Contra solascripturism

Abbot Joseph over at Word Incarnate writes an excellent post on the relationship between the Church and scripture, quoted below:

"So we have to realize that the Church is not based on the Bible, but rather the Bible is based on the Church.  The Bible is the fruit of the Church’s life and testimony; it was produced by the Church, and the books that are contained in it were recognized and declared by the Church to be the word of God. In the first century or two of Christianity, many other writings were held to be of equal value to what are today the recognized Scriptures, and they were read along with them in the liturgical assemblies.  But by the Church’s authority, granted by the Holy Spirit, these other writings were deemed not to have the level of divine inspiration required to be accepted as the word of God.

 (That is why it is the height of arrogance for an individual like Martin Luther to think he could personally decide which books are Scripture and which are not, for he eliminated seven books from the Old Testament.  It is an inadequate excuse to say he simply decided it was better to use the Hebrew canon than the Greek Septuagint: the whole Christian Church for 1500 years accepted the Septuagint canon of the Old Testament as the word of God, and virtually all the citations from the Old Testament that are found in the New Testament are from the Septuagint.  How could he possibly think he had the authority to cast out the word of God?  Was the version of the Old Testament used by the writers of the Gospels not good enough for him?  He also tried to remove the Epistle of St James from the New Testament, since it didn’t agree with his own theology—which in his opinion evidently meant it couldn’t possibly be the word of God—but thank God no one tolerated that particular folly.)"

On Frequent Communion

I wittingly continue my unwittingly-commenced series on the Blessed Sacrament with today's column from The Catholic Thing, an excellent piece on the recent history and present circumstances of frequent Communion.

Our Lady of Victory and the Battle of Lepanto

Our Lady of Victory, pray for us!

Today we celebrate the Feast of Our Lady of the Most Holy Rosary, also called the Feast of Our Lady of Victory.  First instituted by Pope Pius V, the feast commemorates Our Blessed Mother's role in Christendom's victory at the Battle of Lepanto.  Facing the Ottoman Empire's advancing fleet, the Holy League (including Spain, Venice, the Papal States, Genoa, and the Knights Hospitaller) defended Rome from invasion on this day in 1571.  But the heavenly host, too, was with the earthly host of Christendom: that same day, while Christian fleet engaged Muslim, Pope Pius V offered a Rosary procession for the defense of Christendom.  It was for this victory, given in answer by Our Blessed Mother, that Pope Pius V instituted the Feast of Our Lady of Victory: the victory which won the protection of Christendom for so many centuries.

To commemorate the feast, I'd like to share with you the poem by G. K. Chesterton named after the battle:

White founts falling in the Courts of the sun,

And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;

There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared,

It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard;

It curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips;

For the inmost sea of all the earth is shaken with his ships.

They have dared the white republics up the capes of Italy,

They have dashed the Adriatic round the Lion of the Sea,

And the Pope has cast his arms abroad for agony and loss,

And called the kings of Christendom for swords about the Cross.

The cold queen of England is looking in the glass;

The shadow of the Valois is yawning at the Mass;

From evening isles fantastical rings faint the Spanish gun,

And the Lord upon the Golden Horn is laughing in the sun.

Dim drums throbbing, in the hills half heard,

Where only on a nameless throne a crownless prince has stirred,

Where, risen from a doubtful seat and half attainted stall,

The last knight of Europe takes weapons from the wall,

The last and lingering troubadour to whom the bird has sung,

That once went singing southward when all the world was young.

In that enormous silence, tiny and unafraid,

Comes up along a winding road the noise of the Crusade.

Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,

Don John of Austria is going to the war,

Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts cold

In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold,

Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,

Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes.

Don John laughing in the brave beard curled,

Spurning of his stirrups like the thrones of all the world,

Holding his head up for a flag of all the free.

Love-light of Spain--hurrah!

Death-light of Africa!

Don John of Austria

Is riding to the sea.

Mahound is in his paradise above the evening star,

(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)

He moves a mighty turban on the timeless houri's knees,

His turban that is woven of the sunsets and the seas.

He shakes the peacock gardens as he rises from his ease,

And he strides among the tree-tops and is taller than the trees;

And his voice through all the garden is a thunder sent to bring

Black Azrael and Ariel and Ammon on the wing.

Giants and the Genii,

Multiplex of wing and eye,

Whose strong obedience broke the sky

When Solomon was king.

They rush in red and purple from the red clouds of the morn,

From the temples where the yellow gods shut up their eyes in scorn;

They rise in green robes roaring from the green hells of the sea

Where fallen skies and evil hues and eyeless creatures be,

On them the sea-valves cluster and the grey sea-forests curl,

Splashed with a splendid sickness, the sickness of the pearl;

They swell in sapphire smoke out of the blue cracks of the ground,--

They gather and they wonder and give worship to Mahound.

