A Protestant Walks into a Relic Veneration
My encounter with the skull of St. Thomas Aquinas
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Of all the strange things I have done, my entrance into St. Patrick’s Church in Columbus, Ohio on the evening of December 7, 2024, was surely one of the strangest. I am by confession a daughter of the Reformation in disagreement with certain doctrines of the Roman Catholic Church, among them the very thing they were to do that night: venerate a saint’s relic. A Protestant at a Catholic Mass is odd enough, and more so at such an overtly Catholic one.
Yet, in another way, it was not strange at all. I am a person highly interested in the history of medieval Europe and the medieval Western Church in particular. I am a lay student of theology—one with particular regard for the writings of that towering theologian, the Angelic Doctor, Thomas Aquinas. And it was the major relic of Aquinas that the congregation was to venerate that night after its solemn entry into the church in a procession of Dominican brothers. Safe to say, then, that my entrance was only the second strangest of the night, for without a doubt the saints are strange.
But I did not travel to St. Patrick’s Church merely to pay my respects to Aquinas, whose work has benefitted my own. I was also there to witness something intensely strange in our twenty-first century age: a world which the philosopher Charles Taylor says exists within an “immanent frame” that makes it difficult for us to envision or accept transcendence. The “buffered self,” according to Taylor, is not penetrated by supernatural forces, whether good or evil (or does not believe itself to be). This is another way of saying that the Enlightenment with its materialist assumptions has affected us all, such that even the religious among us tend to think according to the dictates of a thoroughly secularized society.
In the early chapters of his most famous work, A Secular Age, Taylor discusses the existence of “charged objects”: physical items that hold supernatural power. Whether this be “white” or “black” magic, or something else entirely has depended on the group of people and their location in time and space, but Taylor argues that a major characteristic of our secular age is that we no longer believe in charged objects the same way our distant ancestors did.
However, Taylor himself is a Roman Catholic fully aware that certain people on earth still have charged objects and place faith in their powers. I refer here not to adherents of New Age philosophy or Chinese medicine, but traditional, orthodox members of the Roman Catholic Church. For what are a saint’s relics but charged objects? Those who believe them to be what the Church proclaims see these bones or other items as true vessels of spiritual power. Indeed, they are so powerful that even an object that has touched one of them carries a tertiary charge, like the cards made available to worshippers at the veneration I attended.
It is this continued belief in the power of relics, among other things, that makes Roman Catholic churches seem like outposts of medievalism in a vast expanse of modernism. (Yes, even after Vatican II!) Of course, there are other places where people can go and experience something of an older world. Roman Catholics are not the only ones to believe in consecrated objects and holy temples. But there are few Protestant occasions that carry such an emphasis on the meeting of the spiritual and the physical. (The Lord’s Supper and baptism are two such in many Protestant churches. The coronation service for King Charles III of England last year, with its sacred anointing oil, was another.) Therefore, I sought in attending a relic veneration to witness something truly strange, or as the Anglo-Saxons would have said back in their time, something wyrd.
The Roman Catholic Church has a long history of relic veneration. The seventh ecumenical council of the Christian Church in Nicaea ruled that the veneration of images was permissible because the viewer’s sentiment does not find its end in the material thing, but passes over from it, resting upon the thing symbolized. Moreover, the participants declared there was a difference between veneration and adoration (which would be akin to worship), so images of saints were permissible. What people might be tempted to forget is that this council also had something to say about relics, not only affirming their spiritual power but requiring that every consecrated altar must possess one. The shift from something being permitted or good to being necessary is one of the things about the seventh ecumenical council that sets this author ill at ease.
For what are no doubt a variety of reasons, the Eastern and Western churches went in two separate directions from that point. While both affirm the value and legitimacy of images and relics of saints, the Eastern Church became more focused on images and the Western Church more focused on relics. I do not want to oversimplify, for one can find images in the West and relics in the East, but in terms of their place in congregational life, this has been the historic tendency of focus.
As a skeptical modern person and a Protestant to boot, relics are an easy and natural target for my criticism. By the medieval period of the Western Church, relic veneration had come to play such a significant role in the life of Christians that there was a lucrative trade in these objects, with multiple churches often claiming to possess the arm of this saint or the skull of that other one. Relics were a chief motivator for medieval pilgrimages, and pilgrims often brought money with them. Churches or monasteries in financial trouble faced a tremendous temptation to suddenly “discover” the bones of some holy person. (The monks of Glastonbury went so far as to claim they had the grave of King Arthur!) This is not to say that most relics were fake or most clerics displaying them were liars, but the requirement to possess relics and the financial and social incentive to possess relatively “good” ones did create conditions in which corruption was likely to take place.
