted on canvas, nor on a wood panel, nor as a fresco, but rather on a panel of leather. It is in fact a banner produced by Tinti for the processions of the Confraternity of the Five Wounds. This confraternity undertook as its charitable task to help the poor facing death by assuring them of a decent burial, but also by coming to the aid of the survivors, who often, at the death of a father or a mother, or a husband, were in danger of sinking from poverty into destitution. This confraternity continued to flourish into the 20th century but was dissolved by military force in 1911 by an anticlerical Italian government.

The work is treated as a trompe-l’œil to show that Christ bursts forth from the dark hole of death that swallowed him up, so as to return to the light of life. The gilded frame whose threshold the Risen One is crossing concretizes the door that opens from death onto life. And this is true not only for Jesus himself, but for all mankind. This mystery of the deliverance of the human race is indicated on the uprights of the frame by the depiction of the Archangel Michael: on (the viewer’s) left, guarding the entrance to the earthly paradise; on the right, embracing (in the initial sense: enfolding in his arms) the Tree of Life so as to bar access to it. And the title of the work is precisely this: The Risen Christ Embracing the Cross. The cross is indeed the Tree of Life, which the Son of God embraced to restore free access to it.

Alleluia, Jesus is truly risen!

Alleluia, Jesus is truly risen! Once again all of his human brothers and sisters are allowed to stretch out their hand, to take the fruit of the tree of life, to eat of it and to live forever (see Gn 3:22-24). The juxtaposition of these biblical images enables the artist to show us something inexpressible: the cross/tree of life embraced by Jesus brings about a total reversal of human destiny: what was once a terrifying sign of suffering, torture, and death becomes a sign of the triumph over suffering and death which opens onto eternal happiness in the next life. This is the meaning of the maxim that is featured at the top of the frame: Vulneris de vulnere salus, roughly, “the wound freed us from the wound.” Meditation on this will sustain our contemplation of the work.

This mortal wound that saves us from our original wound, which is also mortal, is presented here for us to contemplate, not only insofar as it is accomplished once for all in its historical coming, but also in its sacramental actualization in our lives: from the wound, from the Savior’s side, the Eucharistic Blood flows unceasingly until the end of time—here it is collected in a chalice by an angel. This divine wine enables us to communicate truly, really, in the offering that Jesus made of his life for our salvation, to the point of making us able, as active members of his body which embraces the cross, to love one another truly, really, as Jesus loved us.

Vulneris de vulnere salus: this maxim therefore confers a programmatic dimension on the banner, a dimension explained by the inscription that figures at the bottom of the frame: Hunc socii sentite in vobis, “Brethren, experience this within yourselves,” in other words: “Brethren, be not content to meditate on this great mystery, but by your devoted life grant that it may be fulfilled in you.”

Pierre-Marie Dumont

"The Tears of Saint Peter" (c. 1612–13), Jusepe de Ribera (1591–1652).

 

"The Tears of Saint Peter" (c. 1612–13), Jusepe de Ribera (1591–1652)

Holy Week sorrow and hope

This marvelous work by the young Spanish artist Jusepe de Ribera provides for rich ­meditation on Saint Peter and the mercy of God. In this one captured ­moment, in symbols and style, a full story emerges. Of course we already know the story, and we hear it again in Holy Week at the Palm Sunday and Good Friday liturgies. Here in ­visual form, the account of Peter’s triple ­denial of Jesus and subsequent repentance unfolds silently with the compelling force of beauty.

Pivotal moment

Light from above illuminates the single ­figure of Saint Peter, who is set in a dark, rocky outdoor place. His upturned face shows his red, teary eyes. The intent look reveals his anguished heart: he has recalled his broken promise to Jesus, Though all may have their faith in you shaken, mine will never be (Mt 26:33). The distant sky shows the first traces of dawn with streaks of light breaking the night; the cock has crowed and Jesus’ words have come true: Amen, I say to you, this very night before the cock crows, you will deny me three times (Mt 26:34). Yet, despite the betrayal, it is not a scene of despair. It is, rather, one of remorse. We can observe the apostle’s focused eyes and the ­furrowed brow; his face is the brightest part of the painting, in front of the darkest. He has wept bitterly (Mt 26:75) and is full of contrition.