And he saith, "Break up the mountains where the hermit-folk can hide,

And sift the red and silver sands lest bone of saint abide,

And chase the Giaours flying night and day, not giving rest,

For that which was our trouble comes again out of the west.

We have set the seal of Solomon on all things under sun,

Of knowledge and of sorrow and endurance of things done.

But a noise is in the mountains, in the mountains, and I know

The voice that shook our palaces--four hundred years ago:

It is he that saith not 'Kismet'; it is he that knows not Fate;

It is Richard, it is Raymond, it is Godfrey at the gate!

It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth,

Put down your feet upon him, that our peace be on the earth."

For he heard drums groaning and he heard guns jar,

(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)

Sudden and still--hurrah!

Bolt from Iberia!

Don John of Austria

Is gone by Alcalar.

St. Michaels on his Mountain in the sea-roads of the north

(Don John of Austria is girt and going forth.)

Where the grey seas glitter and the sharp tides shift

And the sea-folk labour and the red sails lift.

He shakes his lance of iron and he claps his wings of stone;

The noise is gone through Normandy; the noise is gone alone;

The North is full of tangled things and texts and aching eyes,

And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise,

And Christian killeth Christian in a narrow dusty room,

And Christian dreadeth Christ that hath a newer face of doom,

And Christian hateth Mary that God kissed in Galilee,--

But Don John of Austria is riding to the sea.

Don John calling through the blast and the eclipse

Crying with the trumpet, with the trumpet of his lips,

Trumpet that sayeth ha!

    Domino gloria!

Don John of Austria

Is shouting to the ships.

King Philip's in his closet with the Fleece about his neck

(Don John of Austria is armed upon the deck.)

The walls are hung with velvet that is black and soft as sin,

And little dwarfs creep out of it and little dwarfs creep in.

He holds a crystal phial that has colours like the moon,

He touches, and it tingles, and he trembles very soon,

And his face is as a fungus of a leprous white and grey

Like plants in the high houses that are shuttered from the day,

And death is in the phial and the end of noble work,

But Don John of Austria has fired upon the Turk.

Don John's hunting, and his hounds have bayed--

Booms away past Italy the rumour of his raid.

Gun upon gun, ha! ha!

Gun upon gun, hurrah!

Don John of Austria

Has loosed the cannonade.

The Pope was in his chapel before day or battle broke,

(Don John of Austria is hidden in the smoke.)

The hidden room in man's house where God sits all the year,

The secret window whence the world looks small and very dear.

He sees as in a mirror on the monstrous twilight sea

The crescent of his cruel ships whose name is mystery;

They fling great shadows foe-wards, making Cross and Castle dark,

They veil the plumèd lions on the galleys of St. Mark;

And above the ships are palaces of brown, black-bearded chiefs,

And below the ships are prisons, where with multitudinous griefs,

Christian captives sick and sunless, all a labouring race repines

Like a race in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines.

They are lost like slaves that sweat, and in the skies of morning hung

The stair-ways of the tallest gods when tyranny was young.

They are countless, voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or fleeing on

Before the high Kings' horses in the granite of Babylon.

And many a one grows witless in his quiet room in hell

Where a yellow face looks inward through the lattice of his cell,

And he finds his God forgotten, and he seeks no more a sign--

(But Don John of Austria has burst the battle-line!)

Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop,

Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate's sloop,

Scarlet running over on the silvers and the golds,

Breaking of the hatches up and bursting of the holds,

Thronging of the thousands up that labour under sea

White for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty.

Vivat Hispania!

Domino Gloria!

Don John of Austria

Has set his people free!

Cervantes on his galley sets the sword back in the sheath

(Don John of Austria rides homeward with a wreath.)

And he sees across a weary land a straggling road in Spain,

Up which a lean and foolish knight for ever rides in vain,

And he smiles, but not as Sultans smile, and settles back the blade....

(But Don John of Austria rides home from the Crusade.)

The Catholic Thing...

...comments on the possible outcome of the November elections in relation to sanctity-of-life issues.

An interesting contrast

Consider the differences in the following two articles on the awarding of the Nobel Peace Prize to Professor Robert Edwards, one of the developers of in-vitro fertilization: the first from the Associated Press, the second from the Catholic News Agency.

Consider also the marked difference in tone and erudition present in the comment sections of the two articles.

Food for thought.

Blessing of the Bl. John Henry Cardinal Newman Chapel at the London Oratory

Image courtesy of Standing on My Head (along with a link to the full gallery).  What a grand sight!  Let's pray that, under the guidance and encouragement of the Holy Father, true beauty may be restored to the Liturgy.  Blessed John Henry Cardinal Newman, pray for us!

Another great blog post

Just thought I'd share another excellent blog post, this one over at Salvation is an Adventure (yes, I'll admit the blog title definitely caught my eye immediately) concerning the rejection of Christ's love.