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:
Desert Fathers 38 
You can find this episode in video format here – a dedicated page – and pick it up in audio wherever you listen to podcasts. On YouTube, the full range of episodes can be found here.
Another brother asked [Theodore of Read More
Another brother asked [Theodore of Read More
Nativity of Mary Today’s feast invites us to consider that God, who entered history as male, with a gendered specificity that cannot be abstracted; that this God who became man and a man, in whose image and glory we are called to have Read More
23 Sunday C Wisdom 9.13-18: What man can know the intentions of God?
Philemon 9-17: I am sending him back with a part of my own self.
Luke 14.25-33: None can be my disciple unless he gives up all his possessions.
Tomorrow is election day in Read More
Philemon 9-17: I am sending him back with a part of my own self.
Luke 14.25-33: None can be my disciple unless he gives up all his possessions.
Tomorrow is election day in Read More
St Gregory the Great The saint whom we in the West know as Gregory the Great is known in the Greek Church as Gregorios ho Dialogos.
He is chiefly associated there with his books of Dialogues, the second of which contains his life of St Read More
He is chiefly associated there with his books of Dialogues, the second of which contains his life of St Read More
Orin O’Brien Molly O’Brien’s film about her aunt Orin, the first woman member of the New York Philharmonic, produced when the legendary double bassist was 88 (though she comes across, quite naturally, as been fifty-something) is a marvel — don’t mind its Read More
Desert Fathers 37 You can find this episode in video format here – a dedicated page – and pick it up in audio wherever you listen to podcasts. On YouTube, the full range of episodes can be found here.
Abba Antony heard of a Read More
Abba Antony heard of a Read More
Augmenting Religion This talk was given to introduce and open the autumn plenary session of the Nordic Bishops’ Conference held in Rome 1-5 September.
As we embark on this plenary session here in the city, close to the Apostle’s tomb, we are drawn Read More
As we embark on this plenary session here in the city, close to the Apostle’s tomb, we are drawn Read More
Letter on Election Norway is getting ready for a parliamentary election on 8 September. To assist preparation, the Council of Norwegian Bishops has produced a pastoral letter which was read out at all Masses throughout the country today. You can find the text Read More
Desert Fathers 38
You can find this episode in video format here – a dedicated page – and pick it up in audio wherever you listen to podcasts. On YouTube, the full range of episodes can be found here.
Another brother asked [Theodore of Pherme]: ‘Abba, would you like that I eat no bread for a few days?’ The elder said to him: ‘You would do well; I myself have done likewise.’ The brother then said to him: ‘Right, I would like to take my chickpeas to the baker’s to get meal made.’ Abba Theodore replied: ‘If you are going to the baker’s, make bread! What need is there for such an expedition?!’
The Gospel tells us we are to be the light of the world. It exhorts us not to put our lamp under a bushel. On the contrary: ’Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven.’ Need we be scrupulous about displaying manifestly good deeds?
To address the question, let us first note a few things about the Gospel’s words. They occur in Mathew’s account of the Sermon on the Mount, just after the Beatitudes. They presuppose poverty of spirit, meekness, purity of heart, and so forth. They are linked to the new existence Christ came to enable. Jesus alone is ‘the light of the world.’ We are light in so far as we live in him. This decisive transposition must take place before we can reveal his light to others. That is why the Lord goes on to specify that our light is given in the form of a lamp whose brightness is not one with us but given us to carry.
Spontaneously we think of the parable later in Matthew, about the wise and foolish virgins. To be entrusted with a lamp is one thing, to make sure it keeps on burning is another. For that, the lamp requires fuel we cannot provide from our resources; we must get it from elsewhere. The fuel is God’s gratuitous grace, his gift of the Spirit. The more we are conscious that the light illumining our path, and through us that of others, is given freely, without any merit on our part, the more we shall carry it unselfconsciously.
Those whom the Desert Fathers designate as luminous are almost always people who have no idea that others see God’s light in them: it would not occur to them to look in a mirror. All their attention is oriented towards God’s gracious, gladsome bounty. If on occasion a monk is consciously blessed with a luminous visitation, he will strive to ensure that no one else suspects the graces vouchsafed to him, the way Arsenius did when a passer-by surprised him in ecstasy while he, beholding God, was ‘entirely like a flame’. The Fathers are coy about their graces. To God alone belongs the glory.
The story about the brother proposing to fast from bread is like a cartoon strip. It reveals how silly we make ourselves look when we try to be exalted. The brother’s inspiration is estimable. He does what St Benedict prescribes that monks should do when, during Lent, say, they ‘add to the usual measure of […] service something by way of private prayer and abstinence from food and drink’. Wishing to make his offering ‘of his own will with the joy of the Holy Spirit’, conscious of the risk of presumption inherent in merely private initiative, the monk is asked to make known to his spiritual father what he proposes, seeking his prayer and approval. If the father approves, he can go ahead. The monk does all this by the book. It is quite fine.
The mistake he makes regards the implementation of his scheme. Abstaining from bread, he has to eat something. Dried chickpeas will let him cook a tolerably nutritious mush, but he needs to get his peas ground. How better than by looking up the baker who normally provides his bread, asking him to run the chickpeas through his mill?
We can imagine the exchange between the two as the bakery doorbell tinkles. ‘Hullo’. ‘Hullo’. ‘The usual loaf?’ ‘Uh, not today, thanks. But would you grind these chickpeas for me?’ ‘Chickpeas!’ ‘Yes, you see my spiritual Father thinks now me ripe for advancement in mystical life, so I will fast more and forego bread.’ The talk is innocuous enough, yet a dark shade spreads over an initially generous proposal. There is self-congratulation in the explanation. It would be strange if the monk did not think the baker would think: ‘Blessed am I to have such holy monks as my clients!’ The chances, though, are that he would not think this at all, but rather: ‘Buh! Another blooming show-off!’ That is why Theodore tells him: ‘Stuff yourself rather with bread!’ Ostentation would make fasting worthless. If I wish to be generous, I should keep it secret, not letting even my left hand know what my right is doing.
Theodore rather specialised in counsels against vainglory. When a brother came to him asking for a word, he sent him away gruffly. Asked why, he said: ‘That man is a merchant wishing to gain glory for himself from the words of others!’ When another monk came to talk about things he did not practise, Theodore said, speaking like Antony in naval terms: ‘You have not yet found a boat or charged it with cargo, yet before having sailed you have arrived in town. First do the works, then you can broach the subjects you now prattle about.’ If Theodore kept stressing this point, it suggests he knew a thing or two about it from experience. That is encouraging. If we fight residual weaknesses, we shall gain wisdom that, with time, may benefit others.
A grand old baker, Michel Vallet. His obituary states: ‘Il aura formé de nombreux apprentis à qui il avait su communiquer sa passion, la fabrication du bon pain n’avait aucun secret pour lui’. I wonder what he would have said to a self-assured young monk turning up at his bakery in Rugles with a bag of chickpeas.