In a penitential posture, almost crouching or cowering, not quite kneeling and not quite sitting, he cranes his neck to look high above, where a bright light is shining. Something, or Someone, has caught his attention and caused him to lift his head from a place of sorrow. His mouth is slightly open—is he catching his breath, having found not condemnation but mercy?

Rising, not falling

With his sandaled feet awkwardly turned sideways, he is in no position to move quickly. Yet he is not quite sinking into the darkness behind. His right arm, barely visible in front of the obscure, formless background, still supports his torso. The golden-ochre robe, in contrast to the dark tunic underneath, almost shimmers with highlights. Its deep, voluminous folds, masterly rendered with the chiaroscuro technique, make it appear weightless, or caught by a great wind. We are sure he is rising, not falling. Soon these feet, just washed by Jesus, will be running to see the empty tomb (Jn 20:4).

Even the keys placed beside Saint Peter’s clasped hands, keys to the kingdom of ­heaven (Mt 16:19), seem to share in the drama: will they be left aside, allowed to drop to the ground? No, they will not. The solid rock on which they rest is a reminder of Jesus’ declaration and promise: You are Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church, and the gates of the netherworld shall not prevail against it (Mt 16:18). After the Resurrection, the hands which accepted the keys will also accept chains of imprisonment for the sake of Christ (Acts 12:6).

Not on a pedestal

Ribera has brought us a close-up view of Simon Peter. We are just in front of him, the one whom Christ entrusted with the authority of the Church. He is not above us on a pedestal. Nor is he seated in a position of teaching authority or reigning as Prince of the Apostles in the heavenly realm. He is simply pleading for and receiving the mercy of God, which is expressed by the light from above and the overall mood of the work. Our proximity is an invitation to imitate him.

Before his denials, Peter had reiterated his pledge: “Even though I should have to die with you, I will not deny you.” And all the disciples spoke likewise (Mt 26:35). We can surely count ourselves in that number, among all the disciples who then, within hours, on the Mount of Olives, forsook [Jesus] and fled (Mt 26:56). We all share in the experience of breaking our promises to God. We all are in need of his mercy.

That reality makes this scene so poignant, and the eminence of Saint Peter so relevant. Even he, who had followed Jesus so closely, had heard God’s voice and seen God’s majesty with his own eyes (2 Pt 1:16-18), is human and frail. It is not by making more promises or exerting stronger effort that he repents; rather, he is suffering the pain which accompanies the acknowledgement of his betrayal and allowing God to change him. In this way, Saint Peter is an exemplar of hope which does not despair, does not presume, and requires humility. This is the difference between him and Judas Iscariot, who also ­betrayed Jesus, likewise regretted it, but despaired and hanged himself (Mt 27:3-5). Ribera’s work brings us closer to the real Simon Peter, with his ­human weakness, mistakes, and need for God. In imitating him, we do not need to try to climb a pedestal. We need only lift our heads to find God’s mercy already ­flooding us with light.

Jennifer Healy

Taught art history for many years and now works for the USCCB in the office

to Aid the Church in Central and Eastern Europe.

The Tears of Saint Peter (c. 1612–13), Jusepe de Ribera (1591–1652), Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Photo : Public domain.

Pietà (1498–1499, detail), Michelangelo (1475–1564), Saint Peter’s ­Basilica, Vatican.

 

Pietà (1498–1499, detail), Michelangelo (1475–1564), Saint Peter’s ­Basilica, Vatican. 

An Ever-growing Mystery of Beauty and Faith

Built precisely over the tomb of Saint Peter, above a necropolis on the slope of the Vatican hill, the first Basilica of Saint Peter in Rome began to be erected in the 330s by the first Christian emperor, Constantine the Great (272–337). On either side of the façade of the basilica two sumptuous imperial mausoleums were preserved. In a most fitting way, they were, over the following centuries, transformed into chapels: one dedicated to Saint Petronilla, the eldest daughter of Saint Peter, and the other to his brother, Saint Andrew. That Saint Peter was married and had children is attested by the Gospels: Jesus heals Peter’s mother-in-law (Mt 8:14–15); and in Peter’s house at Capernaum, Jesus takes a child, embraces him, sets him forth as an example and identifies him with himself (Mk 9:33–37). Saint Paul, for his part, clearly suggests that, like the other apostles, after Pentecost Saint Peter set out on mission with his family (1 Cor 9:5). That said, some hagiographers maintain that Saint Petronilla was only the spiritual daughter of Saint Peter.

