Lectio Divina

This Talk on Lectio Divina was given by Fr Benedict to a Parish group in May 2024

“Qara” is a Hebrew word of frequent occurrence in the Old Testament (738 times). It’s a verb, with wide range of meaning. Its basic meaning is to cry out, to call, in such a way as to establish communication between two people at a distance. Very frequently the subject of this verb is the Lord Himself. So God calls out to Adam hiding in the Garden. God calls out also to Abraham at the Sacrifice of Isaac: “Abraham, Abraham”. He calls out to Moses at the burning bush, and to Samuel in the sanctuary at Shiloh: “Samuel, Samuel”. In Second Isaiah God calls to the Persian King Cyrus (“I call you by your name” 43:3&4). In the Servant Songs of Second Isaiah God also calls Israel as a people; or he calls the mysterious Messiah Servant. Sometimes the call goes in the other direction, as for example when the Psalmist cries out to the Lord in prayer (“I cried out to the Lord, and he heard me”). King Solomon does that too when dedicating the Temple. For our purposes now, very interestingly, this same word, “qara” is frequently used in the Hebrew Bible, by extension, in reference to reading. Especially it refers to reading the sacred texts inspired by God; whether aloud or silently to oneself. So at Mount Sinai Moses reads - “qara” - the Book of the Covenant aloud to the people (Ex 24:7). In Deuteronomy Chapter 17, a putative future King is ordered to read – “qara” – the scroll of God’s Law every day of his life. When in the time of King Josiah the neglected book of the Law is discovered in the Temple, Shaphan the secretary first reads it himself - “qara” - then he reads it out to the King – same word - who then himself reads it out in the Temple to all the people. Well, Josiah is killed in battle, and his unworthy son Jehoiakim replaces him. So the Prophet Jeremiah dictates - “qara” - God’s warning words to Baruch the scribe, to be written down on a scroll. Baruch then reads out - same word - this prophetic oracle to all the people in the Temple. Subsequently the scribe Elishama reads it to King Jehoiakim. After each section, the King contemptuously cuts off the page and drops it into his brazier (Jer 36). The punishment for such sacrilege, or its inevitable consequence, is total defeat at the hands of the Babylonians, followed by Exile. But God is merciful; Babylon is overthrown by Cyrus King of the Persians, and the Jews are allowed to return home. Leading the returned exiles is the scribe Ezra. In an important scene, Ezra sets up a dais amid the ruins of Jerusalem, and solemnly reads - same word - the law to all the people (Nehemiah 8:4). That public reading of the law of God is repeated on each of the seven days of the Feast of booths that follow.

You see where I’m going with this!

Already in the Old Testament there is a strong indication, or tradition, that in any reading of God’s holy words, God himself calls out to us, communicates with us, bridges the gap between us and Himself. So when the Jews of old read Holy Scripture, they heard God’s voice. This voice, even though mediated by reading, they took as addressing them directly. And each time, God thereby established a relationship with them, the readers or hearers. This relationship must necessarily involve conversion, and sanctification. So the ancient Hebrews sang – and each morning at Vigils, in our Invitatory Psalm (94) we still sing: Oh that today you would listen to his voice! Harden not your hearts!

Of course we believe that God’s supreme act of self-communication, self-revelation, self-gift, is through his own divine Word made flesh in Jesus Christ our Lord. As we read in the Letter to the Hebrews: In many and various ways God spoke of old to our ancestors by the prophets. But in these last days he has spoken to us by a Son (Hb 1:1). Hearing this word, we hear God. St. John of the Cross famously comments on that: “In giving us his Son, his only Word, God has said everything at once. He has no more than that to say” (cf. CCC 65; Ascent 2,22,3-5). In his Priestly prayer, just before the Passion, according to St. John, Jesus prays: I have given them your word… Your word is truth (17:14&17). St. Paul will often speak of the preaching of this word, and the revelation of this Truth (cf. e.g. Eph 1:13). By it, the distance between us and God is abolished. So Paul tells the Ephesians: In Christ Jesus, you who were far off have now been brought close (3:13).

