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Drawing People into the Very Mystery of Christ Himself
Of St. Ambrose’s many written works, his On the Mysteries and Treatise on the Sacraments are unique in that they are, principally, catechetical lectures intended for those who are converting to Christianity and seeking baptism. While the practice of bishops personally offering catechetical instruction to new converts may seem unusual to us today, it was a common occurrence in the early Church; St. Cyril, bishop of Jerusalem and also a revered Doctor of the Church, stands out as another example of this ancient practice.
Rather than making for dry reading, there is a great poeticism and tenderness with which Ambrose approaches his pupils in these catechetical lectures. Ambrose realizes that he is not simply imparting information, but drawing people into the very mystery of Christ Himself. Thus, Ambrose’s teaching in these works is mystagogical: he does not seek to teach mere “facts” about Christ and His Church (though his works do accomplish this)—rather, he desires to impart something of his own zeal and love of the Christian faith to those he is instructing.
Nowhere is this more apparent than in Ambrose’s teaching on the Eucharist. After explaining the manifold significance of baptismal washing, together with the anointing of Confirmation, Ambrose seeks to invite his flock into the very heart of the Church’s worship by explaining the meaning of the Mass and the Eucharistic sacrifice. While meditating upon the Lord’s Prayer, he answers a question that, no doubt, many a Christian has pondered: Why is it that, during the Mass, we still refer to the Eucharist as “bread” in the prayers of the Church? If we truly believe that the bread has already been miraculously transformed on the altar, why do we not say “give us this day the Body of Christ” during the Lord’s Prayer?
Ambrose explains that the Greek word epiousion means two things. First and foremost, it means “super-substantial”—that is, it is “super-natural” or “beyond all substance.” By referring to the Eucharist as “super-substantial bread,” Ambrose argues, we do not deny that the Eucharist is the true Body of Christ; in fact, by asking the Lord for super-substantial bread, we explicitly affirm our faith in the Eucharist as we ask not for “the kind of bread which passes into the body, but that ‘Bread of eternal Life’ which supports the substance of our soul.”
The second meaning of the word epiousion, as Ambrose explains, is “daily.” However, this meaning is not literal, but rather symbolic: it refers to the expression used by Greek Christians to refer to “the coming day” of Christ. And so the Church, in praying the Lord’s Prayer, does not ask for mere bread, but for super-substantial, life-giving bread; and She asks that God give this bread to Her daily.
St. Ambrose then, after meditating upon this deep truth, challenges his hearers and exhorts them to a form of Eucharistic devotion which should not be unfamiliar to us: “If this is indeed daily bread, then why do you take it only once a year? Take daily what profits you daily! Live your lives such that you may deserve to receive it daily!” Here, Ambrose recommends not only taking the Eucharist daily, but also living well so that we are free to receive it daily. Though the Church maintains that Catholics should (at minimum) receive the Eucharist once a year, Ambrose warns: “Whoever does not deserve to receive daily does not deserve to receive once a year.”
Such a claim, if it seems harsh, ought to be heavily considered: If we are unwilling to receive the Eucharist daily, why is this the case? Is it because we have legitimate duties and circumstances that would make daily Mass infeasible for us, or is it because we are secretly unwilling to heed Ambrose’s admonition to “live your lives such that you may deserve to receive it daily”?
Ambrose concludes this meditation by considering the example of Job, who “offered daily sacrifice for his sons, in case they had sinned in heart or word.” The Catechism of the Catholic Church (paras. 1362–1372; 1382–1395) reminds us that the Eucharist is truly a sacrifice—and as a sacrifice, the reception of the Eucharist unites us with Christ and forgives us of our venial sins. Thus, this daily and super-substantial Bread is, like the sacrifice of Job, able to forgive us of those small sins and imperfections which we may accrue throughout our day. Because of this, Ambrose compares the Eucharist to a form of medicine which we need daily: “He who has a wound needs medicine; our wound is sin, and the medicine is this heavenly and venerable Sacrament.”This daily medicine for our souls can then heal and preserve us from all forms of sin—especially grave and mortal sins, which must be taken to the Sacrament of Confession.
