Words on the Word
Erik Varden is a monk and bishop, born in Norway in 1974. In 2002, after ten years at the University of Cambridge, he joined Mount Saint Bernard Abbey in Charnwood Forest. Pope Francis named him bishop of Trondheim in 2019.
Please find below a selection of homilies:
Ciudad Silenciosa 
Today, on the Day of Pentecost, was broadcast a conversation I was privileged to conduct a few weeks ago with María del Ser for her weekly programme, La Ciudad silenciosa, always worth listening to.
María asked what is unique to music Read More
María asked what is unique to music Read More
Cistercian Shape I was glad to be able to provide the following blurb for Nathaniel Peter’s excellent book on the early Cistercian movement, just out: ‘The early iconography of Cîteaux tends to show Cistercians engaged in purposeful work: chopping wood, sowing fields, Read More
Rededication Homily preached at the rededication of the Catholic chapel at Stiklestad, the site of St Olav’s martyrdom. It took place on the birthday of Sigrid Undset, chairman of the committee that oversaw the building of the chapel in 1930, to Read More
7. Sunday of Easter This Sunday falls on 17 May, Norway’s National Day.
Acts 1.12-14: The disciples went back to Jerusalem.
1 Peter 4.13-16: Rejoice when you share in the sufferings of Christ.
John 17.1-11: My glory shines in those who are mine.
For forty days after Read More
Acts 1.12-14: The disciples went back to Jerusalem.
1 Peter 4.13-16: Rejoice when you share in the sufferings of Christ.
John 17.1-11: My glory shines in those who are mine.
For forty days after Read More
A Sign
Czeslaw Milosz, the Polish poet, once referred to his cousin Oscar as ‘a man who taught me not to despair’. He went on: ‘I learned much from him. He gave me a deeper insight into the religion of the Old and New Testament and inculcated a need for a strict, ascetic hierarchy in all matters of mind, including everything that pertains to art, where as a major sin he considered putting the second-rate on the same level with the first-rate. Primarily, though, I listened to him as a prophet who loved people’. I thought of that description when yesterday a kind person sent me this poem, appropriate for the time after Pentecost. Czeslaw Milosz wrote it at Berkeley in 1961. I suppose he could only frame the aspiration of the final lines because he had somewhere, dimly, already known its fulfilment.
https://coramfratribus.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/05/Milosz-Veni-Creator.mp3
https://coramfratribus.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/05/Milosz-Veni-Creator.mp3
Ciudad Silenciosa
Today, on the Day of Pentecost, was broadcast a conversation I was privileged to conduct a few weeks ago with María del Ser for her weekly programme, La Ciudad silenciosa, always worth listening to.
María asked what is unique to music as an art form. I stumblingly answered:
What is specific to music among the arts? It’s terribly difficult to define! But I do find that music has a singular immediacy. I admit that mine is a subjective judgement. Some people are more susceptible to poetry or the visual arts. But if one is of this particular bent of mind, has that sensibility, music enables an immediacy that I, certainly, don’t find in other arts. I can be affected by them, by all means, but not as viscerally as I am by music.
We talked about many things: my experience of hearing Così fan tutte as a child; the excellence of Jan Garbarek; the sublimity and banality of Geirr Tveitt; the inexhaustibility of Beethoven’s Quartets; and the thought behind Coram Fratribus.
You can listen to our conversation, in Spanish and English, here.
And here‘s the duet from Così.
From Hans Memling’s triptych of Five Angels Playing Musical Instruments the Church of Santa Maria la Real, Nájera.
María asked what is unique to music as an art form. I stumblingly answered:
What is specific to music among the arts? It’s terribly difficult to define! But I do find that music has a singular immediacy. I admit that mine is a subjective judgement. Some people are more susceptible to poetry or the visual arts. But if one is of this particular bent of mind, has that sensibility, music enables an immediacy that I, certainly, don’t find in other arts. I can be affected by them, by all means, but not as viscerally as I am by music.
We talked about many things: my experience of hearing Così fan tutte as a child; the excellence of Jan Garbarek; the sublimity and banality of Geirr Tveitt; the inexhaustibility of Beethoven’s Quartets; and the thought behind Coram Fratribus.
You can listen to our conversation, in Spanish and English, here.
And here‘s the duet from Così.
From Hans Memling’s triptych of Five Angels Playing Musical Instruments the Church of Santa Maria la Real, Nájera.
Pentecost
Homily given at a Mass of Confirmation.
Acts 2.1-11: They heard what sounded like a powerful wind.
1 Corinthians 12.3-13: No one can say, ‘Jesus is Lord’, except in the Spirit.
John 20.19-23: Peace be with you.
Dear friends!
