I’ve previously mentioned my son, DeForeest. At the age of 3, he chose John Adams as his favorite president. In this 250th anniversary year, it is fitting to recall that fellow delegate Richard Stockton admiringly dubbed Adams “The Atlas of American Independence” for his single-minded work to end British tyranny.
Adams, with his brilliant statesmanship, intractable intellect and political acumen, comes closest to being the one man responsible for inventing America. He was also a curmudgeon. His blunt honesty made him political enemies with ease. People are troubled by honesty.
John Adams’ patron saint must surely have been Eusebius Sophronius Hieronymus, now known as Jerome, patron saint of archivists, librarians, translators — and curmudgeons. Born in 347 in Dalmatia (now Croatia), Jerome’s father soundly educated him at home. Sent across the Adriatic to Italy in 360, Jerome traveled and refined his knowledge by exploring many academic disciplines. Visiting Trier in Gaul, he gained fame by transcribing the letters of Saint Hilarius.
Arriving at Rome in 366, the young man was baptized by Pope Liberius. He then dove into philosophy and theology classes. Just for fun, he spent weekends deciphering inscriptions scrawled on catacomb walls.
Jerome loved acquiring books. What he couldn’t buy, he borrowed, copying them with his own hand. In time his personal library was so extensive St. Augustine generously remarked, “Of what Jerome is ignorant no mortal ever knew.”
Studying the Greek Septuagint Old Testament, among friends, Jerome denigrated the awkward, bombastic style of the prophets, while rapturously praising classical Latin writers, especially Cicero. He wore his Catholicism lightly until one night, dreaming of standing before the tribunal of Christ, he was asked, “Are you a Christian?”
“Of course,” Jerome replied firmly.
“You lie!” Jesus roared back, “You’re nothing but a Ciceronian!”
Shaken, Jerome fled to the desert, became a monk and, eventually, a hermit. Settling into a cave, he wore sackcloth, fasted and prayed with his whole heart. Pope St. Damasus I (366-384) recalled the polyglot Jerome to Rome to be his secretary in 382, and ordained him a priest.
Realizing that Greek was falling into disuse while the Old Latin Gospel translations had become corrupt, Damasus turned to Jerome to restore their purity for reading at Mass. Delighted, Jerome exegetically compared the Latin to Greek and Aramaic manuscripts. Within a few months, he composed a reliable text, more correction than translation.
Damasus was pleased, numbering Jerome among his closest counsellors for the last three years of his pontificate. This is why artists of later periods sometimes, anachronistically, attired Jerome in a cardinal’s scarlet robes.
An irascible man with a sharp tongue, the papal secretary did not suffer fools gladly, making as many foes as he did friends. When the monk Helvidius, in 383, dared to deny the perpetual virginity of Mary, Jerome sharply countered the attack, clearing up a number of points.
Jerome the priest gathered a group of women in community, devoted to chastity and prayer similar to an order of nuns, with himself as their confessor. Tongues wagged, but Jerome enjoyed the pope’s protection. Upon his death, Jerome backed a monk for pope while harboring an unrealistic hope that he, himself, might be elected.
Neither won the election, nor was Jerome impressed with the new successor to St. Peter, St. Siricius (384-399). The feeling was mutual.
Leaving Rome, Jerome toured the great centers of learning in the Empire. Finding a home in Bethlehem, he again took up residence in a cave, the one next to the grotto of the Nativity. There he commenced his magnum opus, the Latin translation of the Old Testament, preferring to translate the current Hebrew text, perhaps not knowing the Septuagint (c 200 BC) came from an older Hebrew text.
Years earlier, and after much effort and great difficulty, Jerome learned Hebrew and Aramaic. He took for his teacher the renowned Jewish scholar, Bar Ananias. In the midst of his translating the Hebrew Scriptures, Jerome recalled his mentor with grateful affection. “I thank him and Our Lord that I now gather such sweet fruit from the bitter sowing of those studies."
Written for ordinary folks (called vulgus in Latin) Jerome’s Latin edition, joined to his renovated Latin New Testament, became known as the Vulgate. Still, Augustine, among others, while honoring Jerome’s industry, sanctity and undoubted intellect, detested his new Latin version, and continued to accept the Septuagint as the authoritative Christian Old Testament, as the Synod of Rome convened by Pope Damasus in 382 had proclaimed.
The one canonical book Jerome had reservations about was the Apocalypse. Punning on the Greek title (meaning “Revelation” or “Unveiling”), he testily wrote, “It obscures much more than it reveals.” Citing Jerome’s reluctance, Martin Luther entertained a desire for a time to drop that book from his German Bible.