Another brother asked [Theodore of Pherme]: ‘Abba, would you like that I eat no bread for a few days?’ The elder said to him: ‘You would do well; I myself have done likewise.’ The brother then said to him: ‘Right, I would like to take my chickpeas to the baker’s to get meal made.’ Abba Theodore replied: ‘If you are going to the baker’s, make bread! What need is there for such an expedition?!’
The Gospel tells us we are to be the light of the world. It exhorts us not to put our lamp under a bushel. On the contrary: ’Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven.’ Need we be scrupulous about displaying manifestly good deeds?
To address the question, let us first note a few things about the Gospel’s words. They occur in Mathew’s account of the Sermon on the Mount, just after the Beatitudes. They presuppose poverty of spirit, meekness, purity of heart, and so forth. They are linked to the new existence Christ came to enable. Jesus alone is ‘the light of the world.’ We are light in so far as we live in him. This decisive transposition must take place before we can reveal his light to others. That is why the Lord goes on to specify that our light is given in the form of a lamp whose brightness is not one with us but given us to carry.
Spontaneously we think of the parable later in Matthew, about the wise and foolish virgins. To be entrusted with a lamp is one thing, to make sure it keeps on burning is another. For that, the lamp requires fuel we cannot provide from our resources; we must get it from elsewhere. The fuel is God’s gratuitous grace, his gift of the Spirit. The more we are conscious that the light illumining our path, and through us that of others, is given freely, without any merit on our part, the more we shall carry it unselfconsciously.
Those whom the Desert Fathers designate as luminous are almost always people who have no idea that others see God’s light in them: it would not occur to them to look in a mirror. All their attention is oriented towards God’s gracious, gladsome bounty. If on occasion a monk is consciously blessed with a luminous visitation, he will strive to ensure that no one else suspects the graces vouchsafed to him, the way Arsenius did when a passer-by surprised him in ecstasy while he, beholding God, was ‘entirely like a flame’. The Fathers are coy about their graces. To God alone belongs the glory.
The story about the brother proposing to fast from bread is like a cartoon strip. It reveals how silly we make ourselves look when we try to be exalted. The brother’s inspiration is estimable. He does what St Benedict prescribes that monks should do when, during Lent, say, they ‘add to the usual measure of […] service something by way of private prayer and abstinence from food and drink’. Wishing to make his offering ‘of his own will with the joy of the Holy Spirit’, conscious of the risk of presumption inherent in merely private initiative, the monk is asked to make known to his spiritual father what he proposes, seeking his prayer and approval. If the father approves, he can go ahead. The monk does all this by the book. It is quite fine.
The mistake he makes regards the implementation of his scheme. Abstaining from bread, he has to eat something. Dried chickpeas will let him cook a tolerably nutritious mush, but he needs to get his peas ground. How better than by looking up the baker who normally provides his bread, asking him to run the chickpeas through his mill?
We can imagine the exchange between the two as the bakery doorbell tinkles. ‘Hullo’. ‘Hullo’. ‘The usual loaf?’ ‘Uh, not today, thanks. But would you grind these chickpeas for me?’ ‘Chickpeas!’ ‘Yes, you see my spiritual Father thinks now me ripe for advancement in mystical life, so I will fast more and forego bread.’ The talk is innocuous enough, yet a dark shade spreads over an initially generous proposal. There is self-congratulation in the explanation. It would be strange if the monk did not think the baker would think: ‘Blessed am I to have such holy monks as my clients!’ The chances, though, are that he would not think this at all, but rather: ‘Buh! Another blooming show-off!’ That is why Theodore tells him: ‘Stuff yourself rather with bread!’ Ostentation would make fasting worthless. If I wish to be generous, I should keep it secret, not letting even my left hand know what my right is doing.
Theodore rather specialised in counsels against vainglory. When a brother came to him asking for a word, he sent him away gruffly. Asked why, he said: ‘That man is a merchant wishing to gain glory for himself from the words of others!’ When another monk came to talk about things he did not practise, Theodore said, speaking like Antony in naval terms: ‘You have not yet found a boat or charged it with cargo, yet before having sailed you have arrived in town. First do the works, then you can broach the subjects you now prattle about.’ If Theodore kept stressing this point, it suggests he knew a thing or two about it from experience. That is encouraging. If we fight residual weaknesses, we shall gain wisdom that, with time, may benefit others.
A grand old baker, Michel Vallet. His obituary states: ‘Il aura formé de nombreux apprentis à qui il avait su communiquer sa passion, la fabrication du bon pain n’avait aucun secret pour lui’. I wonder what he would have said to a self-assured young monk turning up at his bakery in Rugles with a bag of chickpeas.
Nativity of Mary
Today’s feast invites us to consider that God, who entered history as male, with a gendered specificity that cannot be abstracted; that this God who became man and a man, in whose image and glory we are called to have a share, began his existence in a woman’s womb. The biological process remains a paradigm for ecclesial life. Christ’s birth is both an historical datum and a continuous mystery of transformation. It was not by coincidence that Christians of antiquity adorned the apses of their churches, just above the altar, with wondrous representations of the Theotokos. The Church, Lumen Gentium teaches us, is Marian in essence. This, too, points to a gendered specificity that seeks coherent expression. Only therein will we as believers and members of the Church, whether we are women or men, find our true, essential form. In this symbolic, sacramental interaction of masculinity and femininity, fundamental to Catholic life, we shall find, of this I am convinced, the true response to painful perplexities present in our time. This response is already formulated, thank God; it needn’t be invented anew. From a homily for 8 September.
23 Sunday C
Wisdom 9.13-18: What man can know the intentions of God?
Philemon 9-17: I am sending him back with a part of my own self.
Luke 14.25-33: None can be my disciple unless he gives up all his possessions.
Tomorrow is election day in Norway. We shall all exercise our civil right to vote. A month ago I got an SMS from the Election Department reminding me of my responsibility. It is healthy that the state does things like that. It shows that democracy is working.
What will be the result of the election? Even experienced journalists desist from speculation. We Norwegians have become unpredictable, politically speaking. Many of us vacillate from one party to another, speculating a little on various sides.
Voting has become a bit like shopping. We look for good offers, and expect good service, attention, and some fun along the way. I suppose that is why politicians have made such an effort, in this campaign, to try to entertain.
But is this how a society is founded and maintained?
I’ll leave that question hanging, should any of you wish to give it further thought.
What concerns me here, however, is not the question of voting boxes, but the Gospel we have heard. The text is a stern one. It speaks of radical departure, of perseverance, of the pain fidelity may bring. Jesus rarely speaks more austerely than when he explains what it means to be a disciple.