For a year you have been getting ready for today. You’ve received instruction. In various ways you’ve taken part in the life of the parish. I hope you’ve acquired new friends. You will receive the sacrament of confirmation on the day of Pentecost. That is fitting. At Pentecost we celebrate the coming of the Holy Spirit. When, in a moment, you kneel to be confirmed with Sacred Chrism I say to you: ‘Be sealed with the Gift of the Holy Spirit!’
Confirmation is like Pentecost in miniature.
But what’s it about, really – being ‘sealed with the gift of the Holy Spirit’?
You have learnt that the Being of God is a mystery. A mystery is something that surpasses our understanding. That’s not to say it is unreasonable. No, human reason reflects our being made in the image of God. The Gospel bids us love the Lord our God ‘with all our mind’. That is something to take seriously. To be a Catholic isn’t about switching off one’s critical faculties. On the contrary, it’s about learning to use them well while recognising that there are some realities we cannot yet entirely grasp.
While living in time it’s hard, quite simply, figuring out what eternity is.
God became man, the Word became flesh, in order to bring the divine mystery close to us. Jesus shows us the Father (Jn 14.8-9). When he speaks, people say: ‘No one ever talked like this man!’ (Jn 7.46). He does such remarkable things. He restores movement to the lame; the blind get to see; the deaf get to hear. He raises the dead. Women and men who for years have been walking around in a kind of daze become lucid. Jesus enables people to let go of anger, to be reconciled. He can walk into a tense situation and, by his mere presence, create peace. It is good to be where he is. People trek for days in order to attract his attention just for a moment. As long as he is there, it seems obvious who, and what, God is. It doesn’t seem abstract or sentimental to say: ‘God is love.’
Jesus shows us God’s love in a way that is utterly credible.
And he says: ‘No one has greater love than one who lays down his life for his friends’ (Jn 15.3).
That is what he does at Easter, after instituting the Eucharist as an expression of total dedication. He enters death in order to pass through it. Love is stronger than death (Song of Songs 8.6). Love gives our reason the push it needs to intuit what eternity is.
For forty days after the resurrection, Jesus walks in and out among the disciples. He lets them ascertain that what they have experienced is true. It is no dream that Jesus has conquered death. It is perfectly real. At the same time he lets them understand that they must get used to knowing him in a different way. Already for some time he had been speaking about the Spirit that will come. The Spirit will bring truth and consolation. It will make Jesus present. In the Spirit we shall come to be filled with freedom and joy (cf. Jn 15-16).
This is how Pentecost is announced. At Pentecost the Spirit is given to the Apostles and, through them, to the whole Church. The Bible describes the Spirit as fire: ‘what seemed like tongues of fire separated and came to rest on the head of each.’
This event has three immediate consequences.
First, it makes the Apostles fearless. They tumble down from the Upper Room where they’d tended to huddle since Easter. They go into the streets and squares, no longer frightened of others.
Secondly, they’re equipped to make themselves understood. They begin ‘to speak foreign languages’, able, of a sudden, to speak in such a way that they can inform and enrich with their message those who come from other countries, other worlds.
Thirdly, they see reality with fresh clarity. It’s impressive to compare Peter’s brave speech on the Day of Pentecost with the story of his doings on Good Friday, when he couldn’t account even for his name and address.
The Spirit lets things fall into place.
That’s what today’s celebration is about. You who will now be confirmed are also called to turn away from isolation towards fellowship, to communicate meaningfully, to find the key that lets you solve life’s riddle.
Tongues of fire will come over you today, less visibly, perhaps, than those that were seen at the first Pentecost, but no less real.
Remember: the Spirit is the Spirit of love. Love tends to begin with a sense of falling in love.
Most of us will know what it’s like to fall in love. We are living a normal life, minding our own business. We do our homework, go to work, wait for the bus in the rain. We pursue our hobbies: handball, Minecraft, pottery, whatever it may be. We’re largely content and don’t think of ourselves as lacking anything. Then suddenly a person walks into our life who changes everything: suddenly we can’t think of anything other than her or him. All the stuff that, a moment ago, absorbed our time and attention pales into insignificance. The only thing we want is to be near the one we think we might begin to learn to love.
From the sweet intoxication of falling in love to the construction of a love that carries there’s quite a way to be travelled. Any couple that’s been married for a while can tell us a thing or two about that. Nonetheless, it matters to keep the first flame alive.
Be open then, my friends, to the fire you are about to receive. Let yourselves be enlightened by the fascinating mystery of God. Let his love abide in you. Make it known to others.
Amen.
Detail from El Greco’s Pentecost.
Acts 2.1-11: They heard what sounded like a powerful wind.
1 Corinthians 12.3-13: No one can say, ‘Jesus is Lord’, except in the Spirit.
John 20.19-23: Peace be with you.