This is but a small example of the deep Eucharistic piety that can be found in St. Ambrose’s On the Mysteries and Treatise on the Sacraments. These texts are wonderfully accessible meditations on the worship of the Church, and would make wonderful spiritual reading for Lent, an Adoration hour, or those looking for a glimpse at the unity of the Church’s worship across the centuries. During this National Eucharistic Revival, may God grant that we all come to as deep a love and reverence for the Blessed Sacrament as St. Ambrose so dearly wished to impart to his own spiritual flock.
St. Ambrose of Milan, pray for us!
Cervantes and the Vice of Curiosity
In El Curioso Impertinente—“The Curious-Impertinent”—we meet Anselmo and Lothario, two dear friends since birth, close enough to be called “The Two Friends of Florence” by all who knew them. Anselmo, of a romantic nature, was always enamored of love and poetry, and so won the hand of one of the most beautiful and virtuous women of Florence, Camilla. Lothario, for his part, was a more practical man and devoted himself to study, hunting, and cultivating his administrative skills.
But soon, Anselmo becomes restless in his security, and begins to wonder how secure he truly is in his relationship with Camilla. As Anselmo confides his woes to Lothario, he expresses that he has been consumed by one question: whether Camilla’s chastity is by virtue of her inward moral purity, or simply the product of circumstance. Anselmo fears whether, if given the chance, Camilla would betray him and run off with another man. To satisfy his curiosity, and to assuage his fears, he asks Lothario for a favor: that Lothario try to seduce Camilla.
It is easy to imagine how Anselmo’s curiosity—along with his determination to satisfy it—ends up costing him dearly. What is less obvious is how much our own ill-tempered appetites for useless or harmful knowledge end up costing us. In an age saturated with smartphone notifications, clickbait, and social media, it may not seem apparent to us that we’ve become slaves to our curiosity.
St. Augustine, in Book 10 of his Confessions, laments our tendency to seek knowledge that is grotesque, harmful, or useless. “What pleasure is there to see, in a lacerated corpse, that which makes one shudder? And yet if it lie near, we flock there to be made sad and turn pale.” He goes on to explain that such knowledge has no use to it, and provides us with no benefit, spiritual or otherwise. “How many minute and contemptible things daily tempt our curiosity? And who can number the times we have succumbed? […] When this heart of ours is made the receptacle of these crowds of vanities, our prayers are often interrupted and disturbed by them.” By allowing our curiosity to run wild even some of the time, we unwittingly invite the distractions of idle thoughts and meaningless “wonderings” when we ought to be focusing the most—at work, with our families, and when praying at home or in the Mass.
El Curioso Impertinente, written during the Catholic Counter-Reformation, has proven to be prophetic. “Remove not the ancient boundary which your fathers have set” (Prov. 22:28). Cervantes saw, in his own time, the consequences of heedlessly pushing the boundaries against authority in the name of “knowledge” or “freedom.” Ever since then, Western society has been marked by curiosity (and its sister vice, acedia or “spiritual slothfulness”). From the Enlightenment’s proud champions of an anti-Catholic “science” and politics to today’s champions of sexual and gender experimentation, many of our sorrows can be traced back to the question, “Did God really say…?”
Some questions are not worth asking, and some ideas are too dangerous to entertain. Just as we must mortify our flesh to temper our physical appetites, so too must we control our intellectual appetites, and keep our thoughts on higher truths.
St. Jerome: Defender of the Religious Ideal
Of the many saints in the history of the Church, perhaps none have been so influential as St. Jerome. For the past 1,500 years (and even to this day), his Latin Vulgate has formed the spiritual life of the Church in the Mass, the Liturgy of the Hours, and through countless commentaries and devotional works. For these reasons, he was highly esteemed in the Middle Ages, especially as the patron of scriptural studies, but also as one of the “Four Doctors” or “Four Pillars” of the Western Church (along with Sts. Augustine, Ambrose, and Gregory the Great).
