P. Gorazd Cetkovský, O.Carm.
I promised to dedicate as much attention as possible to the theme of Mary on the pages of our magazine this year. And to fulfill that promise, I would like to present to you a few thoughts that we considered during the holy mass on the feast of Our Lady, Mediatrix of all Graces, in the church at Liboc.
After having become closer to this man due to last year's anniversary of the death of John of Jenštejn, I still occasionally complement my image of his personality. Joseph Krása mentions him in his book about books at the court of Wenceslas IV as a bishop who had a strong relationship with art and also advocated the use of art in the service of deepening and strengthening faith and piety.1 Let us remember that the period in which Jenštejn lived and worked was called the "golden century of Czech Gothic." Moreover, it was during this time that a whole series of beautiful Gothic Madonnas were created, some of which were directly commissioned by John of Jenštejn (and his subsequent donations to various churches or monasteries).2
The statements of John’s contemporaries, representatives of the reform wing in the Czech church, who held an opposite position towards art, affected me even more. The learned and renowned Matěj of Janov expressed himself as follows: “As soon as some image is venerated more than others, as soon as people stop more frequently at it and light candles, it should be removed from the temple.”3
This conviction of Matěj of Janov could be seen as a reaction to the excesses and exaggerations in the veneration of images or relics of saints in the 14th century. It strikes me as a precise opposite of the experience that so many of us repeatedly undergo in the place that is dear to us in the Church of Our Lady of Mount Carmel in Kostelní Vydří. I have heard so many confessions or testimonies from people of various standings about how blessed this place is, how God himself or Our Lady (and God through her) has approached the person in tangible presence, intimacy, and love. And the altar image of Our Lady of Mount Carmel undoubtedly plays its role, significantly shaping the atmosphere of this pilgrimage church... (Similarly, one could speak of other holy places we like to visit.)
I will move from the 14th century straight to the 20th century and to the thoughts of the Trappist Father Jeroným from Sept Fons, which have been published in two books in Czech as well. This experienced man of prayer, looking back on his life and what he refers to as “good influences” that shaped him, notes: “It is nothing more normal than when religious feeling4 is concretized into a concern for some church, for some corner of a monastery, an image, or a statue. It is a material basis for spiritual fidelity. If I had not visited those churches, if I had not gone to the sanctuaries dedicated to Our Lady, which can provide the necessary protection and are so hospitable, religion would not have become for me what it still is: closeness, reverence, trust, hope.”5
This statement also evidently contradicts the views of Matěj of Janov.
Further thoughts on this topic can be provided by the very notion of the Vydří image of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. The image dates from 1709, during the baroque period, when a renewed interest in pilgrimage and wandering developed as a display of pious fervor. While in earlier centuries, the pilgrimages were to distant places (to Rome, Compostela, or Jerusalem) and aimed at places of martyrdom of the apostles, saints, or the Savior himself, in the Baroque period, a number of pilgrimage sites arose directly in our lands, and the focal point of these new pilgrimage sanctuaries often becomes just the image (or statue), which receives the epithet: “grace-filled,” meaning facilitating God’s “grace” or, more precisely, helping to receive grace. Moreover, the vast majority of these new pilgrimage sites are Marian places. W. Pötzl in his article on popular piety in the Baroque period6 quotes Kramer’s statement that numerous new Baroque pilgrimage sites “made the homeland a land of the sacred.” More simply, we could say: the land in which people of the Baroque era lived their everyday lives, or a land quite nearby, was perceived by them as in a certain sense sanctified and conducive to sanctification. In the eyes of the people of that time, the land of their home appeared as a network of (entirely accessible) places where, figuratively speaking, heaven touched the earth (the beginnings of pilgrimage sites were various miraculous events of “grace,” i.e., here experienced protection in distress or danger, answers to prayers) and on which (and precisely on them!) it is worth looking up from the earth to heaven again. If the piety of the Baroque pilgrim is so strongly focused on the “grace-filled image,” it is linked to the conviction or rather experience that prayer before a particular image or statue holds a special power...
I believe that at this moment we are at the very forefront of the opposite opinion to that of Matěj of Janov. I want to emphasize that I sincerely value all the witnesses of faith whose views or thoughts I have gathered here, and I am trying to find through “dialogue” among them the correct stance for myself or for us today. My own experience, which I do not impose but which I perhaps need not fundamentally conceal here, places me on the side of John of Jenštejn, Father Jeroným, and the simple Baroque pilgrim. I believe that Mary in the story of each of our lives truly is and that this presence of hers is, in a subtle yet valuable way, conducive to our salvation. The specific features of what I have expressed here so generally can be discovered, distinguished, and appreciated by each in the irreplaceable individuality of their life.
