The Kindly Light that led the world to Rome
There was a celebratory atmosphere among British visitors to Rome this past weekend, and not just because the weather was so wonderful. Thousands of us had arrived for Sunday’s canonisation of Cardinal John Henry Newman (1801-1890), the great theologian whose writings are central to modern Catholicism and to the Church of England which he left at the age of 44.
On the Saturday, tickets to the ceremony were being issued outside the church of Santa Maria in Vallicella, the headquarters in Rome of the Oratorians, the congregation Newman joined after being received into the Catholic church. The crowd were largely English with a scattering of other nationalities. We bumped into one of our friends and headed to a nearby restaurant for an al fresco lunch. The table next to ours was occupied by four cheerful young English priests and round about there were another dozen or so clergy, including a table full of Oratorians in their distinctive collars.
There was a family feeling to the gathering, a sense of overdue recognition of a person not just greatly admired for his brilliance but loved for his kindly nature, and his courage and persistence in the face of difficulties and hostility. Prince Charles had that morning published a generous tribute to Newman in the Times, noting that he was an inspiration to Anglicans as well as Catholics. A Saturday evening prayer vigil at Sta Maria Maggiore gathered thousands of English pilgrims.
The English Oratorians had 20,000 tickets to dispense, and I would guess that they were all taken. But that was put into context on Sunday morning when we saw the crowds assembling in St Peter’s Square. There must have been more than 100,000, with particularly large and exuberant contingents from Brazil and India. Many Brazilians wore their yellow and green national colours, while the Indians had sky-blue baseball caps with the image of the soon-to-be canonised Mother Mariam Thresia. Security was tight and the Vatican organisation excellent. As I am disabled, I and my “carer” (aka my wife Fiona) were courteously directed to the wheelchair reservation on the right-hand side of the square and close to the action.
Our immediate neighbours were Liam from Liverpool, and his friend Father William, both charming and excited. But, to my surprise, Liam confided that his main interest was not Newman but Marguerite Bays, a woman of extraordinary courage and faith, who had received the stigmata, the five wounds of Christ. At that point I had never heard of her, but then Liverpudlians rarely fail to surprise.
Waiting two hours in St Peter’s Square for the ceremony to begin, prompted the question: what makes a saint? There are three categories.
First, St Paul’s “great cloud of witnesses”, that unknowable number of holy men and women of all backgrounds, times and faiths, whose true worth – as for all of us – is known only to God. The Catholic church, as do most other denominations, believes that all souls in heaven are saints.
Second, saints by popular acclamation, who must include all of the ancient saints, from St Peter himself to St Etheldreda and St Patrick and many hundreds listed in the calendar of saints. Martyrdom was automatic qualification, as, in some cases, was the mere fact of virginity. The force of acclamation remains strong, as shown by the Roman crowds chanting “Santo subito!” (“Sainthood now”) in the hours after St John Paul II’s death in 2005.
Third, the saints recognised, like the five here, by the Roman Catholic church after an exhaustive enquiry. The cause must include two major miracles obtained from God through the intercession of the candidate. The Vatican began to formalise the canonisation process in the 10th century, and by 1200 had claimed exclusive authority.
So, St John Henry Newman was entered into the Calendar of Saints not for his brilliant theology, his courage and kindness, or his contribution to the English Catholic revival, but for two miracles obtained through his intercession. Both miracles took place in the US – this is, after all, the church universal. The first was the healing of an American deacon, Jack Sullivan, in 2005. Recognition that this was an authentic medical miracle allowed Pope Benedict XVI to declare Newman “Blessed” during his UK visit in 2010.
The second miracle was granted in 2013 to Melissa Villalobos, a Chicago homemaker and mother of six. She had never heard of Newman before she saw a programme about him on the Catholic TV channel EWTN. Then her husband brought home prayer cards with Newman’s portrait. Villalobos placed one in her living room and one in her bedroom, and began to regard him as her spiritual friend.