But is he not exaggerating? Yes, he is. When he says that ‘If any one comes to me and does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple’, it is in order to give us a good shake, to help us wake up to the importance of what is being said. These words must be understood in the light of the great, defining commandment: ‘You shall love your neighbour as yourself’.
He does not ask us to literally hate; but to understand that to follow Jesus is a serious business. It must be our life’s priority number one.
We cannot be Christians just now-and-again, when we feel like it or find we have the energy.
For it is about more than just us, our needs and wants. The Lord calls us into his Church so that we may assist him in his great work: the world’s salvation. He needs people he can rely on, who do what they have promised to do; women and men whose ‘Yes’ means ‘Yes’, whose ‘No’ means ‘No’.
Precisely because we have so largely lost the notion of permanent engagement, be it in politics or in family or consecrated life, we do need Jesus’s words as a standard by which to measure ourselves. Am I faithful in my discipleship, ready to serve when the Lord requires me? Or do I prefer to keep busy with my own stuff, regarding the faith as a pastime?
Jesus gives us two parables to show what he means. The images are powerful.
The first parable compares Christian life to a building project. To start building something, we need a clear plan and sufficient resources. Few of us can afford, at the same time, to build a home in Molde and to holiday in the Maldives.
Any building project calls for sacrifice, whether we are constructing a tower, a romantic relationship, or a life of faith. Sometimes we shall be tempted to give up; it seems simpler to start afresh with something (or someone) else – but is there any joy in leaving a trajectory lined by an increasing number of monuments to keenly begun but swiftly abandoned enterprise? By building we mature. In this way our lives become an edifice, whose architect-in-chief is the Lord. There he constructs a home for himself; there we would hope to create a hospitable place where other people can find comfort, sustenance, warmth.
The second image Jesus uses provides contrast, but points in the same direction. It speaks of a king setting out for war. Is his campaign to succeed, he must have a strategic plan and a sufficiency of soldiers. Life is in so many ways a battle. It has sweetness, by all means; there is much to rejoice in and enjoy. But human existence simply isn’t a trip to the beach with deckchairs, parasols, and endless jugs of piña colada. Many voices round about us would like to make us believe that life is, or ought to be, like that. By holding forth such promises they mobilise (with not much trouble, it must be said) our most egocentric and childish responses.
The world, meanwhile, is on fire; humanity is ailing; hopelessness spreads. And we, we are called to be the servants and friends of Christ Jesus, with a great task to undertake in his name.
Let us use this Sunday to renew our Christian commitment. Let us remember that life, the way we understand it as Christians, cannot be reduced to shallow promises of more free time and more comfortable living. Life, as today’s collect reminds us, is about ‘true freedom and everlasting life’. We cannot be satisfied with less.
‘True freedom and everlasting life’! That is not, incidentally, a bad perspective to keep in mind as we prepare to vote tomorrow.
In the name of Jesus! Amen.
Philemon 9-17: I am sending him back with a part of my own self.
Luke 14.25-33: None can be my disciple unless he gives up all his possessions.
Tomorrow is election day in Norway. We shall all exercise our civil right to vote. A month ago I got an SMS from the Election Department reminding me of my responsibility. It is healthy that the state does things like that. It shows that democracy is working.
What will be the result of the election? Even experienced journalists desist from speculation. We Norwegians have become unpredictable, politically speaking. Many of us vacillate from one party to another, speculating a little on various sides.
Voting has become a bit like shopping. We look for good offers, and expect good service, attention, and some fun along the way. I suppose that is why politicians have made such an effort, in this campaign, to try to entertain.
But is this how a society is founded and maintained?
I’ll leave that question hanging, should any of you wish to give it further thought.
What concerns me here, however, is not the question of voting boxes, but the Gospel we have heard. The text is a stern one. It speaks of radical departure, of perseverance, of the pain fidelity may bring. Jesus rarely speaks more austerely than when he explains what it means to be a disciple.
But is he not exaggerating? Yes, he is. When he says that ‘If any one comes to me and does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple’, it is in order to give us a good shake, to help us wake up to the importance of what is being said. These words must be understood in the light of the great, defining commandment: ‘You shall love your neighbour as yourself’.
He does not ask us to literally hate; but to understand that to follow Jesus is a serious business. It must be our life’s priority number one.
We cannot be Christians just now-and-again, when we feel like it or find we have the energy.
For it is about more than just us, our needs and wants. The Lord calls us into his Church so that we may assist him in his great work: the world’s salvation. He needs people he can rely on, who do what they have promised to do; women and men whose ‘Yes’ means ‘Yes’, whose ‘No’ means ‘No’.
Precisely because we have so largely lost the notion of permanent engagement, be it in politics or in family or consecrated life, we do need Jesus’s words as a standard by which to measure ourselves. Am I faithful in my discipleship, ready to serve when the Lord requires me? Or do I prefer to keep busy with my own stuff, regarding the faith as a pastime?
Jesus gives us two parables to show what he means. The images are powerful.
The first parable compares Christian life to a building project. To start building something, we need a clear plan and sufficient resources. Few of us can afford, at the same time, to build a home in Molde and to holiday in the Maldives.
Any building project calls for sacrifice, whether we are constructing a tower, a romantic relationship, or a life of faith. Sometimes we shall be tempted to give up; it seems simpler to start afresh with something (or someone) else – but is there any joy in leaving a trajectory lined by an increasing number of monuments to keenly begun but swiftly abandoned enterprise? By building we mature. In this way our lives become an edifice, whose architect-in-chief is the Lord. There he constructs a home for himself; there we would hope to create a hospitable place where other people can find comfort, sustenance, warmth.
The second image Jesus uses provides contrast, but points in the same direction. It speaks of a king setting out for war. Is his campaign to succeed, he must have a strategic plan and a sufficiency of soldiers. Life is in so many ways a battle. It has sweetness, by all means; there is much to rejoice in and enjoy. But human existence simply isn’t a trip to the beach with deckchairs, parasols, and endless jugs of piña colada. Many voices round about us would like to make us believe that life is, or ought to be, like that. By holding forth such promises they mobilise (with not much trouble, it must be said) our most egocentric and childish responses.
The world, meanwhile, is on fire; humanity is ailing; hopelessness spreads. And we, we are called to be the servants and friends of Christ Jesus, with a great task to undertake in his name.
Let us use this Sunday to renew our Christian commitment. Let us remember that life, the way we understand it as Christians, cannot be reduced to shallow promises of more free time and more comfortable living. Life, as today’s collect reminds us, is about ‘true freedom and everlasting life’. We cannot be satisfied with less.
‘True freedom and everlasting life’! That is not, incidentally, a bad perspective to keep in mind as we prepare to vote tomorrow.
In the name of Jesus! Amen.
St Gregory the Great
The saint whom we in the West know as Gregory the Great is known in the Greek Church as Gregorios ho Dialogos.