I regret that I do not understand Matěj so well. After all, his strong relationship with the Eucharist and the effort for its frequent reception, even among the laity, are still so sympathetic to us after centuries. It does not escape us either when Matěj of Janov refers to the Scriptures in his “iconoclastic” stance. And I admit that I have yet to present the entire text from his pen, as cited in the mentioned book by Josef Krása. I am quite bothered by the harshness with which this medieval theologian argues here, but nevertheless, I find it instructive now and here to quote the rest of the citation. Matěj of Janov further wrote: “It happens that in churches, through images, signs, miracles, and healings occur. This is very dangerous and almost manifestly a mystery and a portent of the Antichrist and a work of devils, so that Christ may be wronged and simple people led astray, attributing some divine power to a wooden or stone image... forgetting that it is wood without sense and without life, unsanctified and unblessed by the word of God. Every gallows in the city is more useful and beneficial than any most venerated image or statue in the temple. For the gallows is a means and a sign of God’s justice and a reduction of human wickedness, thus it has firm testimony in the word of God, while much evil is said about images in Scripture... indeed the worship of images and their veneration has given rise to all pagan idol worship.” An even more drastic position is taken by Jakub of Kaplice, about whom it is said that “pointing to the statue of Our Lady he said he would rather cook peas on it in the fire.”7 Behind these words hangs the specter of Hussite iconoclasm. We can boldly imagine in our minds how beautiful the Gothic Madonna that Jakub's finger pointed at must have been.
What lies behind these radical positions? Maybe, as I mentioned, it is a reaction to the period’s excesses. Could a certain primitivism of the medieval person be manifested here, in contrast to which we have already been cultured by several subsequent centuries? I do not want to judge either Matěj of Janov or Jakub of Kaplice. I want to draw something for myself, for us from this. And so I hear behind their sharp words a general warning against excessive self-confidence, which may arise from the conviction that at this or that moment “I am right.” Even if I could (as was the case with Matěj) lean on considerable education and have the statements of Scripture on my side, the conviction that I am right must not lead me to aggression. Otherwise, we very easily fall back into the stance for which we repented at the end of the last millennium and which the Holy Father aptly named: “methods of intolerance and even violence in the service of truth.”8
But now we have deviated to another topic. Let's return to the original one and conclude with an excerpt from the relevant article in the Catechism of the Catholic Church:
(...) The choice of a suitable place is not indifferent for the authenticity of prayer: for personal prayer, this place may be a “prayer corner” with the Holy Scriptures and images, so that one is “in secret” in the presence of their Father. In a Christian family, such a small oratory contributes to joint prayer. (...) Pilgrimages awaken the awareness of our earthly journey to heaven. They are traditionally a good opportunity for the renewal of prayer. Sanctuaries are for pilgrims, in search of their living springs, exceptionally suitable places to experience forms of Christian prayer “as a church.”9
As I now reflect on all these thoughts and give them form in this article, I can see their fruit for myself during the time I have been pondering them. I approach the presbytery of the Church of Our Lady of Mount Carmel in Kostelní Vydří before the sanctuary and the “grace-filled” image more sensitively and with greater reverence. I am also paying more attention in other churches, chapels, and pilgrimage sites, as well as to statues and crosses in the open air. And without the immediate connection becoming clear to me, I have reformed my prayer “corner.” I wish us all a healthy growth in faith and in the tenderness of love.
The Relief of the Crowning of the Blessed Virgin
from the originally Carmelite church
of Our Lady Snow in Prague
Photo: Dominik Bouma
This relief, which is now located behind the Church of Our Lady Snow in Prague (above the gate to the former cemetery), was probably originally placed on the tower that stood at this church and was demolished after the Hussite wars. It could have been part of the church's entrance portal. The foundation stone for this church and the Carmelite monastery was laid by Charles IV himself on September 3, 1347, in memory of his coronation as King of Bohemia, which took place the day before. The theme of the relief, The Crowning of the Blessed Virgin, corresponds to this thematically; the kneeling donors on the sides are probably Charles IV (on the side of Christ who is crowning, with the imperial eagle in his coat of arms) and his first wife, Blanka of Valois (on the side of the crowned Blessed Virgin, with the coat of arms of the Czech lands). Experts believe that the upper stone block of the Most Holy Trinity, depicted as the “Throne of God’s Grace,” was originally set somewhat higher than it is today. The quality of this artistic work is very high. Its violent destruction must be attributed to the Hussite unrest in Prague in the early 15th century. And that is where its connection with the theme of our article about Marian images lies.