In more recent times, however, St. Jerome has been regarded as a bit too “rough around the edges”—a sort of “Oscar the Grouch” of Christianity. Of course, Jerome had such a reputation during his own time; his exacting critical methods, the harsh critiques of others’ work, and his passionate zeal for correcting erroneous scriptural passages won him many enemies. Even his correspondence with the great St. Augustine is, in many places, layered with varying degrees of tension and apparent strife. To many, Jerome can come across as (and is sometimes politely dismissed as) something of a “crabby old man.”
Such an appraisal, in my estimation, is far from accurate. Though blunt and (at times) quite forceful in his argumentation, St. Jerome has a far different side to him; this is most especially seen in his letters to women, or his consolatory letters to friends grieving loved ones. In such letters, we find a remarkable tenderness as Jerome conveys his affection for his friends, always seeking to direct them to God. In true priestly fashion, we see that Jerome is quite ready to adapt his tone, style, and diction to the particular needs of his audience; the staff to guide a wandering sheep, the rod to rebuke the prowling wolves. In some cases, however, even the sheep need the rod—such was the case with the young Heliodorus.
A promising novice whom Jerome knew, Heliodorus had decided to abandon his monastic vows and return to his secular life in Rome. St. Jerome, in his letter, begins by expressing his sorrow at Heliodorus’s departure, and recounting his deliberation about how to best express himself. But Jerome quickly passes over the pleasantries: “Offended love does well to be angry. You have spurned my petition; perhaps you will listen to my remonstrance. What keeps you, effeminate soldier, in your father's house?” Harsh words, perhaps—but they match the gravity of Heliodorus’s sin.
Jerome chastises Heliodorus for “abandoning his post” as an “enlisted soldier for Christ.” As a professed monk, Heliodorus has publicly promised (to Christ and His Church!) to live a life of penance, asceticism, and prayer. But now he has gone back on his vows—grave matter in any circumstance, but most especially a grave sin when committed against God Himself. So, St. Jerome’s excoriation of Heliodorus is not a result of ill-temper, but is an example of fraternal correction—a stinging antiseptic, but intended to call him to repentance.
Lest we think Jerome heartless, he goes on: “I am not ignorant of the fetters which you may plead as hindrances. My breast is not of iron nor my heart of stone. I was not born of flint or suckled by a tigress. I have passed through troubles like yours myself.” He goes on to recount the many pleas of family, old friends, and familiar folk who so often try to dissuade young novices to abandon their call to religious life. Christ Himself warned, “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the service in the Kingdom of God” (Lk. 9:62). Jerome, speaking to the many who would hold back Heliodorus, echoes Christ’s injunction: “If they believe in Christ let them bid me God-speed, for I go to fight in His name. And if they do not believe, ‘let the dead bury their dead.’”
Jerome’s use of militaristic language may seem to us moderns a bit brash and “extremist”—but recall, Holy Scripture itself is full of such language, throughout the Old Testament into the New, from St. Paul to Revelation—even the words of Christ Himself. To St. Jerome, spiritual warfare is real, and though Heliodorus’s cowardice by no means entails a lost battle for Christ’s Kingdom, it does put Heliodorus at risk of forfeiting the spoils of battle—namely, an inheritance in Heaven.
Far from merely tearing down and belittling Heliodorus for his error, Jerome encourages him and bids him return: “I invite you now; come, and come quickly. Do not call to mind old ties; the desert is for those who have left all. Nor let the hardships of our former travels deter you. You believe in Christ, believe also in His words: ‘Seek ye first the kingdom of God and all these things shall be added unto you.’ Take neither scrip nor staff. He is rich enough who is poor — with Christ. […] My brother, it is affection which has urged me to speak thus; that you who now find the Christian life so hard may have your reward in that day.”