During the Dissolution of the Monasteries in England under the rule of King Henry VIII, countless stories were circulated by government auditors casting doubt on the legitimacy of relics and the behavior of the monks who guarded them. Modern scholars believe some of these stories were either partly exaggerated or entirely false, but enough of them rang true that English Protestants believed for generations (and some down to the present day) that the whole thing was a massive racket based on false promises made to pilgrims that they could receive help or healing from bones that might not have even belonged to a human. For my part, I feel certain that some of these horror stories were true because, as I noted, there was pressure on these clerics to produce, and humans tend to cut corners when pressured. But I feel equally certain that many of those relics belonged to the persons in question and were therefore, at least from a Roman Catholic perspective, perfectly legitimate charged objects.
Returning to my encounter with the major relic of St. Thomas Aquinas—his skull—there are certainly reasons to doubt its supernatural power. First, as is sometimes the case with Roman Catholic dogma, the scriptural rationale for relic veneration is thin. It is a doctrine with significant impact on Christian life over the centuries attempting to stand on something which cannot truly hold its weight. But that is a rather Protestant sort of comment. The more pressing doubt that even Roman Catholics might share is that this is not the only skull claimed to be that of Thomas Aquinas.
The skull that I saw at St. Patrick’s Church was, in fact, one of two. It belongs to the Dominican convent in Toulouse, France, whereas the other purported Aquinas skull is kept in Priverno, Italy. Some have suggested performing DNA analysis on the relics to determine which truly belongs to the Angelic Doctor, but it is not certain that they could establish a match. Even the recent sensational DNA results for England’s King Richard III raised questions along with answering them, revealing that someone in the family line must have had an affair.1
Therefore, it seems possible that we will never know beyond a shadow of a doubt which of the two skulls (if either) belonged to Aquinas, but it is worth asking whether that matters. If the purpose is to venerate the saint, then the veneration will presumably pass on to Aquinas regardless of how well the object in question “images” him. But if the major relic of Aquinas is a charged object with spiritual power in and of itself, and pilgrims look to that power to heal their bodies or their souls, then it matters a great deal if the brain that devised the Summa Theologica and the Summa Contra Gentiles used to reside within those bones.
When I arrived at St. Patrick’s Church on that Saturday evening, I was considerably early for the 5:00 pm Mass. I had read reports online about the relic’s visit to Washington, D.C., in which pilgrims queued for two hours to venerate the skull for ten seconds,2 and I reasoned that if I hoped to get a decent view of the ceremonial procession at 6:00 pm, I had better get a seat well ahead of time. Not only did I leave early, but I ceased all fluid intake well in advance to avoid needing to exit for a bathroom break.
Despite being more than half an hour early, there were many people in the sanctuary when I arrived, and I ended up sitting in the back row. This was just as well, as I figured I would have a good line of sight to the beginning of the procession, which was my chief interest. But it did make it more difficult to participate in the service. I had decided beforehand that I would take part in as many portions of the Mass as I could, but this church did not make a printed liturgy text available. Most of the congregants, who had been reciting the Mass for years, knew it by heart, but I was left in the dark trying to frantically flip through the Missal (often without success) and unable to hear much of what the celebrant at the front was saying (except for the homily and readings, which I appreciated). I relied mostly on my knowledge of the Anglican service for the few portions I was able to recite.
This was not a serious problem, as in those times I could not recite I simply bowed my head and prayed, which after all is one of the reasons a person goes to church. As it so happened, I was in desperate need of communion with God. The holiday season was not going well for me. I was carrying immense burdens, and at the risk of revealing too much, I will admit I felt lonely and downtrodden. No doubt my condition was worsened by the fact that I had enjoyed little time for private spiritual contemplation of late. So, I sat there praying about all kinds of things, desperately beseeching the God of heaven. It turned out to be the best occasion I had to do so during the Advent season.
As an outsider at the service, I was struck by things that might escape the notice of regular congregants. For instance, the presence of Dominican friars in their traditional garments, so very similar to those worn by their medieval predecessors, was highly anachronistic. Here was something truly medieval in the modern world. Although I was reasonably knowledgeable about the lives of those in holy orders post-Vatican II, there was still something odd about watching a Dominican in his white and black vestments carrying around what appeared to be a high-end digital camera.
Everyone else seemed to know exactly which words to say and when to kneel or stand. Like myself, they were habituated to the liturgy of their usual place of worship. The space was absolutely packed: people were standing on the sides and in the back of the sanctuary. Children were there as well. The average age was certainly younger than one would find in a mainline Protestant church. About 10-20% of the women were wearing head coverings. You might be surprised that this was one area where I could connect, for I too was there in a head covering, as I have been at every worship service I’ve attended for quite a while. (I do not typically speak about this matter unless directly questioned.)