Dear friends!
For a year you have been getting ready for today. You’ve received instruction. In various ways you’ve taken part in the life of the parish. I hope you’ve acquired new friends. You will receive the sacrament of confirmation on the day of Pentecost. That is fitting. At Pentecost we celebrate the coming of the Holy Spirit. When, in a moment, you kneel to be confirmed with Sacred Chrism I say to you: ‘Be sealed with the Gift of the Holy Spirit!’
Confirmation is like Pentecost in miniature.
But what’s it about, really – being ‘sealed with the gift of the Holy Spirit’?
You have learnt that the Being of God is a mystery. A mystery is something that surpasses our understanding. That’s not to say it is unreasonable. No, human reason reflects our being made in the image of God. The Gospel bids us love the Lord our God ‘with all our mind’. That is something to take seriously. To be a Catholic isn’t about switching off one’s critical faculties. On the contrary, it’s about learning to use them well while recognising that there are some realities we cannot yet entirely grasp.
While living in time it’s hard, quite simply, figuring out what eternity is.
God became man, the Word became flesh, in order to bring the divine mystery close to us. Jesus shows us the Father (Jn 14.8-9). When he speaks, people say: ‘No one ever talked like this man!’ (Jn 7.46). He does such remarkable things. He restores movement to the lame; the blind get to see; the deaf get to hear. He raises the dead. Women and men who for years have been walking around in a kind of daze become lucid. Jesus enables people to let go of anger, to be reconciled. He can walk into a tense situation and, by his mere presence, create peace. It is good to be where he is. People trek for days in order to attract his attention just for a moment. As long as he is there, it seems obvious who, and what, God is. It doesn’t seem abstract or sentimental to say: ‘God is love.’
Jesus shows us God’s love in a way that is utterly credible.
And he says: ‘No one has greater love than one who lays down his life for his friends’ (Jn 15.3).
That is what he does at Easter, after instituting the Eucharist as an expression of total dedication. He enters death in order to pass through it. Love is stronger than death (Song of Songs 8.6). Love gives our reason the push it needs to intuit what eternity is.
For forty days after the resurrection, Jesus walks in and out among the disciples. He lets them ascertain that what they have experienced is true. It is no dream that Jesus has conquered death. It is perfectly real. At the same time he lets them understand that they must get used to knowing him in a different way. Already for some time he had been speaking about the Spirit that will come. The Spirit will bring truth and consolation. It will make Jesus present. In the Spirit we shall come to be filled with freedom and joy (cf. Jn 15-16).
This is how Pentecost is announced. At Pentecost the Spirit is given to the Apostles and, through them, to the whole Church. The Bible describes the Spirit as fire: ‘what seemed like tongues of fire separated and came to rest on the head of each.’
This event has three immediate consequences.
First, it makes the Apostles fearless. They tumble down from the Upper Room where they’d tended to huddle since Easter. They go into the streets and squares, no longer frightened of others.
Secondly, they’re equipped to make themselves understood. They begin ‘to speak foreign languages’, able, of a sudden, to speak in such a way that they can inform and enrich with their message those who come from other countries, other worlds.
Thirdly, they see reality with fresh clarity. It’s impressive to compare Peter’s brave speech on the Day of Pentecost with the story of his doings on Good Friday, when he couldn’t account even for his name and address.
The Spirit lets things fall into place.
That’s what today’s celebration is about. You who will now be confirmed are also called to turn away from isolation towards fellowship, to communicate meaningfully, to find the key that lets you solve life’s riddle.
Tongues of fire will come over you today, less visibly, perhaps, than those that were seen at the first Pentecost, but no less real.
Remember: the Spirit is the Spirit of love. Love tends to begin with a sense of falling in love.
Most of us will know what it’s like to fall in love. We are living a normal life, minding our own business. We do our homework, go to work, wait for the bus in the rain. We pursue our hobbies: handball, Minecraft, pottery, whatever it may be. We’re largely content and don’t think of ourselves as lacking anything. Then suddenly a person walks into our life who changes everything: suddenly we can’t think of anything other than her or him. All the stuff that, a moment ago, absorbed our time and attention pales into insignificance. The only thing we want is to be near the one we think we might begin to learn to love.
From the sweet intoxication of falling in love to the construction of a love that carries there’s quite a way to be travelled. Any couple that’s been married for a while can tell us a thing or two about that. Nonetheless, it matters to keep the first flame alive.
Be open then, my friends, to the fire you are about to receive. Let yourselves be enlightened by the fascinating mystery of God. Let his love abide in you. Make it known to others.
Amen.
Detail from El Greco’s Pentecost.