Very early in the history of the Church, before the end of the 1st century even, the written words of the four canonical Gospels, and then of the Apostolic writings that follow, were taken also as words of God. So we Christians have not only the Hebrew scriptures, but also our own New Testament writings. Very early on, these were taken as unchangeable sacred texts, to be read always as God’s own living communication with us. From the beginning Christians have presumed that these texts are inspired by the Holy Spirit, and filled with the presence of the Holy Spirit. The dogmatic Constitution on Divine Revelation of Vatican II, Dei Verbum, speaks beautifully of this presence of the Holy Spirit in the words of Holy Scripture. In paragraph 12 of that document we read: “these texts of Sacred Scripture are to be read in the same Spirit by whom - or according to whom - they were written” (n. 12, § 2). Reading the Holy Scriptures in the same Spirit by whom they were written is the task, the project, the presumption of lectio divina.

St. Gregory the Great has a fine image of lectio divina, which evokes the calling out, and the bridging of distance – qara – which I started with. Gregory writes a letter to a friend of his, who is a physician at the imperial court in Constantinople (cf. Registrum Book V, Ep 46). This friend, Theodore, has found himself incessantly busy; also weighed down with numerous troubles; so he has been neglecting his daily reading of God’s word in Holy Scripture. Gregory remonstrates with him.

“What is Holy Scripture if not a kind of letter from Almighty God to his creature? If your Excellency were living elsewhere and you received a written text from the earthly emperor, you would not desist, you would not rest, you would give no sleep to your eyes until you had learned what that earthly emperor had written to you. Well: the King of Heaven, the Lord of men and of angels has sent you letters from himself, in order that you may have life! And yet, illustrious son, you neglect to read these same letters with ardent love! Strive, therefore, I beg you, to meditate each day on the words of your Creator. Learn the heart of God in the words of God, that you may sigh more ardently for the things of eternity, and that your heart may catch fire with desires for the joys of heaven. Your rest there will be all the greater, the more you’ve refused to rest from loving your Creator here and now. For this to be done, may Almighty God pour out in you his Spirit, the Comforter. May he fill your mind with his presence, and in filling it, elevate it.”

Well, I’m a Benedictine monk, so I should try to speak a bit about the specifically monastic practice of lectio divina.

We like to say that monastic life began as a result of lectio divina. In Egypt in the 3rd century, a young man named Antony heard the Gospel being read out in Church. The passage happened to be the story of the rich young man, according to St. Matthew. Go, says Jesus there, sell what you own, and give to the poor, then come, follow me. Antony’s heart was pierced by these words, and he acted on them. So already we see that authentic lectio can happen through hearing as well as through personal reading. The liturgy of the Word in Church could be described as a supreme example of lectio divina: proclaimed in a context of worship; received with the obedience of faith, by God’s holy people, united in Christ and in charity. I’ll come back to that idea later. For now, let me fast forward about 3 centuries, moving from Egypt to Italy. There, some time in the 6th century, St. Benedict wrote his Rule for monks.

Benedict is a Roman man, who inherits, transmits, and organises the monastic wisdom that preceded him. He is clear that the heart of monastic life is the search for God; a response to the call of God; a way of following Christ with undivided heart. So in setting up his monastery Benedict arranges everything to foster that end. It’s really important to him that each monk maintains a living, sustaining, developing relationship with God. So, apart from all the necessary functions of the communal life, Benedict establishes three main practices in his monastery for each day. Prayer first: in common seven times a day, and once at night; with each monk having the aim also of attaining that prayer without ceasing which St. Paul prescribes for all Christians (1 Thess 5:17). Then work; necessary for rooting us in reality; necessary for sustaining the community’s life; necessary for our health; necessary for growing in the real practice of all the virtues. But then, thirdly, as the hidden fuel that keeps the inner fires burning - that helps keep the whole project on track – St. Benedict prescribes holy reading, or the personal reading of Holy Scripture: lectio divina.