I felt the most excluded when we reached the Eucharist itself. As I am not in communion with the bishopric of Rome, I am not permitted to receive the elements in a Roman Catholic service. Of course, remaining in one’s seat while everyone else rises to partake is intensely awkward and could cause people to assume the worst: that I am guilty of some terrible transgression and stricken by shame. But as the time drew near, I realized there might be another option available to me. I had seen it offered at other churches, though I did not know for certain if it was acceptable in a Roman Catholic setting. Nevertheless, I decided to attempt it.
As our row was instructed to rise and partake, I joined the others and approached one of the Dominican brothers standing at the back with a wafer in one hand and a chalice of wine in the other. When there was no one left between myself and him, I quickly crossed my arms against my chest and, to make sure he understood, requested, “Could you just give me a blessing?” After the second or two it took to process this odd turn of events, he quickly made the sign of the cross and blessed me in the name of the Trinity, which I appreciated very much. Given the month I was having, I treasured it even more.
Now came the appointed hour. A man who I assumed was the prior addressed the congregation and explained that something unusual was about to happen. After a brief recess, they would be bringing in the major relic of Thomas Aquinas for everyone to venerate. With that, he departed to change his vestments, and the congregants were left to consider this strange message, for here at last was something for which they were nearly as unprepared as myself.
I watched as the crowd which had previously chanted so harmoniously and reverently now began whispering feverishly to one another, some exchanging puzzled looks and others looking anxiously at the exits. (I will give them the benefit of the doubt and conclude they were searching for the relic’s appearance and not plotting their escapes.) From the chatter I could hear nearby, people seemed almost bemused. Here was something that does not happen in Ohio!
Sure, there are relics that permanently reside in our state, but none from such an exalted Doctor of the Church. I strongly suspected that most people there had never seen a touring relic, much less one so famous. Roman Catholics they might be, but like everyone else in twenty-first century America, they exist largely within the immanent frame. Only moments earlier, the celebrant had held the elements of the Eucharist aloft and a bell had been rung to signal the moment of transubstantiation. They had all consumed something more powerful than the relic about to enter our midst.
Yet, being human, they had become accustomed to that which they so often experienced. The miracle of transubstantiation was, for them, a thing as familiar as Kraft macaroni and cheese is to many of this nation’s youth. But now this strange, charged object was coming to awaken them from their slumber and remind them just how medieval their church is. I sensed from the looks on their faces and the quick bursts of conversation that there were some who doubted. I overheard one older man ask his wife, “Do you want to venerate a relic?”, to which he received a very non-committal expression. The two of them walked out. But there were others who seemed excited—filled with anticipation for this new happening.
At length, the doors at the back opened and a procession of Dominicans made their way through upon the orders of the prior. On their shoulders, they bore the reliquary as the ancient Israelites did the Ark of the Covenant, supported by long wooden poles. They looked very much like athletes carrying their victorious captain aloft, which of course is what they were, for Thomas Aquinas is the most famous and influential of all Dominicans. Not only myself, but several members of the congregation whipped out their cell phones to capture the moment.
In the end, I did not get a clear view of the skull. For whatever reason, the reliquary box was designed so you could only see through it from one side, and then only straight-on. Perhaps this choice was meant in some way to emphasize the sacred nature of the box’s contents. But it mattered little, for I was not truly there to see a skull that may or may not have belonged to Thomas Aquinas. I was there to observe people doing something that supposedly does not happen in the modern world: placing hope in a charged object.
As I exited and came upon the queue that had formed outside during Mass, I found a mother and her small children seated on the floor, with a wait of multiple hours ahead of them. They read books and she spoke to them enthusiastically, attempting to keep peace despite the tedium. What drove her to spend a Saturday evening waiting in an interminable line with children who possess a 30-second attention span?
At the end of their pilgrimage, she no doubt hoped that the saint would bestow a special blessing on those children. Maybe one of them is sick. Maybe they all struggle to obey. Maybe they are desperate for money, food, or succor. Maybe she has great hopes for their future that can only be made real by the power of God. Maybe she seeks their eternal salvation.
I do not know why that young woman put herself through that, but I know she had faith enough to endure the sacrifice. She was trusting not in the things of this world, but something transcendent: whether that be something inherent in the saint, or more likely, something in God himself. And that, I think, was more important for me to see than the skull itself. For in this world where skepticism is easy and cynicism all the rage, it is good to be reminded from time to time that faith is a living thing, and it is alive and well in this world. Whether you think that woman is a noble saint or a deluded sinner, she is proof positive that our age is not an entirely secular one.
And that, dear reader, is why this Protestant chose to attend a relic veneration.
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https://www.bbc.com/news/science-environment-30281333
https://www.ncronline.org/opinion/ncr-voices/10-seconds-skull-st-thomas-aquinas
Thank you for sharing this. Your words warmed my heart and helped give this somewhat overly-protesting Protestant permission to be more open to the mystery and beauty of our faith…I did weep during our communion service yesterday and now I understand why a bit better…
Enjoyed that read