July 6, 2018

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Christianity ✝️ | History 🏛️ | Permanently Moved 🔊

I was wondering what to make a podcast about so I pulled down one of my favourite books ‘The Bad Popes’ by Russell Chamberlin and opened it to a random page.

That page was my favourite story from that book and also took place exactly 724 years ago to the day. So there you go episode 13 – all a bit Paul Western to be honest with you.

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Permanently moved is a personal podcast 301 seconds in length, written and recorded in one hour by @thejaymo

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 Celestine V

Today is Thursday, the 5th of July, 2018, and 724 years ago today, nine weary, stubborn men met yet again in conclave, as they had been doing for the last 18 months. There had been 12 of them when the reigning pope had died in 1292, but even this tiny, sacred college had suffered further depletions during the long debate.

The old dean of the college had died. Another cardinal now lay grievously sick. And on this July morning, a third was mourning his brother’s death.

You’re listening to episode 1813 of Permanently Moved online, and this is the abridged story of Pope Celestine V—the man whom Dante placed just outside the gates of hell, the man who made the great refusal.

The conclave was taking place not in Rome but in Perugia, for Rome was in the grip of a plague. The Roman cardinals were aware that their power was rooted in the city and had remained there, accepting the heat and the stench of that Roman summer for the sake of political advantage. But it was all too much. Eventually, they gave way, and in October 1293, they joined their colleagues in Perugia, where, for the next nine months, they endlessly debated the election of the new pope.

And of course, because this is Holy Roman history, two great families were divided and at war during the meeting: the Colonna and the Orsini. The last pope had been an Orsini, and the neutrals—wary of taking sides in case of losing political advantage after the next pope’s election—were also playing hardball.

The times were evil. The Saracens had retaken Acre and Tripoli. The kings of France and England were plunged into a war that threatened the unity of Christendom. The nations of Europe might have considered the Chair of Peter to be raised above nations, but the cardinals saw it for what it was: the supreme prize for a Roman family.

It was on a heavy, hot July day like today that a letter arrived from a Holy Roman hermit. I can imagine Benedict Gaetani looking up with a smile and saying, I suppose this is one of your Peter of Morrone’s visions. And it was. It was an urgent letter from the holy hermit, foretelling divine vengeance upon them all if a pope were not elected soon.

Now, Peter of Morrone was a holy man who hung his cowl upon a sunbeam and whose hours of devotion were marked by the tolling of a supernatural bell. He closely resembled a fanatical anchorite, with a near-fanatical devotion to poverty and simplicity. He lived a thousand feet in the air, on the edge of Mount Morrone.

The cardinals discussed the letter, laughing at the thought of this mad old man on the edge of a mountain. But suddenly, Cardinal Malabranca stood up and declared, In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I elect Brother Peter of Morrone.

It seemed like a fantastical idea—almost miraculous. But in the past, divine guidance had manifested itself in similar ways. Five cardinals immediately assented. And so, an old hermit of 80, who lived in a cave, was elected by the same spirit to which he had dedicated his life: the Holy Ghost. He didn’t know it yet, but he was the new pope.

Usually, the new pope would be waiting outside the room, anxiously hoping to hear if they had been elected. But not Peter.

And of course, traveling the wearisome journey to the desolate mountain range where Peter had his cell was beneath the princes of the Church. It took the party five days to make the journey, and when they arrived, they found that others had already gotten there ahead of them. Charles, King of Naples, had already been informed of the new pope’s election. So the papal and royal parties—mutually suspicious—began the ascent of the mountain to Peter’s cell.

Peter’s cave was set on a narrow plateau, with sheer drops on either side. The party was forced to crowd together. News of the approaching courtiers filled Peter not with mere dismay, but with outright terror, and he had intended to flee yet again to one of his remote refuges.

When the party arrived, they saw an old man with swollen eyelids from weeping, his face emaciated. He barely seemed to understand what was being asked of him. He threw himself upon the ground, prayed, rose, and, with infinite reluctance, refused to go to Rome. Instead, he went with the King of Naples, where he built himself a wooden hermit’s hut inside one of the palace rooms.

The coronation took place in Aquila on August 29th, when Peter of Morrone took the name Celestine. And of course, being a Benedictine, Celestine had no conception of the value of the rich gifts he could now dispense and was bewildered by the hunger for benefits. If people were in need, so they should receive—he granted them casually upon request. As you can imagine, this was abused immensely, while the courtiers around him ate and banqueted at his expense.

Celestine, a lifelong ascetic, was not so much offended by the display of luxury around him as he was lost within it. He was pictured wandering from room to room of the castle, pining for the open air of the mountain, munching on dry bread and drinking water. It was quite clear that he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. In little over a month, Celestine had reduced the bureaucracy of the Church to chaos with his casual gifts, and apparently, he even appointed a cardinal quite casually—after dinner.

After 15 weeks of this, it was left to Dante to pin a badge of shame on the broken man. He put Celestine not in hell, but in its dismal approaches—wandering with those who had neither been friends nor enemies of God.