St. Jerome’s Letter 14 (to Heliodorus) provides an excellent window into the mind of the great saint. Throughout his writings, it is evident that much of Jerome’s “prickliness” stems from the fact that he finds many Christians lax in the practice of their faith. After the cessation of Roman persecution, and as it became socially acceptable (and even materially profitable) to become a Christian, mass “conversions” had filled the pure wheat-fields of the Church with so much chaff and tares. With the great “popularization” of Christianity came a general relaxation in the strictness of Christian observance, and many newly-professed Christians came to see the pious examples and ascetical practices of the Desert Fathers as unnecessary to the Christian life.
Such laxity in practice even threatened the purity of Church teaching. In Jerome’s Treatise on the Perpetual Virgin Mary, he responds (quite forcefully) to the heresies of Helvidius, who claimed—contrary to the Church—that Mary did not remain a virgin all her life. In his Against Jovinian, Jerome takes up the pen against Jovinian, who taught—against the words of St. Paul and Christ Himself—that celibacy afforded no advantages to the spiritual life over marriage. After himself emulating the ascetical life of Christ and seeing its benefits in his life (and the lives of the countless others he advised), it is a small wonder that St. Jerome was so zealous to promote the ascetic and monastic lifestyle—one which had served as a powerful model of holiness to Christians (and has for centuries).
If, then, we find St. Jerome’s writings to be “harsh” or “demanding,” we may do well to examine our own preconceptions of the Christian life. Rooted as he is in the biblical text, Jerome never bids us do anything that is not, in some way, contained in Scripture or enjoined directly by Christ. He hardly writes a thought without some reference to the written Tradition of the Church (an example for all of us to follow). His Treatises provide excellent rebuttals to Protestant talking-points, and his Letters contain inestimable treasures of both consolation and exhortation to any who are considering religious life.
The debt that the Church owes St. Jerome is immeasurable, and every faithful Catholic would do well to regard him as a dear friend in faith, a zealous ascetic, and a great defender of the Christian religious ideal.
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Drawing People into the Very Mystery of Christ Himself
Of St. Ambrose’s many written works, his On the Mysteries and Treatise on the Sacraments are unique in that they are, principally, catechetical lectures intended for those who are converting to Christianity and seeking baptism. While the practice of bishops personally offering catechetical instruction to new converts may seem unusual to us today, it was a common occurrence in the early Church; St. Cyril, bishop of Jerusalem and also a revered Doctor of the Church, stands out as another example of this ancient practice.
Rather than making for dry reading, there is a great poeticism and tenderness with which Ambrose approaches his pupils in these catechetical lectures. Ambrose realizes that he is not simply imparting information, but drawing people into the very mystery of Christ Himself. Thus, Ambrose’s teaching in these works is mystagogical: he does not seek to teach mere “facts” about Christ and His Church (though his works do accomplish this)—rather, he desires to impart something of his own zeal and love of the Christian faith to those he is instructing.
Nowhere is this more apparent than in Ambrose’s teaching on the Eucharist. After explaining the manifold significance of baptismal washing, together with the anointing of Confirmation, Ambrose seeks to invite his flock into the very heart of the Church’s worship by explaining the meaning of the Mass and the Eucharistic sacrifice. While meditating upon the Lord’s Prayer, he answers a question that, no doubt, many a Christian has pondered: Why is it that, during the Mass, we still refer to the Eucharist as “bread” in the prayers of the Church? If we truly believe that the bread has already been miraculously transformed on the altar, why do we not say “give us this day the Body of Christ” during the Lord’s Prayer?
Ambrose explains that the Greek word epiousion means two things. First and foremost, it means “super-substantial”—that is, it is “super-natural” or “beyond all substance.” By referring to the Eucharist as “super-substantial bread,” Ambrose argues, we do not deny that the Eucharist is the true Body of Christ; in fact, by asking the Lord for super-substantial bread, we explicitly affirm our faith in the Eucharist as we ask not for “the kind of bread which passes into the body, but that ‘Bread of eternal Life’ which supports the substance of our soul.”