A phrase St. Benedict is fond of is (in Latin) Vacare Deo. “Vacare” – to do nothing – to be free – to be on holiday – of course in this context for God, with God, before God. Vacate et videte sings the Psalmist, quoniam ego sum Deus – Be still and know that I am God (Ps 45/46:11). St. Paul uses this word when he speak in 1 Corinthians to married couples. He suggests they may like to separate for brief periods, in order to be free for prayer - “ut vacetis orationi” (cf. 1 Cor 7:5). Let me evoke here also the example of Mary, sister of Martha in St. Luke’s Gospel. Leaving aside the pressing busyness of her sister for a time, she simply sits at the Lord’s feet, listening to his word. She is praised for that by Jesus, for she has chosen the one thing necessary, the better part, which is not to be taken from her (Lk 10:42). St. Benedict applies this idea, being free for God, simply making time for God, above all to lectio divina. Let them be free, he says, for their lectio – lectioni vacent (HR 48:9). For St. Benedict, lectio divina is the privileged time and place for personal encounter with God. There our spirit is nourished, and our faith built up. With that in mind, in setting up his daily timetable, Benedict ring fences several hours every single day for personal lectio divina. Let all the monks do that at the same time, in silence, and if necessary under supervision, to make sure it really happens. And on Sundays and holy days, let them have more time for their lectio.

Nowadays we find it quite astonishing that people would spend maybe 3 or 4 hours each day reading holy Scripture. But St. Benedict was not being so unusual here. He was simply echoing the atmosphere of the whole Church in the Patristic era: let us say roughly in the first millennium. The Fathers really knew and lived and loved the Scriptures, in a way that puts us moderns to shame. A common-place sentiment among many of them, variously formulated, was this: “When we pray, we speak to God. When we read Holy Scripture, God speaks to us”.

We Benedictines rejoice to be the inheritors of that attitude, that tradition. We like to say that we never lost it, even when personal reading of scripture became much less common in the Church. Now of course, and for the past century at least, huge efforts have been made to encourage all the faithful to read Holy Scripture. Of course we rejoice in that, and profit from it, while also continuing on with our tradition as we have always done. That is, we treasure the reading of Holy Scripture as a daily habit. This monastic exercise, which is really just a Christian exercise, has no utilitarian purpose. It’s not in the first place an exercise of academic study. We do our lectio, as it were on our knees, with no other aim than to seek God, to listen to him, to encounter him, to know what is his will for us.

One of the modest contributions monastic experience can offer in this area is simply bearing witness to the power of Holy Scripture. The word of God, says the author of Hebrews, is living and active (4:12). Addressing his early converts in Thessalonica, St. Paul writes: Our Gospel came to you not only in word but also in power and in the Holy Spirit and with full conviction (1 Thess 1:5). This can be our experience also, whenever we subject ourselves with open hearts to God’s holy word. It can truly come to us in power and in the Holy Spirit and with full conviction!

Not, let me hasten to add, that we can control such things. Surely we all have the experience of coming to a passage that may have spoken to us powerfully before: and just nothing happens. It can all seems as dry as a bone. We feel as if we might just as well have been reading a column out of a telephone directory. So what do we do? We pay no attention whatever to our subjective feelings, but continue, persevere, with our habit of daily reading. Then, out of the blue, bang! The lights go on; our heart is stirred; we feel somehow touched by God; we are lifted up, and inspired, and renewed, and we’re impelled to praise God ever and anew for his goodness and greatness and love. An experience like that can be sparked by reading a passage we have read scores of times before. We might ask: why now and not then? Well of course subjective dispositions play their part. But also: the Holy Spirit gives his gifts at the right time, and not at any other time; when it suits him, and not just to gratify us. So we don’t grow impatient with Holy Scripture and give up when no fireworks occur. That would be hardening our heart; murmuring at the waters of bitterness; putting God to the test. But no. God’s word comes to us like rain, and often it does its work only gradually gradually. In due season it will yield its fruit.

There’s a story from the desert fathers of the 4th century. “Abba Poemen once said: ‘The nature of water is soft, that of stone is hard. But if water ceaselessly falls drop by drop, the stone is worn away. So it is with the word of God. It is soft and our heart is hard; but the one who hears the word of God often, opens his heart to the fear of God.’”

In his final discourse, according to St. John, our Lord spoke of the Holy Spirit. Jesus names the Spirit there as the Spirit of truth. This Spirit, he says, will lead the disciples to the complete truth (16:12). This surely does not mean that the Spirit will convey new pieces of information about God. Rather, as each disciple ponders the words and deeds of Jesus, the Holy Spirit will be present in our hearts and minds. Enlightened by the Holy Spirit then, we will understand the meaning of these words and deeds ever more deeply. That can happen at the ecclesial level too, as Dei Verbum taught. Also, the Spirit leads us to understand how these words and deeds apply directly to our own life, and our own present situation.