Pregnant with her fifth child she began to bleed heavily and was told by her doctor that she was in danger of losing not only her baby, but also her life. She had a subchorionic hematoma, a blood clot between the placenta and the uterine wall which caused a tear in the placenta itself. One morning she collapsed in a pool of blood in her bathroom. Her husband was away and she wasn’t carrying her phone. She called out: “Please Cardinal Newman, make the bleeding stop.” It ceased immediately, and she was able to stand up. There was a strong smell of roses, as is traditionally associated with saintly interventions. “Cardinal Newman,” she cried, “did you just make the bleeding stop?” And there came a second burst of roses. A scan later that same day showed the hematoma and placenta completely healed.
Melissa Villalobos was in Rome this weekend, and read at the English prayer vigil the night before. She attended the canonisation with her family, and took part in the offertory at the Mass. But St John Henry’s miraculous intervention in Melissa’s life placed the whole ceremony in its proper context. Four women were canonised with him, each also credited with two posthumous miracles. Three were nuns, and one was a lay woman.
Marguerite Bays (1815-1879) was a Swiss seamstress and stigmatic, who neither married nor joined a religious order, but was known for her charity and good work as a catechist. She lived in extremely difficult domestic circumstances, and in 1853 was diagnosed with advanced cancer. She prayed to the Virgin Mary to be able to suffer with Jesus rather than to be healed. But on the day that Pius IX proclaimed the dogma of the Immaculate Conception, Marguerite was miraculously cured. The day, 8th September 1854, was also her 39th birthday.
Mother Mariam Thresia (1876-1926) was an Indian mystic and founder of the Congregation of the Holy Family. She had frequent ecstasies and received the stigmata. Her order now has 176 houses and some 1500 sisters around the world.
Mother Giuseppina Vannini (1860-1911) was born in Rome and established the Daughters of St Camillus, who nurse the sick even at the risk of their own lives. There are 800 sisters in 22 countries. She is the first Roman saint for 400 years.
The Brazilian Sister Dulce Lopes (1914-1992) was twice nominated for the Nobel Prize. After many years as a Franciscan nun ministering to Brazil’s indigenous peoples, she founded the Charitable Works Foundation of Sister Dulce, now the largest charity in Brazil.
The Mass that followed the relatively brief ceremony of canonisation was splendid, but also remarkable for its inclusiveness. In addition to the Roman Catholic clergy from every corner of the globe, there were a dozen or so Anglican bishops, many Orthodox clergy, at least one imam and a rabbi. Prince Charles sat next to the Italian president. The gospel was read twice, once in Italian and once most beautifully chanted in Greek by an Orthodox deacon. The bidding prayers were in various languages, the last, strikingly, in Chinese.
In his homily, Pope Francis stuck closely to the day’s liturgy. The reading from Luke’s Gospel was the account of the ten lepers who beg Jesus for healing. After he has done so, nine run off while only one – a Samaritan – returns to thank him. The lesson the Pope drew from this was that we should cry out for God’s help, walk towards Him and give thanks for our salvation. He linked St Marguerite’s simple holiness with a quote from Newman:
“She speaks to us of the power of simple prayer, enduring patience and silent self-giving. That is how the Lord made the splendour of Easter radiate in her life, in her humbleness. Such is the holiness of daily life, which Saint John Henry Newman described in these words: ‘The Christian has a deep, silent, hidden peace, which the world sees not… The Christian is cheerful, easy, kind, gentle, courteous, candid, unassuming; has no pretence… with so little that is unusual or striking in his bearing, that he may easily be taken at first sight for an ordinary man.’”
Newman was a theologian and philosopher who, as an Anglican, returned to the roots of Christianity and showed that the Church rests securely on these ancient and sacramental foundations. As a Catholic, he argued that doctrine develops over time – it grows like an oak from the acorn, or as a river flows from its source to the sea. This did not make him a “liberal”, but his work inspired the reforms of the Second Vatican Council.
As we left St Peter’s Square we were overtaken by a large group of happy, excited Brazilian nuns. This was outside the church where the controversial Amazon Synod is taking place, a colloquy convened by the Pope to address the specific problems facing the church and people, especially the indigenous people, of the Amazon. It has aroused suspicion among conservative Catholics that Francis is using it as cover to ordain married priests, and other outrages. What would Newman make of the Synod? Impossible to say, except that he would approach the debates with a hugely informed but ultimately open mind.
And those ecstatic nuns? He would surely have rejoiced with them: after all, his motto remains “Cor ad cor loquitur” (Heart speaks to heart).