He is chiefly associated there with his books of Dialogues, the second of which contains his life of St Benedict. Translated into Greek by another pope, Saint Zachary, the Dialogues became staple reading among monks and laypeople alike. That most Greek of Greek theologians, St Gregory Palamas, cites Gregory’s portrait of Benedict as an example of contemplative perfection.
Gregory began work on the Dialogues in 593, in his third year as pope. When a pope, as busy in the sixth century as in the twenty-first, takes time out for literary work, it is because he has something vital to say: think of the priority Benedict XVI gave to his three volumes on Jesus.
When Gregory started on this project, southern Europe was in turmoil. Lombard invaders were spreading chaos. Many people (including, it would seem, Gregory himself) assumed the end of the world was near. With crises breaking out all around him, he set to work on the Dialogues, a collection of biographies of Italian saints.
Why? Were there not more urgent tasks to attend to?
Gregory did not think so. He started writing, he tells us, on a day when he felt especially depressed, overwhelmed by worldly business. In a conversation with the deacon Peter he spoke of his nostalgia for the spiritual aspirations of his youth. Peter noted what a pity it was that there were no models of Christian perfection from their own time and country. Mosts saints seemed, somehow, to be either foreign, long dead, or both.
Gregory rose to the challenge, for he knew of outstanding witnesses. And so, in order to counter barbarism, he began to draw a series of portraits of Christ as he had revealed himself in the lives of men and women with whom readers could identify.
In our day, Lombards present no great cause for anxiety. But barbarian forces are nonetheless close at hand: we ascertain this daily.
To renew our society we need more than just re-budgeting and larger prisons. We need a new sense of purpose, a new unifying energy; we need men and women whose goodness of life makes us want to be like them. We might follow Gregory’s example and seek out saints of our own time, Christians who have followed Christ in the world as we know it, not in an idealised past.
Inspired by their example, strengthened by their prayers, we shall gain courage to walk as they walked. Then, who knows, perhaps we can restore hope to our world, so tired of today, so afraid of tomorrow?
Seventeenth-century portrait of St Gregory the Great by an unknown painter.
He is chiefly associated there with his books of Dialogues, the second of which contains his life of St Benedict. Translated into Greek by another pope, Saint Zachary, the Dialogues became staple reading among monks and laypeople alike. That most Greek of Greek theologians, St Gregory Palamas, cites Gregory’s portrait of Benedict as an example of contemplative perfection.
Gregory began work on the Dialogues in 593, in his third year as pope. When a pope, as busy in the sixth century as in the twenty-first, takes time out for literary work, it is because he has something vital to say: think of the priority Benedict XVI gave to his three volumes on Jesus.
When Gregory started on this project, southern Europe was in turmoil. Lombard invaders were spreading chaos. Many people (including, it would seem, Gregory himself) assumed the end of the world was near. With crises breaking out all around him, he set to work on the Dialogues, a collection of biographies of Italian saints.
Why? Were there not more urgent tasks to attend to?
Gregory did not think so. He started writing, he tells us, on a day when he felt especially depressed, overwhelmed by worldly business. In a conversation with the deacon Peter he spoke of his nostalgia for the spiritual aspirations of his youth. Peter noted what a pity it was that there were no models of Christian perfection from their own time and country. Mosts saints seemed, somehow, to be either foreign, long dead, or both.
Gregory rose to the challenge, for he knew of outstanding witnesses. And so, in order to counter barbarism, he began to draw a series of portraits of Christ as he had revealed himself in the lives of men and women with whom readers could identify.
In our day, Lombards present no great cause for anxiety. But barbarian forces are nonetheless close at hand: we ascertain this daily.
To renew our society we need more than just re-budgeting and larger prisons. We need a new sense of purpose, a new unifying energy; we need men and women whose goodness of life makes us want to be like them. We might follow Gregory’s example and seek out saints of our own time, Christians who have followed Christ in the world as we know it, not in an idealised past.
Inspired by their example, strengthened by their prayers, we shall gain courage to walk as they walked. Then, who knows, perhaps we can restore hope to our world, so tired of today, so afraid of tomorrow?
Seventeenth-century portrait of St Gregory the Great by an unknown painter.
Orin O’Brien
Molly O’Brien’s film about her aunt Orin, the first woman member of the New York Philharmonic, produced when the legendary double bassist was 88 (though she comes across, quite naturally, as been fifty-something) is a marvel — don’t mind its being on Netflix and sponsored by The Secular Society. It gives you a compelling account of a life convincingly lived with passion, vulnerability, and disarming self-irony. Orin would tell her students to treasure the sound of their instruments, ‘but if there’s anything else you enjoy as much as playing the bass, by all means, do it’. That’s good vocational discernment. Looking back, she offers her ‘theory of how to enjoy your life incredibly’: the secret is not to ‘mind playing second fiddle’, loving what you do so much that you do it for its own sake, never mind whether or not you get rapturous applause.
Desert Fathers 37
You can find this episode in video format here – a dedicated page – and pick it up in audio wherever you listen to podcasts. On YouTube, the full range of episodes can be found here.
Abba Antony heard of a young monk who had performed a wondrous sign on the road. Having seen two elders travelling and suffering hardship on the road, he had commanded donkeys to come and carry them until they would reach him. It was the two elders themselves who told Antony about this. He said to them: ‘This monk seems to me like a ship full of all sorts of goods, but I am not sure it will reach the harbour.’ Then, after some time had passed, Abba Antony all of a sudden began to weep and pull out his hair and lament. His disciples asked him: ‘Abba, why are you weeping?’ The elder said: ‘A great pillar of the Church has fallen now.’ He was referring to the young monk. ‘But go and see him’, he said, ‘to find out what has happened.’ So the disciples went off and found the monk sitting on his rush mat bewailing the sin he had committed. When he saw the elder’s disciples, he said to them: ‘Tell the elder to beseech God that he might give me just ten days to prepare my defence and repent.’ Within five days he was dead.
Much is implicit in this story. Two old monks are on their way to visit a younger monk for some reason. The younger monk realised (whether by means of a vision or some other form of insight) that the travellers were struggling, wearied by fatigue and heat and dust. He commandeered a couple of donkeys to go and meet them, a considerate act. It lets us see that he was well advanced in spiritual life: not only had he faculties to pick up what was going on at a distance; he had, like unfallen Adam, a ready understanding with the animal kingdom, a motif regularly used in the desert literature to show that a particular person is being restored to know humanity’s prelapsarian potential.
All this is admirable and edifying, showing grace at work. The young monk, however, blew it. When the elders arrived and told him, we can imagine with what rapture, of the obliging donkeys, their host just could not help letting slip, ‘Oh yes, I know — that was me.’ The elders, pure-hearted men, no doubt, thought nothing of this remark. They were just amazed by what had happened. Not so Antony, that incomparable knower of the ruses with which earnest friends of God are confronted. When the old fellows told him their story he said about the donkey-whisperer, genially but shrewdly, that he was ‘like a ship full of all sorts of goods’ — a man, that is, singularly gifted and graced. Would that ship, though, reach the shore? Antony had doubts. The young monk’s penchant for vainglory made him vulnerable to sudden crashes with icebergs.