The second meaning of the word epiousion, as Ambrose explains, is “daily.” However, this meaning is not literal, but rather symbolic: it refers to the expression used by Greek Christians to refer to “the coming day” of Christ. And so the Church, in praying the Lord’s Prayer, does not ask for mere bread, but for super-substantial, life-giving bread; and She asks that God give this bread to Her daily.
St. Ambrose then, after meditating upon this deep truth, challenges his hearers and exhorts them to a form of Eucharistic devotion which should not be unfamiliar to us: “If this is indeed daily bread, then why do you take it only once a year? Take daily what profits you daily! Live your lives such that you may deserve to receive it daily!” Here, Ambrose recommends not only taking the Eucharist daily, but also living well so that we are free to receive it daily. Though the Church maintains that Catholics should (at minimum) receive the Eucharist once a year, Ambrose warns: “Whoever does not deserve to receive daily does not deserve to receive once a year.”
Such a claim, if it seems harsh, ought to be heavily considered: If we are unwilling to receive the Eucharist daily, why is this the case? Is it because we have legitimate duties and circumstances that would make daily Mass infeasible for us, or is it because we are secretly unwilling to heed Ambrose’s admonition to “live your lives such that you may deserve to receive it daily”?
Ambrose concludes this meditation by considering the example of Job, who “offered daily sacrifice for his sons, in case they had sinned in heart or word.” The Catechism of the Catholic Church (paras. 1362–1372; 1382–1395) reminds us that the Eucharist is truly a sacrifice—and as a sacrifice, the reception of the Eucharist unites us with Christ and forgives us of our venial sins. Thus, this daily and super-substantial Bread is, like the sacrifice of Job, able to forgive us of those small sins and imperfections which we may accrue throughout our day. Because of this, Ambrose compares the Eucharist to a form of medicine which we need daily: “He who has a wound needs medicine; our wound is sin, and the medicine is this heavenly and venerable Sacrament.”This daily medicine for our souls can then heal and preserve us from all forms of sin—especially grave and mortal sins, which must be taken to the Sacrament of Confession.
This is but a small example of the deep Eucharistic piety that can be found in St. Ambrose’s On the Mysteries and Treatise on the Sacraments. These texts are wonderfully accessible meditations on the worship of the Church, and would make wonderful spiritual reading for Lent, an Adoration hour, or those looking for a glimpse at the unity of the Church’s worship across the centuries. During this National Eucharistic Revival, may God grant that we all come to as deep a love and reverence for the Blessed Sacrament as St. Ambrose so dearly wished to impart to his own spiritual flock.
St. Ambrose of Milan, pray for us!
Cervantes and the Vice of Curiosity
In El Curioso Impertinente—“The Curious-Impertinent”—we meet Anselmo and Lothario, two dear friends since birth, close enough to be called “The Two Friends of Florence” by all who knew them. Anselmo, of a romantic nature, was always enamored of love and poetry, and so won the hand of one of the most beautiful and virtuous women of Florence, Camilla. Lothario, for his part, was a more practical man and devoted himself to study, hunting, and cultivating his administrative skills.
But soon, Anselmo becomes restless in his security, and begins to wonder how secure he truly is in his relationship with Camilla. As Anselmo confides his woes to Lothario, he expresses that he has been consumed by one question: whether Camilla’s chastity is by virtue of her inward moral purity, or simply the product of circumstance. Anselmo fears whether, if given the chance, Camilla would betray him and run off with another man. To satisfy his curiosity, and to assuage his fears, he asks Lothario for a favor: that Lothario try to seduce Camilla.
It is easy to imagine how Anselmo’s curiosity—along with his determination to satisfy it—ends up costing him dearly. What is less obvious is how much our own ill-tempered appetites for useless or harmful knowledge end up costing us. In an age saturated with smartphone notifications, clickbait, and social media, it may not seem apparent to us that we’ve become slaves to our curiosity.
