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:
Alight in Audio ‘What weighs us down now lacks lasting substance. The weight of glory draws us upwards, towards a magnificent, multiple glory. Configured to a full share in Christ’s life, we shall know the patient joy of God who proclaims in Psalm Read More
St Bonaventure 
Ephesians 3.14-19: Out of his infinite glory, may he give you power.
Matthew 23.8-12: The greatest among you must be your servant.
St Bonaventure is a defining presence in Europe’s dramatic thirteenth century, the century of Dominic and Francis, of Thomas Aquinas and Read More
Matthew 23.8-12: The greatest among you must be your servant.
St Bonaventure is a defining presence in Europe’s dramatic thirteenth century, the century of Dominic and Francis, of Thomas Aquinas and Read More
Undsetiana ‘The biography of Sigrid Undset is already a novel’, wrote Fr Jean-Robert Armogathe in an essay published in Communio eight years ago. If you read French, his piece is an excellent introduction to her life and work. Fr Aidan Nichols’s Read More
How Grace Works A conversation with Mark Makowiecki was an opportunity to talk about what makes a good teacher and about the impact good books can have, about how God’s grace works in ordinary people’s lives, about monasticism – and about Catholic life Read More
Bach How would the official broadcaster of a state committed to dialectical materialism portray the Fifth Evangelist? With curiosity I approached the four-part series Bach made as a DDR-Hungarian coproduction in 1985. It is remarkable: carefully researched, humanely written, splendidly acted. Read More
St Sigrid? ‘One can imagine the response of Sigrid Undset, had she been told that the Church would one day consider her a possible subject for a cause of beatification. She would have chortled. She might even have permitted herself a well-chosen Read More
Inkling of a Call The latest chronicle of St Cecilia’s Abbey in Ryde features an obituary of Sr Marie Bernard Eckhardt, who died in March after 68 years of monastic life. This intelligent woman of deep prayer, a native of Switzerland, was to the Read More
Alight in Audio
‘What weighs us down now lacks lasting substance. The weight of glory draws us upwards, towards a magnificent, multiple glory. Configured to a full share in Christ’s life, we shall know the patient joy of God who proclaims in Psalm 90, ‘I am with him in tribulation.’ He also says: ‘My delight is to be with the sons of men.’ ‘Oh Emmanuel,’ Bernard responds: ‘God with us!’ He adds: ‘Hail, full of grace, the Lord is with you,’ delicately outlining the Marian character of graced growth into authentic Christian maturity. God knows what we desire and thirst for, what is truly to our liking. We must not settle for too little. We must know, and proclaim, in whose image we are made, what greatness we are capable of.’
From Alight with Hidden Glory, which today, on the feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, is launched as an audiobook.
From Alight with Hidden Glory, which today, on the feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, is launched as an audiobook.
St Bonaventure
Ephesians 3.14-19: Out of his infinite glory, may he give you power.
Matthew 23.8-12: The greatest among you must be your servant.
St Bonaventure is a defining presence in Europe’s dramatic thirteenth century, the century of Dominic and Francis, of Thomas Aquinas and Marco Polo, of St Louis and Frederick II. The thirteenth century is sometimes called ‘the Western century’. During it, the self-understanding and sensibility of the western world acquired a particular form.
That is not to say it was a stable period. No, it was, as Josef Pieper has stressed, a time of civilisational crisis. Lots of people were at a loss to know what parameters to steer by. That is why certain outstanding individuals could wield such influence, as they traced a path it seemed attractive and sensible to follow.
At times of chaos, wisdom and integrity are usually in short supply. Where these qualities are evident, they are noticed, and appreciated.
Bonaventure was born near Viterbo in 1221, a sickly child. His parents feared for his life. One day, St Francis came along on one of his preaching missions. The poor boy was presented to him. Francis healed him; then named him, for he held the child up and exclaimed, ‘O Bona Ventura’, ‘O Good Fortune’!
It is hardly excessive to say that Bonaventure was predestined, pretty much, to become a Franciscan in turn.
He joined the order at 22. Not long afterwards he was sent to study in Paris. His superiors recognised his brilliant mind. He received his doctorate alongside St Thomas Aquinas, his friend. St Thomas is said to have asked Bonaventure what the wonderful source might be from which he drew such exceptional insight into the mystery of faith.
Bonaventure’s answer, well attested, is displayed in a picture Zurbarán painted in 1629. It shows Bonaventure bringing Thomas discreetly into his study. Over his desk is a curtained alcove. Bonaventure draws the curtain aside to reveal a lifelike crucifix.
The message is clear: this man of fierce intelligence drew his theological acumen from constant meditation on the saving and transforming Passion of God made man.
