Last week saw the celebration of the feast of St John Henry Newman, “Our Cardinal”. In fact, it was his first feast day after being declared a Doctor of the Church by the Holy Father last November. We mark the feast with three days of preparation, when we read from the Cardinal’s autobiography, the Apologia pro Vita Sua, and then, on the vigil of the feast, walk from the Oratory to the College in Littlemore, stopping at various sites along the way that were important in his life and conversion. Throughout the three days and the Night Walk we sang Newman’s more famous hymns, beautiful prayers set to now-familiar melodies. It is poignant to sing these words written by the saint in the city he loved so much and that played such a central role in his entering the One Fold of the Redeemer.

October also sees the beginning of a new academic year, when the city is filled with excited, bright-eyed freshers just starting their studies — and perhaps less-enthusiastic returning students. We might think “What will this new year bring?” Happiness? Success? Heartbreak? Crisis? What will the world be like come next October, when we celebrate the Cardinal’s feast again, with the same readings, hymns and Night Walk?

There are many times in the Christian life, even in the most difficult of times, when it is easy for us to sing, “Praise to the holiest in the height, and in the depth be praised”, and equally as many times when all we can ask is for the “kindly light” to lead us “amid the encircling gloom”. Newman is a saint not because of his theological writings on conscience or the development of doctrine, nor his cardinalatial red hat, but because he trusted and hoped in our God who “knows what he is about”, despite the sorrows and disappoints and failures of his life — and there were many. That trust and hope changed the religious landscape of our country, brought St Philip’s family to England, and has inspired countless men and women since.

We do not know what the next twelve months will hold for any of us. We may be starting a large building project, and launching a fundraising campaign. We may be just beginning our academic journeys, or finishing them. We may be getting married, or we might lose a loved one. We know that there will be many causes for rejoicing, and many sorrows and losses. “Still, he knows what he is about.” In all of this, our Cardinal can be our guide:

God has created me to do him some definite service. He has committed some work to me which he has not committed to another. I have my mission. I may never know it in this life, but I shall be told it in the next. I am a link in a chain, a bond of connection between persons. He has not created me for naught. I shall do good; I shall do his work. I shall be an angel of peace, a preacher of truth in my own place, while not intending it if I do but keep his commandments. Therefore, I will trust him, whatever I am, I can never be thrown away. If I am in sickness, my sickness may serve him, in perplexity, my perplexity may serve him. If I am in sorrow, my sorrow may serve him. He does nothing in vain. He knows what he is about. He may take away my friends. He may throw me among strangers. He may make me feel desolate, make my spirits sink, hide my future from me. Still, he knows what he is about.

In his Collation On Being Sinless, Saint John Cassian reminds us that even the Christian who is most advanced on the road to perfection cannot stand before God claiming perfect innocence. The closer a soul draws to God, the more clearly it perceives its need for mercy. Cassian writes, “Clear sight yearns to see even further; the more blameless our life, the more we find to reproach ourselves with.” This insight echoes the words of Saint Paul: “For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I keep on doing.” (Romans 7:19) The saints are not those who are completely sinless, but those who become more aware of how much they need Christ.

This is why Cassian’s teaching on Holy Communion is so important. Some Christians of his time avoided receiving Holy Communion frequently because they believed themselves unworthy. Cassian, however, firmly rejects this approach. He says that “we should be more and more eager for Communion to heal the soul and purify the spirit.”

The Eucharist is not a reward for the sinless; it is medicine for those in need of God’s mercy. Christ himself declares, “Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick.” (Matthew 9:12) We do not receive Holy Communion because we have conquered sin completely. Instead, we approach the altar because without Christ we cannot have any hope of conquering sin at all.

Cassian warns that infrequent Communion can sometimes hide spiritual pride. Someone may begin to imagine that they must become worthy before approaching Christ. But no one becomes worthy except by the grace of God. We are reminded of this at every Mass when we make the words of the Centurion our own, “Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof.” (Matthew 8:8) And so, Cassian teaches us that awareness of our sins should never drive us away from Christ. It should lead us more quickly to the altar, where the Lord gives himself as the remedy for our frailty and the food of eternal life.

The Collations of St John Cassian are among the oldest and most influential books of Christian spirituality. The book is presented as a series of conversations between Cassian, his friend Germanus, and the great monks of the Egyptian desert, preserving the wisdom of men who had devoted their lives entirely to the pursuit of holiness.

This is the last of our reflections based on ideas found in the Collations of St John Cassian, but there is plenty more wisdom from the desert to be found in the original work. It is available, in an excellent modern translation by our own Fr Jerome, from our bookshop in person and online.