Alight
‘The formative impact over time of praying day and night in a Cistercian church comes from the interplay of light and shadow. The world we have made full of glaring lights and those maddening fixtures that switch themselves on at the merest twitch of a spider, making an option for subdued light impossible, can cause us to forget what it is to be at ease in such in-between-ness. Bright light is not always what is needed to reveal an object’s perfection. The gloss of oriental lacquerware shows to best effect in flickering candlelight; gilded medieval statuary takes for granted the flux of dawn and dusk. In the glare of a spotlight the gold just looks vulgar.’
From Alight with Hidden Glory, published this week.
From Alight with Hidden Glory, published this week.
Cistercian Shape
I was glad to be able to provide the following blurb for Nathaniel Peter’s excellent book on the early Cistercian movement, just out: ‘The early iconography of Cîteaux tends to show Cistercians engaged in purposeful work: chopping wood, sowing fields, building houses. The Order’s fecundity was enabled by a spirit of enterprise. The enterprise, though, was theologically informed. Nathaniel Peters traces the shape of a twelfth-century movement that somehow produced, at the same time, mystical literature, novel architecture, and advances in sheep-farming. His elegant study of the intersection of Trinitarian and Eucharistic doctrines in three Cistercian thinkers points towards a timeless truth: the sacramental, incarnational realism of Christian doctrine. That is an emphasis we need right now, in times given to virtual flights of fancy.’
Rededication
Homily preached at the rededication of the Catholic chapel at Stiklestad, the site of St Olav’s martyrdom. It took place on the birthday of Sigrid Undset, chairman of the committee that oversaw the building of the chapel in 1930, to mark the 900th anniversary of the Battle of Stiklestad. You can find photographs of the opening here.
Politics is marked by rough and tumble. One day a smiling chief stands on an smart balcony, a carnation on his lapel, lauded by the people; the next day, the same crowd quite happily throws him out of the window. That’s the way it is now; that’s the way it’s always been. When Olav Haraldsson came back to Norway in 1015, claiming the kingdom, some people resisted, true; but most pressed him to their heart. They preferred a Norwegian sceptre to the foreign yoke of the Danish king.
Olav had ten good years. He established a Christian code of law; united the country; nurtured the notion of what it might mean to form a nation.
Norwegians liked this at first. Then they started murmuring.
Olav seemed to ask too much. His laws restricted local grandees, used to ruling the roost. Suddenly it seemed quite nice, after all, to have a king who lived far away.
The machinations of the Norwegian gentry at the Danish court forced Olav to leave the country. Where should he go?
He went to Kyivan Rus’, where Grand Prince Yaroslav and his queen Ingegjerd — whom Olav had loved in his youth — received him warmly. Olav spent a year and a half with them. Yaroslav tried to cheer him up as best he could. He advised Olav to forget about Norway. He offered him Bulgaria. The weather is a lot better there.
Snorre tells us that Olav considered this offer. At the same time he weighed up more radical options. Should he relinquish his royal title and set off as a pilgrim to Jerusalem, where he had been bound sixteen years earlier? He had got as far as Cadiz then, when a man appeared to him in a dream, and said: ‘Return to your inheritance! You are to be king of Norway for perpetuity.’ Olav further considered becoming a monk.
His time in Kyivan exile deepened him. He settled accounts with himself. His motives were purified.
I thought of his experience when, on 10 May 2023, I was sauntering around Kyiv while the city took a deep breath after a night of heavy bombing. Cardinal Arborelius and I were making a visit of solidarity on behalf of the Nordic Bishops’ Conference. With reverence we paused before the Blue Church, where countless notices commemorate the fallen of Ukraine in Russia’s ongoing war of aggression.
Then we were taken to see Sancta Sophia, Kyiv’s cathedral, a magnificent edifice.
One has always known that Yaroslav masterminded its construction, but there has been disagreement about when it began. Archeological evidence has now brought near unanimity: foundations were laid in 1011. The church will have looked splendid when Olav visited Rus’ in 1028. Yaroslav was proud of Sancta Sophia. I refuse to believe that he wouldn’t have taken Olav there on a thorough tour, whistling with contentment.
It is profoundly affecting, then, for a Norwegian to find himself in Sancta Sophia and look up towards the cupola. It shows a mosaic of Christ Pantokrator, ‘Ruler of all’.
The cathedral is dedicated to Christ as the incarnate expression of God the Father’s eternal Wisdom. Devotion to Wisdom was part of Olav’s political and (I’ll risk the term) existential project. The church in Kyiv gives architectural and visual expression to his long-pondered sense of the meaning of existence.
The memory of Sancta Sophia will have illumined Olav when, again, he had a decisive dream. Olav Tryggvason appeared to him and said: ‘What are you waiting for? Go back to the kingdom that is your inheritance!’ So he set out from Rus’ bound for this place, Stiklestad, where he would find the vision of the heavenly ladder as well as the axe and sword by which he fell, and the stone upon which he died.