Bonaventure contributed substantially to the science of theology. His writings are stringent and at the same time beautiful. It makes sense that the young Josef Ratzinger should have chosen Bonaventure, precisely, as the subject for his doctoral thesis.
At thirty-five Bonaventure was elected Father General of the Franciscans. It was a heavy responsibility at a time when many vital decisions had to made about the Order’s orientation and future. He was not left to live out his days as a simple friar, however.
Bonaventure’s gifts had not gone unnoticed by the Church’s hierarchy. He was appointed bishop of York in 1265, but pleaded for his brothers, who needed him.
He was excused then. But eight years later, Pope Gregory X clearly thought the Franciscans had had their fair share of Bonaventure. He was needed, now, by the universal Church. The pope appointed him, in consequence, cardinal bishop of Albano.
I love the account of how Bonaventure, bishop elect, received his appointment.
Summoned to Rome by the pope, Bonaventure had made it as far as Florence. There he was staying for a day or two in a Franciscan friary. One evening, when the brethren had finished their supper, Bonaventure stood outside washing the dishes. Two papal legates arrived in splendour, carrying the bull creating Bonaventure cardinal as well as his insignia of office. Bonaventure asked them kindly to hang his cardinal’s galero on a tree-branch and to take a stroll so that he might finish his dishwashing.
Then he obediently took up his hat and followed the legates to Rome, where the pope had him help prepare the Second Council of Lyons, of momentous ecumenical promise. During that council, in 1274, Bonaventure died, quite likely of exhaustion, 53 years old.
The dishwashing incident is often retold as an instance of supposed Franciscan clownery, as if it showed nothing but a humble, humorous friar gently mocking Roman pomp.
I do not think such a reading holds water.
Bonaventure had far too great esteem for the Petrine office to presume to make fun of it. The incident speaks, rather, of his innate sense of the significance of things.
Bonaventure wrote that ‘we must transform the peak of our affections, directing them to God alone’. This orientation applies potentially to all human activity. A task cordially performed for God’s sake has its own singular, glorious integrity whether it involves attendance at a distinguished council or the domestic duties that regulate the life of any community or family. Dishwashing can reach the stature of liturgy. To be faithful in small things is a great thing.
Bonaventure shows that, in a life lived for Christ, there is no hierarchy of tasks. What matters is to do as well as we can, for love’s sake, what we are providentially summoned to do now, be it public or hidden. Then we shall serve God’s cause blessedly.
Bonaventure concluded his life of Francis with a passage that stresses Francis’s deep devotion to the cross. The proverbial joy of St Francis did not spring from relentless cheerfulness, which would have been wearying; it sprang from awareness of the gladsome grace poured out on us in Jesus’s saving Passion.
‘O glorious standard-bearer of Christ’, his biographer wrote, ‘beginning from the Cross, you made progress according to the rule of the Cross, and at length you are made perfect in the Cross’.
Much the same could be said about Bonaventure himself.
Matthew 23.8-12: The greatest among you must be your servant.
St Bonaventure is a defining presence in Europe’s dramatic thirteenth century, the century of Dominic and Francis, of Thomas Aquinas and Marco Polo, of St Louis and Frederick II. The thirteenth century is sometimes called ‘the Western century’. During it, the self-understanding and sensibility of the western world acquired a particular form.
That is not to say it was a stable period. No, it was, as Josef Pieper has stressed, a time of civilisational crisis. Lots of people were at a loss to know what parameters to steer by. That is why certain outstanding individuals could wield such influence, as they traced a path it seemed attractive and sensible to follow.
At times of chaos, wisdom and integrity are usually in short supply. Where these qualities are evident, they are noticed, and appreciated.
Bonaventure was born near Viterbo in 1221, a sickly child. His parents feared for his life. One day, St Francis came along on one of his preaching missions. The poor boy was presented to him. Francis healed him; then named him, for he held the child up and exclaimed, ‘O Bona Ventura’, ‘O Good Fortune’!
It is hardly excessive to say that Bonaventure was predestined, pretty much, to become a Franciscan in turn.
He joined the order at 22. Not long afterwards he was sent to study in Paris. His superiors recognised his brilliant mind. He received his doctorate alongside St Thomas Aquinas, his friend. St Thomas is said to have asked Bonaventure what the wonderful source might be from which he drew such exceptional insight into the mystery of faith.
Bonaventure’s answer, well attested, is displayed in a picture Zurbarán painted in 1629. It shows Bonaventure bringing Thomas discreetly into his study. Over his desk is a curtained alcove. Bonaventure draws the curtain aside to reveal a lifelike crucifix.
The message is clear: this man of fierce intelligence drew his theological acumen from constant meditation on the saving and transforming Passion of God made man.
Bonaventure contributed substantially to the science of theology. His writings are stringent and at the same time beautiful. It makes sense that the young Josef Ratzinger should have chosen Bonaventure, precisely, as the subject for his doctoral thesis.