St. Augustine, in Book 10 of his Confessions, laments our tendency to seek knowledge that is grotesque, harmful, or useless. “What pleasure is there to see, in a lacerated corpse, that which makes one shudder? And yet if it lie near, we flock there to be made sad and turn pale.” He goes on to explain that such knowledge has no use to it, and provides us with no benefit, spiritual or otherwise. “How many minute and contemptible things daily tempt our curiosity? And who can number the times we have succumbed? […] When this heart of ours is made the receptacle of these crowds of vanities, our prayers are often interrupted and disturbed by them.” By allowing our curiosity to run wild even some of the time, we unwittingly invite the distractions of idle thoughts and meaningless “wonderings” when we ought to be focusing the most—at work, with our families, and when praying at home or in the Mass.
El Curioso Impertinente, written during the Catholic Counter-Reformation, has proven to be prophetic. “Remove not the ancient boundary which your fathers have set” (Prov. 22:28). Cervantes saw, in his own time, the consequences of heedlessly pushing the boundaries against authority in the name of “knowledge” or “freedom.” Ever since then, Western society has been marked by curiosity (and its sister vice, acedia or “spiritual slothfulness”). From the Enlightenment’s proud champions of an anti-Catholic “science” and politics to today’s champions of sexual and gender experimentation, many of our sorrows can be traced back to the question, “Did God really say…?”
Some questions are not worth asking, and some ideas are too dangerous to entertain. Just as we must mortify our flesh to temper our physical appetites, so too must we control our intellectual appetites, and keep our thoughts on higher truths.
St. Jerome: Defender of the Religious Ideal
Of the many saints in the history of the Church, perhaps none have been so influential as St. Jerome. For the past 1,500 years (and even to this day), his Latin Vulgate has formed the spiritual life of the Church in the Mass, the Liturgy of the Hours, and through countless commentaries and devotional works. For these reasons, he was highly esteemed in the Middle Ages, especially as the patron of scriptural studies, but also as one of the “Four Doctors” or “Four Pillars” of the Western Church (along with Sts. Augustine, Ambrose, and Gregory the Great).
In more recent times, however, St. Jerome has been regarded as a bit too “rough around the edges”—a sort of “Oscar the Grouch” of Christianity. Of course, Jerome had such a reputation during his own time; his exacting critical methods, the harsh critiques of others’ work, and his passionate zeal for correcting erroneous scriptural passages won him many enemies. Even his correspondence with the great St. Augustine is, in many places, layered with varying degrees of tension and apparent strife. To many, Jerome can come across as (and is sometimes politely dismissed as) something of a “crabby old man.”
Such an appraisal, in my estimation, is far from accurate. Though blunt and (at times) quite forceful in his argumentation, St. Jerome has a far different side to him; this is most especially seen in his letters to women, or his consolatory letters to friends grieving loved ones. In such letters, we find a remarkable tenderness as Jerome conveys his affection for his friends, always seeking to direct them to God. In true priestly fashion, we see that Jerome is quite ready to adapt his tone, style, and diction to the particular needs of his audience; the staff to guide a wandering sheep, the rod to rebuke the prowling wolves. In some cases, however, even the sheep need the rod—such was the case with the young Heliodorus.
A promising novice whom Jerome knew, Heliodorus had decided to abandon his monastic vows and return to his secular life in Rome. St. Jerome, in his letter, begins by expressing his sorrow at Heliodorus’s departure, and recounting his deliberation about how to best express himself. But Jerome quickly passes over the pleasantries: “Offended love does well to be angry. You have spurned my petition; perhaps you will listen to my remonstrance. What keeps you, effeminate soldier, in your father's house?” Harsh words, perhaps—but they match the gravity of Heliodorus’s sin.