When, in 756, central Italy was conquered by the Lombards and Rome besieged, the king of the Franks, Pepin the Short (714–768), sent an army which defeated the invaders. In order to guarantee the Pope’s security and independence, Pepin donated to the Holy See the lands that fell to him by right of war. These would form the Papal States until 1870. In gratitude, the Pope bestowed on France the title of “Eldest Daughter of the Church” and gave her Saint Petronilla, the eldest daughter of Saint Peter, as patroness. To attest this, the Pope granted to France the inalienable ownership of the mausoleum-chapel of Saint Petronilla.

450 Gold Ducats

Like Charlemagne (c. 742–814), Louis XII (1462–1515), “the Father of the People,” had the greatest devotion to Saint Petronilla. He conceived the plan of adorning the mausoleum-chapel in Rome with a Pietà. To this end, he asked his ambassador to the Holy See, Cardinal de Lagraulas, to recruit the best possible artist to execute the work. However, he required that the chosen sculptor agree to renounce the Italian style in order to adopt the French style, all simplicity, without putti or other ornamentation. The artists approached refused this condition, and the cardinal had to fall back on a young Florentine sculptor of twenty‑three who did not disdain the 450 gold ducats that were offered him. He adhered so faithfully to the stylistic conditions laid down by Louis XII that he produced (in 1499) an unsurpassable masterpiece: his name was Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475–1564).

Henry II on the Brink of Schism

In 1554, in the context of the redevelopment of the new Saint Peter’s Basilica, Pope Julius III had the two mausoleum-chapels demolished, without regard for the king of France, Henry II (1519–1559), with whom relations had deteriorated to the point that he had hurled an anathema against him, driving him to the brink of a Henry VIII–style schism (1491–1547) like that of England. Once relations had calmed, Saint Petronilla and France were granted a chapel in the new basilica: the first chapel to the right of the high altar, which rises above the tomb of Saint Peter. This chapel is French territory, and to this day the French Republic is responsible for its upkeep. One may go there to pray before the sarcophagus of the eldest daughter of Saint Peter, that the Eldest Daughter of the Church may remain faithful to the promises of her baptism. The Pietà, for its part, was placed in the first chapel to the right of the entrance to the basilica. Let us note that, in law, it still belongs to France.

The Vow of Louis XIII

Saint Petronilla remained the principal patroness of France until the vow of Louis XIII (1638), when she ceded place to the Virgin Mary, to whom the king promised to consecrate his kingdom. It is no accident that he also promised to raise a new high altar in the Cathedral of Notre-Dame in Paris, with beneath the Cross a monumental Pietà. His son Louis-Dieudonné would begin to fulfill this vow from 1708 onward. It is worth noting that the vow of Louis XIII had force of law. This law was abolished by King Louis-Philippe in 1831. This did not prevent Pope Pius XI, in 1922, from confirming Our Lady of the Assumption as “principal patroness of France.” The secondary patronesses of France are Saint Joan of Arc and Saint Thérèse of Lisieux. Saint Petronilla remains a secondary patroness, but her cult has fallen into desuetude, even though each year the French ambassador organizes a Mass for France in the chapel of Saint Petronilla in Saint Peter’s Basilica. Moreover, every President of the Republic visiting Rome is bound by tradition to make the gesture of coming there to pray in recollection.

The photograph that adorns the cover of the current issue of Magnificat is by Robert Hupka (1919–2001). At the World’s Fair in New York in 1964, he photographed the Pietà by Michelangelo from every possible angle, in different lighting, thousands of times. “And so,” he confided later on, “while I dedicated countless hours to this work, the statue became for me an ever greater mystery of beauty and of faith.” This is because “in order to appreciate a sculpture in the round, in order to see it vibrate in the light, you must circle around it; it is not enough to address it from the front.” 

The more you contemplate Michelangelo’s Pietà, the more you mull over the question that was posed already during the sculptor’s lifetime by his friend Giorgio Vasari (1511–1574)¹ concerning the Pietà: “How could an artist’s hand produce so divinely such an admirable work in so little time [one year]? It is miraculous: that a shapeless rock should attain the sort of perfection that nature models only very rarely in the flesh.”

