St Luke dedicates his gospel to Theophilus, a man of some rank, it would seem, and tells him that his intention is to help him ‘recognize the solid grounds of the instruction he had received’ (1, 4). To appreciate his gospel to the full, then, we need to have some sort of idea about what instruction Theophilus had received. If we assume that he had received much the same sort of instruction as all other first generation converts of the apostles and their followers—and it seems a reasonable enough assumption to go on, until the contrary is proved—then it is possible to form some idea of what it consisted of from the Acts of the Apostles.

On the eve of the Sabbath and Festivals a hymn is regularly sung in all Synagogues and Jewish homes, called ‘Yigdal’ (Magnificat). It contains in poetic form thirteen principles of the Jewish faith, originally formulated in the twelfth century by Maimonides, the great Jewish philosopher who had such a profound influence on his contemporaries (such as Thomas Aquinas), and among them there is a verse which runs, ‘He will send our Anointed (Messiah) at the end of days to redeem them that wait for the end—his salvation'.

That is one of many allusions to the coming of the Messiah in the Hebrew Prayer-book in general use today. Some of them actually mention his descent, as the phrase in the Festival Amidah: ‘May our remembrance rise and come and be accepted before thee … together with the remembrance of Messiah, the son of David'.

Recent studies (cf. in particular The Destination and Purpose of St John's Gospel, by J. A. T. Robinson, in New Testament Studies, 6, i960, 117-113) have radically questioned certain common assumptions about the fourth gospel. It is too often taken for granted that the evangelist is addressing his message to gentile Christians, and that he considers the Jewish nation—the Judaei—as lost to God, and as rejected by him because they have rejected Christ. But it is surely significant that in his gospel, alone among the books of the new testament, the word ‘gentiles’ never occurs. The dramatic narrative centres almost exclusively on what the author regards as the crisis of Judaism.

We begin the new liturgical year looking forward to the coming of one whose name is hidden from us, but gradually revealed in the course of Advent. This name ‘comes from afar', it comes indeed from the heart of God, from the mind of the Father, because it is the name of his Word, his only-begotten and well-beloved Son. But as yet it is to us a deep mystery. We are gazing at this profound mystery from a great distance, and because of the immense abyss which separates us from God, our sight is blurred. In our state of fallen human nature, our gaze is darkened because of original sin and our own personal sins and therefore we need the brightness, the shining clarity of this name to fill the whole earth. It must fill our minds because the truth of God is for us so obscure.

When Edmund Campion after long temporizing finally broke from the allurements of his humanist's life at Oxford and retired abroad, Cecil observed of him: ‘It is a very great pity to see so notable a man leave his country, tor he was one of the diamonds of England’. Four years earlier, in 1566, when Queen Elizabeth visited Oxford, her chief minister nad applauded the eloquence and personal charm of the rising reilow of St John's college. On that occasion Campion had delivered orations in the name of the university before Elizabeth, as thirteen years earlier, representing London schoolboys, he had spoken his address to Queen Mary. Approbation, popularity and honour continued to follow him: he was made proctor and public orator, the highest posts compatible with his standing in the university. Then he tore the net which Anglicanism was throwing round him, withdrew to Ireland, was hunted thence because he lived as a Catholic and took refuge in Douai, 1571.

I can never quite forgive St Jerome for being so cutting about St Ambrose's Latin. It seems to my ignorant mind that his Latin is only the shell of the kernel of the good nut within. Take at random, the homily for the sixth Sunday after Pentecost, almost at once, one finds this: ‘The food of heavenly grace is given, not to the idle, not in the city or to those accustomed to worldly dignity, but in desert places, to those who seek Christ. For Christ receives the humble, and the word of God speaks with them, not of worldly things, but of the kingdom of God.'

How wonderful is the next passage as a preparation for confession, for communion, or for, perhaps, a near-convert on the threshold of the Church: ‘None receives the food of Christ unless he be first healed, and those who are invited are healed by the ‘ very call.