I should say a little word here on the subject of Scriptural interpretation. From very early times, the Fathers of the Church spoke about four different “senses” of scripture. The 1992 Catechism of the Catholic Church sets out these four senses quite near the beginning. The context there is a discussion of divine revelation, and the Church’s understanding of Sacred Scripture (cf. CCC 115-118). So: the Fathers described the plain sense of the text as its literal or “historical” meaning. But underneath that they looked for other meanings, other senses. These meanings could only be uncovered by a person of faith and integrity of life, truly living close to God in prayer and humility, guided by the Holy Spirit. That’s all still true! So, the Christian reader is impelled to seek out a “moral” sense of scripture, whereby we learn how we are to live. This must always remain relevant, for our moral understanding always needs to be somehow informed - or evangelised - by God’s holy word. Then there is the “spiritual” or “allegorical” sense, by means of which we discern the figure of Christ. Again, this also must always remain true. Ultimately the whole of Holy Scripture is about Jesus Christ. He is there throughout, even if often hidden. As St. Augustine memorably put it: “the New Testament is hidden in the Old, and the Old reveals its meaning in the New”. Many of the Fathers took this idea quite far. When they hit verbal obscurities, or what we would see as simple incomprehensibility resulting from a faulty transmission of the text, they looked for connections with other texts, presuming all the time that they were meeting so many riddles, just waiting to be unlocked. We may feel we can’t quite follow the method of the Fathers here. But let it be said that from this method the Fathers typically drew sound and orthodox doctrine, and often with profound insight too! Finally there is the “heavenly” or anagogical sense, which points us towards our eternal destiny. Again, it must be true that ultimately all of scripture points us towards our heavenly home. So: literal, moral, allegorical, heavenly senses. Even if we don’t systematically look for all these senses in each text of Scripture, still our interpretation should not be unaware of any of them!

The master exponent of these four senses was the great scholar Origen, who died as a result of tortures endured for the faith, in the year 254. Later Origen’s name would be blackened, and his writing banned, because of some theological speculations of his which sit ill with orthodox doctrine. But Origen’s influence endured. Really it remained all pervading, more or less up to the modern era.

I want now to fast forward some more centuries, to the High Middle Ages. No talk on lectio divina could be complete without a mention of the classic little treatise on that by Guigo the Carthusian. Guigo’s text is called the Scala Claustralium, or the Ladder of Monks. If you haven’t ever read it, I’d urge you to do so! It’s short: of pamphlet length only; very simple, very accessible, very beautiful! If you have any Latin, read it in Latin, because his Latin also is easy and simple! Guigo died in about 1188. He was not a Benedictine, but he very much stands within the same monastic tradition St. Benedict inhabited and transmitted. The ladder of monks, for Guigo, is lectio divina. By this ladder we ascend from earth to heaven; from the world of the flesh to that of the spirit; from our own miseries and limitations all the way up to God.

Guigo’s ladder has 4 rungs. They are lectio, meditatio, oratio and contemplatio – reading, meditation, prayer and contemplation.

“Reading” says Guigo “is the careful study of the scriptures, concentrating all one’s powers on it. Meditation is the busy application of the mind to seek with the help of one’s own reason for knowledge of hidden truth. Prayer is the heart’s devoted turning to God, to drive away evil and obtain what is good. Contemplation is when the mind is in some manner lifted up to God and held above itself, so that it tastes the joys of everlasting sweetness. Reading seeks for the sweetness of the blessed life; meditation perceives it; prayer asks for it; contemplation tastes it. Reading, as it were, puts food whole into the mouth; meditation chews it and breaks it up; prayer extracts its flavour; contemplation is the sweetness itself, which gladdens and refreshes” (Then later Guigo says:) “Reading without meditation is sterile; meditation without reading is liable to error; prayer without meditation is luke-warm; meditation without prayer is unfruitful; prayer when it is fervent wins contemplation. But to obtain contemplation without prayer would be rare, or even miraculous.”

This idea or structure of Guigo’s has been extremely influential, and much quoted and used, because what he says is true. I find his insight most helpful.

But I’d just like to offer now one or two slight caveats.