Such a one duly occurred. This time it is Antony’s turn to intuit something going on at a distance. Notice his immediate, sharp distress. He starts to act extravagantly, like a prophet of old, shedding tears and wailing while pulling out his hair. When his disciples ask what troubles him so he provides them with a telling image: ‘A great pillar of the Church has fallen now.’ Earlier he had spoken of the charismatic youngster as a ship ploughing the sea, a joyous, dynamic turn of phrase. Now he calls him a fallen pillar, calling to mind the dilapidation of which Egypt, home to the ruins of many a grandiose scheme, was full: Antony, remember, had squatted for years in a derelict fort.
When Antony’s disciples go to find out what had happened, they find the young man caught in the sort of predicament Antony had foretold, the kind that causes ships with precious cargo to sink. Wherein his fall consisted we do not know. That does not matter. We can imagine its species. Vanity seduces us to think we are beyond certain kinds of temptations, particularly those that haunt newcomers to the spiritual life: the ones that lure us sensually, a stage the self-avowed mystic is sure to have passed well beyond. The assumption is foolish.
If there is one thing that strikes us to the point of nausea when we consider famous, once highly esteemed spiritual teachers and founders who, within living memory, have come tumbling down from their pedestals, is it not precisely the lurid nature of their betrayals? Again and again we have found men and women who for decades had spoken sublimely, spurring others on to the pursuit of perfection, caught in webs of tawdry reliance on creature comforts, money, affective manipulation, even sexual abuse. Sometimes these people have been conscious of living a lie. Sometimes they have been unfit to see the contradiction, as if their constructed status as elect persons had placed them beyond normal human and Christian norms.
The young man in the story is not like this. He repents. Foremost in his mind is the thought of God’s judgement, which awaits him. He implores Antony to pray that he might be given sufficient time ‘to prepare his defence’, a possible rendering of a Greek verb constructed on the noun apologia, not necessarily a self-justification, but a placing of a given course of action in context, in order that it might be better understood, perhaps more mercifully judged. The young man asks for ten days to get ready. After five he dies. This lets us presume that his repentance was effective, making him ready to confront his Maker.
It will help us steer a straight course past certain alluring Siren calls if we recall that we shall confront him, too.
Van Gogh, Sketch of a Donkey (ca. 1890)
Abba Antony heard of a young monk who had performed a wondrous sign on the road. Having seen two elders travelling and suffering hardship on the road, he had commanded donkeys to come and carry them until they would reach him. It was the two elders themselves who told Antony about this. He said to them: ‘This monk seems to me like a ship full of all sorts of goods, but I am not sure it will reach the harbour.’ Then, after some time had passed, Abba Antony all of a sudden began to weep and pull out his hair and lament. His disciples asked him: ‘Abba, why are you weeping?’ The elder said: ‘A great pillar of the Church has fallen now.’ He was referring to the young monk. ‘But go and see him’, he said, ‘to find out what has happened.’ So the disciples went off and found the monk sitting on his rush mat bewailing the sin he had committed. When he saw the elder’s disciples, he said to them: ‘Tell the elder to beseech God that he might give me just ten days to prepare my defence and repent.’ Within five days he was dead.
Much is implicit in this story. Two old monks are on their way to visit a younger monk for some reason. The younger monk realised (whether by means of a vision or some other form of insight) that the travellers were struggling, wearied by fatigue and heat and dust. He commandeered a couple of donkeys to go and meet them, a considerate act. It lets us see that he was well advanced in spiritual life: not only had he faculties to pick up what was going on at a distance; he had, like unfallen Adam, a ready understanding with the animal kingdom, a motif regularly used in the desert literature to show that a particular person is being restored to know humanity’s prelapsarian potential.
All this is admirable and edifying, showing grace at work. The young monk, however, blew it. When the elders arrived and told him, we can imagine with what rapture, of the obliging donkeys, their host just could not help letting slip, ‘Oh yes, I know — that was me.’ The elders, pure-hearted men, no doubt, thought nothing of this remark. They were just amazed by what had happened. Not so Antony, that incomparable knower of the ruses with which earnest friends of God are confronted. When the old fellows told him their story he said about the donkey-whisperer, genially but shrewdly, that he was ‘like a ship full of all sorts of goods’ — a man, that is, singularly gifted and graced. Would that ship, though, reach the shore? Antony had doubts. The young monk’s penchant for vainglory made him vulnerable to sudden crashes with icebergs.
Such a one duly occurred. This time it is Antony’s turn to intuit something going on at a distance. Notice his immediate, sharp distress. He starts to act extravagantly, like a prophet of old, shedding tears and wailing while pulling out his hair. When his disciples ask what troubles him so he provides them with a telling image: ‘A great pillar of the Church has fallen now.’ Earlier he had spoken of the charismatic youngster as a ship ploughing the sea, a joyous, dynamic turn of phrase. Now he calls him a fallen pillar, calling to mind the dilapidation of which Egypt, home to the ruins of many a grandiose scheme, was full: Antony, remember, had squatted for years in a derelict fort.
When Antony’s disciples go to find out what had happened, they find the young man caught in the sort of predicament Antony had foretold, the kind that causes ships with precious cargo to sink. Wherein his fall consisted we do not know. That does not matter. We can imagine its species. Vanity seduces us to think we are beyond certain kinds of temptations, particularly those that haunt newcomers to the spiritual life: the ones that lure us sensually, a stage the self-avowed mystic is sure to have passed well beyond. The assumption is foolish.
If there is one thing that strikes us to the point of nausea when we consider famous, once highly esteemed spiritual teachers and founders who, within living memory, have come tumbling down from their pedestals, is it not precisely the lurid nature of their betrayals? Again and again we have found men and women who for decades had spoken sublimely, spurring others on to the pursuit of perfection, caught in webs of tawdry reliance on creature comforts, money, affective manipulation, even sexual abuse. Sometimes these people have been conscious of living a lie. Sometimes they have been unfit to see the contradiction, as if their constructed status as elect persons had placed them beyond normal human and Christian norms.
The young man in the story is not like this. He repents. Foremost in his mind is the thought of God’s judgement, which awaits him. He implores Antony to pray that he might be given sufficient time ‘to prepare his defence’, a possible rendering of a Greek verb constructed on the noun apologia, not necessarily a self-justification, but a placing of a given course of action in context, in order that it might be better understood, perhaps more mercifully judged. The young man asks for ten days to get ready. After five he dies. This lets us presume that his repentance was effective, making him ready to confront his Maker.
It will help us steer a straight course past certain alluring Siren calls if we recall that we shall confront him, too.
