Church of Saint Peter in Prison

‘Accept’, Our Lord said to Saint Peter in Quo Vadis.

So he did.

Saint Peter, being my patron saint, occupies a sizable portion of my devotion, and the city which he served as bishop is a treasury of his life, times and of course, his martyrdom. For our first three churches therefore, I should like to present a triptych of centres of Petrine devotion within the city. Given that a greater portion of Christendom thrives outside of the city, I shall restrict myself to these three and thereafter, though it saddens me and hopefully you, not discuss any other Roman churches.

Tradition dictates that both Saint Peter and his confrere Saint Paul were imprisoned in Rome, and in particular, in a tiny cave-like prison near the Forum.

Today, a few streets away from the very beating heart of the city of Rome lies the old centre. The Campidoglio today is dominated by the monstrous monument to the first king of modern Italy, which is, of course, now a republic. On the east-facing, down-ward side of the Capitoline Hill one can glance over the spectrum of the architectural ruins of the city, the Forum, with its arches, columns, the Senate and in the distance, towering over this foray of decadence, their temple of paganism and bloodlust: the Coliseum.

Wedged in between these two bastia of anthropocentricity, down the via of our first church’s namesake and in the shadow of the arch of Septimus Severus, lies the Church of Saint Peter in Prison. Once I got past the jobs worth on the door (my advice is not to argue), I found myself in a small cave, like something St Jerome would have lived in while translating his Vulgate in the Holy Land. At the far end of the back wall, the darkness punctuated by the bright Roman sunshine flooding in past the attendant on the door, I noticed a simple stone altar. It was surrounded by balding tourists, so I turned away. In the corner of my eye, I captured the image of an handrail, and beyond it, a small set of slippery steps leading into a darkened pit. So I walked down into the unknown.

At the bottom, a very short corridor took me around a corner; two women past me on their way out. I could sense there was no-one left. Except myself of course. Somehow, the next chamber was being lit, whether the source was from candlelight or electric I do not know, so contained in myself I was. The ceiling of this room – the main room in the complex – was barely higher than my own head. Immediately before me was another altar, like the one I had just seen. Simple stone, but with an upside down cross on the front and a column either side. But just a little in front on the Gospel side, was a little raised platform, no higher than a few inches, barely a foot and a half in diameter. In the centre of this metal circle was a hole, about a hand span wide. I knew what it was, and the picture behind the altar demonstrated.

This building used to be a Roman prison, at the very centre of power in the city. It was here that St Peter was probably imprisoned. According to legend, while here he converted a guard, who wished to be baptised. Finding no water to conduct the ceremony, an angel appeared and by God’s power, miraculously created a well of water for the first pope to welcome his keeper into the Church.

And here this well was before my own eyes. I collapsed onto my knees and took the water onto my own head. Knowing that my patron saint may well have knelt in this very same spot, I prayed for his intercession and that of Our Lady, asking the Lord to forgive my sins. For about ten minutes I was privileged to spend in silent contemplation before the miraculous well, on my own with the Lord. Neither of us said much, but then I suppose you don’t need to when you’re in love.

I was disturbed only by more footsteps descending towards me, so I departed the chamber, bowed to the altar, and made my way back into the burning heat of the city and the world.

Noble simplicity without the simplicity

This picture of a Mass in Poland struck me for its splendid beauty, taken, presumably, at the end of the collect, bowing at the Holy Name.

Prayer for England

O Blessed Virgin Mary, Mother of God and our most gentle Queen and Mother look down in mercy upon England, thy dowry, and upon us who greatly hope and trust in thee.

By thee it was that Jesus, our Saviour and our hope was given unto the world; and He has given thee to us that we might hope still more.

Plead for us thy children, whom thou didst receive and accept at the foot of the cross, O Sorrowful Mother, Intercede for our separated brethren, that with us in the one true fold, they may be united to the Chief Shepherd, the Vicar of thy Son.

Pray for us all, dear Mother, that by faith, fruitful in good works we may all deserve to see and praise God, together with thee in our heavenly home.

