St. Thomas Aquinas' skull just went on tour − here's what the medieval saint himself would have said about its veneration

Yahoo

28-01-2025

Once, on a road trip in Greece, I stopped with my husband and dad at a centuries-old Orthodox monastery to view its famous frescoes. We were in luck, the porter said: It was a feast day. The relics of the monastery's saintly founder were on view for public veneration.
As a Catholic and a medievalist, I can never resist meeting a new saint. The relic, it turned out, was the saint's hand, though without any special ornament or reliquary, the ornate containers in which relics are often displayed. Nothing but one plain, severed hand in a glass box, its fingers partly contorted, and its discolored skin shriveled onto the bones.
We gathered around the shrine, silently, to pray. Then my dad, whose piety sometimes runs up against his penchant for dramatic storytelling, leaned over and whispered, 'What if at the hotel, in the middle of the night, I hear a scratching sound, and then The Claw …' His own hand started crawling dramatically up his shirt and then flew to his throat.
'Dad!' I hissed furiously, with a horrified glance at the monks praying nearby.
Relics can admittedly feel a bit morbid – and yet, so holy. What exactly is their appeal?
To me, it's the physical closeness, especially with parts of a saint's own body – what the Catholic Church calls 'first class' relics, which can be as small as a chip of bone. There are also objects the saint used during life: 'second class' relics, such as the gloves worn by the Italian mystic Padre Pio.
The veneration of relics of saints was already well established in the early church. But controversies go back hundreds of years. During the Protestant Reformation, for example, reformers decried the shameless use of relics to drive donations and the proliferation of faux relics. Today, the idea of intentionally dismembering and displaying human body parts can seem shocking, even repulsive.
Yet venerating relics remains far from a 'relic' of the past. At the end of 2024, the skull of St. Thomas Aquinas – the great Dominican medieval thinker whose writings I study – made its first tour of the United States. The journey commemorated the 'triple anniversary' of 700 years since his canonization, 750 years since his death and 800 years since his birth.
From Cincinnati to Rhode Island to Washington, D.C., thousands of Catholics turned out to pay their homage to this medieval saint.
What might Aquinas himself have thought about all the attention to his traveling skull – that fragile and now empty case for the brain behind one of the most productive minds of European philosophy?
Aquinas' answer lies in a short but poignant text from 'Summa Theologiae,' his best-known work. Christians should venerate relics, Aquinas says, because the saints' bodies were dwelled in by God. The very parts of their bodies were the instruments, or 'organs,' of God's actions.
The saints as 'organs' of God: What a riveting image! God is so intimately present to his friends, the saints, that their very bodies are sanctified by his presence. Those hands, now dead and desiccated, performed God's own actions as they cared for the sick, fed the hungry, celebrated Mass and reconciled the lost sheep.
According to Aquinas, honoring saints' relics is ultimately about honoring this divine activity, a superhuman love working through ordinary human beings. But as he notes elsewhere, God is present in all of creation, working 'most secretly' through all creatures at every moment. So by recognizing the special holiness of saints' relics, Christians can better perceive the universal holiness that radiates through the whole created world.
Yet in discussing relics, Aquinas has some challenging things to say about what is perhaps their most immediate draw: the sense that when I see or touch a relic, I am physically present to a saint.
Because the saints are brothers and sisters in the Christian family, he says, Christians should cherish their physical remains just as people cherish a memento of a loved one, like 'a father's coat or ring.'
I did a double-take when I read this: A memento? Surely the saint's body is more than that.
But Aquinas insists that physical remains really are more like mementos of the deceased than parts of them. When St. Teresa of Calcutta died, for instance, she left behind a corpse and a soul. These bodily remains shouldn't be confused with the saint herself, who was a living, breathing, bodily person. If I kiss a saint's relic, as Catholics often do, I am not kissing the saint but something that was formerly part of a saint. The word 'relic' literally goes back to the Latin word for 'leaving something behind.'
The holiness of a relic, then, derives from the person it was once part of, not what it is now.
Not just 'once was,' though, but also 'will be.' Aquinas adds – and to me this is one of the most beautiful aspects of his reflections on relics – that venerating a relic is also a way of looking forward to the future resurrection of the body. Christian doctrine teaches that at the end of time, God will restore each person's body, reuniting it with their soul. Relics represent that hope for everlasting life.
Later this year, the skull formerly known as Aquinas' will wend its way back to its permanent place of rest, buried under the altar of the Dominican church in Toulouse, France. During its visit to the U.S., I was down with pneumonia and never got a chance to pay my respects. But I cherish the 'third class' relic that my sister-in-law mailed me from Cincinnati: a holy card that she had touched to the skull's reliquary.
This article is republished from The Conversation, a nonprofit, independent news organization bringing you facts and trustworthy analysis to help you make sense of our complex world. It was written by: Therese Cory, University of Notre Dame
Read more:
Why you should get to know Thomas Aquinas, even 800 years after he lived
Calls for Pope Benedict's sainthood make canonizing popes seem like the norm – but it's a long and politically fraught process
'Don't Say Gay' rules and book bans might have felt familiar in medieval Europe − but queer themes in literature survived nonetheless
Therese Cory does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organization that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.