While he was sculpting this absolute masterpiece, the young Michelangelo (twenty-three years old) was still imbued with the intellectual atmosphere that he breathed in Florence, with the renowned humanist Pico della Mirandola as his master, who lyrically describes the creative flame that was to animate the young sculptor: “Rising from perfection to perfection, man reaches the stage where his soul is completely united to his intellect, where man becomes an angel, entirely inflamed with this angelic love, like matter that is seized by the fire and transformed into flame, purified of all the impurities of the earthly body and metamorphosed into a spiritual flame by the power of the soul; ascending to the intelligible heaven, it rests in the arms of the Primeval Father and there finds its happiness.”

Listening to such a master, the young Michelangelo was quickly convinced that the ardent contemplation of human beauty with a pure heart enabled an artist to lift his creation to the level of expressing divinity. Is man not the image of God? Vasari had understood this well, and he said: “The idea of this extraordinary man was to compose everything in terms of the human body and its perfect proportions, in the extraordinary diversity of its attitudes, and furthermore in the whole interplay of the soul’s passionate movements and raptures.”

Beauty becomes divine, as pure as it is beautiful

Pico della Mirandola wanted his young pupil, rising from perfection to perfection, to reach the stage where the artist becomes an angel. Michelangelo did not stop at that stage: desiring to be perfectly conformed to his baptismal name, he strove to become an archangel. Therefore let us contemplate his Pietà. The face of Christ bears no marks of suffering, while that of the Blessed Virgin shows no sadness. But then, how can the artist, through such a non-dramatic and improbably impassive depiction of the worst thing that can befall a mother, touch our minds and our hearts so profoundly that his sculpture reaches our most deeply buried questions about the meaning of our life? How did the artist manage to make out of a pallid, inert, cold block of marble a deafening shout flung in the face of the world, a cry that expresses the whole tragedy of the human condition and of the triumph of Love over death?

Perhaps we will find the answer in this sonnet that Michelangelo—an occasional poet—was pleased to send to a friend:

Nay, prithee tell me, Love, when I behold

My lady, do mine eyes her beauty see

In truth, or dwells that loveliness in me

Which multiplies her grace a thousandfold?

Thou needs must know; for thou with her of old

Comest to stir my soul’s tranquility;

Yet would I not seek one sigh less, or be

By loss of that loved flame more simply cold.

The beauty thou discernest, all is hers;

Yet grows in radiance as it soars on high

Through mortal eyes unto the soul above:

There is it transfigured; for the soul confers

Upon what she holds, her own divinity:

And such transfigured beauty wins thy Love. ² 

__________________________________________________

1 An excellent painter, a friend of Michelangelo, he is above all the greatest art historian of all time and the inventor of the concept of “Renaissance.”

2 The Sonnets of Michael Angelo Buonarroti, translated by John Addington Symonds (London: Smith, Elder & Co.; New York: C. Scribner’s Sons, 1904), Sonnet XXV, “The Transfiguration of Beauty”.

Pierre-Marie Dumont

Pietà (1498–1499, detail), Michelangelo (1475–1564), Saint Peter’s ­Basilica, Vatican. © Photo Robert Hupka, 1975 – Editions Arstella. www.la-pieta.org

"Christ in Gethsemane" (1416), Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry

 

Christ in Gethsemane (1416), Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry , folio 142v.,

Paul de Limbourg (c. 1386/1387–1416).

From March 2026 "Magnificat"

" Christ in Gethsemane"(1416), Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry

A medieval prayer book lies open, and gilding gleams as shadowy figures emerge from the painted page. Domine labia mea aperies … “Lord, open my lips…” The first words of the Invitatory break the stillness. Et os meum annunciabit laudem tuam . “And my mouth will proclaim your praise.”

This hauntingly beautiful Christ in Gethsemane introduces the nighttime office of Matins in the Très Riches Heures of the Duke of Berry, an illuminated Book of Hours intended for use by the laity. Rendered by Paul de Limbourg in 1416, this particular episode from Christ's arrest is rarely depicted in the history of art, often overlooked in favor of the Agony or the Kiss of Judas. John's Gospel alone relays the event: Jesus, knowing everything that was going to happen to him, went out and said to [the soldiers], “Whom are you looking for?” They answered him, “Jesus the Nazorean.” He said to them, “ I AM .” Judas his betrayer was also with them. When he said to them, “I AM,” they turned away and fell to the ground (18:4-6).