Maybe in the first place: we might be tempted to think that we read for the purpose of getting contemplation. But that would be reading for the sake of a felt reward; reading in order to experience spiritual sweetness. But no: analogously, we do not pray in order to get a spiritual high. We pray simply in order to pray: to converse with God. If our prayer is dry and difficult, we persevere with it anyway, because we know that this is our duty, and it’s good for us, and to neglect it invites spiritual ruin. So also: we hold that the reading of Holy Scripture has value simply for its own sake. As for contemplation: that is strictly a divine gift, which God is at perfect liberty to give or not, as he pleases. God may well know that this gift would not be for our good just now. So, even if in a particular case our reading does not particularly lead to contemplation, or even to meditation and prayer, we do not therefore give up on it. As G.K. Chesterton once said: If a thing is worth doing, it’s worth doing badly. Allow me then to encourage people not to set expectations too high, in such a way as to risk becoming discouraged, or giving up after a brief trial. No: “read as you can, not as you can’t”. If necessary, be content with just reading straight through a text. God will surely reward your perseverance with that in his own time.

Another caveat, to do with quantity, and learning. You don’t necessarily need to read much, nor do you need to be a scripture scholar. Guigo illustrates the working of his ladder by an example. The passage he chooses is one single verse from the Beatitudes: Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God. Of course Guigo’s sample monk knows this by heart. So his reading doesn’t involve getting out a book at all. He repeats this text to himself; he chews over it; he prays with it, or from it; and God then touches him, and lifts him up.

Here’s another little caveat. Often nowadays you see this 4-fold structure proposed as if it were a method. I’ve seen guides to lectio divina which prescribe: spend so many minutes in lectio, then so many in meditatio, so many in oratio, and so many in contemplatio. I really don’t like that, unless maybe as a little exercise for complete beginners. I don’t think Guigo is prescribing a method at all. What I very much believe is that he simply and well describes what typically happens. As I say, all monastic, all Christian experience bears that out!

Just while on this tack: you come across popular spiritual authors who try to do the meditation and prayer and even contemplation for you. Or at least, they write out their pious reflections about some scripture passage under those headings. That can be very excellent, and most helpful in a sense. But also: nobody can do our lectio or our meditation or our prayer for us! Nobody can encounter God on our behalf. Certainly we can be helped, very much, by others. But ultimately we are the ones who have to do it! And that requires application, effort, perseverance, and the cultivation of good habits!

Now just for the sake of full disclosure, let me here acknowledge in public that I’m no particular example of excellent practice in lectio divina. I’m easily distracted, and led off on tangents. Confronted simply by the Biblical text, I often find myself fighting drowsiness. I’m not very systematic or methodical. Worse - I hate to admit this, because it sounds utilitarian - but for me, often the best lectio happens when I have to prepare a homily. At risk of sounding too personal: I normally like to spend a week mulling over the passage I have to comment on. I read it daily, and repeatedly. I go for walks, turning the passage round and round in my head. I ask the Holy Spirit for light; for my own sake, and for the sake of those who will hear the homily. I read around the passage; Bible notes, cross references and commentaries. I make my own notes, and jot down ideas that occur. Often I start off without a single idea in my head. But then, very frequently, inspirations or lights come, just out of the blue. Very often I have found some fresh insight into the text will come to me as I stand holding the consecrated Host in my hand, just before Holy Communion. And that is surely right: because in the living presence of Jesus, and of his saving sacrifice, we can be maximally open to the Holy Spirit, and such things naturally fall into place! The process continues for me when I actually write the homily. I never really know what will come out until it’s written. Personally I tend to write quite fast; but then habitually I correct and correct, and delete and delete. Then I deliver the homily. And often then – that is, after I have delivered it - light really dawns. Then at last I think - I have now understood this text - and as if for the first time! And if another year I have to preach on the same text, and again and again, I always find new and fresh inspiration. To borrow again the language of St. John of the Cross: in this mine of the Holy Scriptures there are always new riches waiting to be discovered, new and inexhaustible treasures to be found. That may be a somewhat cheating way of doing lectio, but it seems to me that it fits Guigo’s ladder pretty well!

I am nearly at an end. Two little comments to close. First: reading with and in the Church.

