This academic year is beginning with a very good omen for us
at SLU: our Mass of the Holy Spirit
happens to fall on the solemnity of Louis IX, king of France in the thirteenth
century and patron saint of our city and our university. This warms my heart, as a medieval historian
who teaches History 1110, which some call the brightest gem in the crown of our
curriculum. In that survey course, which
stretches from cavemen to Columbus, I always talk about Louis—if only to
explain that he was not, in fact, the inventor of toasted ravioli and provel
cheese. (Likewise, his mother, Blanche de
Castile, whose name means “White Castle,” had nothing to do with sliders.) But now I have something more substantial to
say, because I had the opportunity this summer to visit Louis’ original city,
Paris. It’s no St. Louis, of course, but
it has its charms, among which is the royal chapel Louis built: the unforgettable Sainte-Chapelle. Maybe some of you have seen it. Louis had it constructed in 1248 to house the
collection of relics he had acquired, most notably the Crown of Thorns
itself. As I climbed the spiral stairway
leading up into this amazing building, the young woman ahead of me, apparently
an American, stepped out into the chapel and, despite all the signs calling for
quiet, cried out, “Holy”—and then a word I can’t repeat in church. I can sympathize with her: it is truly awe-inspiring.
The walls of the Sainte-Chapelle are vast sheets of
multicolored stained glass that surround you on all sides, so that you have the
feeling you’re standing in a jewel box—literally, a box made of jewels. As the sun pours in, the whole chapel is
filled with a blaze of beauty, a riot of light and color that dazzles the
eye. This overpowering impression is
formed from thousands of small glass bits, each one different in size and shape
and hue, each one catching the sunlight at a slightly different position and
angle. Yet the same light shines through
them all, and together they form row upon row of pictures—scenes that tell the
story of salvation, from Genesis to Revelation, from the Old Testament
patriarchs to the life of Christ to the history of the Crown of Thorns’ arrival
in Paris. I spent two hours walking back
and forth, taking in this spectacular sight.
And it hit me that God works in a similar way. Each of us has our own size, shape, and hue,
but one sun enlightens us all, and the one bath of sunlight streaming down—call
it the Holy Spirit—surrounds us, penetrates us, shines through us to create a
stunning panorama telling a story. Each
of us refracts the rays in our own manner, but instead of chaos or cacophony,
the result is beauty and harmony. Yes,
some pieces of glass may be chipped or cracked, but the power of the light
overwhelms all defects, and the overall effect is never dimmed.
But you don’t have to go to Paris to experience such a
radiant display. Another thing I do in
History 1110 is offer the students a tour of the Cathedral Basilica of St. Louis,
a mile west down Lindell Boulevard. This
monumental Byzantine-style church, the world’s largest collection of mosaics, makes
a similar impact. Forty-one and a half
million gold, glass, and marble tiles in more than seven thousand colors cover
83,000 square feet of wall and ceiling and arch and dome, each slightly
off-kilter from the others so that the light catches every one differently,
with the result that the images sparkle and glitter. Those images coalesce to depict the great
mysteries of the faith and how they have played out in the world, including not
only creation, redemption, and the end of time, but also the life of Louis IX and
the history of our local church. (There’s
even a mosaic, high up on the left, of Saint Louis University!) One arch, left of the main dome, portrays God
the Father, out of whose bosom comes the Holy Spirit in the form of a
dove. Branching off from this dove are
seven angels bearing seven smaller doves, the seven gifts of the Spirit
mentioned in Scripture—wisdom, understanding, good counsel, knowledge,
fortitude, piety, and wonder. And below
them, filling both legs of the arch, are a company of saints, great teachers on
one side and great missionaries on the other—all those who, inspired by the
Spirit, spread the Good News through their words and labors. It’s as if the mosaics are telling us: a dove is just a symbol, but if you really
want to see the Holy Spirit, you have to look at its action in particular people’s
lives and loves.
That’s why I’ve always treasured the lives of the saints in
the Catholic tradition. These men and
women are wildly different in background, personality, interests, talents,
achievements, and yes, faults. But like
the tiles in the cathedral, or the pieces of glass in the Sainte-Chapelle, they
caught the light of the Spirit and allowed it to use them to form something
beautiful that became part of the story of salvation. In fact, the light is rendered more brilliant
by being transmitted and reflected in so many different ways, like the facets
of a sparkling gem. And that’s why it’s wonderful
that our Mass of the Holy Spirit falls on this feast of St. Louis. Louis himself shows us the Spirit, in one
particular way, through a life dedicated to nobility, justice, courage, and
piety. As I tell my students, Louis was
considered the ideal king in the Middle Ages:
not a ruler who lorded it over his subjects, or exploited them, or
claimed to be divine, but rather a servant who took seriously his special
responsibility to look out for those who had no one else to look out for them—the
poor and powerless, widows and orphans, the vulnerable and oppressed. In a world without a social safety net, this
God-given duty was essential.
That’s why our readings describe the life of virtue that
Louis demonstrated for us. The first
reading talks about releasing those bound unjustly, untying the thongs of the
yoke, setting free the oppressed, sharing bread with the hungry, bringing the
homeless into your house, clothing the naked, not turning your back on the
afflicted. These are works of the
Spirit. It’s not how we typically
imagine medieval kings, but it’s what they hoped for themselves. Dedication to social justice is not a modern
invention. And, in this election year, this
description of a just ruler is something our own politicians ought to keep in
mind. The second reading adds a few more
virtues: compassion, kindness, humility,
gentleness, and patience, bearing with one another and forgiving one another, living
in love and promoting peace. Louis impressed
his contemporaries as such a person.
Don’t get me wrong: he wasn’t
perfect. His dedication to crusading,
even though his motives were pure, is sometimes a source of embarrassment nowadays,
and his anti-Jewish measures make us cringe.
Failings cannot be ignored, but no one except Christ himself perfectly reflects
the light of the Spirit. Still, the
Spirit can make use of us, despite—and even through—our flaws, because the
light is more powerful than the darkness.
But Louis’ life is just one pane in the Church’s great window. So what does all this mean—the stained glass
of the Sainte-Chapelle, the mosaics of the cathedral, the lives of the saints? To me, it means that God doesn’t work apart
from his creation, but in and through it, in and through us. God’s Spirit surrounds, penetrates, shines
through everyone and everything, if we let it.
In a sense, there is no such thing as “secular”; the universe is luminescent
with divinity in abundant variety. We
Jesuits have a term for this: “finding
God in all things.” At SLU, we are a
large, diverse community, each with his or her own gifts and roles and
contributions, passions and perspectives and personalities. But when we let the light shine through us,
uniting us into a single picture, we do not compete or cancel out, but rather
complement and culminate in the work of art God is making of us. Grace builds on nature; it does not negate the
diversity of who and what we are, but brings it all together. For there is one Spirit prompting us, and there
is one purpose we aim at (and I quote):
“the pursuit of truth for the greater glory of God and the service of
humanity.” None of us, nothing of what
we do can be understood apart from that single inspiration and that single
mission.
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