When, a bit later into 2023, we realised that our Catholic chapel here on the hill required urgent restoration, it seemed natural to manifest the axis that unites Kyiv with Værdalen, this area. The Pantokrator that now embellishes the chapel’s axis recalls the cupola of Sancta Sophia. It is positioned opposite the stained-glass portrait of Olav on the west wall. There he stands, eyes set on Christ, as he gets ready for battle.
The Wisdom Christ brings oriented the final, defining stage of Olav’s life.
Seen with worldly eyes, this Wisdom seems like foolishness. ‘No one has greater love than he who gives his life for his friends.’ It was by giving his life, after throwing away his sword, that Olav, in death, won the nation. Thereby he gives it direction to this day, if we would pay heed. He is still Rex perpetuus Norvegiae, Norway’s perpetual king.
Today’s world does not, on the whole, give a damn about Wisdom. Yaroslav’s Rus’ is still under mad attack. Olav’s Norway is easily seduced by senselessness.
It is useful, then, to look intently towards the apse in this chapel, and remember: the Wisdom the Church brings, to which she testifies, isn’t an optional tool for self-improvement; it stands for the principle by which we, and our choices, will be judged.
Face to face with Wisdom two paths appear on the horizon: the path of death and the path of life. We cannot walk both at the same time. We must choose.
Sigrid Undset was conscious of this when, in 1930, she oversaw the construction of this chapel. Undset sensed which way the wind was blowing in Europe. She despised fascism with an undivided heart. She saw how fascism perverts the human heart, nurturing Luciferian dreams of omnipotence. When man starts to think himself pantokrator, the ultimate criterion for all things, he is capable of terrible stupidity, and even more terrible cruelty.
In an essay from 1935, Undset warns against what she calls ‘the isolation of fetishism — worship of things and ideas we have fashioned ourselves.’ Such worship, she writes, ‘is ultimately self-worship, and since humankind cannot subsist without supernatural help, it spells extinction and death.’
Undset recognised the ‘the isolation of fetishism’ as a grave peril in the 1930s. We know what it led to then, even though people are more and more inclined to forget.
Are we conscious of where this tendency might take us today as it continues, now, to find new and hateful expression?
The fact that the image of God’s Holy Wisdom, made tangible as self-giving love, is now peacefully manifest here on the hill of Stiklestad, which stands for our nation’s heart, Cor Norvegiae, seems to me a prophetic sign and a call to self-examination as we look forward to the millennium in 2030 of Olav’s oblative death.
Amen.
A sound recording of the homily, in Norwegian, is available here:
https://coramfratribus.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/05/Stiklestad-20.-mai-2026.mp3
Politics is marked by rough and tumble. One day a smiling chief stands on an smart balcony, a carnation on his lapel, lauded by the people; the next day, the same crowd quite happily throws him out of the window. That’s the way it is now; that’s the way it’s always been. When Olav Haraldsson came back to Norway in 1015, claiming the kingdom, some people resisted, true; but most pressed him to their heart. They preferred a Norwegian sceptre to the foreign yoke of the Danish king.
Olav had ten good years. He established a Christian code of law; united the country; nurtured the notion of what it might mean to form a nation.
Norwegians liked this at first. Then they started murmuring.
Olav seemed to ask too much. His laws restricted local grandees, used to ruling the roost. Suddenly it seemed quite nice, after all, to have a king who lived far away.
The machinations of the Norwegian gentry at the Danish court forced Olav to leave the country. Where should he go?
He went to Kyivan Rus’, where Grand Prince Yaroslav and his queen Ingegjerd — whom Olav had loved in his youth — received him warmly. Olav spent a year and a half with them. Yaroslav tried to cheer him up as best he could. He advised Olav to forget about Norway. He offered him Bulgaria. The weather is a lot better there.
Snorre tells us that Olav considered this offer. At the same time he weighed up more radical options. Should he relinquish his royal title and set off as a pilgrim to Jerusalem, where he had been bound sixteen years earlier? He had got as far as Cadiz then, when a man appeared to him in a dream, and said: ‘Return to your inheritance! You are to be king of Norway for perpetuity.’ Olav further considered becoming a monk.
His time in Kyivan exile deepened him. He settled accounts with himself. His motives were purified.
I thought of his experience when, on 10 May 2023, I was sauntering around Kyiv while the city took a deep breath after a night of heavy bombing. Cardinal Arborelius and I were making a visit of solidarity on behalf of the Nordic Bishops’ Conference. With reverence we paused before the Blue Church, where countless notices commemorate the fallen of Ukraine in Russia’s ongoing war of aggression.