Amen.

Get undressed

Tomorrow is the feast (well, optional memoria) of Our Lady of Mount Carmel.

It is also my graduation day. Thankfully, the BBC says the weather will be nice and sunny, though having to be there at 7.30 am, I don't think I'll care either way.

This means - for some reason which is beyond me - that everyone has to dress up in funny mediaeval outfits to collect a bit of paper which just serves to remind me I should have worked harder the past 3 years of my life.

And of course, they are mediaeval outfits, the university being a mediaeval institution. Essentially, both the clerical choir outfit and the modern academic attire have the similar origins, insofar as those who would have worn academic dress would have been clerics, and therefore they wore their own normal clothes. A kind of an early cappa. If you compare a cappa magna or a cope with academic dress, you'll find essentially the same thing: a gown and a hood.

Unfortunately, I shall not be attending my graduation tomorrow in my full cappa magna. Humility.

Instead, I have to wear a blue gown (which is a bit stupid, as gowns should be black according to the clerical connection, as I'm neither a bishop nor a Marist); but that is ok, as I shall attribute it to Our Blessed Mother, to whom I shall devote my degree.

My hood is pink. Or as liturgy types like to say, rose. Our Lady. The Rose without thorns. There we go, sorted. And if I'm feeling penitential, I may even put my hood up. Then again, it's not Lent.

Now for the hat. I assume the square hat worn at my institution (which is known, apparently, for its strange hats) has the same origin as the clerical biretta. It even has a little sash, like a lazy pom-pom.

I went to one today to see a newly graduating friend; it all looked very stylish. I feel there is a crazy day in the making tomorrow. But Our Lady will cure that ill.

Holy Causes

Anyone up for supporting the cause of Katharine of Aragon?

She was a nice lady, prayed a lot and was friend with Thomas More and John Fisher. I think the argument that she suffered a huge deal is a bit of a silly one, considering her life-long experience as a royal being waited on foot even when she was deposed from the throne.

It's the 500th anniversary of her husband's acension to the throne of England; maybe his queen should have a say too. She was the daughter of the Catholic Kings of Spain, Ferdinand and Isabella (of Christopher Columbus and Reconquista fame) and mum of Queen Mary of England.

She died on 7th January 1536.

Funnily enough, she died in my home parish, and is buried in Peterborough Anglican Cathedral to the north of the high altar. Go and visit (free entry) if you are in the region; perhaps say a prayer for her.

To all and singular

To whom present...greetings.


Being at home, I don't get to the internet as much. Also, I forgot to bring my computer back, and being in the process of getting a new one, I haven't had much of a chance to update anything.


In the past week, our most Holy Father has told us that a tiny camera was inserted into a casket believed to contain the holy relics of Saint Paul, in the major basilica bearing his name on the outskirts of Rome. He said the bones were confirmed to probably belong to someone of the first century, and that the remains were clothes in precious vestments.



This is good to know. With this announcement, the year of St Paul concluded.


Flapping over the tail end of this memorial year, is the year of the priest. We give thanks for all our priests - and pray for more of them - as we commemorate the 150th anniversary of the death of St John Mary Vianney on 4th August.


Today is the feast day of St Thomas the Apostle. He is known as Doubting Thomas, though I find this a bit of an unfair label. He doubted a bit - as we all do - but in the end, he did believe. So happy feast day, Believing Thomas. Of course, it is perhaps through moments of doubt that the truth becomes ever more enlightened for us. Today's Gospel scene is shown on my panel on the right hand side to remind me of this, and to confirm my suspicion that it is always good to ask questions. Incidently, a pious tradition says that St Thomas was the only witness to the Assumption of Our Lady, catching her girdle as he was whisked up to heaven. The other apostles didn't believe him until he showed them the rope. His feast is kept today, the date not of his traditional martyrdom, but the date of the translation of his relics to the sea town of Ortona in eastern Italy.


In the mean time, apologies for my internet absence, but brace yourself for my Top Ten Most Beautiful Churches visited by yours truly, which is in the pipeline for the next week.