Heresies proliferated in Jerome’s day: The British monk, Pelagius, claimed good works alone would earn heavenly bliss, the Crucifixion and Resurrection of Jesus mere icing on the cake; Jovinian, a monk from what is now Estonia, taught that baptized Christians were incapable of sin, as many “born again” Christians think today.
From Bethlehem, the caustic hermit thundered, defending apostolic teaching with his pen: “Heretics do not have Christ, the Truth, on their lips, because they do not have Him in their hearts.”
His written scorn withered its targets, and more than once Jerome, in his zeal, overstepped the bounds of charity. To help keep his tongue and pen in check, Jerome found a particularly jagged rock. Catching himself about to lose his temper, Jerome pounded his bare chest with that rock, begging God for mercy that he might better learn patience and forbearance.
Sometimes it worked.
In 410 Jerome was stunned. Alaric the Goth sacked Rome. Refugees fled across the dying empire. Some found their way to Bethlehem, where the scholar-turned-nurse, leaving his beloved scrolls, brought the mercy of Christ to the tattered survivors from once-powerful Rome.
He spent sleepless nights and toilsome days doing all he could to care for the dazed, traumatized survivors. "Who could believe that the daughters of that mighty city would one day be wandering servants and slaves on the shores of Egypt and Africa,” he wrote mournfully. “I cannot help them all, but I grieve and weep with them.”
On Sept. 30, 420, Jerome died next to the cave wherein Jesus had been born. Venerated as a Doctor of the Church, he is further honored, with Sts. Ambrose, Augustine and Gregory the Great, as one of the four principal Western Fathers.
Remembering a description of John Adams, a staunch Congregationalist, as “hot-tempered but warmhearted, he got into fights with almost every prominent American of his time,” I was struck by the similarity between Adams, the forthright statesman, and Jerome, the ardent apologist, who waged vitriolic battles with nearly every theologian of his era. Both shared an overwhelming love for truth, compassion for those in need, and a singular devotion to Christ.
Nonetheless, Pope Sixtus V, pausing before a painting hanging in the Vatican of Jerome beating his chest, glanced up and muttered, "If it weren’t for that rock you’d never be up there!”
Two decades ago, I came across an assessment of St. Jerome, which concluded in a smugly patronizing way that, considering his infamous temper and intemperate language, Jerome’s sainthood is more honorary than deserved.
“How can anyone say something like that?” the 12-year-old DeForeest snorted.
“Sure, Jerome had a temper, but he repented, fasted and prayed. He nursed the sick with his own hands. And the great St. Augustine has Jerome to thank for knocking some sense into him when he almost became a Pelagian!”
Now 37, DeForeest, devoted to reading philosophy and composing poems, maintains a deep devotion to St. Jerome. I contend that his most famous dictum, “Ignorance of Scripture is ignorance of Christ,” should be engraved on the cover of every Bible printed.
Postscript
Nineteen years ago, completing my education by majoring in Christian Studies at Grand Canyon University, I made the Dean’s List all four semesters. My final necessary class, however, was made “pass/fail” since no one else signed up. Continuing with a masters course, my academic advisor told me to apply for Latin honors. I did and was denied because of that one class. Expecting that, the advisor told me to appeal to the department chair.
I mentioned the situation during a phone conversation with DeForeest, himself now away at college, who said he’d pray for a successful conclusion. A week later he told me, “I’m praying to the Virgin Mary and St. Jerome.” I was slow that day and, thanking him, asked why Jerome. “Why, Papa,” my son replied with astonishment, “he’s the patron saint of scholars.”
Of course.
The first day of October dawned. The academic advisor called, happily telling me I’d been granted a summa cum laude and would be informed by mail to make it official. I was elated, but paused before asking when the decision was made.
“Just yesterday,” she replied.
I called DeForeest immediately to tell him the good news and thank him.
“Your prayers are what decided the issue!” I said heartily.
“How do you know it was my prayers?” my son countered, puzzled.
“The decision was made yesterday, DeForeest, Sept. 30 — the feast of St Jerome.”
And, so, Gentle Reader, as St. Luke tells us editorially, “Pray constantly and never lose heart” (Lk 18:1). Do you think the Saints Triumphant in heaven aren’t ready and willing to go to bat for the Saints Militant on earth?
Think again.
Sean M. Wright, an Emmy-nominated television writer, is a Master Catechist for the Archdiocese of Los Angeles. He is also part of the RCIA team at Our Lady of Perpetual Help parish in Santa Clarita, Calif. He responds to comments sent him at [email protected].