When I was in the novitiate, we were strongly encouraged to take the liturgy as a spring board for our personal lectio divina. I think that’s a brilliant recommendation! For example, I’d encourage anyone to get into the habit of going over the Mass readings for the day. At Pluscarden we have also a 2 year cycle of reading at Vigils, or what the modern Roman Office calls the Office of Readings. I love going over those readings daily too. Similarly with the short scripture readings or Chapters at the little hours of the Divine Office. Often these are just a verse or two: perfect for memorising, chewing over, maybe writing out, sitting with. In the ferial Office these little Chapters are given in a 4 week cycle, so there is plenty of variety. Then during the Seasons - Lent and Easter, Advent and Christmastide – the little Chapters beautifully reflect the mystery being celebrated, and very effectively help us enter into it. And the Seasons lend themselves to choice of reading through whole books. Exodus is a good one for lent, and maybe Hebrews too; Acts, 1 Peter, 1 John for Eastertide; Isaiah in Advent; maybe Samuel and Kings in Christmastide.

Of course we want to stay in touch with the four Gospels all the time. It’s a brilliant idea to get into a habit of reading them through, round and round: Matthew, Mark, Luke, John; Matthew, Mark, Luke, John; maybe at the rate of a Chapter a day, or maybe even just a few verses only… But each day!

Back to “reading Holy Scripture with and in the Church”. This is really important for us Catholics, who want to avoid sliding into mere subjectivity. Plus: we stand within a long, rich, noble tradition, and we are backed up by authority, which gives us firm ground on which to stand. Thank God! And we recall too that God’s holy Word is not primarily for isolated individuals. It is given in order to build up the communion of the whole Church. So we see why lectio divina finds its fulfilment above all in the Holy Eucharist.

Now, really to end, with a quotation of St. Jerome, which is often cited. “Ignorance of Scripture”, says Jerome, “is ignorance of Christ”. I’ve never much liked this quotation. I think of many of the monastic fathers who were certainly Saints, though illiterate. I think of Saints like Therese of Lisieux, or Teresa of Avila, who certainly knew Christ, but did not have access to any sort of detailed scripture study. Then I think of so many heretics, or for example atheist academics in modern theology departments, who know everything there is to know about scripture, but certainly do not know Christ.

Recently though I looked at St. Jerome’s context, and what he says came to make a lot more sense. The quotation comes from the beginning of his large commentary on Isaiah. Jerome presents Isaiah as not only a prophet but also a proto-Evangelist. Jerome has just quoted from Matthew 22, the Lord’s rebuke to the Sadducees. By way of setting a trap for him, they concoct a story about a woman who married in turn each of seven brothers. They think that must put Jesus on the spot regarding his belief in the resurrection and eternal life. In response, Jesus says: You know neither the scriptures nor the power of God. Now these people were professional theologians, who certainly knew the text of scripture. But they did not interpret it according to the mind of God. Above all, they did not see how it all pointed towards Jesus as the Christ of God. So that’s what Jerome has in mind when he says ignorance of the scriptures is ignorance of Christ. He is making a dig not at the little ones who are not well educated, but precisely at the professionals who are, and who easily miss the whole point.

Now I could go on much more, but this is all more than enough for now.

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A brief list recommending extra-scriptural lectio divina: especially reading the spiritual classics.

For example (tip-toeing chronologically through the centuries):

St. Ignatius of Antioch: Letters

St. Cyprian of Carthage: On the Lord’s Prayer

St. Athanasius: The Life of Antony

The Lives and Sayings of the desert Fathers.

St. Basil on the Holy Spirit.

John Cassian: Conferences IX & X.

St. Augustine’s Confessions.

St. Denys the Areopagite on the divine Names.

The Rule of St. Benedict.

St. Bede: History of the English Church.

St. Anselm: Prayers and Meditations.

St. Bernard on the Song of Songs.

The Fioretti of St. Francis.

Thomas a Kempis: The Imitation of Christ.

Dante: the Divine Comedy.

Julian of Norwich: Revelations of Divine Love

St. Catherine of Siena: Dialogues.

St. Teresa: The Interior Castle.

St. John of the Cross: The Spiritual Canticle.

St. Francis de Sales: Introduction to the Devout Life.

Newman: Apologia pro vita sua. Also Pastoral and Plain Sermons.

St. Therese: Story of a Soul.

Bl. Abbot Columba Marmion: Christ the Life of the Soul.

Thomas Merton: The Seven Storey Mountain.

Pope St. John Paul II: Evangelium Vitae

Pope Benedict XVI: Jesus of Nazareth.