At thirty-five Bonaventure was elected Father General of the Franciscans. It was a heavy responsibility at a time when many vital decisions had to made about the Order’s orientation and future. He was not left to live out his days as a simple friar, however.
Bonaventure’s gifts had not gone unnoticed by the Church’s hierarchy. He was appointed bishop of York in 1265, but pleaded for his brothers, who needed him.
He was excused then. But eight years later, Pope Gregory X clearly thought the Franciscans had had their fair share of Bonaventure. He was needed, now, by the universal Church. The pope appointed him, in consequence, cardinal bishop of Albano.
I love the account of how Bonaventure, bishop elect, received his appointment.
Summoned to Rome by the pope, Bonaventure had made it as far as Florence. There he was staying for a day or two in a Franciscan friary. One evening, when the brethren had finished their supper, Bonaventure stood outside washing the dishes. Two papal legates arrived in splendour, carrying the bull creating Bonaventure cardinal as well as his insignia of office. Bonaventure asked them kindly to hang his cardinal’s galero on a tree-branch and to take a stroll so that he might finish his dishwashing.
Then he obediently took up his hat and followed the legates to Rome, where the pope had him help prepare the Second Council of Lyons, of momentous ecumenical promise. During that council, in 1274, Bonaventure died, quite likely of exhaustion, 53 years old.
The dishwashing incident is often retold as an instance of supposed Franciscan clownery, as if it showed nothing but a humble, humorous friar gently mocking Roman pomp.
I do not think such a reading holds water.
Bonaventure had far too great esteem for the Petrine office to presume to make fun of it. The incident speaks, rather, of his innate sense of the significance of things.
Bonaventure wrote that ‘we must transform the peak of our affections, directing them to God alone’. This orientation applies potentially to all human activity. A task cordially performed for God’s sake has its own singular, glorious integrity whether it involves attendance at a distinguished council or the domestic duties that regulate the life of any community or family. Dishwashing can reach the stature of liturgy. To be faithful in small things is a great thing.
Bonaventure shows that, in a life lived for Christ, there is no hierarchy of tasks. What matters is to do as well as we can, for love’s sake, what we are providentially summoned to do now, be it public or hidden. Then we shall serve God’s cause blessedly.
Bonaventure concluded his life of Francis with a passage that stresses Francis’s deep devotion to the cross. The proverbial joy of St Francis did not spring from relentless cheerfulness, which would have been wearying; it sprang from awareness of the gladsome grace poured out on us in Jesus’s saving Passion.
‘O glorious standard-bearer of Christ’, his biographer wrote, ‘beginning from the Cross, you made progress according to the rule of the Cross, and at length you are made perfect in the Cross’.
Much the same could be said about Bonaventure himself.
Undsetiana
‘The biography of Sigrid Undset is already a novel’, wrote Fr Jean-Robert Armogathe in an essay published in Communio eight years ago. If you read French, his piece is an excellent introduction to her life and work. Fr Aidan Nichols’s Reader of Hearts from 2022 has been described as ‘a portrait of Sigrid Undset without rival’. Do read Valerie Stivers’s account of the role Undset’s fiction played in her conversion: ‘I had always imagined the Church as a distant and cruel regulatory body, and suddenly I saw it as Undset did, as the place you turn to with the whole unregulated mass of your life—as the only place large enough for it.’ Just the other day Amy Fahey, a scholar of Undset, wrote about her ‘Holdfast Sanctity‘, a phrase to chew on. In the blogosphere, Stubborn Veritas considers multiple aspects of Undset’s works. One can read there that Undset ‘had encountered the reality of Catholicism so clearly and convincingly that […] her being necessitated it.’ Another blog simply called Sigrid Undset provides fresh versions of texts not available in published volumes. It hasn’t had a lot of new entries recently, but something tells me it may become more productive soon.
Ageing
A monastic obituary provides, with the straightforwardness of the genre, a paradigm of how to age humanely: ‘[Fr Kenneth] had been suffering from memory loss for many years, but he was still praying the liturgy of the hours in choir and celebrating Mass until a week before his death. He could do many things. He was a barber and tailor, played the organ and sang, painted (perhaps not so well), did crosswords and played Scrabble and gin rummy, and told many puns. Being old and limited by his failing memory was hard for someone used to being active and productive, but he adapted to his limitations with grace. As he became older and more forgetful, he became sensitive to noise and a bit belligerent if people blocked his way, but his default mode was to be gentle and unobtrusive. He had a strong sense of what was proper, whether in grammar or dress. He was not fussy about what he ate, but careful how he ate it. Although he couldn’t remember most things, each morning he thanked the cooks in French. If there are cooks in Heaven, I am sure he is thanking them too. We are grateful for having him in our midst, a gentleman, monk, priest, and faithful follower of Christ.’