Van Gogh, Sketch of a Donkey (ca. 1890)
Augmenting Religion
This talk was given to introduce and open the autumn plenary session of the Nordic Bishops’ Conference held in Rome 1-5 September.
As we embark on this plenary session here in the city, close to the Apostle’s tomb, we are drawn by the grace of Jubilee to affirm our determined hopefulness as Christ’s ministers in union with Peter. We wish to be true to the exhortation St Peter voices at the end of his First Epistle (5.2), when he tells the Church’s shepherds to tend their flocks ‘willingly, not grudgingly’, and to delight in service, conscious that whatever task we undertake, be it tedious and hard, is somehow service of God — so, liturgy — with effective potential to sanctify both us and the people entrusted to our care.
Liturgically, we are in Week XXII of Ordinary Time. By way of introduction to our work during these days, I should like to share three simple reflections on the collect set for this week. The Church offers it to us as a framework for our encounter.
In English it runs like this:
God of might, giver of every good gift, put into our hearts the love of your name, so that, by deepening our sense of reverence, you may nurture in us what is good and, by your watchful care, keep safe what you have nurtured.
In Latin:
Deus virtutum, cuius est totum quod est optimum, insere pectoribus nostris tui nominis amorem, et præsta, ut in nobis, religionis augmento, quæ sunt bona nutrias, ac, vigilanti studio, quæ sunt nutrita custodias.
The prayer begins with the phrase, Deus virtutum. The translation renders it ‘God of might’, but that is insufficient, really. Virtus can equally mean ‘virtue’. The point is: there can be no true strength devoid of virtue; even as virtue is strong, be it in the midst of fragility. The media often speak of ‘shows of strength’, these days, when they report on the interaction of superpowers or on the violence of ongoing conflicts, of which two in particular, Russia’s war of aggression in Ukraine and Israel’s siege of Gaza, launched in reaction to the gruesome attacks of 7 October 2023, occupy us day and night. Might deployed as sheer strategy intoxicates, blinds, and poisons. It generates cycles of hatred. What a task we have to insist on the possibility of virtue in politics — that delicate art of enabling productive coexistence of peoples, groups, and individuals who live with the legacy of Cain’s fratricide. The Church must speak of this with clarity; above all, she must bear witness to virtue and its transforming power. When Cardinal Schuster lay dying in August 1954, he told a group of seminarians come to see him: ‘It seems that people do not any longer let themselves be convinced by our preaching, but in the presence of holiness, they still believe, they still kneel and pray.’ The call to holiness was, I’d say, of all the strongest note struck by Vatican II, resounding like a gong throughout its deliberations. It must equally stay at the heart of our episcopal charge as an imperative first addressed to ourselves, thus to be conveyed ‘with authority’ (Mt 7.29) to others. Only the new humanity which Christ, risen from the dead, enables can save our world; the Old Adam, left to himself, is still set on a path of ravaging and self-destruction.
The second aspect of the collect I wish to bring out is one we might overlook in translation. In Latin we ask God, to whom all that is best, optimum, belongs, to nurture what is good in us and to keep safe what he nurtures by means of religionis augmentum. The phrase merits attention. To speak, as the English Missal does, of ‘deepened reverence’ is right, but is that all ‘religion’ means? The Fathers deduced religio from religare: ‘to bind together’. The religious woman or man is a person trained to see wholeness where others see fragmentation, who is sensitive to patterns of purposed meaningfulness where the non-religious suspect nothing but chance. Our society in the West has with breakneck speed, within a generation, reached a tacit agreement that any collective pursuit of meaning is a lost cause. This is not just a matter of concern for intellectuals who like to analyse cultural trends so as to moan over them. No, it touches our personal lives with eery concreteness. The eclipse of the notion that life is meaningful, and thereby worthy of reverence, erodes our sense that lives, especially vulnerable lives, must be protected, and that such a pact of protection is what founds society. It is a bitter paradox that Norway, for example, last year rejoiced in the millenium of a Christian code of law that outlawed the murder of infants, recognised in 1024 as personal subjects, not anyone’s possession, while at the same time applying new legislation on so-called reproductive health with explicitly dehumanising character. The increased acceptance worldwide of euthanasia, now accounting for one in twenty deaths in Canada, reflects the same tendency from a different angle, nibbling away at a view of life as an inalienable, infinitely precious good. The loss of the body’s significance, meanwhile, has led to perplexities and anguish that just decades ago would have seemed unthinkable. I happen to believe that a similar tendency accounts for the weakening, in many of our countries, of the body politic: if that body carries no meaning, has no intrinsic purpose, what is there to hold it together except crude dynamics of pleasure, fear, and gain.
In the midst of such chaos, the collect’s stress on ‘augmentation of religion’ takes on new importance. It invites us to seek an overview of things, to explore how they fit together, and how, together, they might be helped to thrive. For Catholics, this exercise in religion applies, too, to the balancing of different aspects of faith, lest we become so exclusively focused on combat for a single issue that we get distracted when iniquities in other areas occur. It is evident: ethical priorities are exploited by cynical political agents in search of votes, concessions, or a few turned blind eyes. While we try to be innocent as doves, we must not forget, in the present climate, that the Lord likewise counselled the cunning of serpents (Mt 10.16).
As Catholics we are well prepared for present struggles. We have a cogent, beautiful language with which to speak of life both as struggle and exultation. Our faith in the Body of Christ enables a perspective at once sublime and realistic on our own flesh. Our experience of communion shows us what society has the potential to become. We must simply train ourselves to see things for what they are and what they have the potential to become. What, in the logic of the collect, enables a true perspective on reality is ‘love of [the divine] name.’ That name, ineffably revealed to Moses as Presence in the Burning Bush, assumed flesh in our Saviour, Jesus, whose name means ‘God saves’. May consciousness that he does indeed, and that his saving will surrounds us now with every bit as much power and virtue as it ever did in the past, guide our deliberations this week and make them fruitful.
+fr Erik Varden
President of the Nordic Bishops’ Conference
As we embark on this plenary session here in the city, close to the Apostle’s tomb, we are drawn by the grace of Jubilee to affirm our determined hopefulness as Christ’s ministers in union with Peter. We wish to be true to the exhortation St Peter voices at the end of his First Epistle (5.2), when he tells the Church’s shepherds to tend their flocks ‘willingly, not grudgingly’, and to delight in service, conscious that whatever task we undertake, be it tedious and hard, is somehow service of God — so, liturgy — with effective potential to sanctify both us and the people entrusted to our care.
Liturgically, we are in Week XXII of Ordinary Time. By way of introduction to our work during these days, I should like to share three simple reflections on the collect set for this week. The Church offers it to us as a framework for our encounter.
In English it runs like this:
God of might, giver of every good gift, put into our hearts the love of your name, so that, by deepening our sense of reverence, you may nurture in us what is good and, by your watchful care, keep safe what you have nurtured.