Christ's pronouncement of the divine name confounds his captors; he is the very same who instructed Moses: Tell the Israelites: "I AM has sent me to you" ( Ex 3:14 ). The encircling band falls thunderstruck—not forward in adoration but backward, unyielding to the last. the serpentine devil that strikes at the heel. unnaturally angled limbs are used elsewhere by Limbourg to depict plague victims and men struck down by divine fire. Spiritually. lifeless, entirely earthbound, only one of the soldiers opens his eyes. Yet even he stares blankly, groping in the darkness with an extended arm.

Christ stands above the tumult in majestic solitude. The gentle s-curve of his posture is echoed by trees rising from the slopes of Olivet, suggesting harmony with the created order. These strong verticals draw the eye aloft, beautifully balancing the weight of the figures below.

The power of darkness

Preceded only by Gaddi's Annunciation to the Shepherds (1328), Christ in Gethsemane is one of the earliest nocturnal scenes in Western art . In the midst of a manuscript bursting with riotous reds, intense lapis blues, and demure pinks, the viewer's eye must adjust to perceive the exquisite subtleties of this illumination. With extraordinary naturalism, it convincingly captures the muting effect of darkness on the nature of color.

Stripped of decorative elements and boisterous hues, the scene's visual silence sets a meditative tone. Besides Christ, all figures are rendered mostly in gray. Even Peter blends with the shadowy soldiers, though he is crowned with a dim silver halo. Standing to Christ's right in an imitative yet deferent pose, he represents the Church—mediator of grace and power—conformed to the divine Bridegroom.

Natural light sources fade before the otherworldly brilliance of Christ's halo, and the Savior's already somber form appears darker still by contrast. It was folly to light torches by which to seek the Sun; scattered on the ground, their flames scarcely penetrate the heavy pall of night. One pointedly reveals the face of Judas, whose twisted neck foreshadows his imminent suicide. The sound of Christ's voice—an arrow to his conscience—was more terrible to the traitor than to the lawless mob. Darkened within, he falls headlong away from the Light.

Fixed and falling stars

Overhead, the sky scintillates with pinprick stars. It was not until 1609, with the invention of the telescope, that a detailed rendering of the Milky Way in Elsheimer's Flight into Egypt surpassed the precocious realism of Limbourg's night sky. Though stylistically ahead of its time, it reflects an ancient cosmology —one favored by Ptolemy and Aristotle and later adapted to the medieval worldview. The viewer gazes into the Stellatum , a firmament of fixed stars beyond the wandering planets. The predictable procession of these celestial bodies governs the cycle of time.

The Très Riches Heures begins with twelve calendar pages depicting the labors of the months. Arable farming and animal husbandry—harvests and hunts—the rhythms of medieval life emerge with great vibrancy. Above each illumination, a starry arch bears the appropriate constellations—steady and sure beacons in the immutable heavens—alongside the monthly liturgical feasts and feriae.       

This context allows the modern viewer to share the visceral disquiet of the medieval audience at the disturbance of the stars. Three gilded trails of light streak above Gethsemane. These falling stars signify fundamental disorder and disorientation; they portend disaster (from the Latin pejorative dis- and astrum , star). The universe is shaken on the eve of cosmic chaos: the death of the Creator.

Prefiguration

Silhouetted against the darkened landscape, the Word stands silent as the night. Once prostrate and pleading in agony, he rises to meet his hour with noble resolve: No one takes [my life] from me, but I lay it down on my own (Jn 10:18). Though Christ's foes are disabled, he forgoes the opportunity to flee.

Christ's downcast gaze veils the weighty anguish he bravely bears within. He moves through his Passion toward a death that bears the signs of emptiness and division. thereby forging a glorious path for his saints to follow.

In Gethsemane, though black grief and terror surge on every side, even the hour of the Prince of Darkness contains a glimmer of this Paschal joy. Within three days, a band of soldiers will once again fall to the ground like dead men (Mt 28:4) at the force of Christ's majesty. This time, however, their bodies will encircle the entrance of an empty tomb.

Amy Giuliano:  Holds degrees in art history from Yale and theology from the Angelicum, Rome.