How Grace Works
A conversation with Mark Makowiecki was an opportunity to talk about what makes a good teacher and about the impact good books can have, about how God’s grace works in ordinary people’s lives, about monasticism – and about Catholic life in the North. You can listen to the whole conversation here.
On Sigrid Undset: ‘In addition to the great medieval cycles there are her so-called conversion novels, The Wild Orchid and The Burning Bush, both re-published in English, alongside many other Undset titles, by Cluny Media, that heroic enterprise which does so much to bring out excellent literature in new editions.’
The witness of a perseveringly faithful community is a strong incentive not to despair of one’s own circumstances. At a time when so many boats are being burnt and portcullises are lowered and walls are being built (unfortunately all these metaphors correspond to facts), it is really important to have places where there is an unconditional welcome.
I saw this wall-painting recently, in Zurich, and liked it. I wouldn’t over-interpret, but it does convey something about life in the Spirit.
On Sigrid Undset: ‘In addition to the great medieval cycles there are her so-called conversion novels, The Wild Orchid and The Burning Bush, both re-published in English, alongside many other Undset titles, by Cluny Media, that heroic enterprise which does so much to bring out excellent literature in new editions.’
The witness of a perseveringly faithful community is a strong incentive not to despair of one’s own circumstances. At a time when so many boats are being burnt and portcullises are lowered and walls are being built (unfortunately all these metaphors correspond to facts), it is really important to have places where there is an unconditional welcome.
I saw this wall-painting recently, in Zurich, and liked it. I wouldn’t over-interpret, but it does convey something about life in the Spirit.
Bach
How would the official broadcaster of a state committed to dialectical materialism portray the Fifth Evangelist? With curiosity I approached the four-part series Bach made as a DDR-Hungarian coproduction in 1985. It is remarkable: carefully researched, humanely written, splendidly acted. Ulrich Thein makes a credible JSB. He looks uncannily like him. Franziska Troegner is excellent as Anna Magdalena. A scene towards the end of Part One shows the famous incident when Louis Marchand left Dresden in stealth to avoid facing Bach in a public contest, having heard what Bach was capable of: ‘He knows’, says Marchand, ‘a different kind of music. He knows the circle of fifths the way people in the Antipodes know the backside of the moon, and strolls within it delightedly.’ This man oppressed by the stuffy air of small provincial towns has ‘made a new musical universe’. (Parts I, II, III, IV). The DDR production acknowledged that Bach was devout. It does though say little, it is true, about what devotion means. Supplement it with the account of Marie-Claire Alain.
St Sigrid?
‘One can imagine the response of Sigrid Undset, had she been told that the Church would one day consider her a possible subject for a cause of beatification. She would have chortled. She might even have permitted herself a well-chosen expletive. Certainly, she is no plaster-cast saint. Her Christian trajectory was marked by struggles. She knew the complexities of life and love. That is why she speaks to us the way she does. And when we consider her life at a distance — she died in 1949 — we see that she did embody heroic virtue. She was one of the twentieth century’s foremost Catholic intellectuals, who used her creative gifts to proclaim Christ’s gracious truth. She was a fearless advocate of justice: this she showed to the full during World War II when, rushed into exile, she thundered against Nazism. She was an exemplary mother, not least in the way she cared for her handicapped daughter. She was a woman of prayer. I have been struck for years by signs emerging here and there, all over the world, of spontaneous devotion to Sigrid Undset, devotion sprung not only from love of her literary work but from a sense that she truly was, and remains, a friend of God. Her witness of unsentimental devotion and intelligent integrity is just what we need, I’d say, here and now.’ From an exchange with Luke Coppen on the launch of a causa for Sigrid Undset.
Inkling of a Call
The latest chronicle of St Cecilia’s Abbey in Ryde features an obituary of Sr Marie Bernard Eckhardt, who died in March after 68 years of monastic life. This intelligent woman of deep prayer, a native of Switzerland, was to the end ‘courteous, interested in everything and everybody, sometimes quite blunt in her opinions, always full of kindness’. The seed of her monastic calling was sown early. In an account written when she was just shy of 80, she traced her vocation back to an experience entertained when, aged four, she had asked her father why she had no grandfather: ‘My father explained that he had died and then went to heaven where he would remain for ever. This was called eternity and I remember lying on my bed, closing my eyes for a minute or two and then saying to myself: “No, eternity is much longer than this.” It gave me a great thrill to “play eternity”.’ How natural eternity is for a child whose mind and sensibility have been quickened by baptism. How convoluted life can become when this quickening has not taken place and the child, growing up, lacks coordinates by which to understand the infinite longing of which the human soul is by nature possessed.