In Latin:
Deus virtutum, cuius est totum quod est optimum, insere pectoribus nostris tui nominis amorem, et præsta, ut in nobis, religionis augmento, quæ sunt bona nutrias, ac, vigilanti studio, quæ sunt nutrita custodias.
The prayer begins with the phrase, Deus virtutum. The translation renders it ‘God of might’, but that is insufficient, really. Virtus can equally mean ‘virtue’. The point is: there can be no true strength devoid of virtue; even as virtue is strong, be it in the midst of fragility. The media often speak of ‘shows of strength’, these days, when they report on the interaction of superpowers or on the violence of ongoing conflicts, of which two in particular, Russia’s war of aggression in Ukraine and Israel’s siege of Gaza, launched in reaction to the gruesome attacks of 7 October 2023, occupy us day and night. Might deployed as sheer strategy intoxicates, blinds, and poisons. It generates cycles of hatred. What a task we have to insist on the possibility of virtue in politics — that delicate art of enabling productive coexistence of peoples, groups, and individuals who live with the legacy of Cain’s fratricide. The Church must speak of this with clarity; above all, she must bear witness to virtue and its transforming power. When Cardinal Schuster lay dying in August 1954, he told a group of seminarians come to see him: ‘It seems that people do not any longer let themselves be convinced by our preaching, but in the presence of holiness, they still believe, they still kneel and pray.’ The call to holiness was, I’d say, of all the strongest note struck by Vatican II, resounding like a gong throughout its deliberations. It must equally stay at the heart of our episcopal charge as an imperative first addressed to ourselves, thus to be conveyed ‘with authority’ (Mt 7.29) to others. Only the new humanity which Christ, risen from the dead, enables can save our world; the Old Adam, left to himself, is still set on a path of ravaging and self-destruction.
The second aspect of the collect I wish to bring out is one we might overlook in translation. In Latin we ask God, to whom all that is best, optimum, belongs, to nurture what is good in us and to keep safe what he nurtures by means of religionis augmentum. The phrase merits attention. To speak, as the English Missal does, of ‘deepened reverence’ is right, but is that all ‘religion’ means? The Fathers deduced religio from religare: ‘to bind together’. The religious woman or man is a person trained to see wholeness where others see fragmentation, who is sensitive to patterns of purposed meaningfulness where the non-religious suspect nothing but chance. Our society in the West has with breakneck speed, within a generation, reached a tacit agreement that any collective pursuit of meaning is a lost cause. This is not just a matter of concern for intellectuals who like to analyse cultural trends so as to moan over them. No, it touches our personal lives with eery concreteness. The eclipse of the notion that life is meaningful, and thereby worthy of reverence, erodes our sense that lives, especially vulnerable lives, must be protected, and that such a pact of protection is what founds society. It is a bitter paradox that Norway, for example, last year rejoiced in the millenium of a Christian code of law that outlawed the murder of infants, recognised in 1024 as personal subjects, not anyone’s possession, while at the same time applying new legislation on so-called reproductive health with explicitly dehumanising character. The increased acceptance worldwide of euthanasia, now accounting for one in twenty deaths in Canada, reflects the same tendency from a different angle, nibbling away at a view of life as an inalienable, infinitely precious good. The loss of the body’s significance, meanwhile, has led to perplexities and anguish that just decades ago would have seemed unthinkable. I happen to believe that a similar tendency accounts for the weakening, in many of our countries, of the body politic: if that body carries no meaning, has no intrinsic purpose, what is there to hold it together except crude dynamics of pleasure, fear, and gain.
In the midst of such chaos, the collect’s stress on ‘augmentation of religion’ takes on new importance. It invites us to seek an overview of things, to explore how they fit together, and how, together, they might be helped to thrive. For Catholics, this exercise in religion applies, too, to the balancing of different aspects of faith, lest we become so exclusively focused on combat for a single issue that we get distracted when iniquities in other areas occur. It is evident: ethical priorities are exploited by cynical political agents in search of votes, concessions, or a few turned blind eyes. While we try to be innocent as doves, we must not forget, in the present climate, that the Lord likewise counselled the cunning of serpents (Mt 10.16).
As Catholics we are well prepared for present struggles. We have a cogent, beautiful language with which to speak of life both as struggle and exultation. Our faith in the Body of Christ enables a perspective at once sublime and realistic on our own flesh. Our experience of communion shows us what society has the potential to become. We must simply train ourselves to see things for what they are and what they have the potential to become. What, in the logic of the collect, enables a true perspective on reality is ‘love of [the divine] name.’ That name, ineffably revealed to Moses as Presence in the Burning Bush, assumed flesh in our Saviour, Jesus, whose name means ‘God saves’. May consciousness that he does indeed, and that his saving will surrounds us now with every bit as much power and virtue as it ever did in the past, guide our deliberations this week and make them fruitful.
+fr Erik Varden
President of the Nordic Bishops’ Conference
Letter on Election
Norway is getting ready for a parliamentary election on 8 September. To assist preparation, the Council of Norwegian Bishops has produced a pastoral letter which was read out at all Masses throughout the country today. You can find the text below:
Praised be Jesus Christ!
1. Norway will soon hold elections to parliament. We are called to choose representatives who will govern our country for the next four years on our behalf and for the common good. Voting is not only a right; it is a demanding and weighty duty.
(Prayer for the election)
2. Every serious decision should be brought to God in prayer. That includes how we cast our vote in parliamentary elections. Let us therefore ask for the Holy Spirit’s light and help: «Come, Thou Holy Spirit, come! / And from Thy celestial home / Shed a ray of light divine! » (Pentecost Sequence). Let us also pray that those elected to parliament may serve our fatherland faithfully and conscientiously.
(Purpose of the pastoral letter)
3. As your bishops, we wish to share a few thoughts with you before the election. They arise from the Church’s social teaching, which is grounded in our holy faith and in reason, and which concerns the human person and life in society.
4. It is not our role as bishops to tell you how to vote. Our hope is rather that the basic principles we outline here will aid your own discernment about which party to support. As we seek God’s guidance, we should also take counsel from the Church’s teaching.
(Our shared responsibility for society)
5. Our Lord’s command of charity obliges us, as Catholics, to work for a good and just society. Though Catholics are few in Norway, we may not disclaim our shared responsibility, either for society or for the well-being of our neighbor. We therefore consider it especially important that all eligible Catholic voters make use of their vote and weigh their choices carefully before election day.
6. The Church teaches that the lay faithful have the distinctive vocation to «seek the kingdom of God by engaging in temporal affairs and by ordering them according to the plan of God» (Lumen Gentium 31). Responsible, creative political engagement is one way to live this call and to contribute to society’s authentic development. As bishops, we hope more of the faithful will embrace such engagement in the years ahead.