Then we were taken to see Sancta Sophia, Kyiv’s cathedral, a magnificent edifice.
One has always known that Yaroslav masterminded its construction, but there has been disagreement about when it began. Archeological evidence has now brought near unanimity: foundations were laid in 1011. The church will have looked splendid when Olav visited Rus’ in 1028. Yaroslav was proud of Sancta Sophia. I refuse to believe that he wouldn’t have taken Olav there on a thorough tour, whistling with contentment.
It is profoundly affecting, then, for a Norwegian to find himself in Sancta Sophia and look up towards the cupola. It shows a mosaic of Christ Pantokrator, ‘Ruler of all’.
The cathedral is dedicated to Christ as the incarnate expression of God the Father’s eternal Wisdom. Devotion to Wisdom was part of Olav’s political and (I’ll risk the term) existential project. The church in Kyiv gives architectural and visual expression to his long-pondered sense of the meaning of existence.
The memory of Sancta Sophia will have illumined Olav when, again, he had a decisive dream. Olav Tryggvason appeared to him and said: ‘What are you waiting for? Go back to the kingdom that is your inheritance!’ So he set out from Rus’ bound for this place, Stiklestad, where he would find the vision of the heavenly ladder as well as the axe and sword by which he fell, and the stone upon which he died.
When, a bit later into 2023, we realised that our Catholic chapel here on the hill required urgent restoration, it seemed natural to manifest the axis that unites Kyiv with Værdalen, this area. The Pantokrator that now embellishes the chapel’s axis recalls the cupola of Sancta Sophia. It is positioned opposite the stained-glass portrait of Olav on the west wall. There he stands, eyes set on Christ, as he gets ready for battle.
The Wisdom Christ brings oriented the final, defining stage of Olav’s life.
Seen with worldly eyes, this Wisdom seems like foolishness. ‘No one has greater love than he who gives his life for his friends.’ It was by giving his life, after throwing away his sword, that Olav, in death, won the nation. Thereby he gives it direction to this day, if we would pay heed. He is still Rex perpetuus Norvegiae, Norway’s perpetual king.
Today’s world does not, on the whole, give a damn about Wisdom. Yaroslav’s Rus’ is still under mad attack. Olav’s Norway is easily seduced by senselessness.
It is useful, then, to look intently towards the apse in this chapel, and remember: the Wisdom the Church brings, to which she testifies, isn’t an optional tool for self-improvement; it stands for the principle by which we, and our choices, will be judged.
Face to face with Wisdom two paths appear on the horizon: the path of death and the path of life. We cannot walk both at the same time. We must choose.
Sigrid Undset was conscious of this when, in 1930, she oversaw the construction of this chapel. Undset sensed which way the wind was blowing in Europe. She despised fascism with an undivided heart. She saw how fascism perverts the human heart, nurturing Luciferian dreams of omnipotence. When man starts to think himself pantokrator, the ultimate criterion for all things, he is capable of terrible stupidity, and even more terrible cruelty.
In an essay from 1935, Undset warns against what she calls ‘the isolation of fetishism — worship of things and ideas we have fashioned ourselves.’ Such worship, she writes, ‘is ultimately self-worship, and since humankind cannot subsist without supernatural help, it spells extinction and death.’
Undset recognised the ‘the isolation of fetishism’ as a grave peril in the 1930s. We know what it led to then, even though people are more and more inclined to forget.
Are we conscious of where this tendency might take us today as it continues, now, to find new and hateful expression?
The fact that the image of God’s Holy Wisdom, made tangible as self-giving love, is now peacefully manifest here on the hill of Stiklestad, which stands for our nation’s heart, Cor Norvegiae, seems to me a prophetic sign and a call to self-examination as we look forward to the millennium in 2030 of Olav’s oblative death.
Amen.
A sound recording of the homily, in Norwegian, is available here:
https://coramfratribus.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/05/Stiklestad-20.-mai-2026.mp3
7. Sunday of Easter
This Sunday falls on 17 May, Norway’s National Day.
Acts 1.12-14: The disciples went back to Jerusalem.
1 Peter 4.13-16: Rejoice when you share in the sufferings of Christ.
John 17.1-11: My glory shines in those who are mine.
For forty days after Easter Jesus goes in and out among the disciples. He sticks to their small group. He does not put on compelling son-et-lumière performances over Jerusalem. There’s no trace of triumphalism in him who vanquished the worst of man’s enemies, death himself. He proceeds with quietness. He converses and explains; he shares meals; he hosts them when he performs gestures the Eleven recognise from the Last Supper. His explicit intention is that the Gospel should reach the ends of the earth. But he doesn’t envisage this happening through compulsion or shock collective impact. No, his liberating message is to spread from soul to soul, from person to person.