Christ in Gethsemane (1416), Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry , folio 142v., Paul de Limbourg (c. 1386/1387–1416), Condé Museum, Chantilly, France. © GP-RMN / Michel Urtado.

Jesus with the Samaritan Woman Mosaic

 

 From March 2026 "Magnificat"

“Let him who is thirsty come!”

The Basilica of Saint Mark in Venice—consecrated in 1094—was erected to house the relics of Saint Mark that were brought back by Venetian merchants from Alexandria in Egypt, where the evangelist had suffered martyrdom.

The shrine has been nicknamed the “Golden Basilica” because of its mosaics against a gold background. Entering it for the first time, one has the impression of being received into a magnificent casket of precious metal. According to Eastern symbolism, gold is the color of divinity, and therefore in this basilica the Divine Liturgy unfolds its splendors at the heart of the divine light—which is God himself. With this end in view, each of the millions of golden tiles was made of transparent Murano glass, encasing a leaf of pure gold.

The mosaic that adorns the cover of this month’s issue of Magnificat is located on the wall of the south transept. It was produced in the 13th century and partially redone in the 15th century. The scene depicts the moment when the disciples, represented here by Peter and John, return to Jacob’s well and are astonished to find Jesus conversing with a Samaritan woman (Jn 4:4-30).

At the center, Jacob’s well is stylized in the form of a cross-shaped baptismal pool. Such pools were dug into the ground of the baptisteries where the early Christians practiced baptism by immersion.

Behind the well stands the Tree of Life; its single trunk branches off into three great boughs. It thus symbolizes God who is One and Triune. According to the account in Genesis, the fruit of the tree of life gives access to eternal life: Then the Lord God said, “Behold, the man has become like one of us, knowing good and evil; and now, lest he put forth his hand and take also of the tree of life, and eat, and live for ever”—therefore the Lord God sent him forth from the garden of Eden, to till the ground from which he was taken. He drove out the man; and at the east of the garden of Eden he placed the cherubim, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to guard the way to the tree of life (3:22-24). 

“Let him who desires take the water of life!”

“Through the Tree, humanity fell; through the Tree, humanity will be saved” (Saint Irenaeus)—for access to the Tree of Life will be restored to humanity when the cross of Christ, made of its wood, is set up over the world: from the pierced heart of the Beloved Son of the Father there will spring the source of the living water, the lustral water of baptism, so that we can all be reborn of water and the Spirit, for the new life of the children of God. This is why, above the baptistery, at the foot of the tree of the cross, a red pool represents the blood of Christ, poured out for us; it sprang from his pierced heart at the same time as the living water.

Certainly along these lines the Lord Jesus is depicted to the left of the baptismal pool sitting on his throne as Pantocrator, Ruler over All. He holds in his left hand the scroll of the Gospel, and with his right hand he makes the gesture of the Almighty who blesses the water, so that it may become the living water, the cleansing water of baptism:

God, our Father,

by the grace of your Beloved Son,

may the power of the Holy Spirit descend upon this water,

so that everyone who is baptized,

buried in death with him,

may rise again with him for life,

for he lives for ever and ever.

And that is the moment when, within us, the Spirit and the Bride say, “Come.” And let him who hears say, “Come.” And let him who is thirsty come, let him who desires take the water of life without price (Rv 22:17).

—————————————–

See above an image of the baptistery in Kelibia (Tunisia) with a very similar baptismal pool, ­dating back to the 6th century (National Museum of Bardo).

Pierre-Marie Dumont

Christ and the Samaritan Woman, mosaic, 15th c., Saint Mark’s Basilica, Venice. © akg-images / Cameraphoto.

🇨🇿 🇺🇸 🇻🇦 𝐒𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐍𝐞𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐧 Feast: 5 January

 

🇨🇿 🇺🇸  🇻🇦 𝐒𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐍𝐞𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐧

Bishop ( ✝️  1860 Anno Domini A.D.)            Feast: 5 January

Saints Who Promoted Eucharistic Devotion

"I have one desire, that of being near you in the Blessed Sacrament...Gladly would I endure hunger, thirst, heat and cold to remain always with you in the Blessed Sacrament." John Neumann was born in 1811 in what is now Czechia. He entered a seminary ⛪ 🏫 , but a superfluity of priests prevented his ordination.