(Human life and dignity)
7. Human life and human dignity, from conception to natural death, are God’s gift and are inviolable. No person – whether an unborn child, the incurably ill, a newly arrived refugee, or a victim of violence or human trafficking – may be set aside or counted of lesser worth than the rich, the powerful, or the famous.
8. We are troubled by the apparent growth of support for euthanasia in our country and among our politicians. All who suffer from pain or illness should receive every form of care we can offer, as should their families and those who look after them. To «help» someone die helps no one.
9. Religious freedom is rooted in human dignity. In a nation like ours, committed to universal human rights, it is essential to ensure that everyone – individually and together with others – can seek faith and live responsibly in accordance with that faith.
(Human communities)
10. As human beings, we are created to live in community with others. True and healthy human communities should mirror the Trinity: the communion of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. The first and most important human community is the family, the cornerstone of society. The family must be protected and strengthened, for it benefits every member and the whole of society.
11. A good and just society is built through durable, well-considered measures. Such measures emerge from political discourse – both in parliament and in public life – guided by reason, integrity, and a willingness to cooperate. Let us be vigilant when offered seemingly simple fixes to very complex social and political problems. Such fixes are easily superficial and can make matters worse.
12. Our shared responsibility for our neighbor does not end at Norway’s borders. It is not enough that we ourselves are comfortable and have all we need. Work for the common good cannot cease until all people – the entire human family – live in peace and security, with food on the table and a roof overhead. In a world marked by war, fear, and uncertainty, our nation should build upon and expand Norway’s extensive service for the world and in the world. We must beware of becoming self-satisfied and turned in on ourselves.
(Care for the poor)
13. The Lord drew especially close to the poor. As his disciples, so must we. Poverty in its many forms is spreading, even in our welfare state. Each year we hear of people who cannot afford heat in winter or food at Christmas, and of children left out because family means are insufficient for school or leisure activities. Many – especially among the elderly – also suffer crushing loneliness. These and other forms of poverty are intolerable. It is incumbent upon us as Christians to bring about change. We expect the incoming parliament to assume greater responsibility for those who struggle in our midst and for those in need beyond our borders.
(Conclusion)
14. St. Olav, Norway’s eternal king, helped found our country upon the values of the Gospel, upon the message and example of Jesus Christ. At this election, let each of us recognize our responsibility to build upon the saint-king’s work.
May the almighty and merciful God bless you all!
Given for the 22nd Sunday in Ordinary Time
30 – 31 August 2025
+Erik Varden +Fredrik Hansen
Oscar Wergeland, Eidsvold 1814 – Norway’s perhaps most famous painting, depicting the constitutional assembly.
Praised be Jesus Christ!
1. Norway will soon hold elections to parliament. We are called to choose representatives who will govern our country for the next four years on our behalf and for the common good. Voting is not only a right; it is a demanding and weighty duty.
(Prayer for the election)
2. Every serious decision should be brought to God in prayer. That includes how we cast our vote in parliamentary elections. Let us therefore ask for the Holy Spirit’s light and help: «Come, Thou Holy Spirit, come! / And from Thy celestial home / Shed a ray of light divine! » (Pentecost Sequence). Let us also pray that those elected to parliament may serve our fatherland faithfully and conscientiously.
(Purpose of the pastoral letter)
3. As your bishops, we wish to share a few thoughts with you before the election. They arise from the Church’s social teaching, which is grounded in our holy faith and in reason, and which concerns the human person and life in society.
4. It is not our role as bishops to tell you how to vote. Our hope is rather that the basic principles we outline here will aid your own discernment about which party to support. As we seek God’s guidance, we should also take counsel from the Church’s teaching.
(Our shared responsibility for society)
5. Our Lord’s command of charity obliges us, as Catholics, to work for a good and just society. Though Catholics are few in Norway, we may not disclaim our shared responsibility, either for society or for the well-being of our neighbor. We therefore consider it especially important that all eligible Catholic voters make use of their vote and weigh their choices carefully before election day.
6. The Church teaches that the lay faithful have the distinctive vocation to «seek the kingdom of God by engaging in temporal affairs and by ordering them according to the plan of God» (Lumen Gentium 31). Responsible, creative political engagement is one way to live this call and to contribute to society’s authentic development. As bishops, we hope more of the faithful will embrace such engagement in the years ahead.
(Human life and dignity)
7. Human life and human dignity, from conception to natural death, are God’s gift and are inviolable. No person – whether an unborn child, the incurably ill, a newly arrived refugee, or a victim of violence or human trafficking – may be set aside or counted of lesser worth than the rich, the powerful, or the famous.
8. We are troubled by the apparent growth of support for euthanasia in our country and among our politicians. All who suffer from pain or illness should receive every form of care we can offer, as should their families and those who look after them. To «help» someone die helps no one.
9. Religious freedom is rooted in human dignity. In a nation like ours, committed to universal human rights, it is essential to ensure that everyone – individually and together with others – can seek faith and live responsibly in accordance with that faith.
(Human communities)
10. As human beings, we are created to live in community with others. True and healthy human communities should mirror the Trinity: the communion of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. The first and most important human community is the family, the cornerstone of society. The family must be protected and strengthened, for it benefits every member and the whole of society.
11. A good and just society is built through durable, well-considered measures. Such measures emerge from political discourse – both in parliament and in public life – guided by reason, integrity, and a willingness to cooperate. Let us be vigilant when offered seemingly simple fixes to very complex social and political problems. Such fixes are easily superficial and can make matters worse.
12. Our shared responsibility for our neighbor does not end at Norway’s borders. It is not enough that we ourselves are comfortable and have all we need. Work for the common good cannot cease until all people – the entire human family – live in peace and security, with food on the table and a roof overhead. In a world marked by war, fear, and uncertainty, our nation should build upon and expand Norway’s extensive service for the world and in the world. We must beware of becoming self-satisfied and turned in on ourselves.
(Care for the poor)
13. The Lord drew especially close to the poor. As his disciples, so must we. Poverty in its many forms is spreading, even in our welfare state. Each year we hear of people who cannot afford heat in winter or food at Christmas, and of children left out because family means are insufficient for school or leisure activities. Many – especially among the elderly – also suffer crushing loneliness. These and other forms of poverty are intolerable. It is incumbent upon us as Christians to bring about change. We expect the incoming parliament to assume greater responsibility for those who struggle in our midst and for those in need beyond our borders.
(Conclusion)
14. St. Olav, Norway’s eternal king, helped found our country upon the values of the Gospel, upon the message and example of Jesus Christ. At this election, let each of us recognize our responsibility to build upon the saint-king’s work.
May the almighty and merciful God bless you all!
Given for the 22nd Sunday in Ordinary Time
30 – 31 August 2025
+Erik Varden +Fredrik Hansen
Oscar Wergeland, Eidsvold 1814 – Norway’s perhaps most famous painting, depicting the constitutional assembly.