If I want to see the world transformed by Christianity, I have to be transformed by it myself. There’s no other way. It is useful to recall that in these times of culture war.
On the fortieth day ‘he was lifted up’ after having promised, once again, that the Church would receive the Holy Spirit, power from on high. Believers must get used to Christ’s being present on different terms. They must learn to live sacramentally, ready to recognise him in baptism, in the breaking of bread, the forgiveness of sin, the anointing of the sick. From now on they must be conscious that daily life is divinely illumined.
A Christian isn’t call to stand around purposelessly gazing heavenward. Angels made this clear when they, on the day of Christ’s Ascension, told the Eleven a little brusquely: ‘Why do you stand looking into heaven?’ The message is clear: a pressing earthly task is waiting. That task is entrusted to the Church until Jesus ‘will come again even as [the apostles saw] him go into heaven’ (Acts 1.8-11).
That is where today’s reading picks up the thread, telling us how the apostles returned to Jerusalem from the mount called Olivet. In term of physical distance, it was a short walk. Symbolically speaking, it was an interplanetary voyage.
How can the promises and commandments of Jesus gain access to a world, a society that has not had a share in the apostles’ experience? How can the Gospel, like leaven, be kneaded into the dough of humanity at large, to raise it?
The apostles will have pondered such things during the Pentecost Novena as they, with Mary, the Mother of Jesus, waited to be equipped, mystically, to face a task that seemed to them utterly excessive.
That same task challenges us today. Like the apostles then, we are called, now, to climb down from the Upper Room into the streets. We are charged with communicating faith to our world. We cannot withdraw into protected enclaves. To be a Catholic is not to be a member of a special-interest society or a secret fraternity. Catholics are by definition universally minded, asked to share with generosity the treasure committed to their keeping.
It is good to think of this commission today, on Norway’s National Day. Historically this day commemorates the establishment of our constitution in 1814. We express our will to exist as a nation, we claim our right to self-determination. But it happens without aggression.
On the news this morning I listened to a report about yesterday’s happenings in London. Two different marches wound their way through the city’s streets. Both held the banner of England high. But the perception among the respective marchers of what that banner stands for was diametrically opposed. Four thousand policemen were mobilised to keep the two marches apart, for fear a clash might erupt in a street fight.
In Norway everyone, thank God, joins a single procession. It belongs to the children, above all. Adults can take part as guests. We wave our flags, we say to each other, and to perfect strangers: ‘Congratulations!’ But our togetherness for Norway is not a movement against anyone else. It wouldn’t occur to a Norwegian to mark the 17th of May with a military parade. Only the guards before the royal palace carry guns, and they’re ornamental.
Today we express our gladness on account of all the good things we enjoy in this country: the liberty, generosity, and justice that mark Norwegian society. We look back with gratitude, forward with hope. But we cannot permit ourselves to be naive. We remember the Fathers of the Nation from 1814 reverently. But we know that the Norway they founded was built on a degree of exclusion. The second paragraph of the original constitution is openly anti-Semitic and anti-Catholic. It appears it isn’t typically Norwegian, after all, to be inclusive. That wasn’t the case 212 years ago at Eidsvoll; and it isn’t the case today. In many ways society is narrowing. An ice-cold totalitarian wind is blowing through Europe. We feel occasional gusts of it up here, where we are, too.
It is vital, therefore, to keep building our national unity, the beautiful things about the Norway we love, on a firm foundation.
The apostles’ soul-wrestling with the import of Christian responsibility during the days between Ascension and Pentecost gives us a paradigm to follow. An early Christian text written not long after the book of Acts points out that Christians are to be to the world what the soul is to the body. Now, there‘s a task.
In the Gospel we have heard Jesus’s cry: ‘Father! Everything mine is yours. My glory shines in those who are mine.’ We are to make sure that that glorious light does not go out, that it keeps shining brightly like a lighthouse, a dependable coordinate for navigation globally and in our local Norwegian reality.
Acts 1.12-14: The disciples went back to Jerusalem.
1 Peter 4.13-16: Rejoice when you share in the sufferings of Christ.
John 17.1-11: My glory shines in those who are mine.
For forty days after Easter Jesus goes in and out among the disciples. He sticks to their small group. He does not put on compelling son-et-lumière performances over Jerusalem. There’s no trace of triumphalism in him who vanquished the worst of man’s enemies, death himself. He proceeds with quietness. He converses and explains; he shares meals; he hosts them when he performs gestures the Eleven recognise from the Last Supper. His explicit intention is that the Gospel should reach the ends of the earth. But he doesn’t envisage this happening through compulsion or shock collective impact. No, his liberating message is to spread from soul to soul, from person to person.