#Catholic 

https://us.magnificat.net/

https://cfpholyangels.com/saint-john-neumann-prayer-card/

https://www.tripadvisor.com/LocationPhotoDirectLink-g60795-d559071-i158821396-National_Shrine_of_St_John_Neumann-Philadelphia_Pennsylvania.html

Neumann, who spoke multiple languages, wrote to bishops throughout Europe 🇪🇺 but encountered the same obstacle. Finally, he traveled to the United States, where priests were very scarce, and was ordained within a month. After a few years, he joined the Redemptorist order, and in 1852 he was appointed Bishop of Philadelphia ♗ 🔔 .

https://youtu.be/-u65s4zOW08

Neumann wished to establish the Forty Hours' Devotion in his diocese 🙏  🫓 , but his priests were hesitant: There was tremendous anti-Catholic sentiment, and already some churches had suffered arson 🔥 ⛪ . One night the bishop fell asleep at his desk and his candle ignited some papers 😴 💤 🕯️ 📝 . When he awoke, he found that the fire had done little harm. As he prayed in thanksgiving, he heard these words: "As the flames are burning here without consuming or injuring the writing, so shall I pour out my grace 🕊️ in the Blessed Sacrament without prejudice to my honor. Fear no profanation, therefore; hesitate no longer to carry out your design for my glory." The Forty Hours' Devotion was introduced in Philadelphia soon after, in 1853.

#Catholic 

https://shrinetower.com/2013/01/05/st-john-neumann-and-the-sjn-national-shrine/

https://patrickhartmercedarian.wordpress.com/2010/03/16/saint-john-neumann-shrine/

🙏 𝘉𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘑𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘚𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵 𝘑𝘰𝘩𝘯 𝘕𝘦𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘯, 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘌𝘶𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘴. 🛐 

#SaintJohnNeumann #PrayForUs #OraProNobis 🙏 

#Catholic 

https://youtube.com/shorts/vZ8bxSPemzg

🇮🇹 🇻🇦 𝗦𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘁 𝗟𝗲𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗚𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁 🦁 Feast: 10 November

 

  𝗦𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘁 𝗟𝗲𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗚𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁

Pope ( ✝️ 461 Anno Domini A.D.) Feast: 10 November

The name Leo means the Lion 🦁 . And Saint Leo, the Pope ♗ , was a lion in bravery. The Vandals and Huns, two terrible races, were fighting the Christians of Europe. Besides this, evil men 👿 were teaching people lies about Jesus 🤞 🤥 . They were saying what was not true and getting the people confused. Leo became Pope. He had been a smart and wise young man 📚 👨‍🎓 . Now he had to be a brave and very wise Pope.

#Catholic

"Miniature Stories of the Saints, Book III" Daniel A. Lord

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/11488662-miniature-stories-of-the-saints-book-iii

https://gab.com/adagioforstrings/posts/115523110491771577

https://truthsocial.com/group/catholics-on-truth/posts/115523101002402242

First Leo went everywhere teaching the truth about our dear Lord 🗺️ 👨‍🏫 . He called together all the wise priests and bishops of the Church ⛪ . This was the great Council of Chalcedon 🇹🇷 . They talked and studied and listened 🤔 . And they went home to teach their people the truth. So people did not believe the evil men 🙅‍♂️ 👿 any more when they lied about the Savior.

#Catholic

"COUNCIL OF CHALCEDON - THE ROAR OF LEO THE GREAT"

https://youtu.be/E-5bNFm1gOI

But the Vandals and Huns kept coming. They burned cities 🔥 🏚️ . They murdered people everywhere ☠️ . All alone, without weapons, Leo went out to meet them. Their leader Attila was called the Awful Scourge. But when he saw Leo he ordered his armies to cease fighting. Instead of destroying Rome 🏟️ , they turned and went away. The Pope had saved Europe 🇪🇺 .

#Catholic

"Raphael's 'The Meeting between Leo the Great and Attila' depicts Leo, escorted by Saint Peter and Saint Paul, meeting with the Hun king outside Rome"

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Leoattila-Raphael.jpg

#SaintLeoTheGreat 🦁 #PrayForUs #OraProNobis 🙏

#Catholic

"Απολυτίκιο Αγ. Λέοντος Πάπα Ρώμης"

https://youtu.be/MaF7j9dmKv8