Jerome chastises Heliodorus for “abandoning his post” as an “enlisted soldier for Christ.” As a professed monk, Heliodorus has publicly promised (to Christ and His Church!) to live a life of penance, asceticism, and prayer. But now he has gone back on his vows—grave matter in any circumstance, but most especially a grave sin when committed against God Himself. So, St. Jerome’s excoriation of Heliodorus is not a result of ill-temper, but is an example of fraternal correction—a stinging antiseptic, but intended to call him to repentance.
Lest we think Jerome heartless, he goes on: “I am not ignorant of the fetters which you may plead as hindrances. My breast is not of iron nor my heart of stone. I was not born of flint or suckled by a tigress. I have passed through troubles like yours myself.” He goes on to recount the many pleas of family, old friends, and familiar folk who so often try to dissuade young novices to abandon their call to religious life. Christ Himself warned, “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the service in the Kingdom of God” (Lk. 9:62). Jerome, speaking to the many who would hold back Heliodorus, echoes Christ’s injunction: “If they believe in Christ let them bid me God-speed, for I go to fight in His name. And if they do not believe, ‘let the dead bury their dead.’”
Jerome’s use of militaristic language may seem to us moderns a bit brash and “extremist”—but recall, Holy Scripture itself is full of such language, throughout the Old Testament into the New, from St. Paul to Revelation—even the words of Christ Himself. To St. Jerome, spiritual warfare is real, and though Heliodorus’s cowardice by no means entails a lost battle for Christ’s Kingdom, it does put Heliodorus at risk of forfeiting the spoils of battle—namely, an inheritance in Heaven.
Far from merely tearing down and belittling Heliodorus for his error, Jerome encourages him and bids him return: “I invite you now; come, and come quickly. Do not call to mind old ties; the desert is for those who have left all. Nor let the hardships of our former travels deter you. You believe in Christ, believe also in His words: ‘Seek ye first the kingdom of God and all these things shall be added unto you.’ Take neither scrip nor staff. He is rich enough who is poor — with Christ. […] My brother, it is affection which has urged me to speak thus; that you who now find the Christian life so hard may have your reward in that day.”
St. Jerome’s Letter 14 (to Heliodorus) provides an excellent window into the mind of the great saint. Throughout his writings, it is evident that much of Jerome’s “prickliness” stems from the fact that he finds many Christians lax in the practice of their faith. After the cessation of Roman persecution, and as it became socially acceptable (and even materially profitable) to become a Christian, mass “conversions” had filled the pure wheat-fields of the Church with so much chaff and tares. With the great “popularization” of Christianity came a general relaxation in the strictness of Christian observance, and many newly-professed Christians came to see the pious examples and ascetical practices of the Desert Fathers as unnecessary to the Christian life.
Such laxity in practice even threatened the purity of Church teaching. In Jerome’s Treatise on the Perpetual Virgin Mary, he responds (quite forcefully) to the heresies of Helvidius, who claimed—contrary to the Church—that Mary did not remain a virgin all her life. In his Against Jovinian, Jerome takes up the pen against Jovinian, who taught—against the words of St. Paul and Christ Himself—that celibacy afforded no advantages to the spiritual life over marriage. After himself emulating the ascetical life of Christ and seeing its benefits in his life (and the lives of the countless others he advised), it is a small wonder that St. Jerome was so zealous to promote the ascetic and monastic lifestyle—one which had served as a powerful model of holiness to Christians (and has for centuries).
If, then, we find St. Jerome’s writings to be “harsh” or “demanding,” we may do well to examine our own preconceptions of the Christian life. Rooted as he is in the biblical text, Jerome never bids us do anything that is not, in some way, contained in Scripture or enjoined directly by Christ. He hardly writes a thought without some reference to the written Tradition of the Church (an example for all of us to follow). His Treatises provide excellent rebuttals to Protestant talking-points, and his Letters contain inestimable treasures of both consolation and exhortation to any who are considering religious life.
The debt that the Church owes St. Jerome is immeasurable, and every faithful Catholic would do well to regard him as a dear friend in faith, a zealous ascetic, and a great defender of the Christian religious ideal.