If I want to see the world transformed by Christianity, I have to be transformed by it myself. There’s no other way. It is useful to recall that in these times of culture war.
On the fortieth day ‘he was lifted up’ after having promised, once again, that the Church would receive the Holy Spirit, power from on high. Believers must get used to Christ’s being present on different terms. They must learn to live sacramentally, ready to recognise him in baptism, in the breaking of bread, the forgiveness of sin, the anointing of the sick. From now on they must be conscious that daily life is divinely illumined.
A Christian isn’t call to stand around purposelessly gazing heavenward. Angels made this clear when they, on the day of Christ’s Ascension, told the Eleven a little brusquely: ‘Why do you stand looking into heaven?’ The message is clear: a pressing earthly task is waiting. That task is entrusted to the Church until Jesus ‘will come again even as [the apostles saw] him go into heaven’ (Acts 1.8-11).
That is where today’s reading picks up the thread, telling us how the apostles returned to Jerusalem from the mount called Olivet. In term of physical distance, it was a short walk. Symbolically speaking, it was an interplanetary voyage.
How can the promises and commandments of Jesus gain access to a world, a society that has not had a share in the apostles’ experience? How can the Gospel, like leaven, be kneaded into the dough of humanity at large, to raise it?
The apostles will have pondered such things during the Pentecost Novena as they, with Mary, the Mother of Jesus, waited to be equipped, mystically, to face a task that seemed to them utterly excessive.
That same task challenges us today. Like the apostles then, we are called, now, to climb down from the Upper Room into the streets. We are charged with communicating faith to our world. We cannot withdraw into protected enclaves. To be a Catholic is not to be a member of a special-interest society or a secret fraternity. Catholics are by definition universally minded, asked to share with generosity the treasure committed to their keeping.
It is good to think of this commission today, on Norway’s National Day. Historically this day commemorates the establishment of our constitution in 1814. We express our will to exist as a nation, we claim our right to self-determination. But it happens without aggression.
On the news this morning I listened to a report about yesterday’s happenings in London. Two different marches wound their way through the city’s streets. Both held the banner of England high. But the perception among the respective marchers of what that banner stands for was diametrically opposed. Four thousand policemen were mobilised to keep the two marches apart, for fear a clash might erupt in a street fight.
In Norway everyone, thank God, joins a single procession. It belongs to the children, above all. Adults can take part as guests. We wave our flags, we say to each other, and to perfect strangers: ‘Congratulations!’ But our togetherness for Norway is not a movement against anyone else. It wouldn’t occur to a Norwegian to mark the 17th of May with a military parade. Only the guards before the royal palace carry guns, and they’re ornamental.
Today we express our gladness on account of all the good things we enjoy in this country: the liberty, generosity, and justice that mark Norwegian society. We look back with gratitude, forward with hope. But we cannot permit ourselves to be naive. We remember the Fathers of the Nation from 1814 reverently. But we know that the Norway they founded was built on a degree of exclusion. The second paragraph of the original constitution is openly anti-Semitic and anti-Catholic. It appears it isn’t typically Norwegian, after all, to be inclusive. That wasn’t the case 212 years ago at Eidsvoll; and it isn’t the case today. In many ways society is narrowing. An ice-cold totalitarian wind is blowing through Europe. We feel occasional gusts of it up here, where we are, too.
It is vital, therefore, to keep building our national unity, the beautiful things about the Norway we love, on a firm foundation.
The apostles’ soul-wrestling with the import of Christian responsibility during the days between Ascension and Pentecost gives us a paradigm to follow. An early Christian text written not long after the book of Acts points out that Christians are to be to the world what the soul is to the body. Now, there‘s a task.
In the Gospel we have heard Jesus’s cry: ‘Father! Everything mine is yours. My glory shines in those who are mine.’ We are to make sure that that glorious light does not go out, that it keeps shining brightly like a lighthouse, a dependable coordinate for navigation globally and in our local Norwegian reality.
Trapped
Only this morning, on a visit to the medieval cathedral in Trondheim, did I notice this detail of adornment on the baptismal font, carved in the early twentieth century to patterns found on old fragments. It shows the devil, man’s enemy – whom the Fathers called ‘the hater of good’ – trapped in the branches and foliage of the Tree of Life. The message is clear: baptism strips him of power. Faced with the grace that issues from incorporation into Christ’s Body, he has no freedom of movement. A baptised Christian already has the resources needed for spiritual battle. He or she must just learn to put them to good use. The Christian task is to let the grace of baptism be realised through free choices for good, as we have no truck with the evil one, refusing to give him attention he does not deserve. The trapped one may growl, but has no power to harm unless we restore it by contradicting our baptismal pledges, and so give him freedom to roam.